What We Leave Behind
The morning light spilled through the tall windows of the suburban kitchen like liquid gold, touching everything with a warmth that felt foreign now. Rose sat at the oak table—the one they’d refinished together five years ago, Ade’s careful hands sanding away imperfections while she painted the legs a soft cream—her own hands clasped around a cup of tea that had long gone cold. Her reflection in the window looked ghostlike.
A woman both familiar and strange.
It had been three weeks since Ade left, and Rose was still trying to recognize herself in mirrors. My name is Rose Adeyemi, I’m forty-one years old, and this is the story of what happens when betrayal becomes art, when grief transforms into something darker, and when the line between justice and revenge blurs into shades of gray that no one can quite name. Before the Leaving
To understand the leaving, you need to understand what came before.
You need to know about the eighteen years Rose and Ade built together—the architecture of a marriage constructed from shared dreams and quiet compromises. They met at university in Lagos, both art students with more passion than discipline. Ade was the dreamer—all wild ideas and unfinished sketches, brilliant in bursts but never quite landing.
Rose was the one who finished things, who turned rough concepts into realized pieces, who made beauty from chaos. They complemented each other. That’s what everyone said.
Ade would start projects Rose would complete. He’d dream up installations she’d engineer. Their first exhibition together—”Two Voices, One Vision”—sold out.
Critics called them the future of contemporary Nigerian art. They married the next year in a small ceremony in Ibadan, surrounded by artist friends who gave them paintings instead of kitchen appliances. Rose wore a dress she’d sewn herself, cream silk with hand-embroidered patterns.
Ade read poetry he’d written about how she made him see colors he didn’t know existed. For a while, maybe seven or eight years, it worked. They moved to a suburb of Lagos, bought a house with a garden and tall windows.
Ade built Rose a studio in the converted garage—northern light, proper ventilation, room for all her supplies. “My muse needs a temple,” he’d said, painting the walls white while she laughed and told him he was being dramatic. But somewhere around year ten, something shifted.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
TAP → NEXT PAGE → 👇
