Please Lord, wake me up! That was my silent prayer. Am I dreaming, is this real? Should I go to him, oh, let me behave. I’m the lady here, I will wait for him to come first. I couldn’t concentrate during the service. The apostle’s voice faded into a distant hum, the humming worship sounds were mere vibrations in the air, as my awareness remained tethered to the space where he sat. Every prayer and scripture reading was a minute stretched into an eternity, my mind replaying the silent conversation our eyes had shared.

I moved through the rituals on autopilot, my heart thumping a restless rhythm against my ribs. When the final blessing was given, the congregation began to flow toward the aisles for the offering. As we merged into the stream of people, his shoulder gently brushed mine. He leaned in, his voice a low murmur meant only for me, and asked if he could see me after the service. Prayer answered. In that moment, the entire world narrowed to that question and the hopeful, nervous anticipation that bloomed in its wake. Anyway, let me not rush you into my world without introducing myself. I am a 31-year-old woman based in Toronto, Canada. I am an immigrant from Africa and work as an IT expert for a Tech company.

I love my profession so much. I have stood on stages, winning various accolades, and my name etched onto plaques, each one a testament to years of breaking code and ceilings in the male-dominated world of IT. I built an empire of expertise, fortified by accolades that whispered “trailblazer” and “innovator, ” believing that such tangible validations were the ultimate measure of worth.

But when our eyes met, a connection sparked that no algorithm could compute, and I was humbled. Little did I know, love pays no mind to the laurels we collect; it does not read a resume or count achievements. It speaks a silent, primal language known only to the heart, and in its profound presence, my hard-won titles faded into irrelevance, leaving only the raw, unadorned truth of who I am.

Now, back to my story….. The last song still seemed to hang in the air as he found me, his approach not a question but a quiet certainty amidst the dispersing crowd. He didn’t speak of fleeting attraction or simple admiration. Instead, his voice, steady and sure, cut through the polite post-service chatter with a profound and gentle clarity.

He looked at me, and in his eyes, I saw not just affection, but a future. He spoke of a love that felt like a long-awaited homecoming, and with a courage that left no room for doubt, he made his intention clear: he wasn’t just asking for a date, but was declaring his readiness to build a life, intertwining his destiny with mine from that moment forward.

For a long, breathless moment, his declaration hung between us, so profound and perfect that it rendered me utterly speechless. My mind, usually so quick with words, scrambled for a response worthy of the future he had just painted, but all I found was a joyful, overwhelming static.

A soft, disbelieving laugh escaped my lips as I shook my head, my eyes glistening with unshed tears of happiness. Finally, drawing a shaky breath, I let my heart speak for me, the three little words feeling both terrifyingly new and as ancient as time itself. “I love you, ” I whispered, the confession leaving my lips not as a simple reply, but as the sacred foundation upon which our new life would be built. I immediately hugged him.

That was the birth of our journey, a six-year love story unfolded like a beautifully composed R ‘N B melody, each movement richer and more layered than the last. We filled our days with a tapestry of shared experiences, from spontaneous road trips with the windows down and music blaring, to quiet Sundays tangled in blankets, speaking in the comfortable language of silence.

We grew, not just alongside each other, but into each other, learning the subtle map of hopes, quirks, and dreams we each held. It was a period of unparalleled joy, a foundation built not on grand, fleeting gestures, but on the countless, tiny moments of connection that, brick by brick, constructed a world that was entirely our own.

This March, he orchestrated an event under the guise of a “strictly invite-only” party to celebrate our success, a ruse I believed completely as I dressed for an evening with our most cherished inner circle. The venue was aglow with soft lighting and the warm hum of familiar voices, every detail feeling both exquisitely special and perfectly in keeping with our life together. Surrounded by the faces of everyone who had witnessed our journey, the air was thick with a secret I had yet to learn, a conspiratorial joy that everyone but me could feel.

Then, in the heart of that loving circle, the world slowed to a halt. He took my hands, his voice, steady and filled with a depth I knew so well, began to recount our story not as a memory, but as a prologue. As he lowered himself to one knee, the gasps and smiles of our friends and family faded into a distant blur. His question, “Will you marry me?” was met not with hesitation, but with the absolute certainty of five years of happiness pointing directly to this single moment. The “yes” that escaped my lips was less an answer and more a final, joyful piece of our story clicking perfectly into place.

The long-anticipated conversation finally occurred when he solemnly told me it was time to formally alert my family in Zimbabwe of his intentions. He explained that tradition required him to come and pay the bride price, a visit that would honor my heritage and our future. He suggested a specific date, and with my heart full of pride and excitement, I relayed the message to my family.

Their immediate and joyful agreement felt like a blessing, solidifying the dream that was finally becoming our reality. We began making travel arrangements, and he thoughtfully purchased two tickets: one for me to fly directly to Zimbabwe, and another for himself to Nigeria, where he claimed he had urgent, pre-arranged family business to conclude before the important ceremony.

With the logistics in place, he then presented a clever and emotionally charged reason for me to carry all our financial resources. He expressed a fear of potential theft or complications with his connecting travel through Nigeria, insisting it would be safer if I safeguarded both his and my bank and credit cards until he joined me. At the time, this request felt like the ultimate act of trust and a practical step, and my naivety prevented me from questioning why he wouldn’t simply use his wallet to secure these items himself.

This trusting blindness extended to other red flags, most notably the second phone he kept exclusively in his car, which he had always dismissively referred to as a “work phone” for difficult clients, an explanation I never once doubted.