When Ada first saw Kunle, he was holding a bright red suitcase that looked too big for his confidence. Pearson Airport was doing what it does best — swallowing people whole and spitting them out into new beginnings. Maybe it was the way he kept apologizing to a self-check-in kiosk that clearly did not need his forgiveness.
They met again three weeks later at a Nigerians-in-Toronto WhatsApp group meetup at a shawarma spot on Bloor Street.
“You are the suitcase guy,” she said.
“And you are the woman who watched me argue with a machine and said nothing,” he replied.
“Neither of them was looking for love. But that is the thing about airports: they are full of people pretending they know where they are going.”
The Proposal
Kunle proposed on a Tuesday. In their apartment. After Ada had spent forty-five minutes on hold with Service Canada.
“I figured if she could survive that phone call and still smile at me, she could survive anything,” he said.
She said yes. Then she finished the call. Priorities.
“I figured if she could survive that phone call and still smile at me, she could survive anything.”
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