Ep 16 - Let Them Talk

To Have and Too Old

DOLA

Three Months Later – Saturday Morning

If you’d told me six months ago that I’d be sitting in Banji Adeoye’s kitchen at 11 AM on a Saturday morning, watching him make pancakes while his daughter practised Portuguese phrases she’d learned from YouTube, I would have laughed.

But here I was. And somehow, this had become my normal.

We started “dating”—though calling it that felt insufficient, like calling the Atlantic Ocean “a bit of water”—the night I had dinner at his house. That night, he took off his ring. That night, we both admitted we were terrified but wanted to try anyway. But dating Banji wasn’t like any relationship I’d experienced before.

With my previous boyfriends—Chidi in university, Tunde the banker, that brief thing with the British consultant whose name I’ve deliberately forgotten—dating had meant uncertainty. Wondering if they’d text back. Wondering where things were going. Wondering if I should play it cool or be honest.

With Banji, there was no wondering. He called when he said he would. He showed up when he said he would. He told me exactly what he was thinking, what he was feeling, and what he wanted. It was refreshing. Terrifying. And completely different from anything I’d known.

Our first official date was a week after that dinner. He’d taken me to a quiet restaurant in Victoria Island. It was such a coded restaurant; I had never heard of it. We’d talked for four hours straight. About everything. About nothing. About his fears of being a good father to a teenage daughter. About my dreams of opening my own interpretation consultancy. About faith, about Lagos, and about his deep-seated conviction that Indomie is not a real meal, while I maintained it was the only thing standing between most Nigerian youths and actual starvation.

At the end of the night, he’d driven me home, kissed my forehead, and said, “Thank you for giving me a chance.” I had floated that night. Ivie did not hear the last of it. I was so happy.

Our second date was a Sunday afternoon at Lekki Conservation Centre. His idea, because he wanted to “do something active that didn’t involve sitting at a desk or in a car.” We’d walked the canopy walkway—him holding my hand the entire time because I’d admitted to being slightly afraid of heights. Dabira had come along (her request, his apology, my genuine pleasure). She’d run ahead taking photos, giving us space but also reminding us that this wasn’t just about us.

The third date was at my apartment. I’d cooked—or attempted to cook. Pounded yam (with my food processor) and Egusi soup that Ivie and I made while following SisiYemmie’s tutorial on YouTube step-by-step. Ivie was also there for the date, and she and Banji hit it off right from the start. He found her extremely funny, and I was just happy they got along well.

Another day, we had a cooking date at his house. I was learning his coconut rice recipe. It was so much fun and so chaotic. We laughed until our sides hurt and ‘tasted’ so many air-fried chickens that we were full by the time the rice was ready. I remember that at some point, we’d stood side-by-side in his large kitchen and all I could think was: This. This is what I want. Forever.

My 28th birthday was madness. Banji went all out.

First, he took the day off work and cancelled all meetings. He had also, in advance, asked me not to take a gig that day. In the morning, he came to pick me up from my house and drove me all the way to his home. When we arrived, he blindfolded me and led me inside. We turned left, climbed a little flight of stairs, turned right, and turned right again, until we got to where he wanted me to be. He removed the blindfold and I saw that we were standing in front of a door.

“Open it,” he said. I did, and immediately gasped. The room had been designed as a floor-to-ceiling library and office. A sign across the door said, “Welcome to Dola’s Library”.

“Welcome to your home library”, Banji said behind me.

On the shelves, there were six books. I walked towards them, breathless, and picked them up. They were first-edition copies of classic literature in all six languages I speak. There was a vintage Portuguese edition of The Lusiads, a rare Mandarin calligraphy scroll, a first-print Igbo Bible, and others. I was so stunned I just started crying.

He hugged me and said, “Madam, why are you crying now?”

From there, he dropped me off for a three-hour spa session. When I was done, I was a new woman; my body and mind had been reset. It was SO good. Then he took me for lunch, and we spent the rest of the evening just driving around shopping for random things. “Anywhere you like. Anything you like.” he had said.

In the evening, I got home to find a surprise dinner with Ivie and Dabira waiting for me. I cried again. It was the best birthday ever.

The funniest part of dating Banji was watching him try to understand modern dating culture.

One evening, I’d casually mentioned that I was “lowkey stressed” about a client.

He’d looked at me blankly. “Lowkey?”

“It means... kind of. Sort of. Not completely stressed, but stressed enough.”

“Why not just say ‘somewhat stressed’?”

“Because that’s not how people talk anymore.”

“What people?”

“My people. Young people.”

“You’re twenty-eight, Dola. You’re not that young.”

“I’m young compared to you, old man.”

He’d thrown a cushion at me.

But the next time we texted, he’d written: I’m lowkey excited to see you tomorrow. I’d screenshotted it and sent it to Ivie with seventeen laughing emojis.

Another time, I’d tried to explain TikTok to him.

“So people just... dance? And lip-sync? And millions of people watch?” he asked, confused.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Why?”

“Because it’s entertaining.”

“But what’s the point?”

“There doesn’t have to be a point. It’s just fun.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“You sound old.”

“I am old.”

“You’re distinguished.”

But then, two weeks later, Dabira sent me a video of Banji attempting—very badly—to do some viral dance trend. He’d been laughing the entire time, completely off-beat, looking absolutely ridiculous and absolutely adorable.

“Did you teach him this?” I’d asked Dabira.

“Yup! He’s terrible, but he’s trying. That’s what matters.”

And it did matter. Because he was trying. Not just with the silly internet trends, but with all of it—with understanding my world, my generation, and my references. Just as I was trying to understand his. I loved that we were meeting each other in the middle.

Today was a big one. Banji was meeting my mother today, and I had dreaded it and pushed it away until I could no longer. Banji, on the other hand, had been talking about it for weeks. “We need to do this properly. I want to ask for your hand,” he had said as we drove to a date the week before.

“Banji, we’re not living in the 1800s.”

“I don’t care. I’m traditional. Let me be traditional.”

“Asking for my hand sounds so weird.”

“It sounds respectful.”

“It sounds like I’m property being transferred.”

“That’s not—” He’d stopped and laughed. “Okay, fair point. But still. I want to meet your mother. Officially. As the man who wants to marry her daughter.”

“You’re so intense,” I said teasingly.

“I’m only mirroring the gravity of what I feel for you,” he turned and winked.

I bit my lip and smiled. One thing I loved about Banji was how certain he was. He was so fully committed to us getting married, and it was both reassuring and terrifying. Now, sitting in his car as we drove to my mother’s house in Surulere, I was a bundle of nerves.

“You’re okay?” he asked, glancing at me.

“Nervous.”

“About…”

“About you meeting my mother. About her reaction to the age gap. About everything.”

“Dola, we already talked about this on the phone with her. She seemed fine.”

“She seemed polite. That’s different from fine.”

“Then we’ll handle it. Together.”

Saturday, 11:47 AM – My Mother’s House

The house looked the same as it always did. Modest, well-maintained, the compound swept clean, flowers in pots by the door. Banji parked, turned off the engine, and we sat there for a moment.

“I’m here with you. Everything will be okay. We’ve prayed about this and we know God has gone ahead of us,” he said, and I nodded. He smiled, reached over, and squeezed my hand. “Let’s go.”

We walked to the door together. I knocked. My mother opened it almost immediately—she’d been waiting.

“Dola, my dear!” She hugged me tightly, then stepped back to look at Banji. I watched her take him in. The grey in his beard. The lines around his eyes. The confidence in his posture. The fact that he was, undeniably, significantly older than me.

“Mama, this is Adebanji Adeoye. Banji, this is my mother, Mrs Okonkwo.”

He stepped forward, extending his hand. “Ma, it’s an honour to finally meet you in person. Thank you for welcoming me into your home.”

She shook his hand, studying his face. “Mr Adeoye. Welcome. Please, come inside.”

We followed her into the living room. Everything was arranged perfectly—the best chairs brought out, drinks already prepared, snacks on the table. This was serious. We sat: me next to Banji, my mother across from us.

“So,” she began. “Adebanji. Where are you from?”

“Oyo state. Born and raised in Lagos.”

“I see. Dola tells me you have a daughter. How is she?”

“Yes, Dabira. She’s twelve. She’s doing well, thanks for asking. She’s very much in love with Dola.”

My mother was happy but did a good job concealing her smile. “I’m sorry for the loss of your wife. I lost my husband many years ago and I know it can be such a lonely journey raising children alone.”

“Thank you, ma.”

My mother smiled, “Please, there’s no need to ‘ma’ me. If what Dola tells me is right, you and I are only a few years apart.”

“You are the mother of the woman I want to marry. I genuinely respect you. Especially for the type of woman you have raised. You deserve all the honour I can give.”

My mother allowed herself to smile. “We thank God,” she said with contentment before she continued. “You already mentioned wanting to marry Dola, so we can talk about it. There is a significant age difference.”

“There is.”

“So tell me—why my daughter? Why not someone closer to your age? Our age?”

Banji didn’t hesitate. “Because your daughter is extraordinary. She’s brilliant, kind, funny, accomplished, and makes me want to be a better man. The age difference is real, and I’m aware of all the complications it brings. But ma, I’ve lived enough life to know when something is rare. When someone is rare. And Dola is rare.”

My mother looked at him for a long moment. “Well said. I can feel your love for her and my heart is glad.” Then she turned to me. “Dola? Are you sure about this?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Even with the age gap?”

“Even with the age gap.”

“People will talk.”

“Let them talk.”

“Your uncles will have opinions.”

“They always do.”

She smiled slightly at that. Then turned back to Banji. “Mr Adeoye—”

“Please, call me Banji.”

“Banji.” She leaned forward. “You have my blessings.”

I almost squealed. That went so well. Banji and I exchanged a glance, and he looked so happy. I was happy he was happy. I was happy, period!

Saturday, 2:34 PM – In the Car

The drive after lunch was beautiful. Banji and I played ‘Baby Jowo’ in the car and sang at the top of our voices. At some point during the song, I turned and looked at him and shook my head.

I was so happy.

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Awww cutie pies.

See you tomorrow at 5:00pm WAT!