Chapter Three: Falling in LoveThat’s how it was when Uloma met John Aja.It wasn’t in some overly dramatic movie-like moment. No, their meeting was simple, almost ordinary. But sometimes, the most beautiful stories begin that way.John Aja was not just any man. He was a young psychiatric nurse from Umuakuma, a neighboring village in Okposi, Ohaozara. He worked with the then Abia State Ministry of Health in Itumbụzọ, Uturu. A gentle, dedicated man with calm eyes that always seemed to be listening, even when his mouth didn’t say much. He carried an air of quiet intelligence and self-assuredness, the kind that came from long hours caring for patients who others had given up on.But beyond his career and calm demeanor, John was special in another way — he was the only surviving son of his aged mother. He carried the weight of his lineage with pride and responsibility. And yet, despite that weight, there was a lightness to him when he was around Uloma, like the sun filtering through thick clouds.Uloma had heard of him before she ever met him — small town stories have a way of floating on the wind. But hearing and knowing are worlds apart.The day they first met was unassuming. It was during a visit to her cousin’s home in Itumbụzọ. John was there, helping administer care to a sick relative. Uloma, with her ebony skin glowing and her graceful, purposeful stride, entered the room like a breath of fresh air. And John noticed — not just her beauty, but the quiet strength in her posture and the gentleness in her voice.It started with greetings. Then polite small talk. Then, like the roots of a cassava plant silently stretching beneath the soil, their connection began to grow.He admired how she carried herself — proud, yet humble. Strong, yet tender. And she saw in him not just a man with a profession, but a man with a heart — one that beat for more than just survival, but for love, family, and service.Conversations became letters. Letters turned into visits. Each time they spoke, it felt like another piece of a larger picture was falling into place. They talked about the future, about dreams, about what it meant to build a home not just on earth, but in the hearts of those we love.One day, John told her, “I don’t just want a wife. I want a partner — someone who will build with me, grow with me, fight with me… and for me.”Uloma smiled, her heart fluttering with a feeling she couldn’t quite name. It wasn’t just romantic affection. It was trust. It was vision. It was the beginning of something that neither of them could walk away from.They got married in 1989. She was just 21.The wedding was simple. Not extravagant. But what it lacked in glitter, it made up for in sincerity. Friends and family gathered in joyful celebration. John’s mother, now aged and fragile, smiled with tears in her eyes, grateful to see her son find someone who would care for him, even after she was gone.Uloma entered her new home with high hopes and deep determination. Her father, Mr. Okoronkwo Okorie, proud yet hesitant, released her into the care of another family, not knowing how short-lived that joy would be.The early years of their marriage were sweet. They were young, hopeful, and very much in love. Uloma learned how to manage a home, how to support her husband’s dreams, how to become the backbone of their small family. And when their first child came — a healthy baby boy with his father’s nose and his mother’s smile — it was as though their love had taken on flesh and was now learning to walk and talk.They named him Nnaemeka — a name that means God has done us well.Two years and some months later, another baby boy—Ogonna—was born. Uloma’s joy was complete. She was now a mother of two, a wife, and a homemaker. She woke up every morning with the sun, prepared food, cleaned, prayed, and sang. She sometimes imagined what life would be like in ten years — when the boys were older, when John would be promoted, when they would perhaps move to a bigger house, plant fruit trees in their compound, and grow old laughing together.But life has a way of interrupting dreams.For now, though, all she knew was love.And that love was the kind that anchored her, that steadied her hands when she was tired, that whispered to her at night that everything would be okay. John wasn’t just her husband; he was her friend, her covering, her prayer partner, her mirror.And when he looked at her and said, “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” she believed him.Because she knew — deep in her bones — that she was walking a path not many women were blessed to tread.Love had found her.And she had embraced it with both arms wide open.

There’s a kind of love story that begins quietly, like the rustling of leaves before the coming of the rain. No fanfare, no lightning flashes. Just two souls slowly discovering each other in the rhythm of everyday life.