A Proposal in Silence

The golden hour settled softly over the Iroko estate, as though time itself was holding its breath.

Everything felt touched by magic. The frangipani blossoms leaned lazily into the breeze, their petals open and fragrant, while the low hum of cicadas pulsed like a heartbeat through the lush greenery. The vast estate, normally alive with footsteps, laughter, and conversations, had fallen into a kind of hush. A sacred hush.

On the expansive veranda, the gentle clinking of glasses barely registered above the symphony of nature. Sunlight slanted across the tiles in gold beams, casting long shadows from the columns and wicker chairs.

Inside, Kenny Iroko stood in front of a tall mirror near the entrance hallway. He wasn't adjusting a tie or fixing his collar—his attire was deliberately simple. A charcoal shirt, the sleeves rolled up neatly to his forearms, and dark trousers. Understated. Intentional.

What he kept adjusting wasn't his clothes.

It was his breathing.

He inhaled. Held it. Let it out slowly. Then repeated. Again and again.

His hands were slightly clammy. Not from fear. But from the gravity of what he was about to do.

The Waiting

Kenny glanced at the small object in his hand—a leather-bound journal, soft at the edges, frayed at the spine. It smelled of lavender and old paper. His grandmother's scent still lingered on it faintly, and so did her memory.

He ran his fingers over the worn initials pressed into the bottom right corner: A.I. — Adunni Iroko.

The journal had been her sanctuary. Her place of reflection during the years when his grandfather had been governor, when her children were scattered across boarding schools and countries, when the Iroko name meant weight and legacy. Her entries weren't about politics, prestige, or money.

They were about love. Quiet love. Strong love. Unseen, unpraised, but enduring.

And now, this journal was his offering. His vow. His ring.

He looked at the clock.

"She should be here any minute," he murmured to himself, trying to ignore the tremble in his voice.

Arrival

The soft knock on the door didn't startle him, but it sent his heart into a sprint.

Then the door opened slowly, and Titi stepped inside.

Time slowed.

She wore a soft cream dress with delicate embroidery at the sleeves—simple, elegant, like her. Her braids were pulled back into a low bun, with a few strands framing her face, and the light from the window haloed her in gold. No makeup, just skin glowing with serenity.

"Kenny," she said, her voice a balm, a smile already forming on her lips.

He blinked as if trying to capture this moment in his memory. "Hi," he said softly.

There was a pause. A thousand unsaid things filled the silence.

Then he cleared his throat, stepping toward her. "I… wanted to talk. Just the two of us."

She tilted her head. "Alright."

He reached out his hand, and she took it without hesitation.

The Garden Talk

They walked side by side into the garden, down a gravel path that curved around the flowering hedges and opened into the clearing beneath the Iroko tree—the very one from which the family name was drawn.

Kenny paused under its broad canopy. The branches stretched above them like a crown, filtering sunlight through ancient, leafy arms. A pair of doves cooed gently in the distance.

"I haven't brought you here before," Kenny said, looking up.

Titi followed his gaze. "No. But it feels familiar. Safe."

He turned to her, voice low. "That's what I want us to be."

She looked at him, quietly waiting.

Kenny swallowed hard, his throat thick with emotion. "Titi… I know I haven't always been the easiest man to read. Or trust. Or even love."

Titi didn't interrupt. She just watched him, her eyes steady.

"I've spent years trying to hold up the weight of this family. Trying to live up to expectations I never agreed to. And somewhere in that... I lost parts of myself. Or maybe I buried them. Deep."

Her hand reached for his, instinctively, giving him the courage to go on.

"But with you… I feel seen. Not for what I represent. Or what I've inherited. But for who I really am—messy, unsure, learning."

He looked down, then slowly pulled the journal from his back pocket.

The Proposal

"This," he said, holding it gently, "was Mama Iroko's. She wrote in it almost every day—about love, about forgiveness, about the quiet sacrifices that held her marriage together."

Titi's eyes softened.

"She once wrote: 'The loudest love is the one that whispers through loyalty, not performance.'"

He chuckled lightly, nervous. "I used to think she was talking about my grandfather. But now… I think she was leaving it for me."

He took a breath, holding the journal out to her.

"I don't have a diamond. No kneeling. No orchestra or dramatic speech. But I have this. A legacy of strength and love that I want to share with you. If you'll have me."

Titi looked down at the journal, then at his outstretched hand.

The wind picked up softly, tugging at the hem of her dress and brushing petals from the tree above.

She stepped closer.

"It's perfect," she whispered, voice shaking.

And then she took the journal, cradling it against her chest like it was something sacred.

A Quiet Promise

Kenny reached for her hands again, holding them between his palms.

"I'm not offering a perfect future. But I'm offering honesty. Patience. A partnership where we grow together—at our own pace, in our own way."

Titi's eyes brimmed. "I don't want perfect. I want real."

He smiled, eyes misting over. "Then let's start now."

They stood like that for a moment—two people holding each other under an ancient tree, the sun glowing through the leaves, the world reduced to a heartbeat.

No fireworks. No fanfare.

Just love. Quiet and true.

The Family's Blessing

Later that evening, after dinner, the estate regained its familiar hum. But something had shifted.

The silence between Kenny and Titi had become a language of its own—glances that said more than speeches, small smiles that bloomed like wildflowers.

In the lounge, Mama Iroko sat near the fireplace, sipping warm zobo from a carved wooden cup. Her eyes, still sharp with age, followed the pair as they entered together, their steps in quiet harmony.

Titi sat beside her, carefully placing the journal in her lap.

"I thought you should know," Titi said softly, "he gave me this."

Mama Iroko looked down at the book. Her fingers traced the familiar leather. Then she looked at Kenny.

"You finally gave it away," she said, her voice carrying both pride and memory.

He nodded. "It felt right."

Mama Iroko turned back to Titi, her eyes twinkling with something older than joy—something like peace.

"Sometimes," she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper, "the loudest love is the silent one."

Titi smiled through tears.

And Mama Iroko, matriarch of legacy and quiet strength, leaned forward and kissed her forehead.

"Welcome home, my daughter."

Outside, the Iroko Tree Stood Still.

But if you listened closely, you might hear the leaves shiver—not from the wind, but from something older.

Blessing. Memory. Promise.

And beneath it, two hearts beat not as one, but side by side.

Forever starting.

Together.