When Tunde first met Amaka, it wasn’t love at first sight — it was confusion.

He was running late for his 8 a.m. lecture, holding a bottle of water and trying to finish a meat pie at the same time. In his rush, he turned a corner and — gbam! — ran straight into her.
The meat pie flew one way, the water spilled on her white blouse, and her expression could have frozen time.

“Can’t you watch where you’re going?” she snapped, wiping her shirt.
Tunde stammered, “Ah! Sorry! I didn’t see you… it’s just—”
“Just what? You were chasing your GPA or your breakfast?”

Students passing by laughed. Tunde wanted the ground to open up. But even through the embarrassment, he couldn’t help noticing her — the fiery eyes, her confidence, and the way she spoke with that Abuja accent that somehow made even her anger sound sweet.

A week later, fate decided to play its game.

Amaka walked into the same departmental tutorial Tunde was leading. He was the course rep.
When their eyes met, she almost looked away — almost.

After the class, he walked up to her, smiling sheepishly.
“You again?” she said, pretending to roll her eyes.
“Yes o. At least this time, no meat pie attack.”

That broke the ice. They laughed. And just like that, the spark began.

They started studying together.
He’d help her understand statistics; she’d help him with his presentations. They’d meet in the library, share lunch at the SUB, and argue about the best jollof — Ghana vs Nigeria — even though both knew the answer already.

Soon, everyone noticed. They were the “campus couple.”
They wore matching hoodies, walked hand-in-hand to class, and even sat together during night reading.

When Tunde caught malaria during exams, Amaka was the one bringing him food and drugs.
When Amaka’s roommate broke her heart with gossip, Tunde was there, listening and making her laugh again.

They weren’t perfect — they fought too. Sometimes over small things, like who forgot to reply a text or why Tunde liked girls’ pictures on Instagram. But they always found their way back.

Final year came faster than expected.
Life after school was calling — NYSC, job hunts, distance, responsibilities.

On the night before their convocation, they sat at the faculty garden, watching the stars.
Amaka rested her head on Tunde’s shoulder.
“So what happens after this?” she asked quietly.

Tunde smiled. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small ring — simple but meaningful.
“I may not have everything now, but one day, I’ll make sure we have it all. Just say you’ll wait for me.”

She laughed, wiping a tear. “Tunde, you this meat pie boy…”
Then she nodded, “I’ll wait.”

Years later, after NYSC, jobs, and long-distance calls, they finally got married — still joking about that first day.

And every anniversary, Tunde would say:
“If I hadn’t been rushing with that meat pie, I’d have missed the love of my life"