THE BÃNK ALERT FROM MY DĒÃD FIANCÉ

My fiancé d!ed in the fire 0utbreak that c0nsumed his apartment. But two weeks later, I g0t a credīt alert of ₦2 m!llion from his acc0unt, with the message: Don’t cry, I’ll explain later.
That night of the f!re is something I can never forget. I was at my sister’s place in town when my phone started buzzing with calls. “Chioma, come o, something don happen to Kunle’s house!” I thought it was one of those neighbour exaggerations, but by the time I rushed there, the street was filled with sm0ke, people sh0uting, and f!re service men dragging hoses. The smell of būrn!ng wood and plastic was everywhere, and I just stood there like somebody whose spirit had left her body.
I screamed until my throat went dry, but they pūshed me back as they carried out a stretcher. I only saw his wrist—blãckened, l!fēlêss. That was the last time I saw him. My Kunle. My own husband-to-be. The man that had promised me heaven and earth just three months before. The fire swallowed not just his house, but my future.
In the days that followed, I was like a walking shadow. Our wedding asoebi was still hanging in my wardrobe, the invitation cards scattered in my room, and people kept coming to “console” me with pity eyes that only made me feel worse. My mother begged me to eat, my friends tried to distract me, but nothing worked. I would hold his picture on my phone at night and cry until I slept off.
Kunle was not a perfect man, but he was my man. He was thirty-two, working with a construction company, tall and always smelling of that cologne I liked. He had his rough edges, but he cared for me in ways that made me believe love was real. We had argued, planned, laughed, and even fought like children, but death decided to separate us before marriage could join us.
Two weeks later, just when I thought I was finally accepting he was gone, my phone buzzed again. At first, I thought it was one of those pity transfers from friends or relatives. But when I opened it, my hand began to shake.