He Loves Me, But He Hates My Spaghetti

ABOUT US - Episode 3

I didn’t even realize I was offended until the second bite.

There he was, sitting across from me, eating spaghetti I had lovingly made with his usual soft smile and annoying politeness. And yet, something was off. He wasn’t humming. He wasn’t asking for more. He wasn’t even drinking water in between bites, which, if you know Nigerian men, is usually the universal sign that the pepper has touched them in a personal way.

“Do you like it?” I asked.

He looked up, startled, like he’d just been caught cheating on a test.

“It’s... nice.”

Nice. Not ‘Wow, babe!’ Not ‘I can’t lie, I wasn’t expecting this.’ Just nice? He smiled, picked up his fork again and added, “I’m trying.” Trying?

At the time, I didn’t think too much of it. I assumed he was tired or maybe didn’t have an appetite. And I convinced myself he liked it. After all, he finished the entire plate. He even texted me later, “Thanks for lunch. You’re the best.” Naturally, I did what any reasonable Nigerian woman in love would do. I planned to cook it again.

A few days later, on my way to work, I whipped up another round of spaghetti. This time, with extra sauce and love. I figured if he liked it the first time, it must be his new favorite. I even served it in a brand new flask. Romantic efforts must be well packaged, you know.

I dropped by his office building to surprise him. I waited downstairs in the reception hallway, flask in hand, pretending I wasn’t nervous. Then I saw him.

He spotted me from the elevator and his entire face lit up. He walked towards me, that signature slow pace he does when he’s really smiling, dressed casually in his usual corporate lawyer with vibes style. No tie. Clean shirt. Rolled sleeves. Comfortable, not trying too hard. Just fine.

“Hey,” he said, soft and low. That ‘hey’ that makes your stomach turn to ogi(pap).

He reached out to roughly touch my hair and smiled again before hugging me and pecking my cheek. I heard one receptionist giggle.

“I brought you lunch,” I said, already grinning. “You didn’t have to,” he said, still smiling. “Spaghetti,” I added, like it was the crown jewel of lunch deliveries.

His smile twitched, just a bit. If I didn’t know his face so well, I’d have missed it. “Oh wow, thank you,” he said, voice still soft. “That’s really sweet of you.” Something felt off.

“Are you okay?” I asked. “Yeah, yeah. I’m just... surprised. But thank you, baby.” He insisted on walking me to the cab I came in. Said he’d pick me up from work later. He even carried the flask like it was treasure.

Later that evening, he picked me up as promised. I was excited, mostly because I wanted to hear how lunch went. I opened the flask before he could say a word. He didn’t finished it.

I turned slowly to face him. “You didn’t finish it?” He glanced at me, a little guilty. “I tried.”

“But I thought you loved it... the last time?” He reached for my hand and brought it to his lips. “Spaghetti isn’t really my thing,” he said, gently. “I tried to eat it because you made it. And I really wanted to love it. Because I love you.”

I stared at him. “So you’ve been pretending?” He chuckled. “No, not pretending. Just appreciating. Because you’re thoughtful. Because I know it came from love.”

Turns out, Olamide Adeleke, hates spaghetti. Let me clarify, he doesn’t hate spaghetti. He just doesn’t like spaghetti the way I do. Which is a crime. Because I genuinely thought I was serving him a love language on a plate.

Cooking for people I love has always been my thing. My love language. My little way of saying “I see you, I choose you, I want you fed and full and happy.”

And Olamide, being Olamide, has never made me feel like I have to earn love with effort. He meets me where I am, loves me softly, listens even when I ramble about pitch decks or campaign briefs or influencer analytics.

It was the softness in his voice that melted me. He didn’t make me feel foolish. He didn’t mock me or say, “Abeg I no like spaghetti.” No unnecessary drama.

He squeezed my hand. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings. But maybe I should’ve said something earlier.” I nodded slowly. “Maybe. But I get it now.”

He smiled again. “Next time, just make that fried rice you posted on your story. That one had me daydreaming.” I laughed, leaned back in my seat and watched as he turned the steering and drove me home like nothing had changed.

But something had. We uncovered a deeper side of each other.

We laugh about it now. I don’t cook it often anymore. not for him, at least. But on the days I make it just for myself, he’ll still come around with that innocent, “Let me just taste small,” look on his face. He’ll take a few bites and say, “Still not my favorite, but you make it taste like love.” And somehow, that’s always enough.