TËSSÃ ãñd DARÆY: A Love Written with fire

They say in every story, there's always that one person. The one who never truly shows her colors. She's always smiling, always laughing, but beneath all that warmth, there's something else—something hidden. Something holding her back.

In my case? That one person was Irene.

Here in Nigeria, we have a saying: Always ask what happened to the last person in the relationship before dipping your head into it. Otherwise, you might just hit hard rock. And trust me, e no go sweet you.

But in this case? We didn't ask. We just walked right in—blind, clueless, and completely unprepared.

Let's rewind to our first semester, year one.

The first time I properly met Irene, she was getting ready for bonfire night. Physiology students had this one-week event where they packed all their social energy into different activities—bonfire night, dinner night, and whatever else they felt like doing.

Bonfire night was simple: light a huge fire, play music, and dance until exhaustion said, Oya, go home.

That night, Irene wore the dress. Black. Trending. The kind of dress that, once you put it on, automatically makes you the main character. And trust me, Irene knew she was the main character.

Everyone who passed our room that evening stopped to tell her how fine she looked. "Irene, this your dress na die!" "Babe, see as your skin dey shine!" She soaked it all in, smiling like she had just won Miss Nigeria 2025. That night, she was happy. Radiant. Completely in her element.

My roommates, who were also physiology students, were heading to the bonfire too. After greeting Irene, complimenting her dress, and acknowledging the fact that her skin was basically reflecting light, I went on my way.

That night, they all went out and came back very late. Not because of Irene—just because they were having fun and lost track of time. It was their night.

And that was that. Just one night.

The next time I got close—practically close—to Irene was during her birthday.

Now, calling it a party would be stretching the truth a bit. It wasn't a party. It was more like… a gathering of her roommates, featuring one bottle of alcohol.

She wasn't trying to get anyone drunk; she just poured a little into glasses so everyone could sip and move on with their lives. Simple.

Except… my alcohol tolerance? Non-existent.

One sip. Just one. And I was gone.

Immediately, I knew I was finished. The world tilted, my body went Nope, and I did the only sensible thing—I dragged myself to bed before I embarrassed my ancestors.

The next morning?

My head felt like someone had replaced my brain with a cement block. Every heartbeat sent a fresh wave of pain through my skull. It was as if I had unknowingly signed up for an internal boxing match, and my opponent was winning.

Frustrating? Very.

And that was how I learned that Irene's "simple" birthday drink had the power to humble me.

After that night, Irene and Biancus became 5 & 6. If Irene was going somewhere, Biancus was right there beside her like her personal shadow. It was like they had signed some kind of invisible contract to always move as a unit. And me? I hated it.

Not openly, of course. I wasn't about to throw a tantrum over my friend having another friend. But deep down, it burned.

I had been close to Biancus—really close. She was my person, my safe space, the one I could gossip with, laugh with, rant about nonsense with. And now, here was Irene, swooping in and stealing that away from me like some social butterfly with a mission.

And the worst part? I couldn't do a damn thing about it.

I took my small victories where I could, though. Every time they had one of their little fights, I'd think, Finally! Maybe I'll get my friend back! But before I could even enjoy the moment, boom—two minutes later, they were back together, stuck like mother and child. At some point, they became inseparable. No force on earth—human, divine, or supernatural—could keep them apart for long.

And just like that, Irene wasn't just Biancus's friend anymore. She became a part of our room, part of our little world.

Irene never liked her own roommates. They fought over the smallest things—who used whose perfume, who left the fan on, who took up too much space on the bed. But for all the noise, they never actually fought. I mean, what's the point of arguing if nobody's going to throw a punch? If you're going to fight, fight properly. If there's no blood, no torn clothes, no furniture breaking, then what are we even doing here?

But Irene? No, she wasn't about to let anything touch that perfect skin of hers.

So instead of dealing with her roommates, she just moved—into our room, into our lives, making herself comfortable like she had been there since day one. She'd sit with us, gist about how hard life was, give us unsolicited but somehow useful advice, and make us feel like we were some girl-power squad in a coming-of-age movie.

And honestly? It was fun.

We'd sit for hours, talking about nothing and everything at the same time. The way lecturers had no mercy, the latest fashion trends, which guys were doing amebo in class—just pure, carefree girl talk. And for a while, I let it happen.

But even then, something about Irene always felt too good to be true.

And maybe it was just me being me, but back then, I was a brat. I had this belief that everything and everyone needed my approval before they could become a part of my life. And Irene? She had slipped through the cracks, settled in without permission.

So instead of fighting it, I just stepped back. Let things happen. If she was going to stay, then fine. I'd watch.

The Little Things

There was something else about Irene—whenever she came over to have fun with us, she always brought something. A snack, a drink, a little treat. But there was a catch.

She never gave us things.

She'd wait until we asked—until someone said, Oh, Irene, that looks nice. Can I have some?—and then, only then, would she take the tiniest possible piece, like we were her pets, and place it in our hands.

Like, girl. If you don't want to share, just say that!

At first, it didn't really bother us. It was normal, okay even. But over time, it became a thing—this unspoken power move. She'd bring something, wait for us to ask, then grace us with a little piece. And we'd sit there, pretending it was fine, pretending we didn't notice.

Now, here's where things get interesting.

Before Irene was with us, she had another crew—Ebi, Karry, and Gassy. They were like her first edition besties, the ones who knew her before we did. And just like she was with Biancus, she had been inseparable from them too.

Until I got involved.

One day, those girls sat in my room, casually gossiping about Irene. They weren't even whispering. Just talking freely like she wasn't someone they had once called a friend.

And me? I sat there, listening. Processing.

And then I did what any chaotic neutral person would do—I told Biancus.

And Biancus? She told Irene.

And just like that, poof—Irene was out of that friendship. One minute, they were her ride-or-dies, the next, they didn't exist to her.

And in that moment, I officially became Irene's friend.

At the time, my own family were shaky. My family—wasn't as strong as it used to be. I needed company, and Irene? She was there.

Before we knew it, we started calling her Mama. Not in the romantic way boys say it to their girlfriends, but out of love. Out of this unspoken agreement that she had, somehow, become a part of our dysfunctional little group.

And honestly? I have to give Irene credit—she captivated us.

I remember this one time when I had no food, and Irene bought me something to eat. Just like that. No expectations, no reason, just… because.

And that was the moment I finally let go of all the jealousy, all the silent resentment, all the Why is she here? thoughts.

I let Irene in.

And little did I know…

They would turn on us in the second year.