I woke up the next morning annoyed, and it took a while to figure out what was irritating me. It couldn’t be Bankole. Of course. He had done absolutely nothing wrong.

He was a single man who had taken someone to dinner at a restaurant I recommended. He didn’t owe me an explanation of who the person was, why they were going or whether said person happened to be a tall, dark-skinned, beautiful woman he had previously dated and recently stood beside at an industry dinner.

So no, I wasn’t annoyed at Bankole. I was annoyed generally. At life. At Lagos. At the sun for entering my room too aggressively through the curtains. At myself for waking up and remembering ‘Taking someone there tomorrow’ before I had even properly opened my good eye.

What exactly is your problem, Faith?

I had spent an entire car ride telling Yvonne that I wasn’t sure I wanted anything to happen between Bankole and me. I liked my life. I liked our friendship. I didn’t want to overanalyse anything. So why was I lying in bed at 7:14 a.m. thinking about butter chicken?

I rolled onto my other side. I did not leave a relationship where I spent five years monitoring one man’s moods and movements just to start voluntarily monitoring another man’s dinner reservations.

Emotionally regulate yourself, Faith. You have spent too much money on therapy for this nonsense.

My phone was on the bedside table. I picked it up, opened WhatsApp and saw Simi’s name a few chats down.

Ah yes. Simi. Perfect.

I opened our chat.

Me: Morning babe. Still interested in the Bustle model? 😂

She replied almost immediately.

Simi: GOOD MORNING TO YOU TOO

Simi: YES???

Simi: Have you finally stopped gatekeeping???

I rolled my eyes.

Me: Yes. Sharing his number now.

Simi: Osheyyyyy

Then I sent Bankole’s number against the objection of my rapidly beating heart. I tried to be laissez-faire about it, but I knew I wasn’t being honest with myself.

Then I opened Bankole’s chat and typed.

Me: Hey hey. Forgot to mention, but someone asked for your number after the campaign. Her name is Simi. We went to uni together. She’s beautiful, smart, has a great job and from the little I know because we haven’t hung out properly in a while, she’s still an amazing person. I actually think you guys might get along and maybe start something 😉 I have sent her your number and she will be in touch. Please don’t air her.

But in my head I was saying: Actually, please air her! PLEASE!!! 😭

I re-read the message and hit send. I hadn’t even stood up from my bed when Bankole’s call came in. I stared at his name on my screen, my heartbeat picking up again. God, no. I don’t feel like talking to him. It was one thing to fake nonchalance over text, yet another thing to try to do it over a call.

The phone continued ringing and I watched it until it stopped. Then immediately felt stupid. Gather yourself, Faith!

So I stood up from my bed and took a deep breath. I was just about to tap the call button to return his call when my phone started ringing again. Bankole. I inhaled slowly before answering.

“Hiii.” I said, way too cheerily.

I could hear a small pause on his end before he replied calmly. “Good morning.”

“Good morning.”

There was another pause before he continued. He sounded like he was treading carefully, almost unsure. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. How are you?”

“I’m good.”

If I were not so stressed, I would have laughed because we suddenly sounded like two people who had met at a conference.

I cleared my throat. “So how was Cilantro? Last night?”

“Oh! Yeah. It was actually really good. Priya loved it.”

Priya.

I sat on the edge of my dressing table. “Nice. Who’s Priya?”

“Sorry. One of Kavya’s closest friends from university. She came to Lagos with her husband. He’s here for work, so she tagged along and called me yesterday because she was bored out of her mind at the hotel.”

Oh.

“She wanted Indian food,” he continued, “and apparently everywhere she had tried since she got here was disappointing, so I remembered you mentioning Cilantro. You saved my reputation. Their food was good enough for her.” He chuckled and I felt stupid.

“Oh wow. I’m glad to have helped.” I said, sounding shallow and suddenly regretting sending Simi his number. My entire body felt lighter, which was deeply embarrassing.

“Anyway,” he said, “what’s this message about Simi?”

I stood straight like someone who had just been caught in a lie. “Yes. She saw the campaign and asked if you were single.”

“And you said?”

“That you were.”

“Hmm. Interesting.”

“What’s interesting about it?”

“Nothing. Go on.”

“Yeah. She asked for your number. Sorry I should have asked you first but yeah, I think she’s great.” He was silent and didn’t reply so I continued talking to fill the gap. “She’s beautiful. Smart. Great job. Amazing person. I actually think you’ll get along.”

“Okay.” was all he said and my heart broke a little. It sounded like he was upset or sad.

“Sorry I didn’t ask you before sending your number. And I know relationships can be sensitive. So I’m sorry. I overstepped.”

I heard him take a deep breath before he replied. “I’m not angry that you sent her my number. I just didn’t know we’d started doing that.”

“Oh. Doing what?”

“Finding people for each other.”

I covered my face with my palm. This conversation was getting worse. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“No no” He chuckled, releasing some tension in me. “I’m not mad, Faith. I just didn’t know we were recommending each other to others. Because if that’s what you wanted, I know men.”

I paused. “You know men?”

“Yeah. Several of them. Single men. Not demons. Great personality. Love God.” There was half a beat of silence before he added. “And never been married.”

My heart sank. Why did he feel the need to state that as a criterion? Did he think- Before I could complete my train of thought, Bankole was laughing at something he had said. He continued, “I mean, of course, look at you. You’re beautiful, successful, funny when you’re not being irritating, you can cook- ”

The man is actively trying to sell you to his friends. He’s not suffering low self-esteem because he’s a widower who is in love with you. Get a grip.

“Bro, you’ve never eaten my food. Stop capping unnecessarily.”, I said, matching his energy.

“Ah, sorry for the assumption. Oya, remove cooking. The point is, yes, I know solid men who would be very interested in you.”

“Then why haven’t you sent them my number? You don’t want me to get married?”

“I definitely want you to get married.”

“Okay?”

“I’m just not particularly interested in helping another man achieve it. They should try on their own.”

Before I could say anything, Bankole continued. “So… Simi. You really think I should date her?”

My stomach dropped. This call had been weird already with both of us giving weird responses to each other. The energy between us was off. And now there was this question.

“Are you there?” Bankole asked.

I sighed, almost audibly and responded. “Yes, I’m here. I haven’t interacted with Simi in a while so I can’t recommend beyond what I know.”

“Okay. That’s helpful”, he replied. We stayed silent for about six seconds.

Then Bankole finally said, “Alright, speak later.”

“Talk to you later.”

***

At about 3 p.m. that same day, I got about ten messages from Simi at once. They were screenshots of a WhatsApp chat, and I immediately knew they were chats between her and Bankole. Why she was sending them to me was what I didn’t know. I opened the first one nonetheless.

Simi: Hi Bankole! Simi here. Faith gave me your number. Hope that’s okay 😂 I promise I’m not one of the women who asked if you came with the shirt.

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): That’s disappointing. Those were my favourite customers.

Simi: Looool. Should I start again?

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Too late. First impressions.

Despite myself, I smiled and swiped to the next screenshot.

Simi: Anyway, I promise Faith did not send me to disturb you. I asked for your number myself.

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Ah. So I can’t even hold her responsible?

Simi: Unfortunately 😂

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Okay. In that case, hi Simi. Nice to meet you.

Simi: Nice to meet you too. Although technically I’ve already met you. You just didn’t know.

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Please don’t tell me you were on the Live.

Simi: Front row.

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Oh no.

The next screenshot was from almost an hour later.

Simi: Okay random question.

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Shoot

Simi: Would you like to get a drink sometime?

I closed my eyes as if somehow, by doing that, I could stop the conversation from continuing.

When I opened my eyes, I observed that there was a seven-minute gap between her message and his response.

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): I’m going to be very annoying and say no, sorry. You seem lovely though, and I hope that doesn’t come across badly.

Simi: Ouch 😂

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Sorry 😭

Simi: No, it’s fine. I appreciate a clean rejection 😂 Can I ask why though? Faith said you were single. If she has sent me into somebody’s relationship, I need to fight her.

I frowned. Why did he say no?

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): 😂 She didn’t. I’m single.

Simi: Okay so this is personal. Even worse.

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Lool. Not at all. I’m just interested in someone else.

I stopped and read it like 50 times.

I’m just interested in someone else.

Simi: Ahhhhh okay. Fair enough.

Simi: Does this someone else know?

There was another gap of about four minutes before he responded.

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Not exactly.

Simi: Sir what does that mean 😭

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): It means I haven’t told her.

Simi: Why?

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Because it’s complicated.

Simi: Married?

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): God forbid 😂

Simi: Your employee?

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Simi please 😭

Simi: I’m trying to understand the complication!

I was trying to understand it too and was applauding Simi for pushing even though I was also like Girl, you just met this guy. Rest with the interrogation.

I swiped to the next screenshot.

Simi: Okay serious question. Does she like you?

This time, his reply came quickly.

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): I don’t know.

Simi: But you like her.

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Very much.

Oh.

I did not know two words - Very much - could make my heart beat faster than it already was.

I swiped.

Simi: Then tell her???

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Working on it.

Simi: Men.

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Please don’t generalise my personal cowardice.

I laughed despite the strange tightness in my chest.

Then I reached the final screenshot.

Simi: Last question and I’ll leave you alone. Do I happen to know her?

There was a two-minute gap before he replied.

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): I think you’ve asked enough questions for today. 😂

Simi: LMAOOOOOO

Simi: Fair 😭 Good luck sha.

Hot Bustle Model (Bankole): Thank you. And sorry again.

Simi: Please rest. I will survive.

That was the end of the screenshots. Then came Simi’s actual messages to me.

Simi: FAITH.

Simi: Your friend is in love o 😭

Simi: See how I went to find husband and came back as relationship counsellor.

Simi: Anyway he’s very nice.

Simi: 10/10 rejection. Would recommend.

I burst out laughing. Hate or love her, Simi was hilarious.

Me: Lmaoooo sorry babe 😭 Chai, I didn’t know all of this.

Simi: Sorry is not enough o. One free Bustle dress for the pain? 🥹

Me: Dey play.

Simi: Wicked woman 😭

Me: You’ll be alright.

Simi: I will. There are other models in the sea.

Me: No go sha marry Mami (abi papi) water!

***

Bankole called me that evening. I was lying across my bed, watching a podcast with one of Nigeria’s leading investors when his call came in.

I picked, quickly deciding not to let him know that I knew about his chat with Simi.

“Hey.”

“Hey Fatal.”

“What’s up?”

“Not much. Heading back home from the airport. Dropped off Kamal and Priya. How was your day?”

“Aw nice. Well done. We’re trying to figure out the Bustle Men restock and apparently everybody has a different opinion on quantities. How was your day?”

“Long. Diesel supplier tried to increase our rate again.”

“Ah. How much?”

And somehow, for the next few minutes, we talked about diesel. Which was exactly why I nearly fell off my bed when, somewhere between fuel prices and one of his drivers resigning, Bankole said:

“Fatal.”

“Hmm?”

“Can I take you out?”

I frowned. “We go out all the time.”

“No, not that type.”

Something about the way he said it made me sit up. “What?”

“I’m asking if I can take you out.”

I stared at the wall, willing myself not to make a big deal about the moment because, actually, what if he just wanted to… take me out. Like outside my house. “Bankole, why did you construct the question like that?”

He laughed quietly. “Because that’s the question I’m asking.”

“Take me as in...”

“Yes.”

“Wait. Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes.”

My entire brain stopped working.

“Sorry wait shut up give me a second I’ll call you back!” I said in one breath as I ended the call. It was the only way I could express how flustered, happy, surprised, delighted, confused… did I say, happy, I was.

I pressed both hands over my mouth and then removed them.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I screamed into the air, grateful to be living alone. I screamed some more and jumped ridiculously.

A knock against my window made me scream again.

“Madam!”

Oh my God.

“Madam Faith!”

I started laughing as I saw the concerned look of my gateman from my window. He must have been having PTSD from when I lost my sight.

“I’M FINE VICTOR! Sorry, just happy.” I said as I opened the window.

“Ah okay. Thank God. Congrats ma”

Congrats indeed.

As he walked away, I fell backwards onto my bed, laughing so hard my stomach hurt.

Then I sat back up. “Okay.” I said looking at myself in the mirror across the room.

“Okay. We are happy. Call him back and say yes. Comport yourself!”

I laughed again, picked up my phone and called him back. He answered on the first ring.

“Have you finished screaming?”

My mouth fell open.

“SHUT UP YOUR DIRTY STINKING MOUTH, OH MY GOD, I ACTUALLY HATE YOU!”

He burst into laughter and we both started laughing. “I so did not scream.” I said when our laughter died down.

“Yes, yes. I believe you. You just had to go check the beans on fire.”

“Exactly. It was a very important pot of beans.”

“Very dear to your heart.”

I chuckled, then cleared my throat. “Anyway. Ask me again.”

“Ask you what?”

“Bankole, please don’t start.”

He was quiet for a second as if recalibrating. Then his voice softened.

“Faith.”

“Hmm?”

“I would like to take you on a date. A real one. Just you and me, and neither of us pretending we’re there because of French or clothes or Love or because one of us happened to be bored. Will you come?”

I was grinning so hard my cheeks hurt.

“Hmmm.” I pretended to be thinking.

“Faith.”

“What?” I laughed. “I’m thinking for real o.”

“Okay, I’ll be here when you stop fake-thinking.”

“Ewoo, this attitude is already making me reconsider my answer.”

He laughed. “Oya, sorry, continue your thinking process.”

I laughed. “Yes.”

“Sorry didn’t get that.” he said.

“Don’t vex me. You heard me.”

“I want to hear it properly.”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Bankole. I will be delighted to be taken on a date by you. A real one where it’s just me and you. Us. ”

“Us. I love the sound of that.” he said and I swooned. Then he added rather softly, “I’m very excited, Fatal.”

“Me too.” I said.

“So. Saturday?”

“Saturday.”

“I’ll pick you up at five.”

“Where are we going?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

***

Saturday took approximately three years to arrive. By four-thirty, my room looked like I had been burgled by somebody interested in women’s clothing. I had changed six times. But eventually, I settled on a cream midi dress from one of Bustle’s unreleased collections. High neckline, fitted through the waist, full skirt, with tiny hand-embroidered flowers along one side. It was feminine without being fussy and, more importantly, it felt like me. I put on gold earrings, low heels and left my braids loose.

At 4:58, my phone buzzed.

Bankole: Outside, madam.

I stared at the message as my palms instantly started sweating. Why was I nervous? This was Bankole; a man I had spent hours alone with. He had seen me cry. I had seen him cry. He had watched me eat shawarma with sauce on my chin. I had measured his waist. Actually, that last memory did not help.

I grabbed my bag and went downstairs. Bankole was stepping down from his car when I stepped outside. He looked up and stopped. Well, I stopped too. Because wow…

He was wearing dark trousers and a cream linen shirt with the sleeves rolled just below his elbows, and just wow…

“Hi,” I said eventually.

Bankole blinked once. “Wow.”

I looked down at myself. “Shut up. Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Your eyes have.”

“Good.” He walked towards me. “Saves me the trouble.”

I rolled my eyes and laughed. He offered me his arm, and I slipped mine through it as he walked me around to the passenger side of the car. When we got there, he opened the door and stepped aside with an exaggerated flourish.

“Madam.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said, laughing as I got in.

***

The first five minutes of the ride were slightly weird. It suddenly felt like we didn’t know how to interact with each other anymore. I looked out of the window as music played softly. At one point, I looked at him but he was looking at the road so I looked away.

Thirty seconds later, he asked, “Why are you quiet?”

I turned towards him. “Why are you quiet?”

“I asked first.”

“You’re the one who asked me out. Entertain me.”

He laughed. “Wow.”

Even as he laughed, I watched as his fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel.

“Wait, Bankole, are you nervous?”

He glanced at me. “No.”

“You are! Your hand is doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That.”

I pointed, and he stopped tapping immediately. I burst out laughing.

“Oh my God. You’re actually nervous.”

“Please don’t enjoy this.”

That somehow made all of my nerves disappear. I smiled and settled back into my seat.

“It’s okay to be nervous. You’re in the presence of greatness. I have that effect on people of lesser confidence.”

“And here I thought it was because I’m on a date with the hottest woman in the world,” he said, without missing a beat.

I turned to him. He kept his eyes on the road, but I caught the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Gosh. You’re going to be a problem.” I said, chuckling.

***

Dinner was at a boutique restaurant tucked away in Victoria Island that I had somehow never been to. It wasn’t overly fancy, but it was cosy. By then, most of the initial awkwardness had disappeared.

The problem with going on a date with somebody you already know is that everything is familiar until it suddenly isn’t.

“You’ve been staring all night,” I said as I dug into my pasta.

“It’s a date. I’m allowed. Plus I have wanted to do this for the longest time, so allow me live my truth, finally.”

I reached for my water. “This is hard,” I said, cheesing hard.

He smiled and kept looking at me. This time, I didn’t look away. For a few seconds, neither of us said anything before he continued.

“You look really beautiful tonight.”

My stomach tightened. “Thank you. You look very good too.”

He nodded. “I know.”

And there he was. I laughed. “Can you just try for a few seconds to be humble?"

“No, why? Is that what it’ll take for me to marry you?”

I choked on my pasta Like, properly choked.

“Faith!”

Bankole shot out of his seat and was beside me in seconds, patting my back firmly as I coughed into my napkin.

“Are you okay?”

I held up one finger, still coughing.

“Water?”

I nodded frantically, and he reached across the table for my glass and handed it to me. I took a few careful sips while he continued rubbing my back until eventually, I could breathe again.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “That was scary.”

I turned slowly towards him, my eyes watering. “Yes, that’s what happens when you just casually insert marriage into a conversation about humility while I have pasta in my mouth!”

He started laughing. “Don’t laugh! I almost died!”

“I’m sorry.” He was still rubbing my back, which made the apology significantly less convincing. “I genuinely didn’t know marriage was a choking hazard.”

He returned to his chair, still fighting a smile. I picked up my fork and pointed it at him. “No more surprise vocabulary while I’m eating.”

“Understood.”

“Especially words with long-term implications.”

That sent us into another fit of laughter.

***

After dinner, neither of us seemed particularly interested in leaving, so we ordered dessert.

Somewhere between sharing a ridiculous chocolate cake and arguing about whether dessert could ever be too sweet, Bankole leaned back in his chair.

“Can I confess something?”

“That sounds dangerous, and like something I’d love to hear, so yes, confess.”

He laughed. “The photoshoot was very difficult for me.”

“What do you mean the photoshoot was difficult for you?”

“You kept walking onto the set, touching me, my clothes.”

I laughed. “Oh, Jesus. Touching you? I was styling you!”

“I know.”

“So?”

“Nothing. I’m just telling you I suffered.”

I stared at him. “You suffered?”

“Greatly.”

“You were the one standing there doing all those hot-boy poses!”

He shrugged. “You call it hot boy. I call it just being myself. But thank you for the generous compliment.”

I shook my head, laughing. This man was actually unbelievable.

And the most annoying part?

I was having a really, really good time.

The Bustle Men samples came out even better than I had imagined.

I know I’m obviously biased, but they were good. Really good. We had a relaxed two-piece set in chocolate brown, a structured short-sleeved shirt in cream with subtle detailing, a deep green kaftan that I thought was going to be the bestseller, and a rust-coloured shirt-and-trouser set that had taken me three attempts to get right.

And then there was my model. Bankole actually looked good in everything. I had known this from the fittings, but fittings are different. During fittings, you’re looking at shoulders and hems and whether a trouser is pulling strangely around the crotch. You’re not really looking at the person.

The campaign shoot was on a Saturday morning at a studio in Lekki. I arrived before everyone else because I am incapable of being zen on shoot days. By the time Bankole arrived, we had already set up the first look, the photographer was testing lights, and my stylist and I had disagreed twice about shoes.

“Good morning, boss,” Bankole called as he walked in.

I looked up from the monitor. “You’re late.”

He checked his watch. “By three minutes.”

“Late is late.”

“You sent me a call time of eight a.m. on a Saturday. I think the bigger issue here is workplace abuse.”

Despite my nerves, I chuckled and pointed towards the changing room. “Your first look is inside. Please go and change.”

He gave me a mock salute and disappeared. About ten minutes later, he walked out in the brown two-piece and actually made me stop.

Hmm.

“Great,” I said. “Looks good.”

“I agree.” He chuckled and walked towards the set.

The photographer gave him the usual first few instructions. Stand here. Turn slightly. Chin down. Bankole complied for the first few seconds until something strange happened. It felt like he suddenly embodied a new character, and this new character happened to be a supermodel. The unseriousness disappeared from his face. He shifted his weight slightly, slid one hand into his pocket and dropped his chin by maybe half an inch. His eyes narrowed just enough towards the camera.

The photographer started shooting.

Click. Click. Click.

“Niceee. Hold that.”

Bankole turned slightly before the instruction was even complete.

Clickclickclickclick.

“Perfect. Give me the shoulder.”

He did. I frowned.

Huhhhh??

The photographer lowered his camera briefly. “You’ve done this before?”

Bankole’s eyes moved towards me. “Yup. I told her.”

My mouth fell open. “You were actually a model?”

He laughed. “Why would I lie about something so easily verifiable?”

“Because you lie recreationally!”

Everyone around us laughed.

“I said I modelled before I got married.”

“You said supermodel.”

“I was just using branding words.”

He shook his head and returned his attention to the photographer, then proceeded to baffle me further with his poses. He knew when to look at the camera and when to look away. He knew what to do with his hands. He understood how to make the clothes move without making it obvious that he was trying to make the clothes move. Even his expressions changed subtly between shots.

At one point, the photographer asked him for something “a little more intense.”

Bankole dropped his chin, turned his face slightly and looked directly into the lens.

I stared at the monitor.

Ah. Okay.

Obviously, I knew Bankole was a man. But somehow, this was the first time I was looking at him and thinking: Oh. This man is actually hot.

Wow.

“Faith?”

I looked up to see my stylist pointing towards Bankole. “The shirt.”

The front placket had shifted slightly.

“Oh. Right.”

I walked onto the set, my eyes involuntarily avoiding Bankole’s. I straightened the bottom of the shirt first, then moved my hands upwards, smoothing the fabric along the front. One side of the placket was sitting slightly higher than the other, so I tugged it gently into place and flattened it against his chest.

Bankole looked down at my hands and naturally, I looked up, our eyes meeting.

For a second, the noise around us seemed oddly far away. Someone was moving equipment behind me. The photographer was saying something to the lighting assistant. Music was playing somewhere in the studio.

Still, there we were.

I dropped my eyes first and finished straightening the shirt.

“All good.”

He cleared his throat as I stepped away. The photographer raised his camera again, and Bankole turned towards him. I returned to the monitor and ran a hand over my braids, itching to do anything but reflect on what that was.

The next two looks went quickly. By the final outfit, Bankole had become too comfortable and was essentially having fun.

I think he was mean-mugging in one of the poses and the photographer told him to smile. “You’re selling clothes. Happy people buy clothes.” The photographer said.

“Well, sad people buy more clothes.” Bankole had responded.

I looked up from the monitor. “The man has a point.”

“Thank you, boss.”

“You’re welcome.” I replied and the shoot continued.

After a few shots, the photographer lowered his camera.

“Bankole.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m over here.”

Bankole frowned. “Yeah, I know.”

“Okay. Please look here.”

Bankole adjusted his stance. The photographer took another couple of shots, stopped again, then turned towards me.

“Faith, please come and stand behind me.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“He keeps looking at you.”

Oh.

I looked at Bankole, but he looked back at me with an expression so blank it was almost offensive.

“Oga, why are you looking at me?” I asked as I walked towards where the photographer asked me to stand.

He shrugged. “The danger of a single story. You should be asking me if I’m looking at you.”

The photographer laughed. “Abeg. Faith, just stand here. I need his eyes in this direction anyway.”

I moved behind him and Bankole looked towards the camera. Technically, he was looking into the lens because that was where he had been instructed to look. Still, standing directly behind the photographer while Bankole held that annoyingly intense model expression felt unnecessarily personal.

“Beautiful,” the photographer said. “Don’t move.”

I didn’t.

Neither did Bankole.

Click.

“Got it. I think we’re done.”

I exhaled.

***

The first Bustle Men campaign post went live the following Tuesday at noon.

By 12:07, my social media manager had called me.

“Ma, have you seen the comments?”

“No. Why?”

She started laughing, and that should have warned me. I opened Instagram and couldn’t close my mouth. The post had been up for just seven minutes, but tell me why it already had twenty-five comments.

Okay but does the model come with the shirt?

Bustle please drop his @ for sizing purposes.

I don’t have a husband, but suddenly I feel called to support menswear.

Sorry how much for the brown set AND the man? Please don’t separate.

I have been supporting this brand since 2021. Don’t gatekeep now.

God, I see what you’re doing for others.

I stared at my phone, reading Nigerian women drool over Bankole. I didn’t know whether to laugh or vex. The comments were harmless, obviously, but for some reason, reading woman after woman publicly thirst over him was beginning to irritate me.

Which was ridiculous.

My WhatsApp notification came in while I was still reading. It was Simisola, a close friend from uni.

Simi: Babe.

Me: No.

Simi: I haven’t said anything 😭

Me: I know you.

Simi: That model.

Me: Ehehn?

Simi: Is he single?

I paused to think about the answer. Bankole was single. Simi was single. People asked their friends these things every day.

Me: Yeah, actually.

Her reply came immediately.

Simi: Introduce me.

My heart skipped a beat.

Me: You people have seen four pictures and lost your minds.

Simi: Chai, Faith, I didn’t ask for advice. I asked for an introduction.

Me: He’s my friend, Simi.

Simi: Even better. So, is your friend available to other human beings?

Fair question.

Me: I don’t know. I’ll ask him.

Simi: Don’t worry, let me ask him for myself. Give me his number.

Me: Lol o

Simi: So you’re gatekeeping?

Me: Nah. I’ll ask him whether to share his number too.

I put my phone down. Five seconds later, I picked it up again and sent Bankole a screenshot of some of the comments.

Me: Your people are looking for you.

He replied with a voice note.

Bankole: 🎤 This is what they call organic steeze. You are welcome.

I laughed and went back to work.

By four p.m., the post had become one of the most engaged posts we had ever put up. Not one of our most engaged menswear posts. One of our most engaged posts. we’ve ever had.

I didn’t know whether to be pleased or insulted. My social media manager was definitely pleased.

“Ma, we should do a Live.”

I looked up from my laptop. “For what?”

“The engagement on this post is insane. People are asking about sizing, colours, restock, everything. If we can get him on Live for even fifteen or twenty minutes tonight, I think we can convert some of this attention to sales.”

I considered it for a second. She was right. If these women had decided to gather under my post because of Bankole’s face, the least they could do was buy something.

I picked up my phone and called him.

“Bankole.”

“Hello and good afternoon to you too?”

I laughed. “Sorry. Good afternoon. Do you know how to sell clothes?”

“Say more.”

“We want you to do an Instagram Live.”

“Who is we?”

“Well, actually, just my social media manager. She says we should take advantage of all this engagement while we have it. Answer questions, talk about the clothes, convince people to buy. Fifteen, twenty minutes max.”

“Omo.” He sighed. “Faith, I’m just a boy.”

I laughed. “Yes o. Just a fine boy holding all our female followers in a chokehold.”

There was a short silence on the other end. “Wow. Fishes can fly. I can’t believe you just called me a fine boy. This Live must be very important to you.”

“Bankole, please don’t get excited.”

“Too late. I’ll do it, but on one condition.”

I rolled my eyes, already smiling. “What?”

“You have to be there. I’ve never gone Live before, and I’m definitely not joining from my account. I have a peaceful life, and I would like to preserve it.”

“I actually advise against using your account. Once they find your handle, it’s all over for your mentions and DMs.”

He sighed heavily. “God abeg. Is it a curse to be hot?”

“See? It has already entered your head.” I shook my head. “Anyway, where should we have it?”

“My place? I have meetings till eight, so I don’t know if I can leave here, get to Yaba and still make it in good time.”

I checked the time. “That works. I’ll come to yours instead. If I get there for eight, we can go Live around eight-thirty.”

“Perfect. See you.”

“See you.”

***

At 7:58 p.m., I pulled up outside Bankole’s house.

I had expected an apartment for some reason. I don’t know why. Maybe because every time we spoke about his home, he called it my place in a casual way that made me imagine a nice three-bedroom apartment somewhere with ridiculous service charges.

Instead, the address led me to a quiet gated street and a modern two-storey house tucked behind a dark gate.

I parked in front and called him.

“I’m outside.”

“Okay, I’ll open the gate. Still in my meeting, but the front door is open.”

Less than a minute later, the gate opened remotely. I drove in and walked into the house.

My first thought was that the house looked very Bankole. Clean without looking sterile. Modern without looking like a furniture showroom. There were plants everywhere, which surprised me, and a ridiculous amount of framed art on the walls. The living room was large but somehow still cosy, with a deep sectional sofa, a wooden coffee table covered in books and one stray pink sock abandoned underneath it.

“AUNTIE FAITH!”

I barely had time to turn before Love came running towards me in pyjamas, her bonnet slightly crooked on her head.

“Hello, big madam.”

She wrapped both arms around me. “Daddy said you’re coming for work. What work is it?”

“Bustle work.”

“Love! Go to bed,” I heard Bankole call from upstairs.

Love sighed with the deep suffering of a child oppressed by bedtime.

“Goodnight, Auntie Faith!” she called out as she disappeared upstairs and the house became noticeably quieter without her.

I looked around properly.

There were photographs everywhere. Love at different ages. Bankole holding a tiny baby Love. Family pictures. Holidays. Birthdays. One photograph of Bankole and Kavya caught my eye almost immediately. They looked very young. Kavya was laughing at something outside the frame while Bankole looked at her instead of the camera. His arm was around her waist, and she had one hand resting against his chest.

I didn’t stare for long. But I liked that she was there and not hidden away or confined to Love’s bedroom or some private corner of the house. She existed openly in the home she had once been part of.

“Sorry, Fatal!” Bankole’s voice came from upstairs. “I’m coming. Meeting ran over.”

“No problem!”

“Make yourself comfortable!”

I sat on the sofa and looked around some more. The books on the coffee table were an odd mix of business, fiction and children’s books. A half-completed jigsaw puzzle occupied one end of the dining table. There was a framed drawing on the wall that said DADDY AND LOVE in enormous letters, with two stick figures whose arms were longer than their entire bodies. I was still examining it when I heard footsteps on the stairs.

“Hey. Sorry about that.”

I turned. And forgot the stick figures entirely.

Bankole was coming down the stairs in black shorts and the rust Bustle shirt I had asked him to wear. The sleeves sat just above his elbows, the first two buttons were undone, and his hair looked slightly damp, like he had quickly showered after his meeting.

He was brushing his beard, casually dragging a small beard brush along his jaw as he walked towards me.

And he smelled—wow.

I had forgotten how good this man smelled. At the airport when we first met, I had noticed it. I supposed somewhere between everything that happened afterwards and our friendship, I had stopped consciously registering it.

Tonight, I registered it. He also looked irritatingly good.

“Hi,” he said.

I realised I had been staring.

“Hi.”

He stopped a few feet away and looked down at himself. “Is the shirt okay?”

“Oh. Yes. It’s fine. It looks good.”

He looked at me for a second and then smiled.

“What? Why are you smiling?”

“Because you’ve become very generous with compliments lately.”

I rolled my eyes but knew he was telling the truth. He put the beard brush down on the coffee table.

“You want anything? Water? Wine? Juice?”

“Water is fine.”

He disappeared towards the kitchen and returned with two bottles of water, handing me one before sitting at the other end of the sofa.

“So.” He twisted his bottle open. “What exactly am I doing on this Live?”

“The bottom line is that you’re selling clothes.”

“I gathered that.”

“My social media manager says the comments are still going mad, so just interact with them. Answer questions about the pieces, sizing, how they feel, whatever. Then remind them that quantities are limited.”

“Okay.”

“And be charming.”

He looked at me and gave an irritating smirk. “What do you mean by charming?”

“I don’t know. Talk to them normally. They’re mostly women, obviously, so just... give them small razzle-dazzle.”

“Razzle-dazzle?”

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“Bankole, you used to model. Surely you know how to flirt small.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You want me to flirt… with your customers?”

“For sales. Professionally.”

“Professional flirting.”

“Yes.”

He nodded slowly, as though I had just given him an extremely serious corporate brief.

“Understood.”

***

At eight-forty, we went Live.

I started alone because I wanted to introduce the collection properly before releasing the nuisance beside me onto innocent people.

“Hi, guys. So apparently you people have decided that after years of me making beautiful clothes for women, this is the post that will bring everybody out.”

The comments were already moving.

I laughed. “Yes, yes. I know why you’re here. Shameless people. But before I bring your person, the actual reason we’re doing this is Bustle Men. We launched four designs today, quantities are limited, and—”

BRING THE MAN.

Faith please move.

We love you but shift.

I gasped.

“Wow. Okay. This is my own company’s Instagram page, by the way guys.”

Bankole laughed beside me and the comments exploded.

WE HEARD HIM.

HE IS THERE.

OYA SHOW YOUR FACE O HIM

“Okay, okay,” I muttered before moving the phone slightly.

Bankole came into frame wearing the rust-coloured shirt and the comments became unreadable. He looked at the screen, raised a brow at whatever he saw, then turned to me with a slow smile.

WOAH. What was that?

Before I could properly process it, he turned back towards the phone.

“Huh hi, hello everybody. I hear I’m here because some of you have questions about the collection.”

Questions about YOU.

Finally!

Faith shift small I want to see something.

Are you single?

I started laughing. “They’re not even pretending.”

Bankole read the last comment and smiled into the camera. It was not his usual wide, mischievous smile. This one was controlled, almost lazy.

“Single? You don’t even know my name. What if I’m a terrible person?”

The comments went mad.

I CAN FIX YOU 😭

Okay what’s your name fine boy?

He chuckled. “See? Now we’re making progress. My name is Bankole, and this-” he pinched the front of his shirt between two fingers “-is what you people are actually supposed to be interested in.”

We can be interested in two things at the same time.

Bankole I am Chioma nice to meet you.

Now answer the original question sir.

He laughed, shaking his head. “No, no. You people have to buy something before I start answering personal questions. Faith said I’m here to convert engagement to sales, and I take my job very seriously.”

I stared at him. Where did this person come from?

He was talking like all those boys.

You know those boys?

Those boys!

Someone asked how tall he was.

“I’m six-two, but please don’t let that discourage you if the man you’re buying for isn’t.” He leaned slightly towards the phone as though he was telling them something confidential. “We don’t discriminate against short kings at Bustle.”

A woman asked whether the rust colour would suit a darker-skinned man.

“Absolutely. In fact, I think this colour looks even better on dark skin. Get it for your man. You won’t be disappointed.”

Then another comment appeared.

I don’t have a boyfriend. Who am I supposed to buy it for?

Bankole read it aloud, then smiled at the screen.

“No boyfriend is a temporary problem. The collection is limited. Prioritise accordingly.”

I put my head in my hands.

He continued, completely straight-faced. “Buy the shirt. Keep it somewhere safe. When the man comes, you’ll already be prepared.”

What if the man doesn’t come?

He leaned closer to the phone before he answered that. “Then give me till Christmas.” And he winked.

I whipped my head towards him and watched as he continued to hold the woman’s imaginary gaze for perhaps two seconds before breaking into a smile.

The Live lost its mind.

Frankly, so did I.

ADDING TO CART IMMEDIATELY.

WHAT SIZE DO YOU WEAR BANKOLE I WANT TO BE READY.

I shook my head. “I regret this,” I whispered.

He smiled at the camera, but I knew he was smiling at what I had said.

Someone asked about the fit for a man with a bigger stomach, and he explained it properly, showing how the shirt fell around his waist and why they shouldn’t automatically size up. Another asked about the fabric, and somehow Bankole remembered enough from the campaign briefing to explain the weight and feel without lying.

I was impressed.

Someone asked:

So what kind of woman do you actually like? Since you won’t answer if you’re single.

Bankole read it aloud and rubbed his beard slowly, thinking. I suddenly became extremely interested in the comments.

“Hmmm. What kind of woman do I like?”

“Yes,” I said, mostly because the silence had become weird. “The people want to know.”

He glanced at me, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

“I like a woman I like.”

Even I frowned. “What kind of answer is that?”

He chuckled and looked back at the camera. “I don’t really have a type. If I enjoy talking to you, I respect you, you make me laugh, I can be myself around you, and I find you beautiful, what else am I looking for?”

The comments started pouring in.

THAT IS A TYPE SIR.

Okay so where do we submit applications?

I AM FUNNY.

Bankole please I have all the requirements.

I laughed. “See CVs coming in. So how does one know if she qualifies?”

I regretted the question almost immediately. Bankole turned his head towards me, his eyes moving over my face for one quiet second before settling back on mine.

“She’ll know.” He said, with his gaze still on mine.

Oh.

I swallowed. Thankfully, the comments had gone completely insane.

HOW WILL SHE KNOW???

WHO IS SHE PLEASE.

WAIT! am I the only one sensing some chemistry between these guys

He laughed. “You people came very prepared today.”

I looked at the time. “And actually, on that note, we’ve been here for almost thirty minutes. Thank you very much, Mr Model. Any final words for your fans?”

He smiled at the camera. “Ladies, goodnight. Please buy the collection so Faith is forced to invite me back.”

“Yes! Goodnight, all.”

I ended the Live and suddenly became very aware that we were actually alone.

Bankole reached for his bottle of water so casually, like he hadn’t just spent the last half hour putting on a show for hundreds of women.

I stared at him.

“What?”

I shook my head slowly. “You did really well. Thank you for doing this.”

He smiled and stood up. “Anything for you, boss.”

***

By the end of the week, we had sold out.

I knew because my sales manager and social media manager ran into my office screaming.

“We sold out!”

“Ma! People are already asking for a restock.”

I was beaming. “Of course they are.”

I picked up my phone and dialled Bankole.

***

I decided Bankole deserved dinner. I mean, he had modelled an entire campaign for free, allowed strangers on the internet to objectify him for several hours and somehow become an unpaid member of my sales team.

“You’re taking me somewhere expensive,” he informed me when I told him.

“You’re very entitled for someone who was paid in free clothes.”

He smiled. “Somewhere expensive.”

“Fine.”

I already had dinner plans with Yvonne that Friday, so I asked if she minded Bankole joining us.

Her reply was immediate.

Yvonne: OF COURSE!

***

Yvonne liked him instantly.

Of course she did. Everybody liked Bankole.

Within thirty minutes of sitting down, the two of them had somehow discovered that they both hated the same Nigerian musician, disagreed violently about whether Abuja was boring and formed an alliance against me because I call draw soup viscous soup.

Later, I went to the bathroom, and when I returned, they were laughing.

“What are you people talking about?”

Yvonne picked up her wine. “You.”

“Why?”

Bankole was still smiling. “Apparently you used to wear coloured contact lenses in university.”

My mouth fell open. “YVONNE!”

“He asked what you were like!” Yvonne raised her hands.

“Yes, I was interested,” Bankole said.

Yvonne cleared her throat. “Was?” she muttered.

I ignored her.

Bankole heard her, but he simply smiled and asked me, “What colours?”

“Don’t encourage her.”

“Blue,” Yvonne replied on my behalf.

I dropped my fork. “It was one semester.”

“Blue?”

“It was 2015. Everybody was experimenting.”

“Were they?”

“Shut up.”

He laughed, and I reached for my drink. Across the table, Yvonne was looking at me.

What? I asked with my eyes.

She just smiled and took a sip of her wine.

***

After dinner, Bankole left first because he had promised Love he would get home before bedtime. Yvonne and I rode together in her car.

“I like him,” she said.

I glanced at her. “Bankole?”

“No, the waiter. Of course, Bankole.”

I chuckled. “Yeah. He’s nice.”

“He is.”

“And extremely annoying.”

“Not to me.”

I looked at her. “Well, give it time.”

“No, I’m serious. I really like him. He’s funny, he’s smart, he listens when you’re talking, and he has that thing where he can talk to anybody without it feeling like he’s performing.”

“Yeah.”

“And he’s hot.”

I laughed. “Eww.”

Yvonne turned to look at me. “Eww?”

“Yes.”

“That’s an interesting response. I said the man is fine, not that you should lick him.”

“Yvonne!”

She burst out laughing. “What? You’re the one shouting eww like I proposed something.”

I shook my head. “Please focus on your driving.”

She was quiet for a few seconds before she said, “He likes you.”

I groaned. “Yvonne, please.”

“What?”

“Dead that thought.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s my friend.”

“I know. So, are you looking to date your enemy?”

“Aaaand he’s naturally like that. You saw the Live. This man was flirting with approximately four hundred women simultaneously.”

She slowed down at a traffic light. “Yes, but he did not look at any of those four hundred women the way he looked at you tonight.”

Cat got my tongue.

Yvonne continued before I could respond. “I’m not saying anything needs to happen. I’m just telling you what I observed.”

“Well, you observed wrong.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

We continued in silence for a while before she asked, “But do you like him?”

“I…”

Yvonne glanced at me.

“Hmmm.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Oookayyy.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You don’t need to, bestie. I hear you clearly.”

“I don’t know what you hear, but I was going to say I don’t know if I like him.”

Yvonne didn’t respond immediately and strangely, that made it easier to continue.

“I like him, obviously. He’s my friend. I like talking to him. I like being around him. I like Love. I...” I paused. “I don’t know where friendship stops and something else starts.”

“That’s fair,” Yvonne said simply.

“The thing is, I don’t even know if I want anything to happen.”

“With him?”

“With anybody. I like my life right now, Yvonne. I really, really like it. I like who I am. I like that I don’t wake up wondering what mood somebody is in or whether I’ve done something wrong. I like that my decisions are mine. And I know having a relationship doesn’t automatically mean losing any of that, but...” I sighed.

Yvonne nodded.

“And Bankole is...” I stopped.

“What?”

I searched for the right word.

“Easy.” I sighed.

“Being his friend is easy. I don’t have to think about anything. I don’t have to impress him. I don’t have to manage him. If he annoys me, I tell him. If I’m angry, I’m angry. If I don’t want to do something, I don’t do it. He has his life. I have mine. And somehow...” I shrugged. “We meet in the middle.”

I looked out of the window.

“And that’s exactly why I don’t want to start analysing it. Because what if I take something that is really good and uncomplicated and make it complicated for no reason?”

“Then don’t analyse it. You don’t have to decide tonight whether you want to marry Bankole and become Love’s stepmother.”

“Jesus Christ!”

She burst out laughing.

“Sorry, sorry. But seriously, you don’t have to do anything. You don’t even have to know exactly how you feel yet. Just stop lying to yourself that you feel absolutely nothing.”

I looked out of the window. The annoying thing was that once she said it, I couldn’t exactly unsee it.

I thought about the photoshoot. About standing behind the photographer while Bankole’s eyes stayed trained in my direction. About straightening his shirt and suddenly becoming aware of every inch between us. About that ridiculous beard brush.

Then the Live.

I had found the whole thing hilarious when Bankole started flirting with hundreds of women. Until some of them started sounding a little too serious. Then, apparently, it stopped being quite as funny, and I started to feel something that felt like jealousy; like I needed to protect him from them… for me.

We drove in silence for a while before I remembered something.

“By the way, Simi asked me for his number.”

Yvonne’s head whipped towards me before she remembered she was driving.

“WHAT DID YOU SAY TO HER?”

“I said I’d ask him.”

“And have you?”

“No.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Tuesday. I forgot”

“Riiight!”

We both burst into laughter.

“Well, I should actually ask him.”

I pulled out my phone and opened WhatsApp.

“Abeg, abeg, don’t ask him.” Yvonne said, glancing at my phone.

My thumb hovered over Bankole’s name near the top of my chats.

Me: Home safe?

The message delivered. That was not what I had opened the chat to ask. But oh well.

By the time he replied later that night, Simi’s request had somehow disappeared from my to-do list again.

Very unfortunate.

***

Three days later, Bankole posted on Instagram.

This was noteworthy because Bankole almost never posted anything. His page was mostly Love, the occasional VeloInc event and photographs from approximately seventeen business conferences where everybody was wearing a lanyard.

I was in bed when his post came up.

I tapped through the carousel without much interest. Bankole in a suit. Bankole with some people I vaguely recognised. A picture of the venue. Food. Another group picture.

I tapped forward. Then went back to the group picture. There was a woman standing beside him. Tall. Dark-skinned. Beautiful. And very familiar.

It took me a second before it clicked.

Amara.

Bankole had mentioned her once during one of our conversations about dating. He had dated only two people since Kavya, and Amara was the one who wasn’t a disaster. In fact, they had dated for a while, liked each other and eventually stopped seeing each other because, according to him, “the timing wasn’t great.”

He had hesitated when I asked to see her picture, but eventually gave in after I emotionally blackmailed him with, “But you can spot Ikem in a crowd!”

In the picture, she was standing beside him. They weren’t touching. There were other people around them. It was a completely normal photograph taken at a completely normal dinner. And yet…

I caught myself zooming in. Faith. I immediately zoomed back out.

What exactly was I looking for? Evidence of what? Even if Bankole and Amara had started seeing each other again, what did that have to do with me?

Absolutely nothing.

I exited Instagram and dropped my phone beside me and thirty seconds later, it buzzed.

Bankole: Are you awake?

I stared at his name, suddenly far too interested in whatever he was about to say.

Me: Yup.

Bankole: Random question. Do you remember that Indian restaurant you said was good in VI?

Me: Cilantro?

Bankole: Yes! Thank you.

I should have stopped there.

Me: Why?

Bankole: Taking someone there tomorrow.

Oh.

There it was again; the same stupid drop in my stomach from the flower petal.

Oh, for God’s sake.

Me: Nice. Their butter chicken is really good.

Bankole: Thanks. Noted 👍🏾

And that was it. He didn’t give me an explanation of who he was taking. And why would he? I was his friend. His good friend.

A friend who had apparently developed a very specific physical reaction to the possibility of Bankole dating other women.

Fantastic.

I turned off my phone and put it on my bedside table. Then I lay there in the dark for a while.

Okay.

Fine.

Maybe Yvonne was right about one thing.

I didn’t feel nothing.

For about two months, men had been disturbing me. Not romantically. Unfortunately. They wanted clothes.

It started with one of our subscribers asking if we could make a shirt for her husband using the same Adire fabric we had used for her dress. Then another customer asked if Bustle would ever consider doing kaftans for men. A few days later, a man sent us a DM asking if our subscription model was strictly for women because, according to him, “Men are busy too.”

Fair point.

By the time we got the seventh or eighth enquiry, I started paying attention. One lesson in business is to pay attention to what your customers are saying. Like a mentor says, “If one person asks for it, 100 people want it.”

Bustle had always been intentionally for women. Busy, working women who wanted beautiful, well-made clothes without having to spend their Saturdays chasing one tailor who had suddenly stopped picking calls. But men had simply never been part of the plan.

But if enough people were asking, I thought it was worth testing. So I started sketching a tiny capsule collection with four designs. It wasn’t going to be anything ambitious. I would produce 15 units of each design, put them out, see how people responded and decide whether Bustle Men deserved to become a real thing.

I mentioned it to Bankole during one of our increasingly random phone calls. I can’t even remember what we had been discussing before then. Knowing us, probably something completely unrelated.

“I think I’m going to test a men’s collection,” I said, scrolling through some sketches on my tablet. “Very small. It’ll be four designs first. The annoying thing is that menswear is an entirely different operation. Different blocks, different construction, and then I need to find somebody with the right proportions for the samples before I even start thinking about campaign models. There’s actually a whole science behind choosing the right fit model, but let me not bore you.”

“Sounds amazing. You should do it. Also, why are you going to Sokoto when what you’re looking for is inside your sokoto?”

I shook my head. “What?”

“Use me.”

I laughed. “Use you for what?”

“For your collection now. Are you not looking for a man?”

“Correction. I am looking for a fit model.”

“Wow. Nice one. 1-0”

“What? I’m serious. I need an actual model. No shade to you.”

“Ah no wahala now. I just thought to help you, but I see that my kindness has been taken for granted. Just for your information, before I got married and became a father and widower, I was actually a supermodel. Dey play.”

“It’s a lie. Say God.”

“I don’t call the name of the Lord in vain, please, you heathen.”

I laughed, but I started to picture him again in my mind’s eye. Wait a sec, Bankole actually has model body. I had seen Bankole in enough clothes to know that his proportions would work for the sample size I had in mind. He was tall enough, broad enough across the shoulders without being ridiculously muscular, and— Actually, let me stop there before this starts sounding like something else.

The point is, professionally speaking, he would work. So I swallowed my pride.

“You know what? You actually might be useful.”

“Might?” He said, but I could hear him smile.

“You have a good body for the samples.”

He was quiet for a second before replying, “Sorry, could you repeat that? The network went off.”

“Bankole, your network is fine.” I was laughing.

“No, I think it cut right around good-something-something. Start again from there.”

“I said your proportions would work for the samples.”

“That’s not what you said.”

“That’s what I meant.”

“Faith, don’t be afraid of your truth. Live in the light. Repeat yourself with your chest.”

I started laughing. “See, this is why compliments are wasted on you.”

“I’m listening. Please waste more.”

“Anyway, it would also give me an opportunity to fix your wardrobe.”

“What? My wardrobe does not need fixing.”

“It needs fixing like mad. You only have polo shirts.”

“That is categorically false.”

“You have the same polo in black, navy blue, grey, white, green—”

“Yes. Those are different clothes.”

“They are the same shirt with different colours.”

He laughed. “This is actually offensive because I dress well.”

“You dress expensively. There’s a difference.”

“Wooow. I didn’t wake up today to catch all these strays.”

“Sorry. Let me apologise to my future model so you won’t be frowning in my pictures.”

“No, no. Don’t apologise. Keep showing me your true colour.”

I laughed. “So are you volunteering or not?”

“I don’t know anymore. Apparently I’m about to put my body and self-esteem in the hands of a woman who has secretly hated my clothes for months.”

“I don’t hate your clothes. I just think you could do better. So are you volunteering?”

He sighed dramatically. “Fine. But if I become the face of Bustle Men and people start demanding me specifically, my rates will increase.”

“No wahala. Do the job first.”

***

The plan was initially to send Chinedu, one of my tailors, to Bankole’s office to take his measurements. I didn’t need to be there for that, and Bankole was busy enough that asking him to cross Lagos for a tape measure felt unnecessary.

Except on the afternoon Chinedu was supposed to go, we received a large batch of orders that needed to go into production immediately, and taking him off the floor suddenly made no sense. So I sent Bankole a message.

Me: I’m sorry. I need to rain-check Chinedu. We just got a bunch of orders, and I really need him here today. Can he come to you Thursday instead? I’m so sorry for any inconvenience.

He called me almost immediately.

“Why are you sounding like you’re cancelling surgery? It’s me now. No need for the plenty talk. We can reschedule.”

I laughed. “Because I know you’re busy and I already booked the time with you.”

“Faith, it’s fine. But didn’t you say you wanted to start sampling this week?”

“Yes, which is why this is annoying me.”

“Can I measure myself?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you will do it wrongly.”

“How difficult can it be to use a tape measure?”

“You’ll measure where you think your waist is instead of where your waist actually is, suck in your stomach, add one inch to your chest because of ego and send me numbers that will disgrace both of us.”

He laughed. “You think very highly of me. So what’s the alternative? Is there any way to get it done today still?”

I thought about it. “I can do it myself.”

“Okay.”

“The only thing is I’m working late today, so I can’t come to you. You’d have to come here.”

“Also okay.”

I frowned slightly. This is a very busy man. “Are you sure?”

“Yup yup. It’s Yaba, not Burkina Faso.”

“I know, but-”

“What time do you need me there?”

“Anytime after five works.”

“Send me the address.”

“Thank you so much, Bankole. I’m so so grateful.”

“You are welcome, Madam Bustle Inc.”

***

At 5:38 p.m., my receptionist called to tell me Mr Edidiong was there to see me. That made me laugh for some reason. Mr Edidiong.

Bankole walked into my office a minute later, carrying a paper bag in one hand. He looked a little tired, and I could tell he’d had a long day.

“Hey,” he said, smiling as he came in.

“Hiii. Sorry again for dragging you all the way here.”

“It’s okay. Happy to be here anyway. I’ve wanted to visit this factory of yours. It’s amazing what you’re doing.” He put the bag on my desk.

“Thank you. What’s that?”

“For you.”

I looked inside to see food.

“Wow, thanks. Why?”

“Because I know you haven’t had lunch.”

“I haven't. But how did you know?” I was stunned.

“Sixth sense. Wisdom of the elders. Supernatural discernment. Whatever you like to call it.”

I laughed but was still stunned. “Thank you. I actually appreciate it. I should be the one buying you lunch.”

“I agree completely, but what can I do as you’ve refused to do your duties.”

I laughed and stood up. “Bankole, don’t kill me. Okay. Give me five minutes. Let me finish something, and I’ll come back to do the measurement.”

“Take your time.”

I left him in my office and by the time I returned, he had opened his laptop and was working.

“You brought work?”

He looked up. “This?” He pointed at his laptop. “Nah, this is soft work.”

I shook my head, smiling. “Oya come. Let’s get this over with.”

The fitting room beside my office was free, so I handed him a plain T-shirt and asked him to change into it.

When he came out, I had my tape measure and notebook ready.

“Stand properly.”

“I am standing properly.”

“No, you’re standing like you’re about to take a picture. Relax.”

He looked down at himself. “This is how I stand.”

I rolled my eyes. “It absolutely is not.”

“Ah. What exactly am I doing that makes you think I’m posing?”

“You’ve broadened your shoulders.”

He stared at me and started laughing. “How can I broaden my shoulders, egbami?” Then he dropped his shoulders dramatically and slouched. “Better?”

“You look like a prawn.”

“Faith, pick a struggle.”

I started laughing. “Just stand normally!”

“I was standing normally before you started attacking my posture.”

Eventually, he stood still long enough for me to start. I measured his shoulders first, then his chest. He behaved himself for approximately forty seconds before looking down at the tape.

“What did you get?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s my chest.”

“And it’s my measurement.”

“Why is my own body confidential information?”

“Because the moment I tell you, you’re going to ask whether it’s impressive.”

“Wow. She actually really knows me.” He muttered under his breath like he was talking to himself.

I shook my head and moved on to his waist.

“Arms up.”

He raised them like he was under arrest, and we started laughing again. I wrapped the tape around his waist and pulled it into place. For the first time since we’d started, Bankole became completely still. And for some reason, so did I. I had become suddenly aware of how close I was standing to him.

Close enough to notice the tiny scar just below his chin that I had somehow never noticed before. Close enough that if I looked up properly, his face would be right there. So I looked down.

I read the number, wrote it down and stepped back.

“Done.”

“That was fast.”

“Because I know what I’m doing.”

“I can see that.”

There was something about the way he said it that made me look up, and when I did, he was looking at me. I held his gaze for a few seconds, waiting for him to look away but he didn’t.

“What?” I finally asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Am I not allowed to look at you?”

There was no reason for that sentence to make me forget what I was doing. Yet, when I looked down at my notebook, the number seemed jumbled on the white sheet.

“You’re allowed to look. Just don’t be weird.” I replied as I looked back up at him.

He smiled and nodded once. “Noted.”

I cleared my throat and flipped the page.

“Anyway, I need your trouser measurements.”

“Okay.”

He cleared his throat too and looked away, adjusting the hem of his T-shirt. I reached for the tape again, suddenly finding a very ordinary part of my job unnecessarily complicated.

“Right,” I muttered, mostly to myself.

Bankole rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “What do you need me to do?”

“Just… stand normally.”

“I am standing normally.”

“Good.”

Neither of us moved from where we stood. I looked at him and he looked at me and before we knew it, the two of us started laughing.

“This is ridiculous,” I said.

“Very.”

I shook my head, stepped forward and dropped the tape around his waist again. “Please behave yourself.”

“What. I haven’t even done anything.”

And annoyingly, he hadn’t.

***

We ended up staying at Bustle much later than I planned. After his measurements, he returned to my office, opened his laptop and continued doing whatever CFOs do while I moved between my office and the production floor.

By eight, most people had gone home.

By nine, it was just me, Bankole and two members of staff finishing up in the back. When I finally settled back in the office, I warmed up the food he bought me, and we ate together. He had ordered enough for both of us, thankfully, because he was also starving.

For a while, we ate and talked about nothing important. Love was spending a few days with Kavya’s mother, who had flown in from India and was staying with family in Lagos. Apparently, Love had packed enough clothes for a month even though she was staying three nights.

“She packed four pairs of shoes.”

“That’s reasonable.”

“For three nights?”

“Well, she needs options.”

“She packed rain boots.”

“Maybe she knows something we don’t.”

“She also packed swimming goggles.”

We both laughed and continued eating in silence. I picked up my phone to check if we had gotten any new DMs on Bustle’s account, but the first thing that popped up on my feed was a photograph of Ikem.

I stopped chewing. For a second, my brain didn’t understand what I was looking at. Ikem was standing beside a woman (no, not the blonde woman from London). This was a beautiful dark-skinned smiling Nigerian woman. Her left hand was lifted towards the camera to show her ring. She had collaborated with Ikem on the post, and the caption was long, but I didn’t read it. I didn’t need to. Bankole was talking at this point; something about Love.

“Faith?”

I looked up sharply, conscious that I had just been sucked into a black hole of emotions. “Huh?”

“Are you good?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

He waited and watched as I looked back at the picture. “What’s the matter?”

I sighed and turned the phone towards him. “Ikem is getting married.”

Bankole looked at the screen, then at me. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t immediately say anything, and I appreciated that. I looked at the picture again, staring at both of them. The strange thing was that I wasn’t devastated. I had imagined this moment before. Many times, actually. In some versions, I cried. In others, I threw my phone. Once, during the worst period after the breakup, I had imagined finding out he was engaged and immediately booking a flight somewhere just so I wouldn’t be in the same country as the information.

Now I just felt... I didn’t know.

“She’s beautiful,” I said.

Bankole looked at my screen again. “She is.”

“And she’s not the girl from London.”

“She isn’t”

“I don’t know why that’s relevant.”

“It’s not.”

I looked at him. He gave me a small, slightly sad smile, and something about it made my heart feel warm.

“How does this make you feel?” he asked.

I exhaled. “Well, it’s a really nice ring.”

“Meh,” He said. “It’s an okay ring. You’ll get a nicer one.”

I looked at him. “You can’t know that.”

“Maybe I can. Maybe I can’t.” He shrugged and reached for his bottle of water. “The point is, I’ve seen better.”

I chuckled. “You’re such a hater.”

“I prefer ‘a man with standards’” He smiled broadly.

I looked back at the picture, and the smile slowly left my face. “ Do you know, I really thought this would hurt more”

“How bad does it hurt?”

“A little. I think.”

“Hmm.”

“I don’t know. It’s strange.” I put my phone down. “I spent five years thinking this was the person I was going to marry. Like, there was no alternative future in my head. It was Ikem. Even when things were horrible, it was still Ikem.”

Bankole listened as I spoke, his food momentarily forgotten.

“And now I’m sitting here looking at his engagement pictures, and I don’t want him back. I genuinely don’t. But something still feels…” I searched for the word. “Final.”

“It is final.”

I nodded slowly. “Yeah. I know.”

***

By the time we were ready to leave Bustle, it was past ten.

“I’ll drop you,” Bankole said as we walked towards the car park.

“No, it’s fine. I’ll get an Uber.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t live near me. That’s double journey for you.”

“And?”

“And you’d be driving out of your way.”

“How do you know I didn’t want to buy suya from that guy near your estate?”

“He’s closed by now.”

He shook his head. “Wo, Faith, get into the car jare.” So I complied.

His car smelled faintly of leather and whatever air freshener he used. I put my bag at my feet, buckled my seatbelt and was about to reach for my phone when I noticed something near the edge of the mat.

A flower petal. Red. I blinked at it and then looked away. This was none of my business.

Bankole started the car.

Definitely none of my business.

We pulled out of the car park. I looked at the petal again.

Interesting.

Not interesting.

Normal people buy flowers every day.

Maybe they were for Love.

Love is seven.

And so? Children receive flowers.

Maybe he bought flowers for Love’s grandmother.

Maybe—

Why am I doing this?

I turned towards the window and watched the empty streets in silence. We drove for another minute before I decided I was being ridiculous. If it wasn’t a big deal, then I could ask.

“So.”

Bankole glanced at me. “So?”

“I’m not offended, but why haven’t you ever told me about your girlfriend?”

He looked at me properly this time.

“My what?”

“Your girlfriend.”

“What girlfriend?”

I gestured vaguely towards the floor. “I can see a flower petal in your car.”

He glanced down briefly, then back at the road.

“Ah.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what?”

“I don’t know. I’m asking you.”

He started smiling, and I immediately regretted starting the conversation.

“Why are you smiling?” I asked.

“You saw one flower petal in my car and concluded I had a girlfriend? Women are never beating the allegations”

“I did not conclude anything. That’s why I asked the question.”

“But did you hear the construction of your question?” He was laughing, and I was hating myself even more for starting this conversation.

“Forget it. Sorry I asked.”

“No, no. Don’t retreat now.”

I folded my arms. “I swear, you are so annoying. Oya, are the flowers for a woman or not?”

“Yes, they are.”

Something small and stupid dropped in my stomach and I hated that.

“Okay.”

“They were for my wife.”

I turned towards him, but he was still looking at the road.

“Kavya?”

He nodded.

“Oh.”

A few seconds passed before I could find my voice. “Today?”

“Yeah.” He took a breath. “Today is the anniversary of her death.”

Everything inside me rearranged itself. “Bankole.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“No, for what? Don’t be.”

“No, I mean. And I’ve spent the entire evening talking about Ikem’s engagement and making stupid jokes.”

He laughed quietly. “Faith, it’s fine.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“What was I supposed to say? ‘Sorry your ex is getting married. By the way, my wife died seven years ago’?”

When he put it like that, I laughed but then immediately covered my mouth.

“Sorry.”

“No, please laugh. That would have been insane.”

I looked down at the petal again. “You went to see her?”

“Early this morning at the cemetery.” He was quiet for a while before adding, “I go every year.”

I watched him beside me and tried to imagine carrying one person’s absence for seven years.

“Does today still feel as bad as it did at the beginning?”

He thought about it before answering. “No.” Then, after a few seconds, “And yes.”

I waited.

“The first few years were horrible because the date would start coming towards me from like... August. The anniversary is in September, but once August came, I could feel it waiting.”

“Like dread?”

“Exactly. I would start counting without meaning to. Three weeks. Two weeks. Ten days. Then the day would come and I’d be completely useless.”

He slowed at a traffic light. “Now I don’t dread it like that anymore. I can work if I want to. I can laugh. Apparently, I can spend the evening eating somebody else’s dinner and discussing her ex-boyfriend.”

I smiled.

“But grief is strange. You don’t really get over it. At least, I haven’t. You just stop being surprised that it’s there.”

I looked at him. “Hmm. What do you mean?”

“In the beginning, every time I missed her, it felt like something was going wrong. Like, Why am I still feeling like this? When will this stop? Now, I don’t ask those questions. I miss her because I loved her. That’s all.”

Something tightened in my throat, but he continued before I could say anything.

“And the things I miss have changed. At first, I missed everything. Her voice. Her face. Sleeping beside her. All the obvious things. Now it’s stupid things.”

“Like?”

He smiled. “She used to leave cupboard doors open.”

I laughed softly.

“Every single one. Kitchen would look like we’d been burgled. It drove me mad.”

“And now you miss it.”

“Only sometimes.” He shook his head. “Imagine. Seven years later, I’m standing in my kitchen wishing somebody would leave a cupboard open.”

We were quiet for a moment, so I asked, “What else do you miss about her?”

“She used to call me Kole when she was happy and Bankole when I had annoyed her.”

I smiled. “So basically you heard ‘Bankole’ a lot.”

He laughed. “Almost exclusively.”

“Makes sense.”

We both laughed before he fell back into silence.

“So who calls you Kole now?” I asked.

He was quiet again. Then he smiled, but there was sadness in it. “Nobody, really.”

I don’t know why that was the thing that almost made me cry. It wasn’t the cemetery or the flowers or anything else. It was the fact that one tiny version of his name had almost disappeared with his wife.

I looked out of the window before my face could betray me. After a while, I asked, “How old were you when she died?”

“Twenty-six.”

I turned back to him. “Did you say twenty-six?”

“Yeah.”

“Gosh. You were a baby.”

“Excuse me?”

I laughed. “Sorry, but you were.”

“You are twenty-seven.”

“Exactly. I’m a baby.”

He chuckled.

“I got married at twenty-five. Kavya got pregnant almost immediately. Love came. Kavya died. By twenty-six, I was a widower with a seven-month-old baby.” He said it plainly, but the sentence landed so heavily.

“How did you navigate that?”

“Badly.”

I laughed softly.

“No, seriously. It was terrible. I did it badly. My parents helped. Kavya’s family helped. My sister practically lived with me for a while. There were days I was excellent, and days I was just keeping both of us alive.” He shrugged. “Love doesn’t remember any of that, thankfully. In her version of history, I have always known what I’m doing.”

“Wow. She thinks you know what you’re doing now?”

“Very funny.”

I smiled.

“Do you know the hardest thing to do? It wasn’t even raising her alone.”

“What was?”

He gripped the steering wheel slightly. “Being happy again. Just. being. happy. again. The first time something genuinely made me laugh after Kavya died, I felt terrible. Like my body had betrayed her. And then the first time I realised I’d gone an entire day without thinking about her, I cried.”

“Because you felt guilty?”

“Yeah. Which is mad, because what was the alternative? Think about her every second for the rest of my life?”

He shook his head. “But yeah, grief doesn’t care about logic.”

We were close to my house now, and I wished we weren’t.

“You know what I think?” I said.

“What?”

“I think forgetting to be sad is probably one of the ways your body keeps you alive. And I don’t think remembering her less often means you love her less.”

He was quiet for a while before he said, “You are getting your money’s worth from your therapist.”

I burst out laughing just as he pulled into the front of my house. For a moment, neither of us moved before he turned to me.

“Well, today was one of the best September 7ths in seven years. Maybe because it’s the farthest away from the day Kavya passed. Or maybe because I spent time with you. Either way, I had a good day. Thank you.”

There was something about the way he said it so simply that made my chest hurt. This was a date he had dreaded before it even arrived. A date that had probably looked completely different over the years. And somehow, this September 7th had been a good day.

“I don’t know what to say to that,” I admitted.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“No, I do.” I turned towards him properly. “I just don’t want to say something weird.”

“That has never stopped you before.” I gave him a look.

“Sorry.” He pressed his lips together, but I could see the beginnings of a smile. “Serious moment.”

I shook my head, then looked down at my hands. “I’m glad you had a good day today. But I also hope you know you’re allowed to have good September 7ths.”

He didn’t reply, so I continued. “I mean it. You said earlier that the first time you laughed after Kavya died, you felt guilty. And then you felt guilty when you realised you had gone a whole day without thinking about her. I hope you don’t do that to yourself today too. I hope you don’t go back home later and start wondering whether you laughed too much or enjoyed yourself too much or whether having a good day means you somehow... I don’t know... remembered her wrongly.”

Bankole looked away, his jaw tightening slightly as he stared through the windscreen.

“That’s very kind of you.” He smiled, but I could see from the corner that his eyes had gone glossy.

I stretched open my hand across the gear and waited for him to give his to me. He looked down at my hand, up at me before placing his hand on mine.

He blinked hard. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

He laughed under his breath and wiped quickly beneath one eye. “I don’t know.”

“Then stop apologising.”

He nodded, and we sat there quietly, our hands resting comfortably together. His palm was warm against mine, his fingers loosely folded around my hand. After a while, his thumb moved once across the side of mine, almost absent-mindedly, and then went still again.

I don’t know how long we sat like that, but I didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Then after a while, he let out a long exhale. “I should let you go inside,” he said.

“Probably.”

Yet neither of us moved. I looked down and realised we were still holding hands.

“Ah yes. You’ll need this,” he said, lifting our joined hands slightly.

We both laughed and our hands came apart.

I picked up my bag and unbuckled my seatbelt. “You’ll be okay?”

He nodded. “Yeah. I’m good.”

“Okay.” I opened the door.

“Thank you for tonight.”

I smiled. “Anytime.”

“Goodnight, Fatal.”

“Goodnight, Bankole.”

I stepped out and shut the door. He waited until I got through the gate before driving off

It turned out that Bankole and I were actually capable of studying French together. Sometimes. Our second study session was extremely productive. We spent almost three hours going through verb conjugations, listening exercises and sample DELF questions. Monsieur Léo would have been proud.

Our third study session was spent ranking Nigerian soups.

Our fourth was productive again.

Our fifth somehow became a two-hour argument about whether Friends was actually funny or whether people only pretended it was funny because Americans had collectively agreed it was a classic.

Bankole was on the wrong side of history, obviously.

“Name one funny scene,” I challenged him, perplexed that I was sitting in front of a real-life brainwashed person.

“One?”

“Yes.” I nodded.

“Just one?”

“Bankole.”

“I’m trying to decide which one to give you. There are too many.”

“Like…”

“The one where Ross—” He paused.

I folded my arms. “Yes? Go on”

He chuckled, “The thing is that Ross did plenty of funny things.”

“NAME ONE.”

“Why are you shouting?”

I nearly threw my pen at him that day.

Anyway, our French improved and that was the most important thing. We eventually developed a system. Tuesdays were usually physical study sessions at LCA, while Saturdays could be physical or virtual depending on what we had going on. During the week, we sent each other French voice notes. This was entirely Monsieur Léo’s idea. His exact instruction was that we should “incorporate French into our everyday communications.”

What Monsieur Léo probably envisioned:

Bonjour, Foi. Comment s’est passée ta journée?

What I received from Bankole at 6:47 a.m. one Thursday morning was:

Bankole: 🎤 Bonjour, madame. Je suis très angry parce que mon driver est late et Lagos traffic veut tuer me. S’il vous plaît, tell me pourquoi j’habite dans cette country.

I listened to it twice, laughing and trying to decipher what exactly he was trying to communicate. Then I replied.

Me: 🎤 Monsieur, ce n’est pas French. Vous êtes just speaking rubbish avec confidence. Votre French est giving me headache.

Bankole: 🎤 Excusez-moi? And what language did YOU just speak?

Me: 🎤 French.

Bankole: 🎤 Ah. Okay. So when you mix English with French, c’est français. When I do it, c’est rubbish?

Me: 🎤 Oui. Because mine had structure. (I drew the ‘r’s in structure with the French accent, and cracked myself up)

Bankole: 🎤 Structure?! Foi, you said “ce n’est pas French.”

Me: 🎤 You understood me, non?

Bankole: 🎤 Unfortunately

Me: 🎤 Alors, the communication was successful. Merci beaucoup.

He didn’t respond. I smiled smugly and went back to what I was doing. Clearly, I had won. A minute later, another voice note came in.

Bankole: 🎤 Madame Fatal, vous parlez trop. La vie est too short pour argue about French. Pele, ma chérie.

I sat up in bed.

Me: 🎤 Did you just put Yoruba inside French?

Bankole: 🎤 Oui.

Me: 🎤 And what is “pele, ma chérie”?

Bankole: 🎤 Advanced French. You haven’t reached my level.

I sent him a voice note of me just hissing and laughing. He reacted with three laughing emojis.

***

On the other hand, Love somehow became my client. I say ‘client’ very loosely because that child has never paid me one naira and, as I would soon discover, has extremely expensive taste.

It started one evening when Bankole sent me a picture of her standing in what looked like their living room, wearing a pink dress and a facial expression that suggested somebody had deeply offended her.

Bankole: Abeg, what is wrong with this dress?

Me: Lol why?

Bankole: Love says she can’t wear it for her end-of-year party.

Me: Why?

Bankole: Apparently it’s “not giving”.

I burst out laughing.

Me: She said that???

Bankole: Faith, I don’t know what is giving or where it is supposed to be giving to. Please speak to your friend.

My phone started ringing almost immediately. I picked up to find one enormous eye filling my entire screen.

“Auntie Faith!”

“Love, what is this I hear about your dress not giving.”

“Please help me o.” I heard Bankole mutter in the background.

“See it now. Daddy, please hold the phone to show her properly.” He turned the camera towards Love and, finally, I got a proper look at the dress. It was actually fine. A perfectly normal pink party dress with some tulle around the skirt and little flowers sewn onto the bodice. I could already tell what the problem was though. It was a perfectly normal dress and Love clearly had no interest in looking perfectly normal.

“To be fair to her,” I said, “it’s not giving.”

“Thank you!” Love shouted.

Bankole turned the camera and looked personally betrayed. “What is wrong with it?”

“Nothing. That’s the problem.”

“What does that even mean?”

I ignored him. “Love, what do you want to wear?”

Bankole turned the camera again to her.

“Wait!” She said as she disappeared from the screen, and I heard her running somewhere in the house. Bankole cleared his throat and found a chair to sit on. It was my first real glimpse of their house and it looked quite organised and nice. When she returned, she was holding a sheet of paper covered in coloured-pencil markings.

“I drew it.”

“Okay, let me see.” Bankole moved the camera towards the drawing and I studied it for a few seconds. There was a fitted bodice, an enormous skirt, what appeared to be either flowers or stars scattered everywhere and two large things extending from the back.

I squinted.

“Love.”

“Yes?”

“Are those wings?”

“Yes.”

“You want wings on the dress?”

“Yes.”

“Like… actual wings? Do you think I’m Veekee James? Plus, who is paying for this?”

Bankole immediately zoomed the camera into her face. “Oya answer. Your designer is asking you.”

Love grinned. “Daddy.”

Of course.

I should have said no. I had actual paying customers, seven tailors who were already busy and a new collection we were preparing to launch. More importantly, Bustle did not make children’s clothes, and we definitely did not make dresses with wings.

But I looked at Love’s drawing again and said, “Send me your measurements.” She screamed so loudly that Bankole’s hand shook. And that was how Bustle acquired its youngest, most demanding and least profitable client.

Two weeks later, Love attended her end-of-year party in a custom-made Bustle dress with detachable wings because if I was going to indulge nonsense, I was at least going to engineer the nonsense properly.

Bankole sent me so many pictures that I eventually had to ask if he had attended the party as her father or as the official event photographer. In every single one, Love looked ridiculously pleased with herself, twirling her skirt, posing with her friends and making sure those wings were visible from every conceivable angle.

Later that evening, she sent me a voice note from Bankole’s phone.

Love: 🎤 Aunty Faith, you are the BEST! The dress was the star of the show. I’m so happy! Daddy, say thank you too.

I heard Bankole somewhere in the background.

Bankole: 🎤 I paid for it.

Love: 🎤 That’s not thank you.

Bankole: 🎤 Thank you, Aunty Faith.

Love: 🎤 Very good! Goodnight, Aunty Faith.

***

Bankole was also extremely annoying. I feel the need to establish this because I may have inadvertently made him sound like a normal person so far. He was not. The man could not be wrong. And I don’t mean he disliked being wrong because, obviously, most people do. I mean Bankole Edidiong could be standing outside in torrential rain, soaking wet, and if he had previously told you it was going to be sunny, he would look you directly in the eye and say, “Technically, this isn’t rain.”

Our first proper argument was about the French word for owl. Yes, owl. Monsieur Léo had shown us a picture during one of our exercises. I said hibou. Bankole said chouette. We disagreed, so I checked online and discovered that, depending on the kind of owl, both words were correct. This should have ended the argument.

It did not.

“Okay, so we’re both right,” I said, turning my laptop towards him.

“No. Chouette is the better answer.”

I frowned. “How can your answer be better if they’re both correct?”

“Because they refer to different kinds of owls.”

“Yes, I can see that. But Monsieur Léo showed us a random owl. We don’t even know what kind it was.”

“Exactly. So chouette is safer.”

“Based on what?”

“Context.”

“What context, Bankole? It was a picture of an owl!”

He shrugged. “I’m just saying, if this was an exam, I would get the mark.”

“So would I.”

“Maybe.”

I looked up from my laptop. “What do you mean, maybe?”

“Your answer isn’t wrong. Mine is just more accurate.”

There was something about the confidence with which he said it that irritated me even more than the actual argument.

“Bankole, Google is literally saying we’re both right.”

“Yes, but you’re relying on Google. I’m explaining the linguistic distinction.”

I stared at him. “And where did you learn this linguistic distinction?”

He paused. “Google.”

I shut my eyes. This man.

“Okay. I’m done arguing.”

He laughed. “Because you know I’m right.”

“No, because you’re irritating me.”

“Faith, come on. You’re taking this too seriously.”

I closed my laptop. “I’m going home.”

He laughed again, probably because he thought I was still joking. I wasn’t. I reached for my walking stick and started putting my things into my bag.

“Faith.”

I ignored him.

“Wait. Are you actually angry?”

“Yes.”

His smile disappeared. “Over an owl?”

I stopped packing.

“No. Not over an owl. I told you that you were irritating me and instead of listening, you kept going. Then when I said I was done arguing, you told me I was taking it too seriously.”

He opened his mouth to respond, and I held up my hand. “Please don’t explain to me why I’m wrong about being annoyed too.”

That shut him up. For once in his life, a miracle occurred: Bankole Edidiong had nothing to say.

After a few seconds, he nodded. “Okay. Fair.”

I looked at him suspiciously. “That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“No defence?”

“Oh, I have several.”

“Bankole.”

“But I’m beginning to understand that now would be a very stupid time to present them.”

I continued packing my bag.

“I’m sorry.”

I paused because I genuinely hadn’t expected it.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ve heard you o.”

He nodded. “Fair enough.”

I slung my bag over my shoulder and picked up my walking stick.

“I’ll see you next week.”

“Ahahn. Are you still angry?”

“Yes.”

He was silent as I left. By the next day, I was fine. But I had learnt something useful about my new friend: Bankole could be extremely irritating. Not cute-irritating. Not haha, look at this silly man irritating. Actually, properly irritating.

But he was also fast becoming my good friend because tell me why a few days later, when something happened at work that was so ridiculous, it was him I immediately called.

Bankole answered on the fourth ring.

“Fatal.”

“You will not believe what just happened.”

“Hello to you too.”

“Remember Kate, that babe at work who keeps making those passive-aggressive comments about my eye?”

“Yes.”

“She just asked me whether I think the company should consider making our product more accessible for ‘people like me’.”

“People like you?”

“I said, ‘What do you mean, people like me?’ This babe looked me in my good eye and said, ‘You know… differently visioned people.’”

There was a beat of silence and then I heard the amusement in his voice. “She said, what?”

“DIFFERENTLY VISIONED.” I whisper-shouted in my car.

Bankole exploded, and I started laughing too.

“Please,” he managed. “Please tell me you’re lying.”

“I wish!”

“Differently visioned?”

“And she said it with confidence o!”

“Maybe she’s differently intelligent.”

“Bankole!” I was laughing so hard I had to put my phone down for a second.

“She could have just said visually impaired!” he continued

“Too pedestrian,” I replied.

“Or partially sighted!” He suggested, laughing.

“Not innovative enough,” I supplied.

“Differently visioned!” we said together. That finished us as we had another round of laughter.

I was wiping tears from my eye when I heard a knock on his end and then a female voice.

“Sir?”

Bankole stopped laughing.

“Yes?”

“Sorry, sir. They’re ready for us to continue.”

“I’ll be there now.”

I frowned. “Wait. Where are you?”

“Work.”

“I know you’re at work. Where at work?”

“In my office. Just popped out of a meeting.”

“What meeting?”

“Just a meeting o, monitoring spirit. ”

“BANKOLE!”

He started laughing again.

“It’s fine.”

“You left a meeting because I called to tell you somebody called me differently visioned?”

“When you put it like that, it sounds irresponsible.”

“Because it IS irresponsible! Go!”

“Okay, okay.”

“Bye!”

“Wait,” He said.

“What?”

He lowered his voice conspiratorially.

“Differently visioned.”

I screamed and he cut the call.

Idiot.

***

Not every week went according to plan. One Thursday evening, I was in my office finishing up when his message came in.

Bankole: Sorry Fatal. Need to cancel Saturday.

Me: Everything okay?

Bankole: Yup. Travelling.

Me: Ah okay. Where?

Bankole: Abidjan for work.

Me: No worries. Safe flight.

Bankole: Merci, mon professeur.

Me: Na so.

Honestly, the cancellation was even convenient because I had plenty to do that weekend anyway. There were new Bustle orders to review, I desperately needed to get my hair done, I had promised my mom I would come over, and Yvonne had been threatening to disown me because I had cancelled on her twice.

So, perfect.

Saturday came, and I had a very productive day. I got my hair done, went to my parents’, reviewed some orders and finally had dinner with Yvonne, who graciously decided not to end our friendship.

At about 7 p.m., I got home, changed into my pyjamas and sat on my bed. I looked at the time and realised that normally, Bankole and I would still be at LCA.

Hmm.

I opened Netflix and scrolled for a while. Nothing looked interesting. I checked Instagram. Boring. I even went downstairs, opened the fridge, stared into it like something new would materialise, closed it and went back upstairs.

What an unnecessarily long Saturday.

Anyway.

***

Bankole came back the following week with a box of chocolates.

“Aww. Thank you. For me?” I asked.

“Of course!” He said mischievously.

I looked at the box suspiciously and then at him. “Why?”

“Wahala. Why does somebody need a reason to give you chocolate?”

“I don’t trust you.”

“Wow”, he said shaking his head and opening his laptop.

I opened the box and immediately understood why I shouldn’t have trusted him. Half the chocolates were gone.

I looked up slowly. Bankole was already laughing.

“You brought me opened chocolate?”

“Wrong order. I opened the chocolate I bought you. Sorry, I got hungry on the plane.”

“Then this is YOUR chocolate!”

“But I saved you half.”

“You are actually a case.”

“And you are actually ungrateful, chai.”

I pushed the box towards him, and he pushed it right back.

“Take.”

“No.” I said

“Faith.”

“Eat your plane chocolate.” I replied shaking my head and laughing

“No wahala.” He shrugged and reached into the box to take one.

I immediately dragged it back towards myself, laughing as Bankole stared at me.

“See this woman.”

“Abeg abeg abeg.”

***

Somehow, November arrived, and with it, the DELF exam. Monsieur Léo was somehow more nervous than both of us combined and had spent the morning hovering around us like an anxious parent sending his children off to university.

“You will pass,” he told us for approximately the fourteenth time.

“Monsieur, we know.”

“You have worked hard.”

“We know.”

“You must listen carefully.”

“We know.”

“Do not rush.”

“Monsieur!”

He raised both hands in surrender. “Okay! Okay!”

Bankole leaned towards me. “He doesn’t believe in us.”

“At all.”

“I heard that!” Monsieur Léo snapped and we burst out laughing.

The exam itself was not easy, but it wasn’t impossible either. There were moments when I stared at a question and wondered whether I had accidentally registered for the wrong level, and others when I could hear Monsieur Léo’s voice clearly in my head.

By the time it was finally over, my brain felt like it had been wrung out. Bankole and I walked out of the centre together, both unusually quiet for people who normally had plenty to say.

“Well?” he asked eventually.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That bad?”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

“So, bad.”

I glared at him. “How was yours?”

“Excellent.”

I stopped walking. “Seriously?”

“No. I think I failed.”

We burst out laughing

***

We didn’t fail.

A few weeks later, the results came out, and I passed! Bankole passed too, but more importantly, I PASSED! I screamed so loudly in my office that someone came in to check if I was okay.

I called Monsieur Léo first, then my parents, and finally Gwen, even though we hadn’t spoken in months.

“Guess who is officially certified in beginner French!”

“Ahahn, I didn’t even know you were taking an exam. Congratulations!!”

We spent the next few minutes celebrating, with Gwen asking me why exactly I was learning French and me explaining that I no longer needed a reason to do anything. Somewhere in the middle of the conversation, I casually added, “Even Bankole passed too.”

There was a pause.

“Who?”

“Bankole.”

“Who is Bankole?”

“My study partner.”

Another pause. “What study partner?”

“The guy Monsieur Léo paired me with.”

“Interesting. Is this a man?”

I frowned. “Yes?”

“And you see him every week?”

“To study.”

“Okay.”

There was something in the way she said it.

“What?” I inquired.

“Nothing.”

“Gwen.”

“I said nothing.”

“He’s literally my study partner.”

“I heard you.”

“Then why are you saying it like that?”

“Like what?”

“You’re very annoying.” I rolled my eyes.

“Congratulations on your exam, baby sister.”

“Thank you.”

“And tell your study partner I said congratulations too.”

“I rolled my eyes again. “I will.”

“Bankole, abi?”

“Yes, Gwen. Bankole.”

“Okay o.”

“Bye!”

I cut the call before she could annoy me further.

When I opened WhatsApp, there was already a message waiting for me.

Bankole: Félicitations, Fatal Faith 🥂

I smiled.

Me: Félicitations, Monsieur Bankie.

I put my phone down.

DELF done. On to the next goal.

“À demain, tout le monde,” Monsieur Léo called out as he turned off the projector.

A chorus of terrible French accents responded.

“À demain, Monsieur!”

I closed my Surface Book, slipped it into my bag and reached around the side of my chair for my walking stick. Another day, another little progress in French. I love how much less chaotic and more effective my life has become since I went blind. It feels like my vision narrowed - literally.

These days, I wake up excited to do things. Not every day, obviously. I’m not one of those psychos who wake up at 5 a.m., drink celery juice, journal about gratitude and go for a ten-kilometre run before the rest of us have brushed our teeth. God forbid.

But generally, I feel good. Better than good, actually. I feel like I am constantly discovering things about myself that I either did not know before or had forgotten somewhere along the way.

My therapist says I’m learning to build a life around what I still have instead of what I’ve lost. I just say I’m finally getting a life.

Potato, potahto.

I feel like I got a second chance at life. I started swimming again. I’ve been spending more time with my friends. Gwen and I speak at least three times a week now, although half of our conversations are her children hijacking the phone to show me things I absolutely cannot see properly through a video call. It doesn’t help that children are the worst video callers. I’m either looking at a forehead, a ceiling or a violently shaking blur.

Bustle is doing really well. Work is work. (Sometimes, I get passive-aggressive comments about my eye from a particular babe. But I’ve grown past feeling sad about it. She will be alright.) AND I am learning French.

French happened completely by accident. Or serendipity, if you want to be dramatic about it.

One Saturday afternoon, I had gone for a quiet drink at Le Coucou Afrique, my favourite bar. I hadn’t planned to stay long. I just wanted a few glasses of my beloved NoPaloma, maybe something small to eat and two hours where nobody was asking me about work, my eye or how I was “really doing”. I had barely taken three sips of my first glass when this older man walked into the bar wearing shorts, trainers and a T-shirt that said:

AH, LA VACHE!

He had grey hair, mild wrinkles around his eyes and the energy of someone who had consumed approximately six espressos. He moved from table to table, talking to the staff.

“How much of lime do we still got?”

A waiter answered and asked him about when the blackberries were coming.

“Believe me to know that the berries are coming tomorrow.”

Then he spotted another waiter walking past.

“Hey, Seun! You look beau in that beanie!”

Seun laughed.

I watched the man for a while. His English wasn’t the best, but he spoke it with such confidence that you almost questioned whether your English was the problem. I could also tell immediately that he owned the place. There was something about the way everyone responded to him. Nobody stiffened when he approached. He knew people’s names. He picked up an empty glass from a table while he was talking. At one point, he adjusted a crooked picture on the wall and continued his conversation like he hadn’t done anything.

I liked him instantly.

And I loved Le Coucou Afrique.

LCA, as my friends and I call it, had become one of my favourite places even before everything happened. After the hospital, I loved it even more because nobody there treated me like I was made of glass.

So when the man eventually passed my table on that day, I called out.

“Hello, sir.”

He turned.

“Ah! Hi.” He smiled broadly.

“Are you having bon time?”

“Yes. Yes.” I nodded a little too enthusiastically. His happiness was contagious. “I just wanted to say thank you for the great work you’re doing here. Le Coucou Afrique est très belle.”

His face lit up. “Ahhh!” He laughed. “You speak un peu, un peu French? I like it!”

I laughed too.

“And thank you for your kind words,” he continued. “I try my best. God does the rest.”

“Amen to that.” I chuckled. I was about to turn back to my drink when I noticed him looking at me. His eyes moved briefly towards the walking stick leaning against my chair, then back to my face. By then, I was used to it. People tried very hard not to look at the stick, which somehow made it even more obvious when they were looking at the stick. Maybe he noticed my eye too and maybe that was why he said what he said next.

“Care for me to invite you to my French class?”

“French class?”

“Yes! I like when I see young people make effort to speak French. I hold a class two days a week.” He pointed towards a door at the far end of the bar.

“Just next room. Our conference room. Small group of people. I know we would love to have you.”

I smiled politely, then he added:

“Gratuite.”

My eyebrows went up.

“Free!” I laughed.

Pre-therapy Faith would have declined. Not necessarily because I didn’t want to learn French. I had always wanted to learn another language. But I would have immediately started thinking about everything else I had to do: Work. Bustle. Meetings. Orders. Something involving Ikem.

There was always something involving Ikem.

But after the incident of my sight loss, I became even worse for a while. I started mentally sorting activities into things I could still do and things I couldn’t.

Driving? Couldn’t.

Going anywhere alone? Scary.

Certain exercises? Maybe not.

Fashion? What if my eye never recovered?

It was always what if this? What if that?

My first breakthrough came when my therapist told me that if I continued organising my entire life around the things I had lost, I would eventually convince myself that I had lost everything. Very annoying woman. Unfortunately, she was right.

So standing there in Le Coucou Afrique with this excitable French man offering me free lessons, I asked myself one question: Why not? I hadn’t taken on a new project or skill in a long time. Plus French did not require my two eyes.

“I would absolutely love that.”

“Magnifique!”

And that was how I became Monsieur Léo’s student.

***

As it turns out, I have a head for languages. Who knew?!

You know, French reminds me of when I first learnt how to swim. Before I started, I was terrified that I would never be able to do it. There were too many things to remember at once.

Kick.

Breathe.

Move your arms.

Don’t breathe now.

Breathe NOW.

How was anybody doing all of that without drowning?

Then one day, I just trusted my body and allowed it to short-circuit my brain. And I stopped struggling. It was the same with French. At first, everything sounded like one very long word. Now I can pick sentences apart, translate them to English, even speak decently if I speak slowly enough. And I have only been taking Monsieur Léo’s class for four months.

Today, after everyone else packed up, he called out to me.

“Foi! Stay small.” (Monsieur Léo calls me Foi - Faith, in French - and I love it!)

I sat back down and tapped my foot to music in my head. Eventually, when the last person left, Monsieur Léo dragged one of the student chairs towards mine and sat.

“Avez-vous pensé à passer l’examen DELF/DALF?”

I blinked and stared at him. God abeg.

He sighed.

“Four months, Foi. You should know what I mean.”

“Monsieur!”

“Four months.”

“I understood examen.”

He shook his head sadly. “Waste of my teaching.”

“Please speak English, Monsieur.”

He shook his head again and interpreted. “Have you thought about taking the DELF/DALF examination?”

“Umm… I don’t know what that is.”

“It is a diploma. It certifies your proficiency in French.”

“Oh?”

“It can also be very helpful for career progression.”

Now he had my attention. “So I can take it?”

“Of course.”

“When?”

He laughed. “You don’t even know what it is and you already want to take it.”

“Monsieur, you said career progression. I’m down!”

“You’re down?” he looked confused.

“Sorry, I’m interested!”

“Ah, Nigerians!”

I laughed.

“There’s one in November,” he said. “I think you’ll be ready to take the first one by then.”

“Really?”

“Oui.”

I felt ridiculously excited. Four months ago, I could barely say anything beyond bonjour, merci beaucoup and the few phrases I had picked up from travelling. Now someone was telling me I could take an actual French proficiency examination.

“Oh, I would absolutely love to.”

Monsieur Léo stood mumbling, “Yes yes, I hear you. You are down.”

I got up laughing. “Thank you, Monsieur. I appreciate you sharing this opportunity with me.”

“Not a problem.” He started gathering his things. I slung my bag over my shoulder, picked up my walking stick and headed towards the door.

“By the way, Foi.”

I turned.

“I have someone else I coach privately who is also preparing for the exam in November.”

“Okay?”

“Maybe I can link you both. I find that having a study partner outside regular classes helps strengthen your knowledge.”

Why not?

“Perfect!” I said, proud of new Faith. Or shall I say, Foi? I was saying yes to things. “Send him my number, Monsieur. Thank you!”

“Her.”

Oh

“Okay. Send her number.” I paused. “What?”

Monsieur Léo frowned, thinking.

“Or him.”

“Monsieur!”

He burst out laughing.

“I joke! I joke. Him.”

I shook my head and started walking out.

“À demain, Foi!” He called out.

“À demain!”

I made my way through the bar, my oak walking stick tapping lightly against the floor. I got into my car and sighed. Before I lost my sight, I didn’t know people with one eye could drive. I smiled and started my engine. Driving slowly out of the car park, I hummed Birdy’s “People Help the People.’

New goal: French exam in November. I liked the sound of that.

See y’all tomorrow at 5pm WAT!

The first person I need to tell about the breakup is my mom.

Why?

Because she’s the only person I really talk to about Nkem.

Even though she has told me approximately 12,031 times - no jokes - that the man has some “really crimson red flags”, she has never stopped me from talking about him. She listens when I tell her the sweet things he does. She listens when I tell her about our trips. Sometimes, I even tell her about our quarrels.

She usually listens quietly and then says something annoying like, “Faith, I’ve heard you.” Which is Mommy-speak for I have plenty to say but you won’t listen, so let me conserve my saliva.

It’s Wednesday morning, and I have to visit her as promised. I arrived back in Lagos on Monday evening after waking up that morning and booking the earliest flight I could find out of London. Another bloody expensive ticket but I didn’t care. I just needed to get out of that city.

Yesterday, I barely left my house. I stayed in bed scrolling through five years’ worth of pictures and screaming at myself at intervals:

“Delete them!”

Delete.

Our first Christmas together.

Delete.

Ikem asleep on my shoulder on a flight to Dubai.

Delete.

Both of us in matching pyjamas.

I hovered over that one for almost a minute. It had been a heavy Christmas for me because I was really missing Gwen, but Ikem had made it his duty to make me laugh so much that I had soon forgot about missing Gwen.

Nah. I couldn’t do it.

There were others I couldn’t delete either. Too many memories attached to them. Too many versions of myself that existed inside those pictures. Even the shame and anger were not enough to make me throw all of them away.

So, on this morning, I drag myself out of bed and go to my parents’ house.

“Mommy, it’s me,” I call, knocking on her bedroom door.

“It’s open!”

I walk in and find her in the little study area in her room, glasses low on her nose, reading a book. My mom is always reading.

“So if I didn’t lure you with yam pottage, you won’t come and visit me. Ko da o!”

Normally, I would have defended myself; teased her about how her love language is accusations and guilt tripping. But I didn’t have the strength for that today. Instead, I manage a small smile.

“Sorry, Mommy.”

I sit on the edge of her bed and she looks at me again properly, closing her book. My mom knows me.

“Kilode?”

I look down at my hands.

“What’s wrong?” She gets up and walks towards me.

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Instead, tears start running down my face. My mom immediately starts rubbing my back and praying. Which I found tormenting and comforting at the same time. When I’m finally able to speak, my voice comes out embarrassingly small.

“I don’t really want to talk about it. But Ikem and I are over over.”

She nods gently, the nod of someone who definitely wanted to ask more questions but was holding themselves. Then she pulls me into her arms, automatically triggering yet another round of tears.

I don’t know when I sleep. I only know that when I woke up in the evening, I felt like I was deeply loved, yet deeply hurt.

***

Four months passed and I wish I could tell you that somewhere during those four months, I woke up one morning and stopped loving Ikem but I didn’t. The first few weeks felt even worse. I felt like I was constantly reaching for an amputated limb. I didn’t realise how much our lives had been intertwined that when he was suddenly cut off, I constantly felt like something was missing. I’d reach out to my phone several times a day and catch myself almost dialing his number before I franctically cut the line. Something would happen at work and I would already be texting him before I realised I wasn’t supposed to be doing that.

Mom told Gwen about what had happened and we had a row about that - mom and I. All my insecurities about proving Gwen right came to the fore and I shamefully, lashed out at my mother. We resolved it eventually and Gwen called me later that evening. We ended up speaking for 3 hours; crying, laughing, crying again, comforting and eventually, catching up on other things. She never said ‘I told you so’, but I know she thought it. And if she had said it, she’d have been right. She did tell me so. But I was [coconut] head over [Achilles] heels in love with Ikem. So I guess I got what I deserved.

Slowly but surely, life moved on. I launched another Bustle collection. I attended meetings. Friends made me hang out with them when they became tired of hearing me say I wasn’t in the mood. I deleted more pictures. Then restored some from Recently Deleted. Then deleted them again. I stopped checking Ikem’s WhatsApp last-seen. He never called and neither did I.

If you had asked me then about the day my life changed forever, I would probably have said it was the day Ikem broke up with me. Or maybe the day I showed up at his flat in London with my self-esteem as low as his regard for me.

But I would have been wrong. That wasn’t the day my life changed. The whole life-changing thing happened three months later on an otherwise completely ordinary day.

Sooo…. it was a Saturday and I was lying across my bed replying to Instagram DMs because my Social Media Manager had called in sick. I had texted my close friend, Yvonne a few minutes earlier and we’d been chatting about the stress of doing business in Nigeria.

Me: Babe, me too I’m trying to call in sick but this is my business.

She replied with about six laughing emojis.

I was still smiling when I opened the next customer message.

Hi, is this dress available and how much is this dress please?

I thought: Just check our website ooo but I started typing:

Hi! Thank you for your interest in our Wúndíá Dress. Yes ma’am, the dress is available and goes for ₦57,000 but if you pay for our Sisi Eko subscription—

Something happened to my right eye. I stopped typing and blinked. For a second, I thought maybe an eyelash had gotten into it. I rubbed the corner gently and blinked again. Nothing changed. Then, suddenly, it was as though someone had pulled a dark shade across half of the world.

My phone was still in my hand. I could see it but only from my left eye. I sat up, panic rising in my chest. I started blinking like a camera shutter. Blink. Blink. Blink.

“Wait.” I said aloud to myself. Then I covered my left eye and saw total darkness. I uncovered it and I could see my room again. My brain refused to understand what was happening.

“No.” I rubbed my right eye harder. “No, no, no.”

I jumped off the bed, and the room tilted so I steadied myself by attempting to reach for the bedside table but missed it the first time. My perception of where it was seemed suddenly wrong.

That was when I screamed. I don’t remember what I screamed. Maybe Jesus. Maybe help. Maybe just incoherent noise.

My gateman rushed to my window and knocked on it.

“Madam? Madam, you dey okay?”

I couldn’t answer him. I was staring at my own hand, moving it in front of my right eye and seeing absolutely nothing.

“Madam Faith?”

The knocking became louder. I tried to walk towards the door but that’s the last thing I remember.

***

When I opened my eyes again, the ceiling was white. For a few seconds, I didn’t know where I was. Then I smelled antiseptic. There were voices around me.

My mother.

My father.

And—

Gwen.

Gwen? Had she come all the way to Nigeria?

They noticed I was awake at the same time and rushed to my side. And as I looked up with the one functioning eye, I could seem the fear in their eyes.

“Mommy?”

She was beside me in seconds.

“My baby.” She hugged me gently, careful of the wires and whatever else was attached to me.

“Mommy.” I started crying. “Mommy, I can’t see.”

“I know, baby.”

“I can’t see with my eye.”

“I know.”

“What’s going on?”

She held my face.

“Just be saying ‘thank you Jesus’. Just be saying ‘thank you God’.”

That scared me more. People only tell you to thank God like that when something very bad almost happened.

“Thank you Jesus,” I whispered.

I looked at my dad but he looked away briefly.

“Daddy?”

He came closer and took my hand.

“What happened to me?”

Nobody answered immediately.

“Did I have a stroke?”

“No,” Gwen said quickly. It was the first thing she had said to me. She looked older than the sister I had somehow frozen in my mind five years ago.

“Not exactly,” she added.

Later that evening, when I was calmer, they explained it to me. There had been a problem with blood flow to my right eye. A clot. My blood pressure had been dangerously high. There were medical words I didn’t understand and explanations I had to ask them to repeat. But there were three things I understood perfectly.

I had almost suffered a stroke.

I could have died.

And nobody could tell me when I would see properly again.

That last one was the only thing I cared about.

“So I’m going to see again?”

“The doctors are optimistic,” my dad said.

“What does optimistic mean?”

“They believe your vision can return.”

“When?”

Silence.

“When?”

“They don’t know yet.”

I turned my face towards the wall and tried to cry, but my mind was blank. I thought about Bustle, my future, my dreams. Everything seemed so silly in that moment.

“Okay,” I whispered. “It is well”.

But nothing felt okay or well.

***

I ended up spending seven days in the hospital. Seven days of blood-pressure checks. Seven days of medication. Seven days of doctors shining lights into my eyes and asking me questions whose answers never seemed to change.

Can you see this?

No.

Any light?

No.

Movement?

No.

Every morning, before I properly opened my eyes, I would pray desperately. “God, as I open my eyes, please let me see. Jesus, please do this for me. Please. I promise to serve you every day of my life.” As though Jesus needed my trade-by-barter promises to do good to me. I mean, he already saved me from a stroke and probably death without any of my promises. But that didn’t stop me from begging Him and promising Him my entire life if only He’s open my right eye.

But each morning, I’d open my eyes and it was still nothing.

By the seventh day, my blood pressure was stable so the doctors said I could go home as long as I took my medication, came back for my appointments and made some changes to my lifestyle: Rest. Less stress. Eat properly. Take my drugs.

My father and mom listened as though they were handing them instructions for keeping me alive. Technically, I suppose they were. And when it was time to leave, Daddy appeared with an oak walking stick and handed it to me.

I stared at it.

“Daddy.” I tried to chuckle.

“Yes?”

“I am not using that.”

“You are.”

“I’m twenty-seven.”

“And?”

“I can walk. I’m not lame”

“Yes, you can walk with a walking stick.”

“Daddy!”

He didn’t budge so I left the hospital with my father’s ridiculous oak walking stick in one hand and my mother’s arm in the other. Outside, the Lagos sun was painfully bright. I squinted as we got into the vehicle in front of the hospital entrance. On the way home, I watched people walk in different directions, living their everyday lives. The world had moved on. Life had continued. And I was still blind in my right eye.

Phew! Let’s just be saying ‘Thank you Jesus. Thank you God’

See you tomorrow by 5pm WAT

I don’t typically enjoy flights because I’m always thinking about my destination and anticipating touchdown.

But this flight? I need this flight to go slower, please.

We’re already four hours into a six-hour flight, and my palms are literally sweating. At some point, I had to put on one of the meditation albums on the plane’s entertainment system because my heart was beating so hard I could feel it in my throat.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Release the tension from your body.

Madam, if only you knew.

I have never been this nervous to see Nkem. Never. Although, I guess it makes sense that I’m this nervous. As much as I love Nkem and know that he loves me, I’ll admit that sometimes, he can be very unpredictable.

Like that one time we went to his brother’s wedding in Australia.

I had travelled that FAR(!) to be there for him because his brother means so much to him. And somewhere in the middle of all the wedding activities, we had a small misunderstanding. Actually, I don’t even remember what caused it. I think I mentioned that one of my exes was from Australia or something. It was such a passing comment that I honestly cannot remember the context anymore.

But afterwards, Nkem became moody.

I noticed almost immediately.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

I even tried to make him laugh.

“Is it because of Oliver? Person wey no get liver? Don’t even worry about him.”

Nothing. Not even a smile.

I thought he would get over it eventually. You know, sulk for a bit, realise how silly it was and move on. But by that evening he was still sullen.

So I apologised. I told him I was sorry for bringing Oliver up. I told him I hadn’t meant anything by it. I begged him to please cheer up because I really didn’t want anything to spoil such an important weekend for him. But he did not budge.

In fact, Nkem did not say another word to me for the rest of the trip. Not that evening. Not during the wedding. Not in the two days I remained in Australia afterwards. Not even when I packed my suitcase, ordered an Uber and dragged my luggage out of the hotel room alone.

I remember standing at the door before I left with my suitcase beside me, my Uber waiting downstairs. Nkem was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone.

I waited, but I don’t even know what I was waiting for. Maybe for him to look up and say Have a safe flight. Maybe for him to stop me. But he didn’t, so I closed the door behind me and left.

We did not speak for another week, and it was the worst week of my life. At first, I was sorry. Then I became confused. Then I became angry. By the end of the week, I had convinced myself that if he could go that long without speaking to me, then so could I.

Then, as if he could sense my resolve all the way from the UK, he texted me:

My fate. I miss you.

I remember my stupid heart jumping, and I felt momentary shame at how easy this was for him.

I replied:

No, you don’t.

His reply came almost immediately.

You can’t know that. Haven’t stopped thinking about you since Melbourne.

Eventually, I called him. I had an entire speech prepared; I was going to tell him exactly how angry I was, how unfair he had been and how ridiculous it was to ignore someone who had travelled halfway across the world to support you.

But the moment he said, “Hello?” I forgave him. I heard his voice and realised how much I had missed him and decided that what he’d done wasn’t that deep. He didn’t even have to apologise. A simple hello was okay because I love him so deeply.

That has not been our only misunderstanding, of course. But I guess when you’ve been with someone for five years, you see their good, bad and ugly. He has seen mine too.

“Cabin crew, prepare for landing.”

Oh God.

I look out of the window. London is beneath us, and my heart starts beating so fast that I somehow forget how seatbelts work. I pull mine across my lap, miss the buckle, try again and miss it a second time.

“Ma’am, do you need help?” one of the flight attendants asks.

“Oh, no. Thank you.”

I finally hear the click. She smiles politely and moves on. I sniff and wipe my palms against my jeans.

Faith, get yourself together.

***

I arrived at Heathrow at about 6:00 p.m.

By the time I was done with immigration, baggage claim and all the usual airport business, it was almost seven, and I was on my way to the hotel.

I decided I wasn’t going to see Nkem that night. I needed a bath, a nap and, quite frankly, I needed to regroup with myself before I showed up at his door.

The moment I connected to the airport Wi-Fi, messages started flooding into my phone.

One was from my mom:

I just made the most delicious yam pottage. Do you want me to send some to you?

I stared at the message.

For half a second, I considered telling her where I was. But I decided against it and sent the drooling emoji. And:

Keep some for me instead. Busy weekend. I’ll come over next week Wed.

She replied with a thumbs-up. Easy.

At the hotel, after my bath, I opened my suitcase and laid my dress options across the bed. This was important. Knowing the man Nkem is, I would have to tell him I wanted him back with more than just my mouth.

I would have to dress like it. Which meant revealing and provocative. To be honest, I am not comfortable dressing that way. I was raised to dress modestly and, more importantly, I like dressing modestly. As a fashion enthusiast and entrepreneur, I’ve always felt that when an outfit reveals too much, people stop seeing the actual clothes. And please, if you are going to spend your hard-earned coins on a beautiful piece of clothing, people need to see it.

But I have also learnt that when you love someone, you have to speak their love language. Nkem’s love language is skin. So whenever we go out together - or whenever it’s just the two of us - I try to wear what I know he likes.

I had brought two options: A black leather mini-skirt with a V-neck T-shirt and black boots. OR a short, low-neck, slightly sheer dress with spaghetti straps.

I held the dress against myself and looked in the mirror. Then I picked up the skirt. Then the dress again.

I sighed.

The dress won.

As I hung it on the wardrobe door for the morning, I remember thinking:

I wish I could just wear a round-neck tee and high-waist jeans.

***

That night, I had a strange dream.

I was back in Nigeria, at an owambe. I don’t know whose party it was or how I got there. I just remember loud music, women in gele, trays of food moving through the crowd, and me frantically trying to fix my makeup in the middle of the hall, because, for some reason, it was completely ruined. My foundation was streaked. One eyelash was hanging off. My lipstick was smeared. But nobody seemed to think anything was wrong.

So I started dancing. I danced my way towards the centre of the party until I saw the couple.

It was Nkem’s wedding. I tried to see the bride’s face, but no matter where I stood, something blocked her. A person. A gele. A photographer.

I never saw her face.

But I knew one thing for sure.

She wasn’t me.

***

At 9:00 a.m. on Sunday morning, I was almost one hundred percent certain Ikem was home.

Dating someone for five years leaves very little mystery around their habits. Sunday mornings, if he wasn’t travelling, Ikem was home. So I stood outside his apartment and knocked.

No response.

I waited and knocked again.

Still nothing.

Strange.

I could have called him, obviously, but I really wanted the element of surprise. That was the whole point. I wanted him to open the door and see me standing there, all the way from Lagos. I had imagined this moment so many times on the flight. His shock. His smile. Maybe he would stare at me for a few seconds before pulling me into his arms. Maybe he would say, You’re actually crazy. Then I would laugh. And somehow, once we were inside the house, everything would make sense again.

I knocked harder.

This time, I heard movement and then his voice.

“What the hell? Who is that?”

He sounded angry, and I almost answered, “It’s me, babe”. But no. I had come too far to ruin the surprise two seconds before the reveal.

I heard footsteps approaching the door and then silence. I smiled because I knew he was looking through the peephole. I had taken off my jacket a few seconds earlier and folded it over my arm. The dress suddenly felt much shorter than when I stood in front of my hotel mirror, but that was fine. This was how he liked me.

I waited for the door to fly open but it didn’t so I started counting down from 10…9…8…7… I got to 1 and started again, this time, smiling wider. I kept smiling because I imagined him on the other side of the door, squinting through the peephole, trying to convince himself that I was really there.

Then the waiting became awkward.

“Nkem?”

Nothing.

“Babe?”

Silence

“It’s me. Faith.”

Crickets.

My smile disappeared and I got serious. “Nkem, listen. Open up and let’s talk. I came all the way so that we’ll talk.”

Silence.

I swallowed. I was about to say something else. I was going to beg him to at least hear me out. To give me a chance. To give us a chance. But then his voice came through the door.

“Why did you show up here without telling me?”

I froze.

I genuinely could not think of a response.

Why did I show up without telling him? As in???

The question itself sounded insane. Never in our five years together had either of us said anything like that. We surprised each other all the time. We loved surprise visits. So what was Nkem talking about? Before I could make sense of it, I heard the lock turn and saw the door open.

And there he was. My Nkem. For one stupid second, none of it mattered. I just looked at his face and felt relief wash over me.

“Nkem,” I whispered but he didn’t look relieved to see me. He looked at me like I was a rotting bag of potatoes dumped at his door. Wow.

“Look, Faith. I’m sorry, but I really meant what I said over the phone. I no longer think this can work.”

He paused. “I’m done.”

I nodded, but why I was nodding, I did not know.

“Can I at least come in? I came all this way-”

“Oh my God, is she still there?” A woman’s voice called out from inside his apartment. For a second, I genuinely wondered whether my brain had invented it, but then she appeared behind him with her blonde hair, white skin, bare legs and ridiculous beauty. She was wearing his shirt; a shirt I bought for him. I remembered where we stood in Harrods when I bought the shirt for him. I had picked this same yellow sweatshirt because I thought it looked better against his skin.

And now another woman was wearing it.

She leaned over his shoulder and looked directly at me. I could not move even if I tried. My brain wires were tangled. A white girl? Nkem didn’t even like to date white girls. I used to accuse him all the time of being racist.

And he would always reply, “Yes, I don’t add milk to my coffee. I like my girls dark.”

Stupid. Apparently, he had started taking milk.

Neither of them said anything. They just stood there staring at me as though I was disturbing them.

I looked at Nkem Ikem. I searched his face for my love. My best friend. My guy. Anything. But his eyes returned nothing. Just an empty, soulless, unfamiliar abyss. I blinked, fearing that if I stared for too long, I’d commit myself to eternal craze.

Suddenly, I became aware of my body. Of my bare shoulders and chest and legs. Of the ridiculous little dress I had reluctantly chosen because I knew he would like it.

I unfolded the jacket from the crook of my arm and put it on, pulling it closed across my chest. Then I turned around before he could see the tears spilling down my face. My heels clicked against the hallway as I walked away.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Every click annoyed me. Why had I worn heels? Why had I worn this dress? Why had I come here? I felt overdressed and naked. I felt stupid. Mostly, I felt tired.

I don’t remember the journey back to the hotel. That night, I cried until my face hurt. Then, somewhere between crying sessions, I ordered a bucket of chicken and a tub of ice cream because apparently heartbreak in London had turned me into a cliché. Then I ate until my stomach hurt.

Then I cried because my stomach hurt.

At some point, I fell asleep curled around a pillow, still wearing the T-shirt I had changed into. I woke up several times during the night, hot and sweaty, my stomach cramping, tears already wet on my face before I was properly awake.

Nkem was gone.

And for the first time in five years, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do to get him back.

Is this a set back that only leads to a set up? Who knows? Join us same time tomorrow 😂

While I waited at the boarding gate for them to start calling us, I brought out my phone. I wanted to call someone. Anyone, really. At least one person should know that I was leaving the country.

Apart from my gateman, nobody knows I’m going to London.

I would have called my sister but… well. Let’s just say we haven’t been on good terms for the past five years.

When she found out that Nkem and I were talking to each other after the wedding, she called me from her honeymoon in Fiji. I remember answering the call excitedly because, hello, honeymoon gist. Instead, the first thing I heard was:

“I heard you’re talking to Ikem! Don’t do it o! I’m shouting so you can know how serious it is. Don’t try it!”

To be honest, I was very irritated.

I think I’m a fairly reasonable person. I take counsel from people when it makes sense. So why she was shouting at me like I was a child about to stick a fork into a socket, I did not know. But when she was done, I still asked her, very reasonably, “Why? What’s wrong with him?”

“I’m telling you to run from a snake, you’re still standing there asking why?”

“Gwen, this won’t work. You’re acting like an old woman. I asked you a simple question. You’re answering me with proverbs. You already know me na. That one cannot work for me.”

“Faith.” Her voice softened. “Please, I’m begging you. This guy is manipulative—”

“He is?” I sat up. “So what is he doing in your husband’s inner circle?”

“They are childhood friends, Faith. His parents are best friends with Kunbo’s parents. It would have been somehow if he wasn’t on the train.”

“Well, it didn’t seem like that to me at the wedding.”

By then, I was already losing interest in the conversation.

There was a pause.

“Do you trust me?” she asked.

“Yup.”

“So just believe me when I say that you’re better than this guy.”

“And do you trust me?” I returned the question.

“Yes, but—”

“But?”

That was it. I was mad.

“Of course, Gwen.” And I cut the line.

That was our last real conversation in three years.

We say ‘happy birthday’ and ‘Merry Christmas’ and the likes. She sends pictures of the kids sometimes. I react with heart emojis. Once in a while, one of us replies to the other’s Instagram story.

But that’s about it.

I miss her terribly. I do. But I’ve also watched her, over the past five years, prioritise her new family. Her husband. Her children. Their home. And I have taken a cue from that as well. I’m prioritising the person I love.

Nkem.

Hence this flight.

Anyway, as I said, I did not come to this airport to make friends. But look at me now, watching the bags of a man I met less than an hour ago while he uses the bathroom.

His name is Bankole.

To be fair, we met under hilarious circumstances, so maybe that’s why I already think he’s funny. I had gone to the café to get a light snack and coffee. The barista took my order, asked for my name, scribbled something on a cup and moved on to the next person. When my order was ready, I collected it, found a seat at the counter and settled down with my apple crumble and latte.

I was trying to decide what the first thing I would say to Nkem would be.

Surprise?

No, that’s too unserious.

We need to talk?

No, that’s too threatening.

Maybe I wouldn’t say anything. Maybe I would just hug him.

I was still rehearsing possible versions of our reunion in my head when a man slipped onto the stool beside me and placed his coffee on the counter.

I barely looked at him at first. But from the corner of my eye, I noticed that he had been staring suspiciously at his cup for a while without drinking from it.

Eventually, he turned to me.

“Okay,” he said, holding up the cup. “I’m really sleepy, hence the coffee order, but tell me this café didn’t just call me fat.”

I looked at him properly then as he turned the cup towards me. Indeed, written across it in black marker was:

FAiT

The ‘i’ was so tiny it was almost invisible.

I stared at it for a second.

Then at him.

Then at the cup in my own hand.

Bankie.

Ah.

“I think that shade was meant for me,” I said, showing him my cup.

He looked at my cup, then back at his, realisation dawning on his face and we both burst out laughing.

“But wait.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Your name is Fat?”

“No. Try again.”

“Fatai?”

“What?”

I couldn’t stop laughing.

“Fatima?”

I shook my head.

He studied the cup again, his face suddenly serious, like there was a million-naira prize attached to getting it right.

“Nope.”

“Fatal?”

I burst into laughter.

“Fatal?! Would you name your daughter Fatal?”

“Yup. Absolutely.”

He took a sip of my coffee and then froze as I stared at him with amusement. We both looked at the cup in his hand.

“Sorry,” he said, completely unapologetic, sliding it towards me and picking up his own. “Our cups have confused me.”

I shook my head, laughing.

“Anyway, yes. I would absolutely name my daughter Fatal.”

“Why?”

“If that’s her mother’s name.”

He said it while looking directly at me. Now, if there’s anything I learned from schooling in the U.S., it’s how to maintain eye contact. Americans will look into your soul while asking what you had for breakfast.

So I looked back at him. At least, I tried to. His eyes were light brown. Nothing I hadn’t seen before. I have looked into ocean-blue eyes, green eyes, even the greyest eyes without flinching. But somehow, after a few seconds, I broke eye contact and reached for my coffee. Blame it on my current heart condition.

“And why,” I asked, looking at him again, “would her mother’s name be Fatal?”

“Because, haven’t you heard the saying?”

He leaned slightly closer.

“‘The more beautiful, the more fatal.’”

I stared at him.

“Nobody on the earth’s surface says that. Where did you even get that from?”

“Our ancestors say that.”

“Which ancestors?”

“Our collective ancestors.”

I laughed and shook my head at his unseriousness. I knew his type of guy. Happy-go-lucky. Optimistic. Quick-witted. The kind of person who could probably start a conversation with a wall and somehow have the wall laughing five minutes later.

Then he reached for his wallet.

“I have an actual daughter, by the way. And her name is Love.”

He pulled out a passport-sized photograph and handed it to me.

She was beautiful.

Her face filled most of the picture, but somehow her hair still managed to compete for space. A wild afro spread around her head, almost swallowing the edges of the photograph. She had huge eyes and a tiny scar just above her right eyebrow.

There was something mischievous about her expression. Like whoever had taken the photograph had spent ten minutes begging her to sit still and she had only agreed for three seconds.

“Awww.” I instinctively ran my thumb over the edge of the photograph. “She’s extremely beautiful. And she has such a beautiful name. Is that her mother’s name?”

“Nope. Her mother’s name is Kavya. She’s Indian.”

He paused.

“Well, she was Indian.”

My smile disappeared.

“Oh.”

I handed the photograph back carefully.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Nah.” He looked down at the picture for a second before sliding it back into his wallet. “Nothing to be sorry about. When we use up our time here, we have to leave. I’m just grateful I have my daughter.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

A few minutes earlier, this man had been accusing an airport café of calling him fat. He had been inventing proverbs and naming hypothetical children Fatal. Now I found myself studying his face, trying to reconcile that man with this one.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Does it really get better with every passing day? Losing a spouse?”

He smiled, but it was a different smile this time. Smaller and sadder.

“Well, it does. Until it doesn’t.”

I waited.

“Grief is a horrible thing,” he continued. “You think you’re getting better. You think, okay, maybe I’m finally learning how to live with this. And then, boom.”

He snapped his fingers.

“Your heart shatters all over again because you walked past someone wearing her perfume. Or you saw her favourite colour. Something stupid.”

He looked down at his coffee.

“And suddenly, there you are again.”

“I cannot imagine,” I said quietly.

“I hope you never can.”

He took another sip.

“I don’t know if it’s worse that we were married for only one year and three months. Sometimes I feel like we didn’t get enough time to just… be married. She got pregnant in the second month, so almost immediately, we became expectant parents. And then parents.”

He rubbed his thumb along the edge of the cup.

“But then I wonder if it would have hurt more if we had spent aeons together. Twenty years. Thirty. Forty. Would I miss her more?”

“Hmmm.”

That was all I could say. For the first time since yesterday morning, I realised I had not been thinking about Ikem.

Not the breakup.

Not the flight.

Not what I was going to say when he opened his door and saw me standing there.

Nothing.

My problems suddenly felt so trivial in comparison.

Bankole glanced at his wristwatch.

His eyes widened.

“Ah!”

He bolted to his feet.

“I’m almost one hundred percent certain they’ve been calling my flight.”

He started gathering his things.

“Must have been carried away by our therapeutic conversation, Fatal.”

I rolled my eyes.

“Need to use the loo before I board. Can I leave my bag here for a bit?”

“Sure, absolutely.”

So here I am.

Watching the bags of my new friend, Bankole, when I did not come to this airport to make friends.

***

He returned a few minutes later, slightly out of breath.

“It was very nice meeting you, Bankole.”

“You too.”

He shook my hand, then reached into his pocket and handed me a card.

Bankole Edidiong.
Chief Financial Officer, VeloInc.

Ouuuu.

VeloInc.

I knew that name.

I had seen them on TechCabal just two days ago. South African-Nigerian logistics company. They had just raised funding.

Nice.

I looked back up at him.

“And it was nice chatting with you…?”

“Faith.”

His smile widened.

“Fatal Faith.”

He winked.

I laughed and handed him my own card.

We shook hands one more time.

Then Bankole picked up his bag and disappeared towards his gate.

Strength to Fatal Faith as she takes this love resuce journey.

See you tomorrow at 5pm WAT

Dear Diary,

When I arrived at the airport this morning in my white sweatshirt and wide-bottom blue jeans, I was not in the mood to talk to anyone, much less make a friend.

I had dragged my Samsonite suitcase all the way from the car park towards Departures because my Uber driver was too scared to use the drop-off zone. According to him, “Them dey catch people for that side.”

Normally, I would have asked what exactly they were catching people for, or at least complained about having to drag a suitcase across a car park at that time of the morning. Instead, I just stared at him.

I did not have the energy.

When he ended the trip, I stepped out of the car, retrieved my luggage from his boot and started the long walk towards the terminal.

Going through security and checking in was a breeze. If you ask me what the British Airways staff at the check-in counter said to me, I cannot tell you. I remember smiling when I was supposed to smile, handing over my passport when she asked for it and nodding a few times. That’s about it.

I’ve taken this trip so many times in the past nine years that I can practically do it with my eyes closed. But that’s not even why I was absent-minded. I have been absent-minded since yesterday morning, when Ikem broke up with me.

Yes, I know.

It’s the tenth time we’re breaking up in the five years of our relationship.

But somehow, this one felt final when he told me. I cannot put a finger on why. Maybe it was his tone. Maybe it was the fact that he did not call me back afterwards like he usually does. I don’t know. I just know that I have to fight for the relationship more aggressively this time.

So I booked my flight about two hours after the breakup.

I had been crying under my duvet when I suddenly had an epiphany: maybe Ikem did not know how serious I was about him. If all the sacrifices I have made for him are not clear enough to show that we are stuck together, then maybe I need to take a radical step to prove it to him. I was going to show up at his apartment and let him know just how serious I was about us.

Thank God, it’s just London here.

I pulled out my laptop, searched for the next available flight and nearly choked when I saw the price. Criminal. But I bought it anyway.

I didn’t think about it. I didn’t second-guess my decision. Once the confirmation email landed in my inbox, I actually felt calmer.

It was the only way.

Let me tell you how much I love this guy. And, of course, how much he loves me too.

We met on July 24, 2021, at my elder sister’s wedding.

I was the chief bridesmaid, and I remember joking to my sister that, “I would find my own future husband at this wedding.”

God does answer prayers because I met Ikem that day.

Although we were all on the ‘Groomsmen Bridesmaid’ WhatsApp group chat, I had never met any of the groomsmen in person because they were all out of the country. Ikem was in England, working.

He had arrived the night before the wedding, but I missed the party they threw that night because my darling mom had decided, at the last minute, that the gifts we had gotten for our in-laws were not sufficient and she wanted to ‘enter Ikoyi’ to find more gifts.

So instead of partying and getting to know the bridal party like a normal chief bridesmaid, I spent the evening following my mother from store to store as she inspected gift boxes, rejected perfectly good items and kept saying, “No, no, no. We can do better.”

We walked through aisles of stores I had never even heard of until she was finally satisfied. I could not even really be mad at her. We are alike. When we want something, we go for it.

I mean, that’s exactly what I’m doing at the airport right now.

Anyway, I finally met Ikem at the pre-shoot just before the church wedding.

I wasn’t even initially partnered with him. Later on, I would find out that my sister had intentionally instructed that the two of us were NOT to be paired. But I guess fate had other plans.

He was paired with Isabella, my sister’s childhood friend from her secondary school days in Burkina Faso. But somehow, Isabella had a runny tummy and was holed up in her room, so Ikem and I just stood together on the train.

It’s also not even clear how it happened. We just know that it did.

Ikem always says, “Fate loves me because it brought me Faith.”

Yup.

That’s me.

Faith.

A Senior Product Manager at SeiveCo, a fast-growing cryptocurrency company in Lagos, Nigeria. I am 27 years old, and my knack for fashion is my absolute favourite thing about myself.

As a ‘side hustle’, I run a fashion brand called… wait for it…

Bustle.

Haha.

I make premium dresses for the busy, working woman. Most of my clients are on a monthly subscription of two to three dresses for ₦150,000 a month. It’s a steal, if you ask me. I have an office in Yaba - more like a factory - where my eight tailors work on subscriptions and, occasionally, one-time orders.

It feels very cringe to say that my family is wealthy, but we are. My father is a diplomat, and my mother is an executive at a top, top bank. I was, however, raised not to see their wealth as mine. So for years, I’ve been telling my friends that I’m building my own generational wealth. They laugh and think I’m being silly, but the hustle in my blood is real.

Hence, Bustle. 😂

Anyway, back to Ikem.

We sat together at the white wedding and danced in together at the reception. And yoooo, I think the chemistry was instant. We hadn’t even rehearsed together, but somehow, we just synced. I’d go forward, he’d rock backwards. I’d switch the move, and somehow he already knew what I was about to do. We laughed from the beginning of the dance until the end.

He knew all the right jokes to tell and, most importantly, he smelled GOOD.

That’s my personal Achilles heel: a good-smelling man.

But I think we confirmed our interest in each other when my zip broke during the after-party. I was confused as to how my zip could break. I had personally supervised the tailor who sewed my dress, and he used the best-quality zip.

Yet, it broke.

Now, in hindsight, I know that it was fate.

Anyway, as I tried to cover myself up and leave the hall, Ikem spotted me and followed. Before I even realised he was behind me, he had draped his suit jacket over my shoulders, covering the broken zip and my exposed back.

Apart from the fact that it was such a thoughtful - and, honestly, romantic - thing to do, his scent enveloped me and made my head swoon.

He waited outside my hotel room while I changed into the only other dress I had: a sleeveless, multi-patterned midi dress. For some reason, I spent a few extra minutes in front of the mirror, smoothing down the dress, checking myself from different angles and retouching makeup that did not really need retouching.

When I finally stepped out, Ikem took one look at me and staggered backwards dramatically, like I had knocked the wind out of him.

“Woah,” he said. “To quote our Lord and Saviour: ‘Everyone serves the good wine first. But you have kept the good wine until now.’”

I almost passed out.

Thankfully, I managed to act cool enough to retort, “Boy, our Lord and Saviour most definitely did not say that.”

We both burst into laughter and spent the walk to the elevator arguing about whether it was Jesus who made the statement or the Master of Ceremonies.

Outside, we walked slowly back towards the hall. The night had cooled, and the hotel security lights cast a soft glow along the path. I was suddenly very aware of everything: how close he was walking beside me, how my arms still smelled like him, how neither of us seemed to be in any hurry to get back to the party.

Just before we reached the reception hall, he pointed towards the fish-shaped fountain.

“Can we sit there for a bit?”

I nodded, even though my heart had already started racing.

It was cooler by the fountain, and after a few minutes, I shivered. Ikem noticed immediately and again wrapped his jacket around my shoulders.

Then he turned towards me.

“Can I have your phone?”

I gave it to him like a remote-controlled puppy.

Then he typed in his number and saved it as ‘Nkem ❤️’.

I looked at the screen.

“Isn’t your name Ikem?”

“Yes,” he replied smiling. “But to you, Nkem.”

Gosh. I blushed as hard as an African can and since then, Ikem has been my Nkem.

We have had our issues, but for five years, we have remained committed to our relationship.

And we have a lifetime to go.

Well.

That’s assuming my love rescue mission succeeds.

Alright alright, I missed you too. I think I’m back but we can’t be too sure these days lol.

By the way, if you say you missed me and yet haven’t gotten my novel, I know you are capping. Grab a copy of my novel, ‘If You Must Hide’ [almost] anywhere in the world: https://linktr.ee/adeboro

A new episode of 'A Waterfall of Relief’ drops everyday by 5pm WAT.

Enjoy!

NILTON

When I went down to meet the Uber and saw that it was a Tesla, I started laughing because I knew God was out here, helping his boy. Thanks, Dad, I’ll take the assist.

I texted Ibinabo: On my way. And she replied: See you soon! The exclamation mark helping to calm my nerves. At least, she was feeling excited about the date.

She was waiting outside when we pulled up, and I saw her before she saw the car. She looked absolutely stunning in a beautiful blue dress with her coat over it and simple black ballet flats. I got down when the driver parked and flashed her a smile as she walked towards me, looking confused, her eyes darting from my face to the vehicle.

“A Tesla? Did you specifically request this?”

“I did not.”

“You didn’t?”

I shrugged, “Apparently, God thought tonight warranted a Tesla.” She laughed and got into the car as I held the door for her.

Inside, I took her hand as the car pulled away. She let me with a smile that she tried to hide. While she had her eyes plastered to the window beside her, I had my eyes plastered on her. I was staring at her, and unashamedly so. At some point, she turned to look at me and shook her head.

“What?” she said, smiling.

I gave a small smile, “You’re wearing blue.”

She looked down at the dress and then back at me with a slight self-consciousness that I had only recently started seeing on her, the shyness underneath the composure that she was only now beginning to let show. “And?”

“And you look just as beautiful as I’ve always known you,” I said. “Black or blue. You’re still you. Beautiful, brilliant, and incredibly complex-ly you.”

She laughed loudly, “Do you know I’m actually a shy person? Stop saying these things,” she said.

“You are a shy person?” I asked with fake shock.

“I am. I covered it up with being difficult, but now that my walls are falling apart, I keep remembering how shy I actually am.” She looked at me, lowering her voice. “And you’re making it significantly worse with these things you keep saying.”

“What things? That you’re beautiful?”

“Yes that.”

“Or like I love you?”

I felt her hand tighten slightly in mine. She was smiling so widely it looked like it was surprising her from the inside.

“About that,” she said.

“About me loving you?”

She laughed softly. “Oh my God, Nilton.” Then she continued, “About you texting me the other night. With those words. I’m sorry I didn’t reply. I wanted to, I just-”

“You don’t have to apologise,” I said. “I didn’t say I love you, to hear it back. I said it so you’d know I love you.”

She looked at me for a moment. Then she looked out of the window at the evening moving past us. I held her hand and looked at the road ahead, welcoming the warmth that radiated across my chest.

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The restaurant had a private booth in the back corner, which I had specifically requested for our date. The booth also had a curtain that could be drawn and a light above the table that was warm and low. The waiter seated us, took our order and left us alone. I looked across the table at Ibinabo, who was still looking at the menu with focused attention.

“Do you think I made the right order?” she asked, without looking up.

“We shall see. Either way, I’m sure I made the right order, so I’m happy to share mine with you if yours turns out terrible.”

She laughed and closed the menu, now finally looking at me.

“Do you want to dance with me?” I heard myself say, and I almost kicked my feet. That wasn’t how I had planned the night. We were going to eat first, and then, I’d read out a letter I had written the day I realised I was in love with her, and then I’d ask her to be my girlfriend. But there I was telling her to dance with me.

She frowned, “Huh?”

“Let’s dance. Together. Right now.”

She looked around the booth, at the small enclosed space, at the fact that we were in a restaurant, at me.

“What- like, now?”

“Like right now.”

“You’re crazy.”

“Not really, though. No one can see us in here. It’s private.”

She looked around again. “To what music?” she said.

I reached into my jacket pocket and held up the wired earphones, smiling.

She stared at them. “Oh my God, Nilton.” she said.

“So what do you say?”

She thought about it for about four seconds before replying, “What if the waiter comes in?”

“Then he’ll see two people dancing. Last I checked, that’s not a crime.”

She laughed and exhaled, watching me as I stood up and stretched my hands to her. She laughed again, shook her head, and stood up, smoothing the hem of the blue dress with both hands nervously.

I plugged the earphones in and held out one end to her. After she had plugged it into her ear, I offered her my other hand, and she took it. Then I pulled her into me, gently.

“Can I put my hand on your waist?”, I whispered to her, and she nodded.

“That a yes?”, I confirmed

“Yes”

I put my hand on her waist, and she put hers on the back of my shoulder. We were now standing close together.

“Siri,” I said. “Play Wonderful World, Sam Cooke.”

Sam’s voice took us away, and both of us chuckled as we began to sway gently. I heard her whisper ‘crazy’, but she kept swaying with me. About thirty seconds in, she put her head on my chest and just settled it there. I don’t know if she knew what that did to me. I think she probably did.

We danced in silence, but I knew she could probably hear my racing heart.

After 2 minutes, 11 seconds, the song ended, and rudely, another song simply began. We both laughed as I said, “Siri, no, pause”.

Then she lifted her face to look up at me, and we both held each other’s gaze for a moment. It was now my turn to struggle with holding her gaze, as the intensity of emotions I felt in that moment made it logistically impossible to keep looking into her eyes and remain steady. I was so, so, in love with her.

I cleared my throat and blinked before I broke the silence. “I’ve thought about doing that for an insanely long time,” I said to her.

“Telling Siri to pause?”

I smiled, “Unfortunately, I didn’t think that part through. I meant dancing with you.”

She was looking at me with those liquid brown eyes.

Still holding her gaze, I said, “Ibinabo, it’s obvious that I’m mildly obsessed with you. I’ve loved that song for years without attaching it to anyone, and now when I hear it, you’re the only person I think about. Actually, you’re the only person I think about recently, full stop.” I watched her eyes soften and continued. “We went from enemy-adjacent seatmates to friends, and now I want you to be my best friend. But romantically.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling so hard her cheeks probably hurt.

“There are so many things I want to do with you. Take you to Cabo Verde. Go shopping for more colours, or maybe more black, whatever you want, you’re stunning either way. I want to be there when you need me. Pray with you. Annoy you. Laugh with you. And a lot of other things that are probably more appropriate for my wedding vows, which — yes, I want to marry you too. But we can take this one thing at a time.” I paused and moved in closer to her, lowering my voice, “So. Best friends, but romantically. What do you say?”

The booth curtain moved, and the waiter stepped in with a tray, clocked us standing in the middle of the room, said, “Oh- sorry- “ and immediately reversed out.

We both fell apart laughing for a good twenty seconds before either of us was coherent again. She pressed her hand over her mouth, shook her head, composed herself, then closed her eyes.

“One second,” she said.

I waited.

“I just want to save this picture, this feeling,” she continued. “In my memory. Because I feel so happy right now and I don’t want to forget what that feels like.”

I rubbed her back in slow circles and said nothing. When she opened her eyes, there were tears in them, just pooled in those beautiful eyes.

Then she asked, “This is real?”

“Very,” I said.

“You’re not doing this because you have some angle? Because you want to get back at my dad somehow?”

“I don’t even know the man,” I said. “But he has a lovely daughter.”

She let out a small sound somewhere between a laugh and a breath. “He’ll like you, I think.”

“I hope so,” I said. “I can’t wait to meet him. And your mum.”

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, looked at me for one more moment, and then she said: “I love you too, Nilton. I really do.”

I felt like a cloud came down from the sky and lifted me up into the heavens. It was such a transcendent feeling.

“And I love you three,” I said.

She laughed. “That’s not how that works.”

“It’s more than two,” I said. “Mathematically, it makes sense.”

She shook her head, and we stood there, just holding each other.

Then she pulled away suddenly. “Oh my God. I have to tell Mandy.”

She grabbed her phone from the table, and I watched with genuine delight as she took a picture of herself, ring finger raised, eyebrows up, face in the expression of someone who had just been proposed to. She sent it to Mandy with the caption OMG I’m a girlfriend!!!

We watched the message turn blue, and both of us chuckled and started counting down: Five, four, three, two… Before we got to one, Mandy FaceTimed Ibinabo.

I plugged my ears with my fingers, laughing, as Mandy screamed. Ibinabo was laughing and going Mandy, Mandy, Oh Lord, I have to turn down my volume. At some point, Mandy demanded to be shown my face, and I leaned into frame smiling. She pointed at the camera and said, “You better not mess this up Nilton.” I nodded dramatically and droned, “I won’t, Mandy,” and she said, “Good, because I will find you and hurt you.” Ibinabo laughed so hard she had to put the phone down for a second.

I sat back and just watched her as she continued the call with Mandy, narrating the events of the past few minutes to her.

It occurred to me, sitting there, that this was the same person I had watched in the hub on that cold evening in October, behind a hoodie. Not a hint of a human expression on her face. Not an interest in even a simple ‘hello’.

And now, here she was.

Laughing with her whole face, as though something within her had finally been set free.

And somehow, impossibly, she was mine.

My girlfriend.

And in that moment, I thought: How rare it is to witness a soul unfold like this.
How fortunate I am to stand not only in her present but to be invited into her future.

Awwww!!

And it’s wrap!! How are we feeling about our Nabo? How many gbosas for Nilton?

Personally, I am happy for them and wish them a happy life!

There will be no 5:00pm WAT for a while as I need some time to complete a writing project. But yeah, this was fun! Re-read my older series, share with your friends and tell people to SUBSCRIBE! I't’s currently free. (When I return, I just might write only for subscribers, who knows? 😑)

Thank you all for your engagement on this story!

IBINABO

Day 1 - Therapy Logs

The therapist Nilton suggested is Dr. Sharon Breiter, and today was my first session with her. Her office has a small succulent on the windowsill and an abstract painting on the wall. I didn’t really open up today, I’ll be honest. It just felt weird rehashing my deepest darkest secrets to someone I just met.

Before I left, she suggested I keep a ‘diary’. When she saw my face, she said, “Or a log, if that feels better. Just a record. Doesn’t have to be for anyone but you.”

I still shrugged and did my default, ‘meh’ face, but I got a little excited about journaling again. I told Nilton about it, and he made us stop at Ryman to get a journal. Oh yes, Nilton accompanied me today. It was cute. He was acting like a dad, being so proud of me and all.

So yeah, that was how my first day went. Dr. Sharon recommends ten initial stabilisation sessions before we assess where to go from there. I told her ten sounded like a lot. She said we’d see.

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Day 3 - Therapy Logs

Nilton was able to come with me today again, which was really nice. At our last session, I opened up a bit to Dr. S. She listened very intently, which was a bit uncomfortable for me, but I guess that’s just the exact Freudian experience I signed up for when I decided to go on this journey.

In the session today, Dr. S asked me to notice my body. She said we obsess too much with our thoughts, our mind, our memories. And yet, the body offers so much information in terms of mapping what hurts us, what slows us down, what drags us down. So we did a little exercise where she asked me to bring to mind a specific event (we started with pleasant events, and then to the less pleasant ones). I wasn’t asked to narrate it verbally but to just recall it, and then notice what happened physically in my body as I did.

For the pleasant event, I actually thought about my 20th birthday when my dad and mom surprised me with a trip to Barcelona. I remembered feeling so special and loved. As as I remembered this event, I had light chills all over my body. Goosebumps on my arms and just a feeling of lightness I can’t explain. It was interesting to notice that.

For the less pleasant event, I thought about the night I found Bankole in my father’s study. Before I could even finish locating the memory, my heart accelerated, my palms went cold and then damp, my shoulders pulled inward and upward involuntarily, and my knees were bouncing. Dr S told me to take deep breaths as she could visibly notice that I was thinking about something disturbing.

At debrief, she said the nervous system is a powerful tool. And the more we pay attention to our body’s reaction, the more we can put our minds and thoughts under control; stop them from spiral. Almost like an anchoring in time - realising ‘okay, my heart is racing right now, but not necessarily because of anything that is happening right now. It’s reacting to an event from the past, so I can breath, I can understand that this happened in the past, I am not in immediate threat or danger right now.”

She said practising awareness like this helps us to participate in the world around us, post-trauma, without punishing others for our trauma. It was a really profound lesson for me.

Nilton and I went for ice cream after even though it was really cold out. I said yes, because frankly, I could be eating hot and spicy suya with him in the middle of an active volcano and still feel at home.

I told him about the session today and he listened so attentively.

“Your knee bouncing,” he said. “You do that sometimes in the hub. I’ve noticed.”

I looked at him. “You noticed my knee.”

He smirked, “You don’t know half the things I notice about you,” and in the spirit of noticing my body, those words felt very nice somewhere behind my rib cage.

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Day 4 - Therapy Logs

I know this is supposed to be a therapy log BUT, Nilton’s birthday is next week and I want to do something for him that is commensurate with what he has done for me over the past four months, which would require a gesture roughly the size of a small country.

Today in session we talked about moral injury. Dr. S explained it carefully that it is the specific damage done when a person acts in a way that conflicts with their own moral code, or fails to prevent something that conflicts with it, even when the action was objectively right. Testifying against my father was the right thing. I have never doubted that. But it violated something older and quieter in me. It violated the part of me that believed in the family-first principle. My father and my mother were all I had in life and since I was a child, I had always, always, cherished our bond and put them first. But now, after exposing my dad, that part of me did not care about whether what I had done was right or wrong. It only knew that I had helped put my father in prison and it had been punishing me for it ever since.

“The guilt you feel deep within just shows that you loved him. It really doesn’t mean that you are ‘guilty’ of any wrongdoing, if that makes sense”, she had said and I found myself nodding vehemently.

On the way home, I stopped at the big thrift shop on the high street to look for something for Nilton’s birthday. Yes, it had to be a thrift store because of what I was looking for specifically. And it was the 5th thrift store I had visited in two days. Well, I am so happy to announce that I found it! In the corner of the back shelf, between a broken clock and a set of encyclopaedias, in a crate of vinyl, I found a copy of Sam Cooke’s Wonderful World. And just so serendipitously, as I was paying for it, I was alerted by Amazon that my order for a vintage record player was waiting by my door.

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Day 7 - Therapy Logs

Today is Nilton’s birthday, and I’m probably more excited than he is. There should be a scientific experiment explaining why we are so excited on the birthdays of people we love. I wrote a very very heartfelt card for him to accompany my gift. When I read the card over to myself, I almost cringed. I sounded very much unlike Ibinabo of recent times and a little like the excessively expressive Ibinabo of many years ago. I am changing, and I don’t hate it.

I have also booked a table for six at a restaurant he has not been to, and Mandy has coordinated with Viktor, Kofi, and Raj so that they will arrive after us. Nilton thinks it’s just dinner between the two of us but I can’t wait to see him surprised.

I talked about him in session today. For the first time.

Dr. S asked how things were with the people close to me, and I said they were better. She asked me to tell her about one of them, and I told her about Nilton. Guess what? I used the word love approximately twenty minutes in without planning to.

She waited a moment and then said, “How did that feel? In your body. When you said that you love him.”

I closed my eyes and thought about it. “My heart went faster,” I said. “My hands felt warm. It felt like there was something in my chest- “ I searched for it. “Something weighty-like, like pressure or something heavy. But the nice kind of heavy. I’m not sure I’m communicating that right”, I chuckled and she smiled. “But yeah, my heart basically felt like a room full of something good.”

“Hmm”, she said and wrote something dow. Smiling slightly at the page, she nodded and closed the session.

Okay I have to leave for dinner! Maybe I’ll write about the surprise when I return.

10:43pm

Came back to say that Nilton LOVED it! He said wow like multiple times. He stood in the middle of the restaurant looking at the six of us, and said wow and then you all did this and then looked at me specifically and said you did this and I said Mandy helped and Mandy said from across the table don’t you dare give me credit for her idea, this was entirely her.

I felt the nice heavy pressure fullness thing in my heart again in that moment.

He opened his gift and shot both eyebrows into the sky. Mandy screamed and Viktor said no way. Nilton looked at the Sam Cooke record for a long time before he looked at me again and when he did, there was something in his eyes that was screaming love and desire. Which, yeah, I really loved to see it.

We took an Uber to stop first at mine and then his. In the back seat, we chatted and laughed about different events at dinner. And as I dropped off, I could tell he wanted to say something the way he held my gaze but we both said our goodnights.

Tell me why I get a text as I’m unlocking my door:

Nilton: Don’t know how weird it would have been if I said what was on my heart all night. Heck, what has been on my heart for longer than tonight. But I just wanted to tell you that ‘thank you’ and ‘wow’ are meh ways to tell you how my heart feels about you and about what you did tonight.

I smiled and before I could reply, another text came in from him:

Nilton: Ah to hell with decorum. I love you! I LOVE YOU. I really do.

I am cheesing, like mad.

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Day 9 - Therapy Logs

Penultimate session was today and it was quite emotional. We spent the previous sessions on my father, which Dr. S said was the more foundational wound and needed to be addressed first before we got to anything built on top of it. Today we got to Bankole.

I had not realised, until I was sitting in that chair talking about him, how much of what I felt about him was not hurt or fear but anger. Dr. S said something that surprised me. She said she was going to say something that some of her colleagues might consider unconventional, but that given what I had shared about my faith, she felt it was relevant.

She said: “Jesus’s instruction to forgive is gold standard instruction for healing. Science is only recently catching up to what that instruction already knew- that unforgiveness is a chronic physiological stressor. It keeps the wound open. It keeps the nervous system on alert.” She paused. “Bankole is not in your life. You have no access to him. Which means the anger has nowhere to go except inward, or outward onto the people who are present.” She looked at me. “Onto Nilton. Onto anyone who gets close enough.”

I swallowed.

“I’m not saying you have to feel warmly toward him,” she said. “Forgiveness isn’t a feeling. It’s a decision to release someone from a debt they cannot repay. You do it for yourself. Not for them.”

I cried in session for the first time today. It was intense.

On the bus home, I thought about Bankole for the first time, thought about his motive for the betrayal. He was also, actually, just dealing with his own deep trauma the best way he knew to. And for the first time, I muttered under my breath, ‘I forgive you Bankole.’

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Day 10 - Therapy Logs

Done.

Dr. S and I agreed that the initial ten sessions have been productive -more than I expected actually when I first sat in that chair ten sessions ago, not sure I would come back. She recommends a further integrative programme, a different kind of work, less stabilisation and more rebuilding. We have agreed that I will begin that next quarter.

She said, as I was leaving, “You came here very defensive. You’re leaving less so. That took courage.” She paused. “I am proud of you, Ibinabo”

I gave her a little gift and thanked her for her patience and work.

Mandy met me outside and we linked arms as we walked to the car park to her car. In the car, she gave me a small box wrapped in gold paper. Inside was a simple silver bracelet with a small hammered disc that said Brave.

“For the toughest cookie I know,” she said and gave me a kiss on the cheek

It’s 8pm, and I’m just about to head out. Nilton had texted at five o’clock.

Nilton: Are you free tonight for dinner? Just us. At Ember & Salt?

Of course I said yes. He says he’s coming to pick me up with an Uber so I am waiting.

I have a really strange feeling that Nilton has been waiting for me to finish my therapy sessions before asking me out.

And I cannot believe I am saying this but I am so excited.

See you for the final episode tomorrow, 5:00pm WAT! :)

IBINABO

Mandy arrived at my door forty minutes after I called her, in her oldest sneakers and with her hair pulled back. She didn’t ask me any questions. She simply looked at the two bags on the bed and the half-empty shelves, said okay, what goes next?

We made two trips to the new building. I was assigned to a smaller room on the ground floor. The accommodation office had left the key in an envelope with the front office with a small handwritten note that said we hope you feel safe here.

By the time we had moved everything in and pushed the furniture into positions that made sense, it was nearly four o’clock. Mandy collapsed backwards onto the bed. I sat beside her and then lay back too, both of us looking at the ceiling and catching our breaths.

Neither of us spoke for a moment, and my stomach rumbled quietly.

Then I said, “Mandy, I need help.”

“Girl,” she said to the ceiling, “we just carried your entire life up two flights of stairs. Can we rest for forty seconds?”

“Not that kind of help.”

She turned her head to look at me. I kept looking at the ceiling.

“Psychological help,” I said. “And spiritual help. Both.” I paused. “Do you know why I just moved?”

“No, but you’re about to tell me. “

“Yes.” I turned to look at her now. “For the past few days, I’ve had a stalker.” I heard Mandy say huh?! I continued, “Someone with my phone number who knew my address, who sent me threatening messages about my father. Someone who was watching my building. It was terrifying. But the worst part of this experience - and I’m ashamed to say this - is that when I was trying to figure out who had given them my number, the two people I suspected most were you and Nilton.”

Mandy sat up sharply. “What?”

“Yes.”

“Me?”

“You and Nilton. Both of you.” I sat up too. “You have shown me nothing but kindness since September. Both of you. And still, I concluded that you guys had ulterior motives. Without evidence or anything to justify it.” I looked at my hands. “That’s how broken my threat detection is. That’s what I’m working with.”

Mandy stared at me for a while before saying slowly, “So, how are you so sure we’re not the ones?”

I looked at her.

“I’m serious,” she said. “Right now. How do you know?”

“Because my mother figured out how they got the number. Someone came to my aunt’s house in Nigeria, pretending to be an electrician. Whatever, the story is long.” I paused. “But I know it wasn’t you. It was never you. And it was never Nilton. If I’m being honest, I already knew that, but the fear was louder, and I didn’t - I couldn’t-” I stopped.

Mandy looked at me for a long moment. Then she said, quietly, “Okay.”

“Hmm. I treated Nilton terribly,” I said more to myself. “He came to my door to check on me, and I basically interrogated him.” I pressed my fingers to my eyes briefly. “I need to fix that. And I need to fix myself. Properly.” I lowered my hands. “One second.”

I picked up my phone and dialled Nilton. Mandy still watched me.

He picked on the first ring.

“Hey.” His voice was low. I heard background noise. “One sec, stepping out.”

Once he was outside, he spoke more clearly. “Hey, what’s up,” and I could hear in the three words the careful distance he was maintaining, the slightly flattened warmth, and it did exactly what I deserved it to do, which was hurt.

“You’re on speaker,” I said. “Mandy’s here. We just moved from Clifton House to a new flat on Falmer Road.”

A pause. “What?”

“It’s a long story. I’ll explain everything.” I took a breath. “I also want to take you up on your food offer. The one you made when you came to my room. Are you busy? Can you meet us in thirty minutes at Didi’s Grillhouse?”

A longer pause.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll be there.”

The call ended.

Mandy was still looking at me strange.

“I know,” I said. “You’re tired of me.”

“No,” she said. “Well, yes. But that’s not what I’m thinking.”

“What are you thinking?”

She tilted her head. “I’m thinking- what is it about you that makes me still so endeared to you despite how incredibly annoying you are.” She paused. “And on the other hand, I’m furious at everyone whose actions made you this way.” She shook her head slowly. “You deserved better than what you got.”

I folded my lips, trapping the soft sob that sought to escape as my eyes pooled with tears. Then, Mandy pulled me into her arms and held me there, and I let her.

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Didi’s Grillhouse was warm and slightly loud when we walked in. I had ordered before we arrived; jerk chicken for Nilton, halloumi wrap for Mandy and the curry goat for myself.

Nilton arrived two minutes after we sat. Mandy first, unwinding her scarf, immediately assessing the room and approving of it. He came over without quite meeting my eyes, sat down and said, “Hey,” I said, “Hey,” and the silence that followed broke my heart. He sat beside Mandy, opposite me.

The food arrived almost immediately.

“Please let’s eat first”, I said. “We can talk after.” I flashed them a smile, but only Mandy smiled back at me. Nilton still looked at me like he was confused about what we were doing there. But he picked up his fork and stirred around his plate, clearly deep in thought.

We ate mostly in silence, and about 10 minutes later, we were done. The waiter cleared our plates. Mandy still had half her wrap. Nilton, who had barely touched the jerk chicken, asked quietly for a takeaway box as the waiter took his plate.

I took my glasses off, cleaned them on the hem of my jumper, and put them back on. Then I looked at both of them.

“I owe you both an explanation,” I said. “And an apology. Both at the same time, probably.”

Mandy folded her hands on the table while Nilton looked at me with an expression that was carefully neutral.

I told them everything. The stalker bit and the more difficult part.

“When I was trying to work out who had the number,” I said, looking at Mandy, “I thought it was you. Not for long. But I thought it.” I looked at Nilton. “And I thought it was you. For longer.” I paused. “That is why I was strange at my door when you came. That is why I asked you why you came that day specifically.” I kept my eyes on his. “I’m so sorry. That was wrong, and it wasn’t fair, and you didn’t deserve it.”

The table was quiet.

“I’ve been doing this since Bankole,” I said. “Since my father. I have been reading threats into everything - safe or unsafe. I’m realising that this is not healthy at all.” I took a breath. “So, I have decided that I’m going to therapy.” I looked between them. “I want to be accountable to you both. I want you to know that I know what I’m working on.”

Mandy made a small ‘aww’ sound. Then she said, “I am so proud of you. So, so proud. That took courage, and I have no doubt that therapy will be helpful. I’ll be praying for you. We’ll be praying for you.” Mandy said, pointing at Nilton too.

I nodded and looked at Nilton. His expression was no longer neutral. He was looking at me with so much empathy and love that I had to avert my eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was slightly lower than usual. “I’m proud of you too.” He reached across the table and covered my hand with his. “Very proud. You’re going to be okay. I mean that.”

I looked at his hand on mine.

“Thank you” I said, returning his gaze.

Mandy cleared her throat. Then she picked up her bag and her half-eaten wrap and stood up.

“I am going to excuse myself,” she said gleefully. “I have a thesis chapter that is not going to fix itself.” She looked at me. “Text me tonight.” She looked at Nilton. “Well done.” Then she wound her scarf back around her neck and walked out of the restaurant without looking back.

Nilton watched her go. Then he picked up his bag, moved around the table to sit beside me, and turned slightly so he was facing me.

The restaurant moved around us- plates clanging, voices rising, someone laughing at the table by the window, the chalkboard specials being updated for the evening. But in our corner, it was all very still.

“Hi,” he said with a little smile.

“Hi,” I said.

Then the two of us spoke at the same time, saying the same thing, “I’m sorry-”

I frowned and laughed, “Why are you sorry for?”

He intertwined his fingers with mine and said, “Well, I was going to say I’m sorry you had such a scary experience with the stalker. And I’m glad for your mom’s wisdom. And I wish you told me about it while it was happened and you didn’t have to go through it all alone.” He exhaled and finished, “And that, I missed you very much these past few days.”

I held his gaze, and we just sat in the silence. I didn’t need to reply; he knew that I was floored by his kindness and warmth. The waiter broke the moment by bringing Nilton’s takeaway.

I cleared my throat and said, “And I was going to say that I’m sorry for how I’ve treated you.”

He shrugged, “I believed you the first time you said it.”

“Thank you.” I whispered.

“So have you decided on your therapist?”

“Nah, I haven’t even searched.”

“Are you taking recommendations?”

“From you? Absolutely.”

“Good.” He reached into his jacket pocket and produced his phone, tapped a few things and slid it across the table to me. It was the bookmarked webpage of a therapist’s profile. The woman had a calm face and a note on her page that basically said she was an expert at working with complex trauma and institutional betrayal. “I found her a few weeks ago,” he said.

“For yourself?”

“Nah. Just a casual search,” he said, and I squinted at him.

“Well, she seems perfect. Let me reach out and find out how much. This is exactly what I should be spending my father’s money on.”

I slid his phone back to him, and he pulled me up gently. On our way out of the restaurant, he asked, “Do you want to listen to something as we walk?”

“Heck yeah, with the wired earphones.”

He brought out the earphones and gave me the left ear. And as we walked listening to Wonderful World, the original version by Sam Cooke, I thought what a wonderful world I have found myself in.

See you tomorrow 5:00pm WAT!

IBINABO

I dialled my mother with trembling hands. Every ticking second felt like a bomb was about to go off in my chest as I waited for her to pick.

She picked up on the second ring.

“Nabo?”

“Mummy.” My voice came out weird.

“Second time you are calling me this week. This is a miracle. How are you? Is everything okay?”

“I’m fine. How are you? Were you sleeping?”

“No, no. I just finished having my tea. Was about to do some knitting. What is the problem? You don’t sound okay.”

“Erm… I’m fine.”I replied, not knowing how to break it to my currently fragile mother that my life was in danger.

“Ibinabo.”

I had the phone pressed so hard against my ear that it hurt. My back against the bed frame hurt as I folded my legs on the floor.

“Mummy,” I said again.

“Yes, talk to me,” she replied, and something just broke in my heart. I opened my mouth and didn’t close it until about four minutes later.

“I’m scared, mummy. I’m so scared. I’m not safe here. Someone is stalking me. They’re sending me messages; threatening messages. They’re talking about Daddy. They know who I am. They know I’m his daughter. How do they even know that? How do they know me here? They have my number. And I didn’t give anyone else but you and two other people. I don’t understand how they got it. And they know where I live. They said my address. They are watching my door right now as we speak. I’ve been inside all day. I didn’t go to class. Every small sound I hear, I think it’s them. I think someone is outside. I keep checking the peephole. I don’t even know who to trust anymore. Who is in on it o? Who is my friend o? I don’t know. The friends I even made in December, I’m suspecting them now. Because how else would someone know all of this? How would they know where I stay? I can’t even relax. I can’t sleep properly. Every time my phone vibrates, my heart just - like I feel it in my throat. I’m shaking. I’m actually shaking right now. I’m hungry, but I can’t even cook. I can’t go to the kitchen. What if someone is there? Mummy, I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die because of this. I don’t want to die because of something I didn’t do. I’m so scared.”

I went on and on and my mother did not interrupt except for the time when I said I don’t want to die, to which she said, “And my God forbids that you die. You will live. And live long.”

When I was done unburdening to my mom, I was visibly shaking. My knees were up to my chest, and my whole body was doing something I had very little control over.

“Okay,” my mom finally said. “Okay. I hear everything you’ve said. Give me a moment. Don’t go anywhere.”

“Where am I going to go?”

“Exactly. Stay there. I’ll call you back.”

She hung up.

I sat on the floor and waited. My stomach growled, and a part of me wished I had taken Nilton’s offer for takeout. But then, did I even know if he was one of the mercenaries?

My mother called back two minutes later, and I picked up immediately.

“Okay,” I heard her say. “I need to tell you something.”

“Okay”, I replied.

“Four days ago, a man had come to the house, an electrician. I hadn’t called him or reported any faults to your aunty but I just assumed that she had called him to come over. I let him in, and he went to that electricity box thing, the one above your aunty's dining area. Toh, I didn’t know what he was doing. I was just doing my knitting. Then at some point, he came to me and asked if he could use my phone. He said his wife was in the hospital giving birth, and he wanted to find out how the labour was progressing. I thought it was strange. I mean, if your wife is in the hospital in labour, why are you here fixing somebody’s electricity? But I was not thinking clearly, Nabo. I have not been thinking very clearly these past months.” She paused and sighed. Then continued, “Anyway, I gave him my phone. I actually heard him talking - he was asking if she was pushing and so on. It was a perfectly normal conversation. Then he handed over the phone to me and bid me farewell. Few minutes later, something just told me to check the call log. I checked, and there was no outgoing call from him. It was strange too, but I just assumed he’d deleted it. You know, people sometimes do that, delete numbers they dial on borrowed phones because they don’t want you to have the number. I thought nothing of it. I should have thought something of it, but- ”

“Mummy.”

“I know.”

“That means he took my number from your phone.”

“Yes.”

“Which means they know where you live.”

Silence.

“Mummy, that means you’re not safe either.”

“Ibinabo. Listen to me.” Her voice grew steadier and felt more familiar. This was my mother’s voice, I had grown up knowing. The same voice that chaired the women’s association in the village and led the women’s Bible study group in church. For the first time, I actually missed my mother. “Your aunt has a CCTV camera at the compound gate. She’s had it for two years. The man walked through that gate, so he is on camera. I am going to call her right now, and I am going to get that footage, and I am going to send it to you.”

I pressed my palm flat against the floor. My hand was wet.

“And then,” she continued, “you are going to send it to them.”

“What?”

“You know, I learned something from your father.” She said it simply, without bitterness. “The best way to handle a bully is to let them know that you are not the easy target they think you are. These people believe you are frightened and alone in a foreign country, and you have no resources. Show them that is not true.”

“Mummy-”

“Send them the image. Tell them you know who their agent is. Tell them you have sent it to the UK police already. Tell them your father has connections that are still very much active, even from prison - and Nabo, that part is true, so you are not lying. You are not defenceless. Make sure they know you know that.”

I glared at the floor.

“Like you said, you had no wrongdoing in all of this.” she said. “As much as I have reserved thoughts about what you did, you did the difficult thing of testifying against your father. So you don’t have to keep paying for his sins forever.” She ended the call.

Twenty minutes later, her WhatsApp message arrived with a screenshot of the CCTV footage. It was a picture of an averagely built dark man with a tool bag on his right shoulder walking into the compound. His face was clear enough. Thank God for CCTVs!

I sent a quick ‘thank you mummy!’ to her and saved the image. Then I opened my chat with the unknown number and stilled my fingers before typing.

“Don’t bother calling me by 11:45 because you’ll only be adding to your digital trail. I’m writing rather than calling because a call from me will be disastrous for you.

Attached is an image of the individual you sent to my family home in Nigeria four days ago. The timestamp is included. This image has been shared with Sussex Police and with the Metropolitan Police’s online harassment unit, where a formal report has been filed today under my full name. A copy has also been sent to two journalists - one in Lagos, one in London - who have been covering my father’s case and are aware of ongoing intimidation efforts against his family.

I am not going to engage further with this number. What I will tell you is that I know more than you assumed I did, and that the people protecting me are more numerous than you assumed they were.

Do NOT contact me again.

I reread it three times, attached the picture and sent it.

I sat there waiting for God knows what. A response? A call? A knock on my door?

Seven minutes later, I opened the chat to see if it had been delivered and to my greatest shock and surprise, I had been blocked by the number.

I looked at it for a moment, then I put the phone face-down on the desk and exhaled for the first time that day. Even though I didn’t quite feel relieved, I was glad to know that the temporary solution worked. My body and mind were exhausted, and I was deeply, almost comically hungry.

I opened my laptop and typed an email to my apartment’s accommodation office, explaining the situation. I told them that I did not currently feel safe in my accommodation. That I understood there was a contract, but asked if there was any flexibility given the circumstances. I needed to move out of that apartment ASAP.

After I sent the email, the silence that followed was different from the silence that had been in the room all day. I put my head down on my knees and thought about how I treated Nilton like he was some criminal. I remembered the hurt in his eyes, and I blinked away tears from mine.

One problem at a time, Ibinabo. Those were my last thoughts before I fell asleep.

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The email from accommodation came the next morning, before nine.

Dear Ms. Egbuson,

Thank you for bringing this to our attention. We are so sorry to hear what you’ve been going through. This is an absolutely unacceptable situation, and we take your safety very seriously.

We will be arranging for additional security checks around our building with immediate effect. With regard to your request: yes, absolutely, we completely understand. We do have one available room at our Falmer Road building, which is on the other side of campus - fully furnished, ground floor, your room contract would simply transfer. If you’d like to make this switch, we can process the move as early as today.

Please let us know, and we will arrange everything.

I replied immediately: Yes please. Today works. I appreciate this greatly. Thank you.

Then looked around the room and sighed. I guess it’s time to pack up.

I had been in this flat since the start of term. It was small and looked out onto the car park and had a heater that ticked for twenty minutes before it got warm. I had spent three months making it into something I could exist in, and now I was going to put everything back in the two bags it had arrived in and leave.

That felt fine, actually. More than fine.

I got up and started pulling things from shelves. Books first, then clothes, then the miscellaneous accumulation of objects I had gathered over months. I was wrapping the plant in a sweater when my phone rang.

Mandy.

I almost didn’t pick up out of guilt, but I decided against it.

“Hey,” she said, sounding less animated than she normally would have. “How are you?”

“Hey, Mandy. I’m okay. You?”

“No you’re not,” she shot back. “Something is off off with you. And you have to decide right now, if we are friends or not because to be honest, this isn’t giving friendship. And I’m not the only one who thinks something is off with you. I was speaking with Nilton this morning, and I asked if he had spoken to you. He gave me simple one-word answers, but I could tell that something was off. Girl, my project supervisor is already stressing me. Make my life easy here.” She paused. “Are you actually okay?”

I looked at the plant in the jumper; the soil had left a small dark mark on the sleeve.

“No,” I said softly. “I’m not okay.”

“Okay,” she said, immediately, like she’d been ready for that answer. “Okay. What do you need?”

I sat down on the half-packed bed.

“I need help,” I said.

See you tomorrow at 5:00pm!

NILTON

I looked at the watch on my left hand and frowned. It was 8:07 pm, and she wasn’t here yet. Strange. She hadn’t come to the hub yesterday, but I wasn’t expecting her to since she had texted me around 3:00 pm to say: Mandy has kidnapped me. I’ll come in tomorrow.

I had replied: Shout for help at the red light.

We had exchanged a few laughing emojis, and that was the last time we communicated.

But it was ‘tomorrow’, and she wasn’t at the hub yet. I had fully noticed at 5 pm, which was when she would usually already be here, settled in and working. I told myself it was the weather. Then at 5:30 pm, I told myself she’d overslept. But by 6 pm, I’d stopped telling myself anything and was just watching the door while pretending to read a paragraph I had now read eight times.

I called her at 6:10 pm and at 7:00 pm, but the line rang out both times. WhatsApp also showed her number offline. I sent her an SMS asking if all was well, but she didn’t reply.

I went back to my chapter and told myself to relax.

At 8:25, I packed up my things and set off for my room. The ride back toward my flat took me past the library car park, down the long path behind the science block and then left at the junction by the student union. Left was my flat. I took the left, cycled for about forty seconds and then stopped. Sitting there in the cold with one foot on the ground, I thought about Ibinabo again and became worried by her unresponsiveness, so I turned around.

Her building was a twelve-minute detour. I locked my bike at the rack outside and went in through the main entrance and straight to her door. I had just raised my hand to knock when the door opened and Ibinabo, in her pyjamas and with a trash bag in her hand, emerged from the room.

“JESUS!” she shouted and shut the door. Yikes. I smiled. At least she was fine, even though I realised I had given her a scare.

The door opened again, this time she didn’t have the trash bag in her hand, but her eyes still carried fear. Maybe even more intensely this time. Strange.

“Hey. Sorry for being a creep. I literally just got here and was about to knock.”

She didn’t respond, nor did she let me in. She just stood there with her hand on her heart and her eyes wide with fear.

“Are you good?”, I asked, now worried.

“I didn’t know you were there,” she said simply, and I nodded. Fair.

“I’m sorry, I only just got here.”, I repeated.

“Okay?” she asked as though asking me to get on with why I was in front of her door.

I shifted my weight to my other leg and frowned.

“Came to check that you’re okay. I’ve been calling. You didn’t come in today.”

I paused. “Are you okay?”

She held the door slightly angled in front of her, one hand on the frame.

“I’m fine,” she said. “I just had a slow day.”

The response was short and came a beat later than it should have. She was watching me carefully. Assessing me.

“Can I come in?” I said.

A pause. “Sure.”

She stepped back, and I went in.

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The room smelled of coffee. A mug sat on the small table by the sofa with about an inch of liquid in it. The curtains were closed shut and her lights were off, making the room slightly dark. Her desk had her laptop on it, open but before I could look, she quickly shut the screen and then opened the windows. Then she stood in the middle of the room with her arms crossed loosely in front of her.

“Have you eaten today?” I said.

She looked at the floor for a moment. “No.”

“When did you last eat a proper meal?”, I allowed my eyes to roam to the trash bag of popcorn and chocolates.

“I’m fine, Nilton.”

“Okay, do you want to go and get something together?”

“I’m okay. Really.”

She said it with such firmness that I took a step back and looked at her. Something was definitely off today.

“I can go,” I said. “If this is a bad time. I just wanted to check.”

She nodded. “I know. Thank you for checking.”

I felt a distance between us like a presence in the room. She was probably going through something.

I made to leave, but I paused at the door. At the very least, this was my friend.

“You’re acting a bit off,” I said, keeping my voice even.

Her eyes darted behind me, back to my face and then to the floor.

“I’m fine,” she said again.

“Ibinabo—”

“What made you come today specifically?” she said.

I blinked. “What?”

“Why did you come today?”

The question was so strange that I squinted visibly.

“I was worried about you. That’s all.” I said slowly, now feeling very silly standing there in her room. I had the immediate sense that whatever was wrong with her had something to do with me and that my presence was making her feel uncomfortable.

But I wasn’t going to make the mistake again of assuming that this was related to Mandy and their hangout last night.

“Right,” she said sarcastically as though I was lying. “You came all the way here just for that.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I did. You know what? I think I’ll leave but you know that you can tell me if something’s wrong, yeah?”

She looked me dead in the eyes and shrugged, “Nothing is wrong. Why would you think anything is wrong?”

I forced a smile and replied, “I’ll leave you to it then.” And then let myself out.

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In the corridor, I stood for a moment with my hand in my pocket, confused. The fluorescent strip above me hummed. Somewhere down the hall, a door opened and closed, and footsteps moved away.

I went down the stairs and out into the cold.

I thought, on the way to my bike: What on earth just happened?

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IBINABO

I watched him from the window as he crossed the car park. Moving in his usual unhurried pace, he got to his bike and took a moment with the lock, his breath clouding slightly in the January cold.

I stood there until he turned the corner and disappeared. Then I let the curtain drop and went and sat on the edge of the bed. The room was very quiet. It had been all day. I needed the quiet to think, so I didn’t go to my classes, nor did I open the curtains.

I was now in full paranoia mode.

I lay down on my back as my stomach growled and looked at the ceiling, thinking about Nilton’s face when he said I’ll leave you to it. He looked (or was acting?) hurt. He’d also seemed genuinely worried about me.

I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes and wished to disappear from all my problems. But the ceiling was still there when I removed them. The room was still dim. The quiet was still loud.

Tell me everything, Nilton had said that crossover night, in the alcove in church. And I had. Foolishly. Now it had come to bite me.

As I was still thinking about everything, my phone buzzed on the bed beside me. I grabbed it with force and unlocked it.

SMS from Unknown number.

My hands went cold.

I opened it.

You didn’t leave your flat today.

That’s not like you.

I hope you didn’t upset your friend.

Or should we call him your boyfriend?

Anyway, we’ll call you this night by 11:45pm. Make sure you answer.

Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.

I read it twice and didn’t realise when I started visibly shaking. Whoever this was had watched Nilton leave. They had known he was here. Which meant they were watching from outside, right now, close enough to see my door, or they had known in advance that he was coming. OR it was just Nilton.

I put my shaking hand over my mouth. At this point, I didn’t care so much about the identity of the stalker, I was full on scared now. I just wanted to be safe. I jumped from my bed and locked my door, shut my curtains extra tight, holding it with a clothes peg and sat at the edge of my bed.

In that moment, I felt so alone. I couldn’t call Mandy or Nilton because they were top on my suspect list. I thought about calling 999, but it just didn’t seem like I’d get any solution from them. Thought of calling Binta, but I had burned that bridge. There was only one person left I could call.

I picked up my phone and dialled my mother.

I even though she wanted to call God! Lol.

See you tomorrow at 5:00pm!

IBINABO

Just four weeks ago, I was in my short-let flat on a quiet street, thinking my holiday was going to be a time of depressing solitude. I didn’t know I was in for a ride. Four weeks later, I had made a new friend, possibly destroyed the friendship, been to church three times, cried in a restaurant, held someone’s hand in a church corridor, walked home holding that same person’s hand, and somewhere in the middle of all of it, become a person who had, apparently, told someone she liked them.

Crazy things can happen in four weeks. And somehow, what happens during the holiday does not stay in the holiday. It was now the first day of term, and I had completed my classes for the day, yet the fact that Mandy and I were not speaking was looming over my head. I had not texted Mandy since New Year’s Eve, which was about four days prior. Even though I had drafted three messages, I deleted all of them because none of them said the right thing, and I didn’t want to say the wrong thing to Mandy of all people. I had decided I would text her by the end of the week. It would be something simple. I just needed a few more days to find the right words.

I pulled my bag onto my shoulder and headed for the bike rack. Time to head home.

I was still fiddling with my bike lock with cold fingers when I heard my name. I froze. I didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Mandy?

“Ibinabo! Hey! Ibinabo!”

I turned around.

Her head and one arm were hanging out of the driver’s window of her car, parked on the double yellow directly outside the department entrance, waving at me with the energy of someone who had not spent four days being angry at me.

I stood with my keys in my hand and blinked.

“Come on!” she called. “Before I get a parking ticket!”

I jogged over to where she was.

“Hey,” I said with scepticism.

“Hey, to you too. So are you going to let me drop you off or what?”

I looked back at my bicycle and then at her. I opened my mouth, not knowing what to say.

“Your bicycle will be fine,” she said, reading my face. “And if it gets stolen, honestly, it’s a fair price for the stress you and your boyfriend put me through on New Year’s Eve. In fact, I think you owe me a bicycle.”

I laughed before I could decide whether I wanted to. I felt such immense relief. She was back to joking with me. Okay, we were fine.

I crossed over and got into the passenger seat, welcoming the warmth of the car and her baby scent. She pulled away before I had fully closed the door.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi again,” she said, eyes on the road. “How was your first day back to school?”

“Overwhelming.”

“Same. I sat in my first seminar and genuinely could not remember how to take notes. Like the skill was just gone. My hand was moving, and nothing was happening.”

“Mine came back around the second hour.”

“The second hour! See, you’re more resilient than me.” She changed lanes smoothly. I looked at her and smiled.

“Mandy, I’m sorry for-”

She lifted her free hand in the air. “No, no, it’s okay. I wasn’t mad at you. Okay, maybe I was a little. But I understand that you did nothing with negative intentions. You were just being your interesting self. I should be the one apologising for how I spoke to you. It was quite mean.”

“Yeah, it was,” I said, smiling.

“Right? I sounded so harsh when I heard myself back in church. I was like, wow, is this really me? Okay but also, to be fair, I was so mad at Nilton.”

“I’m sorry again. I put the idea in his head.”

“Meh. Are you a neurologist? If not, then you didn’t access his head in any way. He reached his conclusions on his own, and he’s taken responsibility for them. So no need to apologise.” She turned the corner. “Just one thing.”

“Yeah?” I replied.

“Next time, let me know if you suspect anything about me before you let someone else know. I’d do the same for you.”

“I will. One hundred percent.”

“Although I know that with Nilton it was different. You were just a girl in love trying to find out if you could shoot your shot, yeah? I see you, girl! I’d probably do the same in your shoes. Actually, no I wouldn’t- haha! But yes, I fully understand where you were coming from.”

I laughed and wondered whether to explain that I had actually done it to remove myself from the equation. I decided against it. There was no need. I’d never do it again.

“How’s your dissertation going?” I asked.

“God, horribly. I read my methodology chapter over the break, and I don’t know who wrote it, but it wasn’t me.” She laughed out loud.

“You’ll be alright,” I said, smiling. “You are one of the most brilliant women I know. You’ll figure it out. And I’ll be praying for you.”

She glanced at me and smiled.

“By the way, you wore the dress,” Mandy said.

“I did.”

“The dark one.”

“Yup.”

She smiled at the road. “How did it feel?”

I thought about it honestly. “Like myself, actually. Which surprised me.”

“Girl, I knew it would.” She nodded. “You have good bones for that kind of cut.”

“I don’t even know what that means,” I laughed.

“Don’t worry. Just trust me. Nilton agrees too.”

I almost fainted. “Oh God,” I groaned.

“No, listen. You guys won’t hear the last of it from me. I will torture you both to the death.”

I rolled my eyes and changed the subject. “I was going to text you, by the way. Would you have wanted me to text you?”

She nodded. “I see you changing the subject smoothly.” We burst into laughter, then she continued. “Well, it depends on what your text would have said, to be honest. But as a general rule, yes, I would have loved to hear from you.”

“It was tough to decide whether to text you or what to even say. I deleted three drafts.”

She made a sound. “I deleted two. Mine kept sounding either too intense or too breezy and neither was right.”

“Same problem,” I said.

She glanced at me again. “I love you, my girl.”

Wow. I didn’t realise how much five words could do for my heart. I blinked twice to push back tears and replied, “And I love you too. Thank you- for everything.”

“My pleasure, always,” she said, then suddenly slapped the steering wheel. “I know exactly what we should do. Have you seen the new episodes of Montserrat yet?”

I frowned. “No, I don’t really watch things. What is Montserrat?”

“Shut up!” she said.

“What?”

“I’m so jealous of you right now. You haven’t started watching Montserrat?”

I chuckled. “I haven’t started watching anything.”

“Wild. Okay, we’re going to Sainsbury’s to grab a few snacks, then to yours to start this series.”

“Are you crazy? This is the start of term!”

“Yes, and there’s no better time to start than at the start.” She looked at me with crazy eyes, and we both burst into laughter.

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We took twenty minutes in Sainsbury’s and spent most of it in the snacks aisle having a disagreement about whether pretzels counted as a television snack. Mandy’s position was that they were too loud and would create a sensory conflict with the dialogue. My position was that this was not a real concern. We bought the pretzels. We also bought popcorn, a sharing bag of something chocolate, and bottles of pineapple and orange juice.

In the car she kept going on about how this was about to be the best day of my life. She decided to tell me the entire plot of Montserrat, explaining that it was important for me to understand how great it was first. Montserrat was a fictional drama set in a Trinidadian family across three generations. Apparently, it was full of drama and scenes that would make me cry.

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My room was warm because I had left the heating on low, which was a new habit. I had spent September through December returning to a cold room and had decided that enough was enough. Mandy approved. Strangely, it was her first time inside my room.

“I like this,” she said, standing in the middle of the room.

“It’s very small.”

“Small doesn’t mean bad.” She looked at the bookshelf. “You have a lot of books.”

“You sound surprised.”

“No, I’m not surprised. I just didn’t know you had this many.” She pulled one out, examined the spine, and put it back. “Okay. Sofa or floor?”

“Sofa.”

She settled at one end with her legs folded under her, and I sat at the other end. We opened everything simultaneously - the sweet popcorn first, the chocolate within reach, the juices on the small table. I pulled up Netflix. The first episode of the new series opened on a funeral, which made me think: okay, maybe I’ll enjoy this show.

For the first twenty minutes, Mandy watched in complete silence, which I noted with mild surprise because Mandy watching anything in complete silence was unusual. Then Celeste appeared on screen and said something about the house, and Mandy said quietly, “Oh, best believe she’s not over it. She’s not over it at all.”

“She’s not?” I agreed.

“Nope, can’t you see the way her eyes are moving? She’s a really good actress, by the way.”

“Yeah, I think she’s pretending.”

“And that never works,” Mandy said, and we both continued watching.

By the second episode, Mandy was fully chatting about everything we were seeing, and I was shaking my head at her for most of it, which she ignored.

“Can I just watch in peace!” I said.

“Yeah, who’s at war with you? Watch in peace. I like to watch and process.”

“Then we are incompatible,” I replied.

“Never, we are joined at the hip forever, my girl!”

She laughed and threw a piece of popcorn at me, and I caught it and ate it, which made her laugh harder.

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My phone buzzed at the end of the second episode.

I ignored it. Probably my mother, checking in on the first day of second term. Mandy was already talking about episode three, and I was reaching for the chocolate when the phone buzzed again. And again. Nine more times in fast succession.

I picked it up.

Unknown number.

I opened the messages.

Ibinabo Catherine Ogan.

My full name. My middle name. My old surname, which I had not used since I left Nigeria. I froze.

Did you think you could just disappear?

Did you think there would be no consequences for what you and your family did?

Your father stole from this country for fourteen years. Lives destroyed because of your dear daddy.

And yet here you are. In England. In a university your father’s stolen money paid for. Studying on a degree his corruption funded. Living comfortably while the people he robbed are still in the same poverty he left them in.

You testified against him and thought that made you righteous. It doesn’t.

There are no clean hands here, Ibinabo.

I know you think leaving the country was enough. Starting over with a new number and a new life. It isn’t.

I know where you are.

Then: my address. The building name. The flat number.

I read it three times, and with every round, my hands shook faster, and my heart almost burst out of my chest. I put the phone face-down on my thigh and looked at the TV, not even seeing the images floating across the screen.

Mandy was saying something. I heard the sounds of her words but not the words themselves.

Four people had this number. I had been meticulous about it. It was the one thing I had been meticulous about since landing in the UK.

My mother. Binta. Mandy. Nilton.

Mandy was sitting two feet away from me, laughing at something on the screen.

So, not Mandy.

I stood up. “I just need a second.”

“Sure,” she said, not looking away from the screen.

I went into the corridor and closed the door behind me. Standing against the wall, I looked at the phone again, reading the messages once more to be sure I wasn’t dreaming. It wasn’t a dream. I inhaled a shaky breath and called Binta. It rang just twice before she picked up.

“Ibinabo?” Her voice was startled like the voice of someone who had been waiting for a call for months and had stopped expecting it. “Ibinabo, oh my God-”

“Binta.” I kept my voice low and level. “I need you to tell me the truth. Are you the one sending these texts?”

A pause. “What texts?”

I rolled my eyes, keeping the tears in. “Binta, I’m begging you, if you’re the one, please tell me. I’m very sorry for not picking your calls all these months. I was going through a lot. But those texts are a bit over the top and it’s unfair. If you’re the one, please just tell me. I won’t be mad.”

“Ibinabo, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. What texts? Apart from the messages I sent you when I was trying to reach you last year, I haven’t texted you again. What is going on? Are you okay?”

“Did you share my number with someone else?”

“No.” Her voice was firm. Hurt. “No, I didn’t. Again, what’s going on?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I’m sorry. I’ll call you back.”

I hung up before she could say anything else. Then I called my mother.

She picked up on the third ring, her voice slow and warm with sleep. “Nabo? Everything okay?”

“Mum. Did you give my number to anyone recently?”

“Your number?” A pause, the sound of her sitting up. “No. Why? What’s happened?”

“Have you had anyone in the house apart from Aunty and her family?”

“I’ve been alone for two weeks. Your aunty and her family travelled for Christmas and haven’t come back. If you had been calling me regularly, you would have known this. Why are you asking me this?”

“It’s nothing,” I said. “Go back to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Ibinabo-”

“I’m fine, Mum. Goodnight.”

I hung up and stood in the corridor with my back against the wall, staring ahead and panicking.

Mandy was in the room. My mother was alone in Ibadan. Binta’s shock had been real- I had known Binta’s voice since we were ten, and that was not the voice of someone lying.

Which left one person.

I shook my head. Physically, like the thought was something I could dislodge.

But the voices were already there, and once they started they did not stop at the reasonable version of the concern. They went further. They always went further.

He asked about your parents on the phone. He kept asking. You kept deflecting and he kept finding ways back to the question.

You told him your real surname and everything about your dad. And this is happening just days after you told him.

“No,” I whispered out loud, beginning to pace the corridor. Am I going crazy? Is this how madness starts?

The voices continued:

He is writing a dissertation about post-independence economic frameworks. About how small nations navigate dependency and institutional corruption. Your father is a case study in institutional corruption. What if you are the case study?

“No, no, no,” I said, pressing my fingers to my eyes.

Bankole was consistent too. Bankole remembered small things too. Bankole looked at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

You said it yourself. Knowing and feeling are different countries. And right now everything you feel is-

The corridor door opened.

Mandy’s head appeared. “Woah, hey. You okay? You’ve been out here a while.” She looked at my face with concern. My eyes must have been red.

I straightened, sniffed, and put the phone in my pocket. “Yes. Sorry. Just my mum checking in. Family issues.”

“Want to talk about it?”

I shook my head immediately and vehemently. Mandy looked at me for a moment. Then she held the door open wider. “Come on. Episode three is starting.”

“Yes,” I said. “Coming.”

I followed her back inside and sat back down on the sofa. She stretched her hand out to me, and I put my sweaty palm in hers. As she covered my hand with hers, my heart beat faster. Could she be in on it as well? Was this a repetition of history? And had I, despite everything, despite all of it, managed to be fooled again?

Please if you’re the one texting Ibinabo, stop o. 😭

See you tomorrow at 5:00pm WAT

NILTON

I pushed through the door and followed Mandy as she stormed out of church. I was incredibly disappointed with myself because none of this would have happened if I hadn’t jumped to conclusions. She was already halfway across the car park, walking fast with her head down and her bag tight against her side.

“Mandy.”

She didn’t stop.

“Mandy, please.”

She stopped but didn’t turn around immediately. As I walked closer, she eventually turned and looked at me with wet eyes. She wasn’t exactly crying then, but I could tell that she had been.

“Say what you need to say, Nilton,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

“You said that last night. And in all the texts you sent me.”

“I know. And I’m saying it again because I really mean it. This is all on me, and I take full responsibility.” I paused. “Apart from the accusation, I want to apologise for telling Ibinabo about two years ago. I betrayed your trust. Please forgive me.” I said. “I told myself I told her because she was asking, and I was being honest. There’s some truth in that, but it’s not the full truth. The full truth is that I needed her to know that you and I weren’t a thing -- that there was nothing between us that would make it feel too complicated for her and me to become something. I was so desperate for that door to be open that I didn’t mind shutting you out in the process. I’m sorry.”

My mother taught me to apologise properly when I was twelve years old. I had been playing basketball with some neighbourhood friends, and I can’t even remember how, we got into a very serious argument. I stormed off home, swearing at them and telling them I had disowned them from my life. I didn’t know my mother was watching from the balcony. As soon as I got inside, she told me, “Don’t take off your shoes, we are going back to apologise.” I stood there thinking this woman must be joking. Apologise for what? But she wasn’t joking. She marched me right back to the court and said, “Apologise, Nilton.”

I asked, “For what?” with a scowl on my face.

She said, “For swearing at them and cussing them out. That’s no decent way to talk to another human being, no matter what they’ve done.”

I said, “Sorry,” and watched the boys laugh at me in mockery, but my mother was not done. She said, “Well, that’s not how to apologise. Sorry for what? For all we know, you could be telling them sorry because they bumped their head on a wall. Tell them what you are saying sorry for.”

At this point, the boys were fully laughing, and my ego was bruised. I felt so betrayed by my mother, but the glare on her face told me we were staying there until I did it. So I grumbled and said, “I’m sorry for swearing at you.” She signalled with her eyes for me to go on. So I continued, “That is no way to talk to a human being.” I almost died of embarrassment and anger saying those words. But my mother was not done. Then she said, “And finally, you ask them for forgiveness.”

The boys burst into piercing laughter. I gritted my teeth and in that moment wondered why God had cursed me with the mother he gave me. There were already tears of frustration in my eyes but I swallowed and said, “Would you forgive me?”

Another round of laughter. Then one of the boys, Malik, asked my mother, “Do we have to say yes we forgive you?”

My mother shrugged and said, “You say whatever you will be most proud of saying.”

Malik looked me dead in the eye and said, “No, we do not forgive you.”

My mother held my hand and we walked away. By then I was sobbing uncontrollably. She said nothing until we got back inside. As soon as we did, she bent down to my level, held my shoulders firmly and said, “Listen to me, Nilton. You did the right thing and that is what matters. You can ask for forgiveness, but you cannot force it out of anyone’s heart. If they are your true friends, they will forgive you.”

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As I stood in that car park with Mandy, my best friend, I wondered if my mum was right.

Mandy was quiet for a long moment. The car park was mostly empty, a few people moving toward their cars in the distance, someone laughing somewhere behind us.

“Two and a half years,” she said. “I have never once used anything you told me in confidence. Not once. And I’ve had things I could have used, Nilton. Your stuff with your father. The thing with Celine’s texts last year. The girl from your first degree that you cried about once and never mentioned again.” She looked at me directly. “I would never, ever bring up any of that. Because that is what I thought we were.”

“That is what we are.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” I said without hesitation. “I messed up. This is a one-off.”

She looked at the ground and then back at me. “So you like her?”

“Yes,” I said.

Mandy almost smiled.

“She’s great,” she said quietly. “I think you’ll be great together. Believe it or not, I’m actually excited.” She paused. “But I’m still really hurt. Both of those things are true at the same time.”

“I know.”

“Because think about it.” She pulled her jacket tighter. “You haven’t even started dating yet. You’re not even together. And already I’m standing in a car park on New Year’s Eve feeling like I’m on the outside of something. If this is now, what happens when you’re actually together? Do I just become a footnote?”

“No.” I said it immediately and meant it immediately. “That will not happen.”

“You can’t promise that. Look, Nilton, I’m not a crazy person who intends to be number one in your life. I won’t be. Your girlfriend and eventually your wife will be the first person in your life. Both of you will have a life together that I will not, and frankly should not, have unrestricted access to. You will think of your family first. You will put her above me. And if the situation ever demands it, you need to consider her, even if it makes me sad. So I’m not asking to have a stake in your life that is exclusive and permanent. I’m just sad that it seems easy for you to throw me under the bus even when it isn’t necessary.”

I moved closer to her. “Hey, I’m sorry. I really am.”

She looked at me for a moment. There was no more fury, just sadness.

“I hate that you told her,” she said.

“I know.”

“I hate that I had to find out the way I did.”

“I know.”

“And I hate that you thought, even for a second, that I would--” She stopped. “Even for a second, Nilton.”

“I know that too. I’m sorry,” I said.

She exhaled through her nose and looked away across the car park. “I forgive you. Go and sin no more.”

I almost chuckled but held my tongue. She looked at me and smiled, and then I smiled, and then she laughed, and then I laughed.

I spread open my arms, and we hugged briefly before pulling away. “Thank you for your forgiveness,” I said. “I truly appreciate our friendship.”

She rolled her eyes. “Listen, N. Don’t do your head in trying to figure out how Ibinabo arrived at her conclusion. She is carrying something very heavy, and I don’t know if she’s told you any or all of it, but it’s her story to tell. What she’s gone through has done something real to how she reads situations. She’s hypervigilant. Terrified of being caught off guard again. So she scans everything, all the time, looking for the threat before it arrives.” She paused. “I’m not a therapist by any stretch, but I think you need to nudge her towards some counselling. She needs real support -- professional support, not just you being lovely and patient, which I know you will be.”

I stood with that for a moment.

“If that’s what’s happening,” I replied, “then she needs both of us. Not just me. You’re important to her, Mandy. I can imagine she’s currently freaking out because she thinks you’re mad at her.” I paused. “She wore one of your dresses tonight. She cares what you think.”

Mandy looked up.

“The dark one,” I said. “With the white pattern. She looked incredible.”

Mandy smiled. “Look at you doing heart eyes. Eww.”

I smiled and shook my head. “I was not doing heart eyes.”

“You so were.” She mimicked my voice. “She looked incredible in her dress. Ravishing. I just wanted to put a ring on it there and then. Oh Lord!”

I burst out laughing. “Whatever, I like her. I’m not ashamed of that. Very attracted to her too.”

“Eww, bro.”

“Get ready for it, because I don’t complain when you go off about Luke.”

“Oh, about that -- I don’t like Luke anymore.”

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. Just got the ick. Looked at him on Saturday at the court and felt nothing.”

I sighed. “Poor Luke.”

She chuckled. “Okay, I’ll think about Ibinabo. Right now, I need to get out of this cold and into my bed.”

“Don’t want to come back in?”

She looked at the church door. “Nah. I still have a tiny bit of angst left in me, if I’m being honest. Can’t seem to go from a hundred to zero in ten minutes.”

“Fair enough. See you later then. And thank you again for being so gracious.”

“Won’t happen so quickly next time,” she said, smiling, as she walked away.

“WWJD?” I called back as I headed toward the church.

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Ibinabo was where I’d left her, standing by the wall and staring blankly into space. It hurt to see her looking so confused and worried.

She looked up when I came back through the door, her face asking several questions at once.

“She’s okay,” I said. “We’re going to be okay.”

She nodded once and looked back at the floor.

The hall behind us was quieter now. Midnight had passed and the big collective moment of it was over, people dispersed into smaller clusters and softer conversations. Through the window at the end of the corridor the street was dark and still.

“Come on,” I said. “There’s a corner over here.”

We sat in the alcove by the far window, two chairs slightly angled toward each other, away from the last of the crowds. She had her jacket back on and her hands in her lap, looking at the window.

I looked at her. The dress. The red flats. Her hair.

“You look beautiful tonight,” I said.

She turned to look at me. The compliment had landed somewhere she hadn’t prepared for it.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

A short silence. Then I said, “All of this is my fault.”

She frowned. “What?”

“Tonight. Mandy. I caused it.” I looked at her directly. “Last night after I left you, I went to Mandy’s and accused her of feeding you the idea that she still had feelings for me. I thought she’d planted it. She hadn’t, and I was wrong to think it -- and I was even more wrong for telling you about two years ago. Mandy and I had agreed never to speak about it. I broke that agreement for selfish reasons.”

Her eyes were wide open and I could see several emotions flash through them.

She finally spoke. “So she’s angry at you?”

“She was. We’ve talked and we’re fine now.”

“She’s angry at me too?”

“She’s not angry at you,” I said. “She’s hurt for reasons that are mostly about me. But you’re not the cause of tonight. I am.”

She was quiet for a moment. Then: “What selfish reasons?”

“Huh?”

“You said you broke the agreement for selfish reasons. What selfish reasons?”

I blinked. This was not how I had planned to tell her I liked her. I cleared my throat. “Well, I didn’t want you thinking I was unavailable.” I paused. “Because I really like you.”

“Oh,” she said, blinking rapidly like she’d just woken up.

I waited.

She stared at her hands.

“Say something,” I said.

“I’m thinking.”

“Okay.”

She was quiet for another moment. Then: “I like you too.” She said it to her hands, not to me.

I smiled, but before I could say a word she continued. “This doesn’t change anything.” Then she sat up. “I mean -- it changes things. Obviously it changes things. But it doesn’t fix anything. I’m not -- I’m not in a place where I can just be in a--” She stopped. Started again. “There are things wrong with me, Nilton.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you.”

“Don’t do that.” Her voice was direct. “Don’t respond to what I’m saying with a reassurance. Hear what I’m actually saying.”

I closed my mouth.

“I don’t trust my own perception,” she said. “I saw you and Mandy at your building yesterday and within thirty seconds my brain had constructed an entire narrative with no evidence behind it. I sat in a pub for over an hour watching a restaurant because I couldn’t take a person at their word. I have been managing a fear response since my father went to jail and dressing it up as self-sufficiency. It is not the same thing.” She looked at me and gestured at herself. “This is not someone who is ready to be in a relationship. This is someone who needs to sort herself out.”

“I know,” I said.

She blinked. “You’re not going to argue with me?”

“No. You’re right.”

She looked surprised. “Okay,” she said carefully.

“But I want to understand it,” I said. “Just understand where this comes from. If you’ll let me.” I paused. “Tell me everything.”

She looked at the window. Then she did.

She began from when she went for her compulsory national service year in Nigeria -- the NYSC. About the man she met at a restaurant whose name was Bankole, but who she would eventually discover was actually Sijibomi. About how she fell in love with him and believed every word he said -- hook, line, sinker and net. About the rather extraordinary story of how he had been using her to get to her father, and how that, in itself, resulted in even more life-changing revelations.

I said nothing. There was nothing worth saying that would justify the interruption.

“And my father was arrested three weeks later,” she said. “So I was processing both of them at the same time. These two men I had loved. These two men I had completely believed.” She finally looked at me. “And I keep thinking about what that says about my judgment. Two people. Simultaneously. Both of them performing something I mistook for reality. What does that say about how I read people?”

“It says they were skilled at deception,” I finally said. “Not that you were poor at detection. Those are not the same thing.”

“My brain doesn’t accept that distinction.”

“I know.”

“I know that you know,” she said. “And I know all the correct things to think about it. I’ve read enough to know the correct things to think.” She looked down at her hands. “But knowing and feeling are different countries separated by oceans, and I can’t seem to be in both of them at the same time. I can hold the correct thought and still feel the fear. Both things run simultaneously and I cannot turn one of them off.”

She was crying, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. I reached across and took her other hand. She didn’t pull away.

“So when I saw Mandy with you yesterday,” she said, “the part of me that knows better was there. Present. Saying, this is Mandy, she’s his best friend, you know this. And underneath it, the other part was louder.” She wiped her face again. “I’m so tired of the other part being louder.”

“It won’t always be,” I said. “That I can be sure of.”

She looked at me with scepticism. “You don’t know that.”

I stood up and squatted directly in front of her. “I know for sure that that voice gets quieter when you’re not carrying it alone.”

She looked me in the eyes and we stayed like that for a moment. Then I leaned forward and pressed my lips to her forehead. I pulled back and looked her in the eyes again. “You’ll get through this.”

I stood up and pulled her gently into my arms and we stayed like that for about a minute before we decided to leave.

We walked home mostly in silence, hand in hand.

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Back home, I made tea I didn’t drink and sat at my desk with my laptop open. I typed: therapist Sussex postgraduate students trauma. Then: BACP accredited therapist Brighton complex trauma international students. I went through six websites slowly, reading each profile properly. One woman had a note about working with people processing institutional betrayal -- a phrase I had not encountered before and which, when I read it, described exactly what Ibinabo had been living with. I googled her name and went to her Instagram. Saw that she was in church on Good Friday.

I’ll take that.

I bookmarked the page and shut my laptop. At least I had something ready for whenever she was.

See you on Monday 5:00pm WAT!

IBINABO

When the idea came to my mind to wear one of the dresses Mandy bought me for the crossover service, I did not reject it. It seemed like a crazy idea, but I was feeling more carefree lately. Que sera sera. Plus, I could make Mandy really happy by surprising her with the dress.

I wore the midi dress with the dark background and the small white pattern, fitted through the waist, with my black tights. I paired it with the red ballet flats and looked at myself in the mirror behind the wardrobe door. I looked nice and I was aware of this. It was the most beautiful I had looked since I came to this country. As I looked at myself in the mirror, I was mildly aware that I wasn’t just wearing this for Mandy. I was doing it for someone else. Nilton was also going to be in church, and I wasn’t sure why I was looking forward to him seeing me in a dress. I had let him go in my mind. Hadn’t I? He and Mandy were going to find their way to each other eventually. The history between them was real, and even more real was the romantic tension. You could see it from Mars. And I was not going to be the person who inserted herself into the middle of something that was none of her business.

And yet there I was, standing in front of a mirror, picturing his face when he saw me in the dress.

I grabbed my jacket and bag and checked my phone. Mandy hadn’t texted. It was weird and unlike her. She would typically text me before noon with some funny meme or a random thought. She was probably sleeping in so she’d be awake and alert for the vigil.

Nilton had texted, though. Just a short one.

Nilton: Happy New Year’s Eve. See you tonight.

Me: See you tonight.

Nilton: Looking forward to it.

On my way to church I texted Mandy: Hey. Just checking in. On my way now, see you there.

She didn’t reply.

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The church was already warm when I arrived, and I was grateful for it. I took off my jacket and smoothed my dress, walking toward the section where Mandy and I usually sat - the third row from the back on the left. I scanned the room looking for her, but she wasn’t there yet. As I sat down, I dialled her number, but it just rang out.

I was about to call again when I felt someone arrive next to me.

“Hey.”

Nilton. Dark trousers, a simple light pink shirt with a jacket over it. He looked really good and smelled nice. I restrained my mind from travelling too far.

“Hey,” I said. “Welcome. Have you seen Mandy today?”

Something moved across his face. Very brief and very controlled, but I noticed.

“No,” he said. “Not yet.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I’m good. You?” Again, weird.

I filed away the feeling and said nothing because the service was beginning. I dialled Mandy one more time. It rang out again, so I put my phone in my bag and faced forward.

The service was good. The pastor spoke about new seasons and what it means to actually leave the past behind rather. He said we cannot carry Egypt into the Promised Land - Israel tried, and it delayed them. It was a good sermon.

Somewhere around ten o’clock, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mandy come in through the side entrance. I turned slightly and watched her. She didn’t come toward us. She walked to the far end of the hall, to a row near the wall, and sat down with her coat still on and her bag in her lap, looking directly at the altar.

I looked at Nilton.

He was looking straight ahead, too, as though he hadn’t seen her. But I was certain he had, because the line of his jaw was harder, like he was gritting his teeth. Something had happened between them -- last night, or this morning, or something.

I faced forward and breathed.

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At half past eleven, the pastor released everyone into their accountability circles, and the hall began to rearrange itself, people moving toward their people, smiling, hugging, rearranging chairs.

I leaned toward Nilton. “I want to go check on Mandy,” I said. “Something is off.”

“Yeah,” he said. A pause. “I’ll come with you.”

We walked to the far end of the hall together, but Mandy was no longer in her seat. I stood there for a moment and looked around. Nilton said nothing. I called her phone -- again, it rang out.

“Seems like she’s left. But we can check the foyer if you want,” he said.

“Good idea,” I said.

We were moving through the corridor toward the foyer when I saw her ahead of us, already in her jacket, walking toward the exit with the purposeful stride of someone who had decided she didn’t want to be there.

“Mandy!” I called.

She didn’t slow down.

I jogged to catch up and touched her arm. She stopped and turned around.

Her face was something I had not seen before on her. Mandy, who was typically warm and direct and uncomplicated in her joy, was furious. Not mildly furious. Not irritated. Actually, completely furious, with a flushed face.

“What do you want, Ibinabo?” she said, and I froze.

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NILTON

After Brisa do Atlântico last night with Ibinabo, I was not okay. I walked her home in near silence, my mind filled with thoughts that kept expanding. Why did she ask me about Mandy and me? Where did she get that idea from? I felt very bothered by the notion - of course, partly because I liked her, but it was also more than that. Something suggested to me that Mandy had a hand in this. She and Ibinabo had been hanging out a lot, and I knew Mandy could be very persuasive if she wanted to be. I really didn’t believe she had feelings for me anymore, but if she did, it would be such a low for her to leverage Ibinabo’s vulnerability for something like that. By the time I got to her apartment building, I was boiling.

I called her, and she picked up on the first ring.

“Hey love! Talk to me.”

“Hey Mandy. Sorry to bother you so late, but can we talk?”

“Oh? Sure. Now?”

“Yeah, actually, I’m outside your apartment. Is it okay if I come in?”

“Uh, yeah sure. Coming.”

She opened the door, looking worried. I stepped in and stood close to the door, waiting for her to close it.

“Are you okay? Is everything okay?” she said, facing me.

I thought about how to say it and decided there was no way to say it except directly. “I need to ask you something.”

A pause. “Okay.”

“Did you tell Ibinabo anything about having feelings for me?”

She squinted. “Did I what?”

“Did you maybe say something to her or, I don’t know, put the idea in her head somehow. Whether you meant to or not.”

“I’m sorry,” Mandy said, stepping back from me, very quietly. “What?”

“I’m not saying you did it maliciously--”

“Nilton.” Her voice was controlled, which was very unlike her. “You think I told Ibinabo that I have feelings for you?”

“I think maybe you implied something--”

“I need you to stop talking right now,” she said, “because the longer you talk the worse this is getting, and I am trying very hard not to lose my temper.” Silence. “How long have you known me?”

“Mandy-”

“How long?”

“Two and a half years.”

“Two and a half years. And in two and a half years, have I ever, ever done something like that? Have I ever been that person? Have I ever manipulated a situation or played games with someone’s feelings?”

“No,” I said. “Which is why I said I don’t think it was malicious.”

“The intent doesn’t matter!” Her shouted, her voice cracking slightly at the edges. “The fact that you would even think it in the first place - that you would arrive at that conclusion about me-” She stopped. “When I liked you two years ago, Nilton, did I hint at it? Did I play games? Did I manoeuvre anything?”

“No. You told me directly.”

“Exactly. I told you with my mouth. Because that is who I am. And you know that. You have always known that.” A pause. “So where, of all the possible conclusions you could have reached, did you land on: Mandy is engineering this?”

I didn’t have a good answer for that.

“I agree. And I did tell her about you being explicit about your feelings two years ago. But I’m still trying to figure out why she’d think there’s something between us,” I said.

The silence this time was different.

“You told her about two years ago?” Mandy said.

“Yes.”

“You told Ibinabo that I confessed feelings for you?”

“She was asking about us. I was being honest about--”

“Nilton, we had an agreement,” she said, and her voice was very quiet now, which was worse than the anger. “We agreed we weren’t going to bring that up. Ever.”

“Yeah, to each other, but not to-”

“Not to your latest friend. Right, got it. Get out of my house, please.”

I was mad too and felt a lot of guilt but also, some anger. I made to leave, but she blocked the exit.

“You know what? On second thought, I’m not done,” she said. “Because I also want to address this since it appears there’s some part of you that thinks I am still walking around nursing feelings for you two years later, like you are some prize that I can’t move past.” Her voice had gone back up. “Nilton, I was twenty-two. I told you something honest, and you handled it well, and we moved on. I moved on! I have dated other people. I have lived my life. The idea that I am still - that I would still-” She made a sound of pure frustration. “Do you know how insulting that is? Not just to me, but to our friendship? To think I have been sitting here for two years performing friendship while secretly-”

“I don’t think that.”

“Then why are you asking me this?”

“Because I didn’t know where else the idea was coming from.”

She laughed in frustration. “I’m actually interested in the answer to that question, too. Maybe I should call Ibinabo right now to provide some answers, since she seems to know so much about how I feel.”

“She has no fault in this, M. This is my deduction from her question.”

“Right. This is so unbelievable. This is literally why I hate being so open to everyone. People just end up taking you for granted or mistaking your openness for, ‘yeah, walk all over me.’” She walked away from the door, storming off toward her room. “Close the door on your way out,” she called out.

I stood there for a second, feeling utterly foolish. Then I left.

And now we were standing in the foyer, and I knew that if Ibinabo didn’t let Mandy walk away, things were about to go very badly right there in the corridor.

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IBINABO

The words lurched into my chest like a well-aimed arrow.

Nilton had caught up with us, and the three of us stood in a loose triangle in the corridor.

“Is everything okay?” I said to Mandy.

“Well, I don’t know. I should be asking you that,” Mandy said, “since you seem to know everything.”

“Mandy-” Nilton said firmly.

“Nilton.” She turned to him, and the look on her face stopped whatever he had been about to say. “Do not. I am asking you, please, do not.”

She looked at us both then. There was so much hurt beneath the fury, and seeing it made everything worse because Mandy’s hurt was not something I had a framework for.

“Happy New Year to you both,” she said. “I hope you enjoy each other’s company.” She pulled her bag strap up her shoulder. “Do not call me. Do not text me. I will not respond.”

She walked out through the door and it swung shut behind her leaving the corridor very quiet.

I stood there, my heart beating hard and fast.

Nilton said something - my name, I think - and then he moved past me toward the door she had walked out of. I stood there with my mouth slightly open and my heart racing.

Eeyahhh.

See you guys tomorrow at 5:00pm WAT!

NILTON

She had been crying. I was sure of it.

I turned it over in my head the whole way up to my flat, replaying the thirty seconds at the car window. The way she had opened her eyes wide when I asked. The weird allergies excuse. She was definitely crying, and I wondered if something had happened suddenly or if she had been sad all along.

I put my holdall down in the corner of my room and stood there for a moment doing the calculation. I waited fifteen minutes, which was enough time for Mandy to have dropped her home. Then I called.

It rang out.

I called again. Rang out again. I called Mandy instead.

“Hey! Did you get some rest?” she said cheerily.

“Not yet,” I said. “Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Yeah, are you good?”

“Did Ibinabo seem okay to you?”

She paused. “She seemed fine. Why?”

“I don’t know. I just had a hunch. When I came to say bye at the car, she seemed off.”

“She was fine the whole holiday, N. Like genuinely. She’s been coming out of herself a lot. We’ve been hanging out, she came to church, she’s been laughing more- ”

“Yeah.”

“Did something happen?”

“No,” I said. “Nothing happened. I just wanted to check.”

“Nilton.”

“I’m fine, Mandy. I’m just tired. Ignore me.”

“Okay,” she said slowly. “Get some rest.”

“Yeah. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

I put the phone down and sat there for another minute. Then I opened my chat with Ibinabo and typed.

Me: Hey. I hope you got home okay. I know I might be reading into nothing, and if I am, ignore this. But I don’t think you were okay in the car. If you’d like to talk about it [I would] I’m here. I’ll be at Brisa do Atlântico at 7pm. No pressure. You don’t have to come, but I’ll be there if you want to talk. And I’ll be very happy if you do.

I sent it, set an alarm for 6:45, lay back on top of the covers still fully dressed, and was asleep within four minutes.

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The alarm almost gave me a panic attack. I lay there for a full thirty seconds, arguing with myself about the integrity of promises made in a state of exhaustion. I was so tired, but I got up anyway. I splashed water on my face, brushed my teeth, changed my shirt, and checked my phone. She still hadn’t replied.

I put the phone in my pocket and left.

As soon as I stepped into the restaurant, Dina looked at me with wild surprise.

“Nilton!” she said. “Were you not just in Cabo Verde? When did you arrive?”

“A few hours ago.”

“A few hours.” She said it slowly, like she was checking the maths. “And you’re here.”

“I couldn’t rest,” I said with a smile, “without giving you this first.” I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket and produced a small jar of malagueta peppers. I had got them for Dina specifically because I knew she loved them. She unwrapped it slowly, and when she saw what it was, her face lit up. She looked up at me, then grabbed my face in both hands and kissed me on both cheeks with great fervour.

“You came all the way back from Cabo Verde and the first place you come is here to give me malagueta?” she said.

“Well. That and maybe I’m expecting someone.”

She gave me a look of complete comprehension. “Is it the young lady you were dancing for the other night?”

I laughed and walked to the window table.

It was 6:58. I sat down and looked at the door.

Dina brought me a cold ginger beer without being asked, which I suspected was related to the malagueta. I took a sip, leaned back in the chair, and looked out at the street. A bar across the road had warm light in the windows.

My eyes were heavy. I checked my phone. Nothing.

I put it down. Picked it up. Put it down again.

At 7:15, I typed: I’m here. No pressure at all.

I sent it, leaned back, and closed my eyes for just a moment.

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IBINABO

I had been in the bar across the road since six o’clock.

I am aware of how that sounds. I had enough self-awareness to understand, at least intellectually, that sitting in a pub across the road from a restaurant watching the door is not the behaviour of a person who has everything together.

The thing was, my emotions had been all over the place since that afternoon. Since the moment my brain decided to take a reasonable observation and spiral it out of control. I knew what it was. I had read enough psychology journals post-Bankole to be able to name most of what was happening in my own head, which is a strange kind of torture - knowing the clinical name for the thing that is currently dismantling you. Trauma responses. Hypervigilance. The nervous system scanning for threats even in the absence of actual threats.

I knew all of that and could write an essay about it, and yet I was still sitting in a pub across the road watching a restaurant door because some part of me was convinced he wasn’t going to show up, or that I needed to watch him when he didn’t know he was being watched.

So I watched him arrive and give something to the older woman. Watched her face when she opened it. Watched him laugh and walk to his seat by the window. Watched him fiddle with his phone before he sent me the text.

Nilton: I’m here. No pressure at all.

I looked at the message and sighed. I am the drama, and this man did not deserve any of it. Something inside me felt defeated. I was tired of stressing him and getting stressed myself over nothing. I was tired of pretending to him and to myself. I was just going to show him all of my ugliness. He was probably going to end up with Mandy anyway, so why did I even care?

I typed: I lied to you. My father isn’t just doing his best. My mother isn’t a mere housewife.

I watched him across the road as he looked at the message. Saw him go still.

Nilton: I’m sorry you felt like you had to lie.

Me: I’m sorry I lied.

He started typing. Stopped. Started again.

Nilton: Ibinabo, I don’t want you to ever feel like you’re compelled to say something or give out information to me. I would be doing a terrible job at being your friend if you think you need to lie to me.

Me: You’re not doing a terrible job. I’m sorry.

Nilton: I’m not mad at you. I just want you to feel safe. And I want you to tell me if I’m asking questions that make you uncomfortable.

I didn’t reply.

He waited a few seconds before sending another message: Does this have anything to do with why you were crying earlier?

I read it and looked over at him, watching as he reclined into the chair and darted his eyes toward the door. I sighed, put my coat on, and walked out into the cold. Might as well get it over with.

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The restaurant was warm and smelled the same as it had the last time. I crossed the room and sat down in the seat opposite him before I could change my mind.

“Hey,” I said.

“Oh. Hey?” He looked genuinely startled to see me appear in front of him.

I put my bag on the floor. “I didn’t think it was right to keep watching you like a stalker from across the road.” I pointed toward the pub. “And I’d rather answer your question in person.”

He absorbed this. “You were in the pub across the road?”

“Since six.”

He opened his mouth and closed it. Surely he had a lot to say about that. I would too, if I were him. I would be irritated.

But he wasn’t mad.

Instead, he just put his hands flat on the table between us, palms up.

I looked at his hands for a moment. Then I placed mine in them. He wrapped his fingers around my palms gently, and the warmth of it went somewhere in my chest that I hadn’t known was cold and broke it to pieces.

The only response I had was to start crying. The tears came without warning. I hadn’t planned to come here and cry.

He rubbed his thumb slowly across my knuckles and said nothing. I felt Dina somewhere at the edge of the room and then felt her withdraw. She came back quietly and set a box of tissues on the table.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be.” he replied.

I wiped my eyes and shook my head. I hadn’t cried when my dad was convicted. I hadn’t cried when Bankole confirmed my worst fears. Why, on God’s green earth, was I crying now? I sniffed and cleared my throat. Let’s just get it done.

“Nilton. I’m tired of pretending to you. ” I said. “I lied about my parents and that’s inexcusable.”

Nilton frowned. “I understand why you did. I mean, we shouldn’t lie to each other, of course. But I understand that you were embarrassed about something.”

I gave a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah. Embarrassed about the fact that my dad is in jail and my mum is having a silent mental breakdown. Embarrassed about the fact that my dad is a corrupt guy with the morals of a criminal. Embarrassed that my dad has the blood of innocent people on his hands. Embarrassed about the fact that I can’t run far enough away from who I am. I am the daughter of a devious man. I will always be tainted by that. So yes, I was definitely embarrassed.”

His thumb was still moving in gentle circles across the back of my hand.

“Woah. That’s crazy. I’m so sorry,” he said. “Sounds really heavy and very serious. I’m so sorry. You’ve been carrying all of that alone?”

I nodded and said, “Yeah. But whatever, right? I actually came to simply clear the air on that, given that I lied to you about it. I don’t want to be like my father.”

“Well, thank you for telling me, but I wouldn’t say that I saw you in that light.”

I tilted my head and smiled at him. He was a genuinely good, person. I think. But he was not my person. He belonged to someone else.

“You and Mandy,” I said. “Are you two a thing?”

His frown deepened. “What do you mean?”

“I mean—” I paused. “You both seem very close.”

“We are,” he said. “She’s my closest friend.” Closest friend, not best friend. Interesting.

“I know.” I looked at the table. “But at your building today. She was — you both seemed very—” I stopped, because I didn’t have a word for it that didn’t reveal more than I intended.

“Ibinabo.”

“I’m not trying to make it weird,” I said. “I just -”

“We’re not together,” he said. “If that’s what you’re asking.”

“That’s not all I’m asking.”

He looked at me and I made myself hold his gaze.

“What else are you asking?” he said.

I was quiet for a moment. “Two people can be ‘not together’, and yet together in a way. Both of them share feelings, you know.”

He leaned back slightly, then he said carefully, “If you’re asking if I have feelings for Mandy, I do not.”

“Hmm. Do you know if she has feelings for you, then?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“Oh, nothing. I’m curious, is all.”

He raised a brow and shifted in his seat, “Well, there was something about two years ago. But it wasn’t a big deal. This was when we just met.” He paused and continued slowly, “Mandy told me she had feelings for me.”

Something tightened in my chest. I kept my face still.

“I didn’t feel the same way,” he said. “I told her honestly and as kindly as I knew how. We didn’t speak for about a month. And then she came back, and we agreed to leave it behind and never revisit it.” He paused. “She’s dated other people since then. We’ve never gone back to that conversation. It’s not a live thing. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

My brain was working overtime, analysing every word, every shift in his expression.

“Well, she seems pretty into you.”

He frowned, “Where are you getting all this from?”

“Nowhere. Just a sharp eye, I guess.” Then I added to make it more believable. “Don’t let a good thing pass you by, is all I will say.”

He frowned at me like I was crazy. I was crazy.

That night, as he walked me back to my room in complete silence, I felt light and happy for the first time in days. I had successfully removed myself from the possibility of anything serious happening with Nilton. I was rid of the burden of guessing whether I was worth his attention and time. I was back to being a nobody with no stakes in the game. I was happy.

And yet, at the very back of my heart, something lingered, unsettled and quietly unhappy.

See you tomorrow (as I cannot count on delivering exactly at 5:00pm till the end of this week!) But I hope you enjoyed it.

IBINABO

It is very possible for a single person to come into your life and leave a mark so large that you find yourself, weeks later, wondering if they’ve been in your life forever. That’s how spending the two weeks of the Christmas holiday with Mandy felt.

My plans for the holiday, which were really to rot in my bed, were effectively cancelled the moment I agreed to that coffee date with her.

The morning after our brunch, I woke up to a message from her. She had sent it around 1:22am. It said:

Mandy:

okay so I know it’s late and you’re probably asleep but I’ve been thinking since I got home and I just need to say some things. you can read this whenever.

first of all, thank you for today. I know you don’t think you did anything special but you showed up and you talked to me like a real person and that actually means a lot more than you probably know. I know it was extremely difficult to do that, so thank you.

okay. soooo

what happened with your dad… I’ve been thinking very differently about it and I want to be really careful about how I say this because I don’t want it to sound like a hallmark card or whatever. but the fact that he was capable of being a genuinely good father to you AND also capable of the other things he did, does not say anything about YOU. it says something, instead, about the complexity of what human beings are capable of. and that’s not on you.

I think about the courage it took to do what you did. to sit in that room and answer those questions and hand over what you handed over to the police. knowing what it would cost. knowing what it would mean for your family, your home, your life as you knew it. Ibinabo, that is one of the most extraordinary things I have ever heard a person do, and I don’t think anyone has said that to you plainly enough, so I’m saying it. what you did was right and it was brave and it cost you everything, but you did it anyway!

and then you got on a plane and started over by yourself.

I just want you to know that I see that. and I really rate that. I see YOU and I really think you are incredible and you deserve to take up space in your own life again.

about Bank… or whatever his real name is. I’m not going to say a lot because I think that one is still raw. I’ll just say this: one person’s capacity for pretence is not evidence of everyone’s. I know that’s easy for me to say. I know it probably doesn’t land right now. but I mean it and I’ll keep meaning it until it lands.

I’m praying for you tonight.

okay. that’s everything. goodnight Ibinabo.

— M

I read the message three times and cried.

The holiday ran for roughly fourteen days, and Mandy was in most of those days.

We played tennis — I under mild duress and she with great enthusiasm. She was better than me at it, but I had such genuine fun. We also went shopping twice. I didn’t buy anything because I had all the black I needed and couldn’t think of any other reason to get more of it. But she bought me two dresses and a pair of red ballet flats. I accepted them with less protest than the first dress.

Her brother’s birthday fell on a Sunday, and as we walked back to the car park after church, she video-called him and made me join her in singing happy birthday to him. And yes, you read that right — I started going to church again. It was a small community church, and she had invited me saying, “Better to be crying in a church than to be crying on your bed,” which was a weird way to invite someone to church, but it worked for me. On my first Sunday, the Pastor spoke about resting in God. He said the scripture Be still and know that I am God is often read as a suggestion, but that it is actually a command. He said God is not asking you to slow down only when it’s convenient. He is telling you that stillness is where the knowing Him happens, and if you are never still, there are things about God you will simply never know. It was a sermon I needed.

Mandy and I also did a book exchange, which was her idea. I had assumed it would be tedious because Mandy reads exclusively young adult fiction, a genre I had not picked up since secondary school. She gave me one about a girl who builds a spaceship in her backyard. I gave her a post-colonial political thriller. She finished mine in two days and sent me three voice notes about it. I finished hers in one sitting.

Our friendship was growing fast, and for some reason, I didn’t hate it.

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And then there was Nilton, who was in Cabo Verde and somehow more present in my life during those twenty days than he had been when we were sitting three feet apart. He called every other evening. Always evenings. It became a rhythm I was attuned to and expected. At seven or eight o’clock, my phone would ring like clockwork. We’d talk about nothing and everything — whatever had happened that day, something in the news, something someone had said on Twitter that one of us had an opinion about. He told me about Cabo Verde, the wedding preparations, his mother in her element, his sisters. He sent me pictures of the wedding. His mother was in yellow, with such a beautiful laugh. Nilton had worn a pale suit and looked entirely too good for me to look at for too long.

By the end of the holiday, I couldn’t pretend anymore. There was something between us (at least on my end), and I was scared. I confess that on some days, I even ignored his calls or replied to his texts late because I felt very afraid of the feelings developing in my heart. It didn’t help that Mandy, on her part, was also breaking down my defences. It was the most vulnerable I had felt in a while, and it felt both safe and unsafe.

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It was the evening of the 29th, and Nilton was scheduled to arrive in the UK the next day. We had been on the phone for about forty minutes as he completed his packing. I was in bed with a novel I was no longer reading open on my chest.

“Feeling ready for the new term?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “Are you?”

“Absolutely not. My supervisor has sent me two emails this week which I think is actually illegal.”

I chuckled. “What did the emails say?”

“I haven’t opened them.”

“Nilton.”

“It’s the holidays, Ibinabo. I’m pretty sure there’s a Geneva Convention against this somewhere.”

I smiled at the ceiling. “You have to open them.”

“I’ll open them on the plane.” I heard the zip of a bag. “What are you currently reading?”

“When in Rome.”

“Political thriller still?”

I paused. “Romance.”

“Ouu. Don’t think I’ve ever seen you read a romance novel.”

Me neither. I chose not to pursue that line of conversation because, actually, why was I reading a romance novel?

“What are you packing?” I said instead.

“Everything. My mother is sending me forth with so much food that I literally had to give away some of my clothes to my cousins.”

I laughed. “That’s very sweet.”

“And very heavy,” he said, but his voice was warm when he said it. “She cried this morning.”

“Your mom? When you told her you were leaving?”

“When she handed me the sealed bag of dried beans. We’ve always just had each other in the world, you know. So I’m sure it’s beginning to dawn on her that she now has new family and I’m growing as well, and these physical interactions will become less as the years go by.”

“And how did you feel?” I asked, feeling a lump in my throat.

“Emotional too. But I think a little less than she was. Probably the shortsightedness of youth, you know — always thinking we’ve still got time.”

“Hmm,” I hummed.

“How about you? How are your parents feeling about age and time? I’ve noticed you never talk about them.”

My heart slammed against my chest in what I can only describe as a mixture of fear and anxiety. I hadn’t shared anything about my family with him. Somehow, I was more ashamed to tell him about my dad than I had been with Mandy. Deep down, a part of me worried that the mystery, the appeal, all of the things that made him want to talk to me, would be lost once he knew how detestable my history and roots were. He’d realise there was nothing special about the girl who had made herself out to be so special.

“I, erm — they are cool about it, I guess. I haven’t really spoken to them about it.”

“Fair. It’s not the most accessible dinner table conversation. What do your parents do?”

God, no.

“My mum is a housewife. Always has been. She stayed back home to take care of me. She was an accountant back in the day, though — even worked with one of the Big Four before she started having children.”

“Wow, she sounds like a badass. Being a housewife is badassery, if you ask me. I helped my mum raise my sisters, and I can tell you for free that parenting is not for the weak. Big ups to your mum. How about your dad?”

Jesus, now would be a good time to come. Please.

“Meh, you know the typical African man. He does his best to provide for his family.”

Nilton laughed. “That’s such an African thing to say. ‘I do my best.’ I love it.”

I needed to shift the conversation immediately.

“Do you think it’s going to be weird next term? Now that we’re no longer silent seatmates?”

“Oh, hell no. And point of correction — you were the one who was silent. I wasn’t. So I’m just going to keep being me.” We both laughed, and the conversation carried on pretty easily until we said goodbye because he had to leave for the airport.

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I was ready at 9:30 the next morning, which was forty-five minutes before Mandy was coming to pick me up, which tells you everything about the state I was in. I sat on the edge of the bed in my coat and looked at the wall.

He didn’t know I was coming. He had asked the night before, casually, if I was free and if I’d be coming with Mandy to the airport. I had said I would have loved to, but that I was busy. We had agreed to see each other at the crossover service on the 31st.

I looked at my hands.

What are you doing, Ibinabo?

Mandy arrived at quarter past ten with a coffee for me. As soon as I got into the car, she was already talking about traffic on the A27 and whether Nilton had landed yet. I was grateful for the noise of her because it gave my brain somewhere to go that wasn’t inside itself.

“He just texted,” she said twenty minutes in. “He’s through customs. We’ll be there in two minutes.”

“Okay,” I said.

She looked at me. “Are you good?”

“Yeah.” I perked up. “I’m good.”

“Okies!”

A few minutes later, we were parked in the underground car park and walking to arrivals. Mandy found a spot near the barrier, and we stood there, her slightly ahead of me, both of us watching as the doors opened, closed, opened, closed.

A family with twins.

A woman in a business suit.

An elderly man with a trolley.

Then him.

He came through the doors with his backpack on one shoulder and a holdall in his hand. He was darker than he’d been in September and maybe even more attractive. He scanned the hall and found Mandy first, his face opening into a full smile. She lurched forward, attacking him with her signature Mandy-hug. She said something to him and he laughed.

Then she stepped back and gestured behind her, to me. His eyes met mine, and for a moment, he just stared, like he couldn’t believe it. Then the biggest, warmest smile spread from his eyes to his mouth.

“Ah, come on! You said you were busy,” he said as he walked towards me.

“I lied,” I replied as we hugged. In that moment, I realised it was the first time I had had full body contact with him. He felt sturdy and warm against me, and I felt light as his body vibrated with laughter.

“Convert, I’m really happy to see you,” he said into my hair. I smiled at Mandy over his shoulder as she smiled back at us.

“Me too,” I replied.

Mandy talked the entire journey back. She had apparently accumulated twenty days’ worth of things to tell him and was delivering them in chronological order with full context and appropriate emphasis. He sat beside her in the front, listening, responding, and laughing in the right places. They had the easy rhythm of two people who had been talking to each other for years and had never needed to build up to it.

From the back seat, I watched them and admired their friendship, although I would confess that there was a little twang somewhere in my heart. Jealousy?

Mandy was telling him about our tennis match and going on about Luke, some guy both of them knew. Nilton was hmm-ing and yeah-ing, but then my roaming eyes caught his gaze in the rear-view mirror. I don’t know how long he had been looking at me, but as soon as our eyes met, he smiled and winked at me. I almost peed myself. I raised a brow and returned the smile in the coolest, calmest way I could, then turned to look out of the window on my right. My heart was racing.

“N, do you know how funny Ibinabo actually is?” Mandy said.

“No, tell me,” he replied.

“Bro, she’s hilarious. So some guy hit me with his shopping bag at the mall, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“And I was like, hey, you hit me. And instead of an apology, he goes, ‘Right, didn’t see you there.’”

“What?”

“And guess what Ibinabo said?” Mandy was already laughing. She didn’t wait for a responsen before she continued. “Ibinabo goes, ‘You didn’t see her there because she’s an ant?’ See his mouth like ‘didn’t see you there.’” Mandy was hitting the steering wheel, laughing as though she was hearing the joke for the first time. Nilton chuckled heartily and turned around to look at me. Our eyes met properly this time, and he didn’t look away. Neither did I. We just held each other’s gaze, and when Mandy said, “Girl, where do you get those jokes from?” I replied, still looking at Nilton, “Nowhere other than from my ancestors.”

As she burst into another fit of laughter, Nilton smiled at me, shook his head as if he couldn’t believe what he was thinking, and turned back to face the road.

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At his building, Mandy pulled up and they both got out. I stayed in the car, partly because it seemed like a moment that was theirs, and partly because I needed thirty seconds of stillness.

Through the windscreen, I watched them by the side of the car as they spoke. Mandy was occasionally touching his arm or slightly tugging his jacket. He was nodding and laughing, and in that moment, they just seemed so… perfect for each other. I looked at my hands and turned up the volume of the warning bells in my head.

They are obviously into each other. Look at them. What did you think? That she was just his best friend? Have you ever met a guy who just wanted to be friends with a girl? No such guy exists. They’d either want to date her or sleep with her. Or as in your sorry case, use her to get to her father. Look at you, Nabo. Despite all your ‘hard girl’, black hoodie, straight face, and incessant reading, you still managed to be foolish — only this time you’re the one who has fooled yourself. Did he ever tell you anything about his love life? Maybe we can’t blame your dad and Bankole for deceiving you. Seems like you are the one who constantly deceives yourself. So gullible.

A rap on the window jerked me out of my thoughts. I wound down and tried to blink back as many tears as I could.

Nilton was leaning on the top of the window frame, his face bent towards mine.

“Woah. Woah, hey. Were you crying?” he said, blinking fast, creases of worry already forming between his brows.

“What?” I opened my eyes wide as though that would help. “No. I just — allergies.”

“Hey,” he said, softer, lowering his voice as Mandy got into the car.

“Everything okay?” Mandy asked.

Oh God. Get over yourself, Ibinabo, and stop being such a spoilt, silly, psycho baby.

“Yeah,” I forced a laugh. “Nilton was just saying bye.”

“Yeah, bye Nilton!” Mandy said. “Take a shower and get some rest.”

Nilton was still frowning and looking at me, so I looked away, pretending to search for something in my bag.

“I’ll call you,” he whispered, low enough that only I could hear. Then, much louder: “Bye, ladies.”

“Bye!” we both chorused, and Mandy drove off.

See y’all tomorrow at 5:00pm WAT!