Call Me Legachi: A Raw, Tender Journey of Love, Survival, and Second Chances

Some love stories begin with fireworks. This one begins with Wi-Fi that won’t connect, a scholarship Zoom call, and a girl trying not to show rice on her teeth.

Call Me Legachi by Adesuwa O’Man Nwokedi isn’t just another diaspora romance. It’s a story about a Nigerian girl who crosses continents with hope stitched tightly into her suitcase… only to discover that hope alone doesn’t pay rent, doesn’t stop heartbreak, and definitely doesn’t protect you from humiliation.

Legachi is awkward, gap-toothed, and big-foreheaded (her words, not mine). This is a story about studying abroad, falling in love in the wrong order, surviving betrayal, navigating immigration uncertainty, motherhood complications, and learning that sometimes your “happy ending” is actually your happy beginning.

Legachi wins the Skyline scholarship. That moment should feel like triumph; instead, it’s layered with pressure. She’s commuting over an hour to Middlesex University. She’s not living in campus accommodation like the other scholars. She’s staying with her boyfriend, Mezie, a decision that quietly shifts the power balance before the story even settles.

She’s brilliant, studying an M.Sc. in Global Supply Chain Management, but she’s still calculating everything. Visa restrictions. Work limits. How to earn without being “registered.” Whether agreeing to a nanny job arranged by a shady agent taking 40% of her first salary is desperation or strategy, but in her case, it’s survival.

The book doesn’t glamorise studying abroad. It shows the commute, the anxiety, the awkwardness of telling classmates you don’t live in halls, and the silent envy when someone else has what you almost had.

Legachi is smart, but she’s navigating a system that was not designed for softness.

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Before Roman, there is Mezie, and Mezie is the kind of relationship many women recognise but rarely admit to staying in.

He’s dismissive, self-serving, and comfortable letting her shrink herself. She cooks for him and his friends in a kitchen with expired condiments just to prove she’s “a wonderful partner.” She sees herself through the lens of what she thinks he deserves.

There’s a painful bathroom mirror moment where she assesses her body like a critic. A-cup breasts, wide hips, a forehead too large, and a gap-tooth too obvious. That quiet self-dismantling women perform when they think they should be grateful someone chose them.

And then she walks in on betrayal. Raw. Undeniable.

That relationship doesn’t explode dramatically. It collapses inward. Like something hollow from the start.

Legachi becomes a nanny not because it’s her dream job, but because deportation would be worse. She negotiates illegal payment arrangements under her student visa because she needs money.

Her first day in Roman’s house is anxiety wrapped in bulky sweaters and intimidation by a spotless white kitchen. She’s nervous. Sweaty palms. Trying not to mess up.

And Roman? He’s cautious. Watching. Slightly amused. Slightly unsure.

Their connection doesn’t spark like a cliché romance. It builds in glances. In concern. In small acts, like trays of food left by the bedside after she’s physically hurt.

The book allows tenderness to grow without screaming about it.

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Roman isn’t a fantasy hero. He’s flawed.

He’s a doctor. A father. A man dealing with a toxic ex. A child caught in a custody conflict. There’s a tense sequence involving retrieving his daughter from a manipulative situation that reveals how protective he can be, and how messy his life is.

He’s not clean and easy. He comes with history.

He makes mistakes. He delays truth. He carries baggage that quietly fractures the relationship before it fully solidifies.

And that’s what makes the romance believable. This isn’t two single people colliding in perfect timing. It’s two people healing while still bleeding.

There’s a moment with flowers. A card. A necklace.

Legachi is giddy. She can barely contain her happiness. She calls him her boyfriend, and the word feels unreal in her mouth.

Because how does someone like him choose someone like her? That’s the quiet thread running beneath the romance. Imposter syndrome in love. But Roman doesn’t treat her like a placeholder. His affection is evident, growing and consistent.

She feels seen, and for a girl who spent chapters shrinking herself, that’s revolutionary.

Just when you settle into comfort, the book pulls the rug.

Miscommunication. Fear. Timing. Ego. The kind of rupture that doesn’t happen because two people stop loving each other, but because they fail to say the right thing at the right moment.

Legachi chooses distance. She returns to Lagos to finish her dissertation remotely. She frames it as self-preservation.

Roman erases her from his house, stripping sheets, discarding containers, trying to remove her scent from furniture. And yet she lingers. Especially in Luna’s questions.

“When is Legachi coming back, Daddy?” That line hurts more than any grand declaration.

One of the strongest themes in Call Me Legachi is that survival isn’t just about visas and rent. It’s about dignity.

Legachi survives heartbreak, humiliation, being underestimated, and her own insecurity.

Roman survives custody battles, emotional regret, and the aftermath of loss.

Both of them have to confront who they are without each other before they can reconsider who they might be together. And when the ending comes, that soft, satisfying “happy beginning” — it feels earned.

Call Me Legachi circles around what happens after the scholarship email. After the airport goodbye. After the first kiss. After the breakup. It’s about a girl who didn’t see herself as extraordinary, learning that she didn’t have to. It’s about a man who thought he had control, learning that love requires vulnerability. It’s about second chances that don’t arrive wrapped in perfection, but in growth.

And maybe that’s the point. Sometimes your happy ending is not fireworks, sometimes it’s just… finally feeling chosen.