The table stretches in front of you—jollof, fried rice, moi-moi, plantain, three different stews, small chops, salad, meat pie, cake, watermelon, chin chin, ice cream.

You are hungry. You are capable. You have every intention of enjoying the meal.

But there is one honest truth about this table: you are not going to finish it. Not today. Not in one sitting. Not even if you tried.

The food is not the problem. Your appetite is not the problem. The table is simply bigger than one sitting can hold, and that is not a failure. That is the nature of a buffet.

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Now open your to-do list.

Right now, mine has twenty-two items on it. Some of them have been sitting on that list since September of last year.

And that number does not include the roughly ten fiction books and series ideas I have not even started developing yet—those live in a separate note, waiting for a season I have not yet reached. Twenty-two active items. Ten dormant ones. This is my honest table.

Now, before you assume the obvious wrong thing about me, let me be clear: I am productive. In fact, I am one of the most productive people I know. I run a global church. I write two Substack essays a week. I am raising a small child. I am writing books that are actually getting written.

The list is not proof that I am failing. The list is proof that I am serious. Because a serious professional life produces a backlog. It is what happens when your ambition and your responsibilities and your callings and your ideas all exceed the number of hours God has given you in a week. The alternative to a backlog is a small life, and I did not sign up for a small life.

Every senior leader I know carries a private version of this. The CEO with the strategy memo she has been meaning to finish. The pastor with the counselling follow-ups he has been meaning to make. The founder with the investor deck he has been meaning to update.

Publicly, we all look on top of it. Privately, we all have our twenty-two. It is one of the quietly universal experiences of professional life, and almost nobody talks about it, because we all secretly believe that other people have cleared their lists and we are the only ones behind.

You are not the only one behind. We are all behind. Behind is where the pile lives.

Here is the lie the productivity industry keeps selling: that if you were just motivated enough, disciplined enough, driven enough, you could clear the list. This is nonsense.

And here is the structure I actually use—three disciplines that work together, because none of them works alone.

One — prioritise across the pile.

Not everything on the list is equal. Some of my twenty-two, if completed, would move the whole ecosystem forward—a decision unlocked, a system built, a relationship healed, a book delivered. Others are small, low-consequence items that just happen to be persistent.

So the first move is honest: look at the whole pile and ask, if I did only one of these this week, which one would move the most? Not the easiest. Not the loudest. Not the one that has been shouting the longest.

The most consequential. This is the pepper soup — you eat it first, because it actually satisfies. If you spend your weekly hour picking at small chops, you will fill up on nothing and wonder why the plate still looks full.

Two — break the plate into slices.

Here is the discipline that saves you when the pile feels impossible: each item on the list is not a single mouthful. A “project” is a whole plate.

You cannot eat the whole book in your weekly slot. You cannot eat the whole platform. You cannot eat the whole strategy.

But you can eat one slice—the chapter outline, the vendor shortlist, the draft brief, the first three pages, the one hard email.

Before you sit down in your slot, decide in advance which slice you are eating. Do not decide in the slot itself—decide the night before.

Because when you sit down with three hours in front of you and no plan, the buffet paralyses you all over again, and you end up nibbling at three different plates and finishing none.

Three — protect the slot.

This is the discipline that separates the leaders who steadily clear backlog from the ones whose backlog quietly compounds. My slot is Wednesday mornings, nine to twelve.

Three hours. Non-negotiable. Not a meeting slot. Not a “we can move it if something comes up” slot. Protected the way I would protect a board meeting, because in a very real sense it is a meeting—with the parts of my work that no one else is going to advance for me.

And this matters even more in a Nigerian professional context, because our culture treats availability as a virtue. If you are not reachable, you are unserious. If you did not reply within the hour, you are rude.

Everyone else’s urgency is treated as more real than your own priorities, because their urgency has a person attached to it and yours does not.

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Your backlog has no external accountability. It never emails you at nine a.m. demanding an answer. So it always loses to whoever did—unless you protect the slot the way you protect anything else that matters.

Wednesday, nine to twelve. Phone on silent. Door closed. Not available. The list gets a piece of me before anyone else does.

Prioritise. Slice. Protect. That is the whole structure.

And here is what has actually happened since I started running my life this way. My backlog still exists. Some items are still on it from September. But I am moving. Every week, one honest slice gets eaten. Some weeks two.

Over a year, that is fifty pieces of the pile — real progress on things that used to just sit there and quietly haunt me.

My list is not zero. It will never be zero. But it is no longer a source of shame. It is a table I am eating from, steadily, one slice at a time.

You are not going to clear your list. Stop expecting to.

What you are going to do — if you are serious is eat from it consistently, in a protected slot, on the slices that matter most.

That is what a productive senior life actually looks like from the inside. It looks nothing like the person who has finished everything. It looks like the person who has made peace with never finishing everything, and eats steadily anyway.

Backlog is not a character flaw. It is what happens when a serious life meets a finite week. Structure is the answer motivation was pretending to be.

This week: Look at your own list — the honest one, not the one you show people. Count it.

Whatever the number is, it is fine; it is just the size of your table.

Now pick your slot: one specific day, one specific window, three hours if you can, less if you must.

Put it on your calendar. Pick, tonight, the one item whose slice would move the most this week.

Decide in advance which slice. Then eat.

Steady beats heroic. Every single time.

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With all the fire in my heart,

Bisola.

Accra

Monday Evening

AKOSUA’S P.O.V:

The first thing Tega did after they left The Haven was drive in the wrong direction.

Akosua noticed after the second turn.

“I thought Ama gave you the address to my house.” She asked

“She did.”

She looked at him.

“Then why are we going this way?”

“Because I am not taking you home yet.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“Tega.”

He kept his attention on the road.

“You were shoved hard enough to lose your balance.”

“I did not fall.”

“Because I caught you.”

“I can move my arm.”

“That is useful information.”

She waited.

He glanced at her.

“It is not a diagnosis.”

Akosua stared at him.

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No hospital.”

“I did not say we were going to the hospital.”

“I am not going anywhere medical.”

“That sentence makes very little sense.”

“I am fine.”

“Yes. You have mentioned.”

She turned toward him.

“My shoulder is sore. That is all.”

“Excellent.”

“What is excellent?”

“You can tell the doctor.”

“There will be no doctor.”

Tega indicated and moved into the next lane.

Akosua looked through the windscreen.

A private medical centre sat ahead, tucked between a pharmacy and a bank.

She looked back at him slowly.

“You already knew where you were going.”

“I searched while you were collecting your things.”

“When?”

“While you were arguing with Ama about whether you needed to leave.”

“I was not arguing.”

“You were presenting an alternative position loudly.”

“I do not speak loudly.”

“Then persistently.”

Akosua folded her arms.

Immediately regretted it.

A sharp ache pulled across her shoulder.

Her face betrayed her before she could stop it.

Tega saw her wince and said nothing. That irritated her more than if he had.

“I am not staying here for hours.”

“We agree.”

“I am not doing scans.”

“If the doctor says you do not need one, neither am I.”

“You are not part of the decision.”

“We’ll see.”

He pulled into the parking area.

Akosua stared at the building.

“I can go home and put ice on it.”

“Yes.”

“And take paracetamol.”

“Possibly.”

“You are enjoying this.”

“No.”

“You look very peaceful for someone inconveniencing me.”

“That is just my face.”

She gave him a flat look.

He switched off the engine.

“Ten minutes.”

“You cannot promise that.”

“No.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“To encourage you.”

“It did not work.”

“I noticed.”

Akosua unclipped her seatbelt.

“I dislike you.”

“No, you do not.”

She turned.

The answer had come too easily.

Tega seemed to realise it a second after she did.

His mouth shifted.

Akosua stared at him.

“You have become extremely confident.”

He smiled.

A beat.

He opened his door.

“Come.”

Akosua could have argued again.

Instead she got out.

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Read more

Ten Years Later…

MIRIAM’S P.O.V:

Njideka was getting married.

And somehow, despite the professional makeup artist, the wedding planner, the bridal assistant, two photographers and at least four women whose specific purpose Miriam had not been able to determine, NJ was still trying to run the room.

“The veil is crooked.”

“It is not crooked,” Miriam said.

“It is.”

“You cannot even see it.”

“I can feel it.”

Solape looked up from where she was sitting on the lounge chair, eating puff-puff in her silk bridesmaids gown.

“You can feel that your veil is crooked?”

“Yes.”

“The Holy Spirit has really expanded the gifts of the Spirit.”

NJ turned.

“Why are you eating?”

Solape stared at the puff-puff in her hand.

Then at NJ.

“Because I am hungry.”

“You’re wearing white.”

“And?”

“And you’re eating something fried.”

Solape looked at Miriam.

“Please, is she getting married to me?”

“No…”

“Then why am I being oppressed in her bridal suite?”

“Because,” NJ said, turning back toward the mirror, “when you inevitably drop oil on yourself, you will appear in my wedding photographs looking like an akara seller.”

Solape gasped.

Miriam burst out laughing.

“First of all, akara sellers are hardworking Nigerian women and I will not participate in your classism.”

“Second of all?” Miriam asked.

Solape put the rest of the puff-puff into her mouth.

“There is no second of all. I just needed to finish this.”

Some things, apparently, don’t change.

Miriam smiled as she stepped behind NJ and adjusted the veil that was, admittedly, slightly crooked.

She looked at her girls and got giddy with excitement.

They were women now.

Actual women.

Not the girls who had once stretched themselves across hostel beds and argued about men they had no business taking seriously.

Not the girls who had thought adulthood was something that happened suddenly at twenty-one.

Life had happened instead.

Careers.

Heartbreak.

Faith.

Loss.

Money.

Bad decisions.

Better decisions.

And Christ.

Somewhere in the middle of becoming adults, all three of them had found themselves at Christ Collective.

Or perhaps, Miriam sometimes thought, Christ had simply gathered three women who had spent years believing they were finding their own way and patiently showed them that He had been there all along.

NJ had become a journalist…which surprised absolutely nobody. She had turned an adolescent inability to mind her business into a respected profession. She investigated. She interviewed. She asked the question everyone else had decided was too uncomfortable to ask and then sat perfectly still while people attempted not to answer it.

Miriam worked in public relations.

Solape said this was because God had looked at Miriam’s lifelong ability to manage the two of them and decided she deserved financial compensation for the skill.

Solape herself had built a career almost accidentally.

She had started posting cooking videos because, according to her, too many people were “committing crimes against food on the internet.”

One video became ten.

Ten became thousands of followers.

Then hundreds of thousands.

Then brands.

Partnerships.

A cookbook.

Events.

A proper business.

She was still Solape.

Still fiery.

Still loud when she was excited.

Still capable of starting an argument in an empty room and somehow winning it.

Marriage had not made her quiet. Neither had the Holy Spirit. But both had taught her what to do with all that fire. There was a steadiness beneath it now.

A woman who could stop herself.

A woman who could listen.

A woman who no longer needed every emotion to become an event.

Most days.

“Stop smiling at me like that,” Solape said.

Miriam blinked.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re thinking about how much I’ve grown.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were. It’s irritating.”

NJ met Miriam’s eyes through the mirror.

“She was.” NJ added.

“See?” Solape said with a scowl.

Miriam laughed.

“I was thinking that marriage has calmed you down.”

Solape slowly got to her feet. “Take it back.”

“No.”

“Marriage has not calmed me down. Jesus has sanctified me. There is a difference.”

A voice came from the doorway.

“Thank you.”

They turned.

Solape’s husband stood there in his suit, one hand resting against the doorframe. PK to most of Christ Collective. Pastor Korede when somebody wanted something. And simply Korede to the woman who immediately narrowed her eyes at him.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” Solape said.

“I was sent to find out why the bride is late.” He answered.

NJ checked the clock.

“I am not late.”

“You were supposed to be downstairs four minutes ago.” PK said.

“The ceremony does not start for another twenty.” NJ replied.

“Your photographer wants you downstairs.” This was said by the Event planner who had just come to the door.

“Ok Ok. I’d be right down. I’m ready.” NJ said, throwing her hands up .

PK looked at Miriam.

“She’s ready?”

“She has been ready for thirty minutes.”

“Traitor,” NJ said.

PK nodded.

“Good.”

His eyes found his wife and then he winked at her.

Something changed in Solape’s face. It always did. Her shoulders softened. Her smile became different.

Korede looked at the half-eaten puff-puff in her hand. She had picked up another one during all the discussion.

“Have you eaten actual food?” He asked.

Solape’s expression immediately hardened again.

“Don’t start.”

“That’s a no.”

“I have eaten.”

“What?”

She pointed at the tray.

PK looked at Miriam.

Miriam shook her head.

“Traitor!” Solape shouted.

NJ sighed.

“Can everybody leave? I would like to get married today.”

PK laughed.

“I’ll see you downstairs.”

He looked at Solape once more before leaving.

“Eat something.”

“Go and preach.”

“I intend to. I love you.”

The door closed.

Solape stared at it. Then smiled.

Miriam saw it.

So did NJ.

“Oh, please,” NJ said.

Solape turned.

“What?”

“You’re smiling.”

“At my husband?”

“Yes.”

“Should I hiss when I see him?”

“I would simply like some dignity in this room.”

Solape walked over and kissed NJ’s cheek carefully.

“You’re getting married in twenty minutes. Your dignity is about to become joint property.”

“That is not how marriage works.”

“Just wait and see.”

“Can we please go?” Miriam said, laughing.

And for a while, it was easy.

Just them.

The three of them.

As it had been for years.

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**********

The wedding was beautiful.

Beautiful in the way something became when every detail seemed to know where it belonged.

The ceremony was held in a garden washed in the gold of late afternoon. White flowers climbed slender arches threaded with greenery. Glass lanterns lined the aisle. The chairs were arranged beneath trees strung with tiny lights that would become visible as evening settled.

A quartet played near the front.

Beyond them, the altar stood beneath an enormous tree. There was no stage. There was no towering floral wall. Just green leaves, white flowers, warm light and the people who had come to witness two lives becoming one.

Miriam stood with the bridal party near the entrance. She looked down the aisle. Christ Collective had turned out properly.

Pastors.

Friends.

People who had prayed with NJ and Ladi, served with them, watched them become themselves.

Miriam recognised faces from journalism, music and entertainment too.

Then she saw Lamide Kabir. Ladi’s twin sister sat close to the front, beautiful in a deep wine-coloured dress. Beside her was Tunde Kabir.

Her husband.

Still new enough that Miriam occasionally remembered there had been a time when Lamide and Tunde Kabir had not been a sentence.

His hand rested behind her chair.

Lamide said something to him.

Tunde bent toward her.

Whatever he replied made her smile.

Miriam looked away.

The music changed.

Solape squeezed her hand.

“Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying.”

“You’ve already started.”

“I have not.”

“Miriam.”

“Face front.”

Solape grinned.

Then began her walk.

Miriam followed.

She had barely reached the middle of the aisle when she saw Ladi and almost laughed.

The man was already crying.

Not discreetly either.

Ladi Bello, celebrated musician, performer, owner of stages and commander of crowds, was standing beneath a tree wiping his face because his bride had not even appeared yet.

PK leaned toward him and said something.

Ladi shook his head.

The guests laughed softly.

Miriam reached her place.

Then everyone stood.

NJ appeared.

And Miriam forgot herself.

Her best friend stood at the beginning of the aisle on her father’s arm.

Her face crumpled.

Ladi covered his mouth.

“Oh God,” Solape whispered beside Miriam.

Miriam’s vision blurred.

NJ began to walk.

Miriam had seen her in the dress upstairs. She had helped choose it. She had attended fittings. She had argued about earrings. She had fixed the veil.

None of that had prepared her for this.

This was NJ. Her NJ.

The girl who had known her before either of them knew what kind of women they would become…walking toward a man who looked as though God had personally handed him something precious and he knew it.

By the time NJ reached Ladi, Miriam was crying.

Solape was worse.

“You said don’t cry,” Miriam whispered.

“Shut up.”

PK waited until everyone settled.

Then he looked at NJ and Ladi.

“Before we begin, I need everybody here to understand that these two have given me strict instructions not to preach a long sermon”

Laughter moved through the garden.

NJ nodded firmly.

“Correct.”

PK looked at her.

“You see what I deal with?”

More laughter.

Ladi grinned.

PK smiled.

“This is going to be short and powerful. Marriage is God’s idea. And because it is His idea, we don’t gather merely to celebrate that two people have found each other. We gather to witness two people make a covenant before God.”

The laughter faded.

Miriam listened.

PK spoke about Christ. About covenant. About service. About the privilege of being known and the responsibility of loving what you had been trusted to know.

And Miriam watched her friends.

When it was time for the vows, Ladi exhaled.

Then looked at NJ.

“I wrote vows.”

NJ smiled.

“Good.”

“There were paragraphs.”

Her smile widened.

“Even better.”

“I used punctuation.”

The guests laughed.

NJ nodded approvingly.

“I’ve taught you well.”

“But every time I tried to say what you’ve been to me, the words kept becoming music.”

NJ’s expression changed.

“Oh no.”

Ladi smiled.

“Oh yes.”

Someone laughed.

A guitarist stepped forward.

NJ looked at PK.

“You allowed this?”

“I am merely the officiating minister.”

“You are complicit.”

Ladi took both her hands.

The first notes were soft.

Then he sang.

Not to the crowd.

To her.

I knew the sound of crowded rooms,
I knew the praise that follows songs,
I knew how to make strangers listen,
before I knew where I belonged.

NJ’s eyes filled.

Then you came asking honest questions,
unmoved by every practiced line,
you heard the things beneath my answers,
and somehow, still, you let me call you mine.

Ladi’s thumb moved over her knuckles.

So when the music leaves the room,
when every bright light disappears,
I’ll choose you in the quiet places,
I’ll choose you through the changing years.

Miriam pressed her lips together. Beside her, Solape made a small, wounded sound.

I’ll give you truth when truth is costly,
my tenderness when life is hard,
my laughter when the days are heavy,
my faith when we cannot see far.

His voice softened.

And if my songs are ever forgotten,
if no one knows my name someday,
let this be what my life remembers—
I loved Njideka all the way.

The last note disappeared into the garden.

For several seconds, nobody moved.

NJ was crying. Properly crying.

Ladi reached up and wiped beneath one of her eyes.

She laughed through it.

“I hate you.”

The garden erupted.

Ladi laughed.

“I love you too.”

PK shook his head.

“Professor, you’re up.”

NJ accepted the microphone.

She looked at Ladi. Then at the guests.

“I would first like it formally recorded that making me follow a professional musician was an act of sabotage.”

Laughter.

Ladi bowed his head.

“I object.”

“Overruled.”

More laughter.

Then NJ looked back at him.

Her expression softened.

“I make my living with words.”

The garden quietened.

“I ask people questions. I examine what they say. I look for what they haven’t said. I have spent most of my adult life learning that words matter because words can reveal truth, hide it, distort it, defend it and sometimes change the world.”

She paused.

“So I have thought very carefully about the words I want to give you today.”

Ladi’s smile disappeared.

He listened.

“I promise to tell you the truth, especially when it would be easier not to.”

Miriam swallowed.

“I promise not to make you guess what I need and then punish you for guessing incorrectly.”

Ladi whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.”

The guests laughed.

NJ smiled.

“I promise to respect the man God has called you to be without requiring you to become the man I would have designed.”

PK murmured, “That’s a word.”

NJ glanced at him.

“No preaching.”

Another ripple of laughter.

Then her voice softened.

“I promise to protect our friendship inside our marriage. To remain curious about you. To keep asking questions even when I think I already know the answers.”

Ladi’s eyes filled again.

“I promise that success will not become more important than home. That being right will never become more important than being kind.”

Solape reached blindly for Miriam’s hand.

Miriam took it.

“And when life changes us—and it will—I promise not to spend our marriage demanding that you remain the man standing in front of me today.”

NJ’s voice trembled.

“I will learn you again.”

Ladi closed his eyes briefly.

“As many times as God gives us years, I will learn you again.”

Miriam’s tears spilled over.

NJ smiled through her own.

“And Ladi Bello, for the record—”

He laughed softly.

“—after extensive investigation, repeated interviews, independent verification and an unreasonable amount of prayer…”

The guests were already laughing.

NJ squeezed his hands.

“…I am very sure about you.”

Ladi bowed his head against hers.

And something inside Miriam ached.

Quietly.

Not because she wanted what NJ had.

Not exactly.

She wanted what it meant.

To know.

To be known.

To stand in front of God and everyone who mattered and say, This one.

She looked beside her.

Solape was crying openly now.

PK caught his wife’s eye from where he stood and smiled.

Solape smiled back.

Miriam looked away.

She was happy.

Completely, fiercely happy.

Her life was good.

She had work she loved. Friends who had become family. A faith that had survived enough questions to become something deeper than certainty. She had built a life she was proud of.

She did not need a husband to make it complete.

But she wanted one.

There.

She could admit it.

She wanted someone.

Someone whose face changed when she entered a room.

Someone she could learn and be learned by.

Someone who would choose her in the quiet places when nobody was watching.

For years, she had been careful not to let wanting become desperation.

She had watched her two best friends find their men. Watched relatives turn singleness into an emergency. Watched church aunties offer unsolicited prayer as though she had disclosed an illness.

She refused to live that way.

But refusing desperation did not require pretending she had no desire.

She wanted love.

Marriage.

A home built with someone.

Children, if God gave them.

She wanted this.

And standing there between her two best friends—one already married, the other saying vows—Miriam allowed the wanting to hurt.

Just for a moment.

Then PK said something that made NJ laugh. Ladi slipped the ring onto her finger.

And Miriam smiled through her tears.

This was not her moment to mourn what she did not have. It was NJ’s moment to rejoice in what she did.

So Miriam did.

When PK finally pronounced them husband and wife, Ladi kissed NJ to a roar from the garden.

Solape screamed.

Miriam screamed with her.

Somewhere behind them somebody shouted, “Ladi!”

NJ pulled away from her husband, laughing.

The sound of the quartet disappeared beneath applause.

And as the newlyweds turned toward everyone they loved, the evening light caught NJ’s face.

She looked incandescent.

Happy.

Certain.

Miriam clapped until her palms hurt.

Tonight belonged to her best friend.

And Miriam intended to enjoy every second of it.

NAETO’S P.O.V:

Naetochukwu knew his sister was going to kill him.

The only question was whether she would do it before or after the wedding photographs. His phone came alive the moment he switched off airplane mode.

Forty-three WhatsApp messages.

Nine missed calls.

Three voice notes from his mother.

One message from his father.

And, sitting at the top of the screen with the was the last message written with the terrifying verbal economy of a woman who had clearly moved beyond anger:

NJ: You missed my wedding.

Naeto closed his eyes.

“Shit.”

The elderly woman beside him looked up sharply.

“Sorry, ma.”

She looked unconvinced.

Fair.

He stood as the aircraft doors opened and pulled his carry-on from the overhead compartment.

Another message arrived.

NJ: My only brother.

Then:

NJ: My ONLY brother.

Then:

NJ: Do not call me.

Naeto stared at the screen.

He had not been planning to. Mostly because he wanted to live.

Around him, passengers were already performing the uniquely Nigerian miracle of behaving as though standing in the aisle would make the aircraft door open faster.

He remained where he was.

His phone rang.

Mum.

He considered letting it ring.

Then remembered that cowardice was unbecoming in a surgeon.

“Hello, Mummy.”

“Naetochukwu.”

He winced.

Full government name.

Bad.

“Mummy, before you—”

“Where are you?”

“We just landed.”

“You just landed?”

“Yes.”

“Naeto.”

“I know.”

“The wedding is over.”

“I know.”

“You missed your sister’s wedding.”

Technically, the wedding was not over. The ceremony was over. But this did not seem like an appropriate time for precision.

“I know.”

“What meeting cannot be moved for your only sister’s wedding?”

There it was.

Naeto stepped forward as the queue finally began to move.

“I tried to move it.”

“You should not have tried. You should have moved it.”

“Mummy—”

“She kept looking at the entrance.”

His chest tightened.

“Did she?”

“Yes.”

Naeto exhaled.

Damn.

“I’ll apologise.”

“You will do more than apologise.”

“What would you recommend?”

“I don’t know. Buy her a house.”

Despite himself, Naeto laughed.

His mother did not.

He stopped laughing.

“I’ll fix it.”

“You cannot fix missing the ceremony.”

No.

He couldn’t.

That was the worst part.

“I know.”

Her voice softened.

“Just come.”

“I’m coming.”

“Your father says you should not drive yourself.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good. The driver is waiting.”

“Mummy?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t let her kill me when I get there.”

His mother hung up.

Naeto looked at the phone.

Excellent.

Family support.

He followed the line out of the aircraft.

**************

The day before, missing the ceremony had still seemed impossible.

Naeto had planned the trip carefully.

His meeting with Richard Whitmore was supposed to last forty-five minutes. Afterward, he would head straight to the airport, catch his overnight flight to Lagos and land the following afternoon with enough time to get through immigration, change and make it to the venue before NJ walked down the aisle.

There wasn’t much room for delay, but there was enough.

Or there should have been.

Then Richard Whitmore had said:

“We’re prepared to lead the round.”

And forty-five minutes became two hours.

Naeto checked the time once.

Then twice.

By the third time, making his original flight had gone from difficult to impossible.

He could have left.

In fact, Richard had told him to.

But after almost four years of building the hospital in pieces—between surgeries, conference trips, late-night calls and hurried visits to Nigeria—Naeto was finally sitting across from an investor prepared to put serious capital behind it.

So he stayed.

By the time the meeting ended, his flight was already in the air.

What followed was a frantic search for the fastest possible alternative: a later departure, a different connection, a considerably more expensive ticket and an itinerary that left almost no margin for error.

He had spent most of the journey calculating arrival times.

Immigration.

Baggage.

Traffic.

The ceremony.

For hours, he had still believed he could make it.

Then the connection was delayed.

And somewhere over the Atlantic, while his sister was getting dressed to marry Ladi Bello, Naeto finally understood that he was going to miss her wedding ceremony.

For almost four years, the hospital had existed in pieces.

A note on his phone.

A spreadsheet.

A folder on his laptop.

Then architectural drawings.

Feasibility studies.

Calls taken between surgeries.

Meetings squeezed into conference trips.

Brief visits to Nigeria that his family assumed were holidays.

A growing collection of conversations with doctors, health administrators, potential partners and people who loved the idea right up until someone mentioned how much it would cost.

Naeto had kept going because he knew the problems he wanted to solve.

Children arriving too late.

Children referred across states because the specialist they needed did not exist where they lived.

Parents selling land.

Borrowing money.

Calling relatives abroad.

Crowdfunding.

Praying.

Waiting.

Children whose conditions were treatable becoming emergencies because treatment had not been accessible when it was still simple.

He had spent years in American operating rooms seeing what happened when expertise met infrastructure.

The right surgeon.

The right anaesthetist.

The right equipment.

The right intensive-care team.

Blood available when it was needed.

Imaging that worked.

A theatre that did not depend on somebody knowing somebody who could make something happen.

Systems.

Even there, medicine was still uncertain. Children still died. But there was a difference between a tragedy medicine could not prevent and one a broken system had helped create.

Naeto had grown increasingly unable to live comfortably with that difference.

So he had started dreaming.

Not of a children’s clinic. Not of a small private hospital with his name on the gate. A proper paediatric surgical centre. Surgery. Anaesthesia. Neonatal and paediatric intensive care. Imaging. Rehabilitation. Specialist outpatient care. Training. Research.

And, if he could build it properly, a financing model that meant a child’s access to surgery was not determined entirely by what his parents could raise before he deteriorated.

Ambitious was the polite word.

Insane was the one several people had used.

Richard Whitmore had not.

Naeto had met him two years earlier at a Christian healthcare conference in Boston. Whitmore had built his money in medical logistics, sold most of the business and spent the years since investing in healthcare infrastructure across underserved markets.

He was also deeply Christian in the quiet, effective way Naeto respected. He didn’t sprinkle Bible verses over bad economics and call it faith.

The first time Naeto pitched the hospital to him, Richard had listened for almost an hour.

Then said: “Your mission is clear. Your model isn’t.”

Naeto liked him immediately.

They had spent the next two years fixing the model.

That morning’s meeting was supposed to resolve the final questions around capital structure. Instead, Richard had arrived with two members of his investment committee and an entirely new proposal.

They would lead the investment. Not fund a wing. Not make a philanthropic contribution.

Lead the round.

Enough committed capital to move from concept to site acquisition and detailed development, subject to final due diligence and local approvals.

It was the sentence Naeto had been working toward for years. And Richard had said it two hours before his flight.

Naeto had looked at the time. Looked at the documents. Thought of NJ. And stayed. He would probably regret missing his sister’s ceremony for the rest of his life.

But he did not regret the meeting.

That contradiction would be difficult to explain to Njideka. Then again, most things were difficult to explain to Njideka when she had already decided you were wrong.

His phone buzzed.

NJ: Actually call me.

Naeto laughed.

He pressed the button.

She answered immediately.

“Hello.”

He smiled.

“Mrs Bello.”

“Don’t.”

“How is married life?”

“Twenty-seven minutes old and already more fulfilling than having you as a brother.”

He laughed.

“Congratulations.”

“Where are you?”

“Walking to immigration.”

Silence.

“Naeto.”

“I know.”

“You promised.”

“I know.”

“You said you would be here.”

“I know.”

“And then you missed it.”

The hurt beneath the anger removed his smile.

“I’m sorry, NJ.”

She said nothing.

“I mean it.”

“Was the meeting worth it?”

Naeto slowed.

There were perhaps five people in the world to whom he found it genuinely difficult to lie.

NJ was one.

“Yes.”

Another silence.

“Wow.”

“Not like that.”

“You missed my wedding and the meeting was worth it?”

“I didn’t say missing your wedding was worth it. I said the meeting was.”

“Those are the same thing.”

“They’re not.”

“They are to the person whose wedding you missed.”

Fair.

He rubbed a hand over his face.

“I have something to tell you.”

“Unless you are dying, keep it.”

“I’m not dying.”

“Then keep it.”

“NJ.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry.”

Her breathing came through the phone.

Then, quieter:

“Just come.”

“I am.”

“And you had better look good.”

Naeto looked down at the jeans and T-shirt he’d flown in.

“That feels superficial.”

“I have already lost the photographs of you at the ceremony. You will not now arrive at my reception looking like somebody’s Uber driver.”

“There’s a suit in my luggage.”

“Good.”

“Do you want anything?”

“My wedding ceremony back.”

He closed his eyes.

“Njideka.”

She sighed.

“Just come, Naeto.”

“I love you.”

“I know.”

Click.

Naeto stared at the phone.

She hadn’t said it back.

He was definitely buying her something expensive.

Share

**************

His luggage took thirty-eight minutes.

Of course it did.

The driver was waiting outside.

Naeto greeted him, loaded the bags and climbed into the back seat.

“Sir, straight to the venue?”

Naeto looked at himself in the darkened window.

Absolutely not.

“Is there somewhere I can change?”

“The hotel is twenty minutes away, sir.”

“How far from the hotel to the venue?”

“Another thirty, depending on traffic.”

Naeto checked the time.

“No.”

He opened the larger suitcase.

The driver looked at him through the mirror.

Naeto pulled out his garment bag.

“Sir?”

“Drive.”

He had changed clothes in call rooms. Hospital bathrooms. Airport toilets. Once, memorably, in the back of an ambulance that was not moving.

A Toyota Prado was luxury.

Twenty minutes later, he had managed trousers and a shirt without exposing himself to Lagos traffic.

The tie was more difficult. He abandoned it.

He put the jacket on then checked himself in his phone camera. Acceptable. His beard needed attention. Nothing could be done about that.

NJ would survive.

He looked at the garment bag, then at the three large suitcases occupying most of the boot.

His sister thought he had come home for her wedding. His parents thought he had come for two weeks. Nobody knew that the lease on his apartment in Maryland had ended six days ago. Nobody knew that most of what he owned was currently crossing the Atlantic in a shipping container. Nobody knew that he had already retained a Nigerian project team.

Or that somewhere in Lagos, three possible sites for a paediatric surgical hospital were waiting for him to inspect them.

Naeto leaned back against the seat.

He had imagined telling his family differently.

Dinner, perhaps.

His mother’s cooking.

His father pretending not to be emotional.

NJ asking twelve questions before he completed the first sentence.

Something normal.

Instead he was going to arrive late to his sister’s wedding reception and announce that, by the way, after about a decade abroad, he had moved back to Nigeria.

His phone rang.

Richard.

Naeto answered.

“Please tell me the investment committee has not changed its mind in the last six hours.”

Richard laughed.

“No. I’m calling to make sure you made the wedding.”

Naeto looked through the window at traffic.

“Well, I made it to the country.”

“Oh no.”

“The ceremony is over.”

“Naeto.”

“Yes.”

“I specifically told you to leave.”

“After you specifically changed the entire financing structure two hours before my flight.”

“Your sister is never going to like me.”

“She doesn’t know you exist.”

“That sounds temporary.”

“It is.”

Richard was quiet for a moment.

“Are you still sure?”

Naeto knew what he meant.

Not the investment.

Nigeria.

Home.

Leaving the hospital where Naeto had built his career. Leaving a healthcare system he understood for one he knew would frustrate him. Giving up the predictability of his American life. Starting again at thirty-something when most people were trying to make their lives more comfortable, not less.

Naeto looked out at Lagos.

Horns.

Heat.

Traffic that appeared to operate according to a private revelation unavailable to the general public.

A hawker moved between cars balancing bottled water in a bowl on his head.

A danfo forced itself into a space physics suggested did not exist.

Naeto smiled.

“Yes.”

No hesitation.

Richard exhaled.

“Good.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Go apologise to your sister.”

“I intend to.”

“And Naeto?”

“Yes?”

“Congratulations.”

Naeto looked out at the city again.

This time the words landed differently.

“Thank you.”

He ended the call.

Home.

The word had felt theoretical for months.

Now it was outside his window.

*********

By the time Naeto arrived, the garden had transformed.

The ceremony chairs had been cleared from one section and the reception was alive beneath strings of warm lights.

Music travelled across the lawn.

People were eating.

Laughing.

Dancing.

He could hear Ladi before he could see him.

Of course.

Naeto stepped out of the car.

He had barely made it past the entrance when his mother saw him.

“Naeto!”

Every head within a five-metre radius turned.

So much for entering quietly.

His mother reached him first. She hugged him hard. Then slapped his arm.

“Mummy.”

Another slap.

“I said I was sorry.”

“You missed it.”

“I know.”

His father came behind her and pulled him into an embrace.

“Welcome home, son.”

Something in Naeto’s chest shifted.

“Thank you, Daddy.”

His father stepped back.

“You’ve added weight.”

Naeto stared at him.

“I have not.”

“You have.”

“I operate for twelve hours at a time. When exactly would I be adding weight?”

His mother touched his face.

“You look tired.”

“Thank you both. This has been an excellent welcome.”

Then he saw his sister.

NJ stood several metres away. Still in her wedding dress. Ladi beside her. He had only seen him on video calls… but here was the man who was brave enough to marry his baby sister. The sister who was staring daggers into him at this moment.

Naeto smiled cautiously.

“Mrs Bello.”

NJ stared at him.

He opened his arms.

She did not move.

“NJ.”

Nothing.

“I crossed an ocean.”

“For my wedding, which you missed.”

“I missed the ceremony.”

“Do you want me to stab you before the photographs?”

“No.”

“Then stop making distinctions.”

Ladi was laughing.

Naeto stretched a hand at him.

“Welcome to the family.”

Ladi pulled him into a hug.

Naeto hugged him back.

“Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“So I saw on social media that you sang your vows”

NJ folded her arms.

“He sang.”

Naeto looked at Ladi.

“At your own wedding?”

“I am a musician.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“You missed it, so your opinion has no evidentiary value,” NJ said.

Naeto laughed.

Then she finally came toward him. He opened his arms again. This time she entered them. He held his sister. His annoying, brilliant, newly married little sister.

“I’m sorry,” he said into her hair.

“I know.”

“I really am.”

“I know.”

“You looked beautiful.”

“You didn’t see me.”

“I’ve seen the pictures.”

She pulled away.

“That is not the same thing.”

“No.”

It wasn’t.

He kissed her forehead.

“I love you.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I love you too.”

Peace treaty.

Temporary, but valid.

“Naeto!”

He turned.

Solape was coming toward him.

He had enough time to register that ten years had done absolutely nothing to reduce her capacity for dramatic entrances before she threw her arms around him.

“Doctor!”

“Chef.”

She pulled back.

“Celebrity chef.”

“My apologies.”

“America has not improved you.”

“Marriage hasn’t quietened you.”

Solape gasped.

A man approaching behind her laughed.

Naeto recognised him from photographs and livestreams before Solape even turned.

Korede.

PK.

“Careful,” Korede said. “That’s my wife.”

Naeto extended a hand.

“I’ve heard good things.”

PK took it.

“I haven’t.”

Solape screamed with laughter.

Naeto stared at him.

Then smiled.

“I like you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Solape said. “He encourages me.”

“Somebody has to.” Naeto replied

“Exactly!” PK said

NJ groaned.

“This is already too much noise.”

And then—

“Brother Naeto!”

His body recognised the voice before his mind did.

Naeto turned.

Miriam was coming toward him.

For one absurd second, everything else became less distinct.

The music.

The lights.

The people moving behind her.

Ten years.

Ten years should have done more.

That was his first coherent thought.

His second was that photographs had been deeply inadequate.

Miriam had always been beautiful. Even when she hadn’t known it. Especially, perhaps, when she hadn’t known it. But this—This was different.

She had grown fully into herself. The softness was still there. The full mouth. The warm eyes. The curves she had spent too much of adolescence trying to make smaller.

But there was something settled about her now.

A confidence that did not announce itself.

She moved like a woman who had finally stopped negotiating with the amount of space she occupied.

And she was smiling at him.

That same smile.

Open.

Warm.

Miriam.

Something Naeto had buried beneath years and work and distance opened its eyes.

No.

Absolutely not.

He had not crossed an ocean for this nonsense.

“Brother Naeto!”

She reached him and wrapped her arms around him.

He caught her automatically.

And there it was.

Her perfume.

Her laughter against his shoulder.

The familiar warmth of her body inside his arms and the immediate, catastrophic realisation that apparently time had been doing absolutely nothing useful.

He closed his eyes for half a second.

Bloody Miriam.

She pulled back, still holding his arms.

“Look at you!”

Naeto looked down at himself.

“What happened?”

“You’re old.”

He stared at her.

She laughed.

“You have grey hair.”

“I have three grey hairs.”

“In your beard!”

“Paediatric surgery.”

“Is that what we’re calling ageing now?”

He looked at her face.

She was teasing him. Completely at ease. Completely unaware. Of course she was.

“And you?” he asked.

“What about me?”

He could have said too many things.

You are beautiful.

You grew into every feature you once apologised for.

I have apparently remained an idiot for ten years.

Instead:

“You’re still short.”

Miriam’s mouth fell open.

“I am five foot five.”

“Exactly.”

“Naeto!”

There.

At least she’d dropped the brother.

He smiled.

She hit his arm.

“See why I was happy when you left?”

“You cried at the airport.”

“I was young and foolish.”

“You called me for three weeks.”

“I was checking on NJ’s brother.”

Naeto looked at her.

Miriam smiled sweetly.

“Brother Naeto, it’s so good to see you.”

Bloody.

Miriam.

He heard Solape laughing somewhere behind them.

Not knowingly.

Just because Miriam had apparently decided to irritate him within sixty seconds of reunion.

Good.

Nobody knew.

Nobody had ever known.

At least, not really.

Ten years ago, perhaps Solape had wondered.

But ten years was enough time for suspicion to become nothing more than an old, irrelevant thought.

Naeto intended to keep it that way.

Because this—whatever ridiculous thing had just reanimated itself inside him—was his problem.

And he was a grown man. He could manage it. He had managed it before.

From another continent.

Minor detail.

“Come,” Miriam said. “You have to greet everybody. And you need food.”

“I ate on the plane.”

She looked offended.

“That is not food.”

“Some things haven’t changed.”

“No. Some of us still care whether you survive.”

She took his hand and started pulling him toward the tables.

Naeto looked down at their joined hands.

Then at the back of her head.

He almost laughed.

God had jokes.

Apparently.

****************

There was no high table.

NJ had refused one, which meant the bride and groom were seated with everyone else at one of the long tables closest to the dance floor—family on both sides, NJ’s closest friends, people who had known them long before there was a wedding to celebrate.

Naeto had been sitting with them for all of twenty-three minutes when NJ turned to him.

“So.”

He looked up from his food.

“What?”

“Why were you late?”

Naeto slowly lowered his fork.

Ladi sighed. “Babe.”

“No. I have forgiven him. I just want to know why my brother missed my wedding.”

“You mean the ceremony,” Naeto said.

NJ stared at him.

“Sorry.”

Across from him, Miriam lowered her face, but not quickly enough to hide her smile.

“I had an important meeting that ran over.”

NJ’s eyes narrowed.

“What meeting?”

“An investor meeting.”

“For what?”

Naeto hesitated.

He had planned to tell them.

Eventually.

Just not here, with half his family watching him over dinner and Solape already looking like she could smell concealed information.

“For something I’ve been working on.”

NJ stopped eating.

“What something?”

“A project.”

Solape pointed at him. “That answer is suspicious.”

PK gently lowered her hand.

“Allow the man to speak.”

“I am allowing him.”

Naeto ignored her.

His father looked at him. “What project?”

Naeto took a drink of water.

“A hospital.”

Miriam leaned forward.

“A hospital?”

“A paediatric surgical centre.”

The table went quiet.

Naeto felt the shift immediately.

This part was harder to say aloud. He had protected the dream for so long that speaking about it still felt like exposing something unfinished.

“Specialist children’s surgery,” he continued. “Paediatric intensive care. Neonatal surgical care. Imaging. Rehabilitation. Eventually training and research.”

PK’s attention sharpened.

“Here in Lagos?”

“That’s the plan.”

“Your hospital?” Solape asked.

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I don’t want to build a vanity project with my surname on the building.”

Miriam smiled.

“That’s very specific.”

“I have met doctors.”

She laughed.

Naeto continued.

“We’ve been working on a model that can operate at a high clinical standard without becoming accessible only to wealthy families. Private capital, insurance partnerships, philanthropy, subsidised surgery—different funding pools.”

NJ’s expression had changed. She was still annoyed. But now she was listening.

“And that’s why you were late.”

Naeto looked at her.

“Yes.”

“What happened in the meeting?”

He hesitated. Then smiled.

“We got a lead investor.”

His father’s face changed.

PK sat forward.

“For the hospital?” NJ asked

Naeto nodded.

“Subject to final due diligence and approvals. But yes.”

His mother clasped her hands.

“Oh, thank God.”

“Amen,” PK said quietly.

Ladi shook his head slowly.

“Guy.”

Solape was staring at him.

“So you’ve been planning a hospital in Lagos from America?”

“For the last four years.”

“And now what?” his father asked. “You’ll be coming back and forth?”

Naeto looked at him.

There it was.

He hadn’t planned to tell them here.

But perhaps there was no perfect way to tell people you had rearranged your entire existence without consulting them.

“No.”

His mother frowned.

“No?”

Naeto set his glass down.

“I moved back.”

Nobody spoke.

NJ blinked.

“What?”

“I’m back.”

His father stared at him.

“Back where?”

Naeto looked around the table.

“Nigeria.”

NJ laughed. The short, disbelieving laugh of someone who had just been handed information that contradicted every available fact.

“You moved to Nigeria.”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Technically?”

“Naeto.”

“My lease ended last week.”

His mother covered her mouth.

Miriam’s eyes widened.

Solape shouted.

“You moved home and you didn’t tell me?” NJ asked

“I am telling you.”

“At my wedding reception.”

“In fairness, you asked.”

“That is not better!”

Ladi was openly delighted.

“You’re back?”

Naeto nodded.

“For good?”

“For good.”

His mother made a sound that changed the room.

Naeto looked at her.

Her eyes had filled.

“Mummy.”

She stood and came around the table.

Naeto rose.

She held his face between her hands.

“You’re home?”

The anger disappeared from everything.

“Yes.”

Her arms went around him.

His father stood too. And for a moment Naeto was simply their son again. The boy who had left. The man who had returned. When his mother finally released him, NJ came around and hugged her brother fiercely.

“Oh I am so happy! You are definitely forgiven.”

He hugged her back and kissed her forehead. His eyes met Miriam’s over her head. She was looking at him with something that made him immediately uncomfortable.

Pride.

Pure and uncomplicated.

“Brother Naeto.”

He closed his eyes.

Miriam grinned.

“That is incredible.”

“Thank you.”

“No, really.”

She leaned forward.

“That’s…, that’s huge.”

“I haven’t done anything yet.”

“You moved countries.”

“I packed.”

“You spent four years building this.”

“Planning it.”

“And got someone to invest.”

“Potentially.”

NJ pointed at him.

“This thing you do is irritating.”

“What?”

“Reducing everything.”

Naeto looked at her.

“You do it too.”

Everyone laughed

“I’m proud of you.”

Naeto smiled

NJ’s eyes immediately filled.

“Oh, don’t. Don’t cry.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“It’s my wedding. I’m allowed.”

Ladi wrapped an arm around her.

Naeto smiled.

“Thank you.”

NJ wiped beneath one eye.

“I still want a very expensive apology gift.”

“Name your price.”

“Dangerous statement.”

“I’ve made American money.”

Solape slapped the table.

“Jesus Eh!”

PK turned to her.

“What?”

“Nothing. I just felt led.”

The table dissolved into laughter.

Naeto laughed with them.

And for the first time since the plane touched down, he felt it.

Not the chaos.

Not the traffic.

Not the jet lag.

Not even the enormous thing waiting for him tomorrow morning when the hospital stopped being a dream discussed across continents and became work he had to do here.

This.

His mother’s laughter.

His father’s hand on his shoulder.

NJ leaning into Ladi.

Solape talking over everybody.

PK pretending not to enjoy it.

Miriam across from him, smiling.

Home.

He had come home.

Naeto let himself enjoy that thought.

He deliberately did not examine why his eyes found Miriam again when everyone started talking.

One problem at a time.

Author’s Note: Unfortunately for Naeto, Distance made his heart grow fonder.😆 One chance, lool.

Years later and Brother is still a thing, do you think there is hope for Naeto like this?

Leave a comment

Catch up: Chapter one here, Chapter two here, Chapter three here, and Chapter four here.

See you next week.❤️

FOLARIN’S P.O.V:

I woke up thinking about Derin’s hand in mine.

This was not ideal.

Holding hands was not a big deal, we were not twelve. But there had been something about the way she did it. She had just slipped her fingers through mine under the table like the distance between us had become unnecessary.

I had thought about it in the car. And when I got home. And again when I changed out of my tuxedo.

And now, first thing on Sunday morning, thinking about Derin holding my hand like I was a love struck teenager.

Excellent.

Very healthy.

Dr. Tomilola would be pleased.

I lay there for another minute staring at the ceiling. Then my alarm went off.

Church… the description said. Right.

I reached for my phone. No message from Derin.

That was fine. Normal people did not need to communicate every six hours.

I got out of bed. Then I began to methodically prepare for the service. Church was a big deal in my house, growing up. It still was a big deal.

I had watched my mom survive the death of my father by holding on to God. As a result, she had raised us all to have a healthy fear of the Most High. As a result, as an ode to Mama Flo, I was not going to dress to church shabbily.

I showered. I shaved the edge of my beard, got into the native wear my mom gave me for Christmas last year. Used one of my assortment of perfumes. Then I stood in front of my mirror checking myself out.

Flo was still Fly, regardless. I looked good. This was not because of Derin.

Obviously.

I simply respected God.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

“This is embarrassing.”

My reflection offered no defence.

While I fastened my watch, I remembered the night before…The walk to her car.

***********

The reception had thinned by the time we left. Nigerian weddings did not empty. They reduced in layers.

First the elderly people.

Then the responsible parents.

Then people who had other events to attend.

Then eventually you were left with family, close friends, drunk cousins, bridesmaids without shoes and Seyi behaving like the DJ had been hired specifically for him.

Derin and I walked toward the parking area slowly. Her driver had brought the car around, but it was still some distance ahead.

The night air was warm. My jacket was over one shoulder. Her shoulder brushed mine once. Then again. Neither of us moved away.

I looked at her.

She looked tired.

Happy too.

Her makeup had softened slightly around the eyes. Her hair still fell perfectly down her back because apparently expensive wigs had a covenant with endurance.

“You enjoyed yourself?” I asked

“Yes.”

“That sounded genuine.”

“It was.”

“Good.”

She looked at me.

“You?”

“Best wedding I’ve attended in a while.”

“Because your friend got married?”

“Partly.”

“Partly?”

I smiled.

She immediately looked suspicious.

“Don’t.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“Your face has.”

We walked another few steps.

Then I said, “I want to come to church with you tomorrow.”

She stopped.

Not completely.

Just enough that I had to slow down.

“Church?”

“Yes.”

Her eyebrow lifted.

“Wow.”

I frowned.

“Why did you react like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I said, I wanted to join a monastery.”

She laughed.

“I didn’t.”

“You said wow.”

“I’m allowed to be impressed.”

“I go to church.”

“Occasionally.”

“That is defamation… well I used too. My family church just wasn’t working for me anymore. So yeah…”

“Well, you also play it fast and lose with the tenets of the Christian faith.” She said with a smirk.

I pointed at her.

“Careful.”

She smiled.

Then continued walking.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes. Come with me.”

I looked at her.

“That was easier than expected.”

“What were you expecting?”

“A spiritual assessment.”

“You’ve already told me you’re not where I am.”

“True.”

“And I said I wanted you to take your faith seriously. Showing up is at least evidence of movement.”

“Very romantic.”

“It was not meant to be.”

I laughed.

“So where do you go?”

She made a face.

“That is the thing.”

“What?”

“I don’t really have a church yet.”

“You said church tomorrow.”

“I said I was going to church. I didn’t say I had one.”

“Lawyer.”

“Correct.”

She turned to face me.

“I’ve been trying different places since I came back. I don’t want to choose somewhere just because it’s familiar or because somebody told me it’s fashionable.”

“Churches are fashionable now?”

“Yes o. This is Lagos.”

“Fair.”

“There’s one I heard about. I want to try it tomorrow.”

“What’s it called?”

“Christ Collective.”

I looked at her.

“Christ Collective?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”

“What?”

“I think that’s Anjola’s church.”

Something in her face changed.

Very slightly.

“Oh.”

“And I think Lamide goes there too.”

“Lamide?”

“Yes. Tunde goes to CCI though… So Lamide will probably join him.

She nodded.

“Okay.”

Then she was quiet.

I watched her.

“You don’t want to go anymore?”

Her head turned sharply.

“What?”

“You did an oh.”

“An oh?”

“Yes. Slightly loaded.”

She stared at me.

“You have become insufferable since therapy.”

“I am more emotionally observant.”

“You are more annoying.”

“Same thing.”

She laughed.

“No, I still want to go.”

“Okay.”

“It’s a church, Flo. Not Anjola’s house.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

I looked ahead.

The truth was, for one second, I had wondered whether taking Derin to Anjola’s church was strange.

Not because anything was happening with Anjola.

Nothing was.

But after the message about the wedding, the phone call, the fact that Derin’s return had clearly surprised her—

I had thought about it.

Briefly.

Then decided not to manufacture awkwardness where none existed.

“Of course,” I said.

Derin looked at me like she knew there had been more thought than I was admitting.

She did not push.

Good woman.

We reached her car.

The driver stepped out and opened the door.

Derin turned toward me.

“So tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow.”

“Don’t be late.”

“I am never late.”

She stared.

“Goodnight, Folarin.”

“Goodnight, Derin.”

She hugged me.

Warm.

Longer than necessary.

My arms settled around her.

Her cheek against my chest.

And for one second, I remembered Tunde’s vows.

I choose you.

I pushed the thought away.

Too early.

Too dramatic.

Too wedding-induced.

Derin stepped back.

“Go home.”

“You’re very bossy.”

“Goodnight.”

I smiled.

“Goodnight.”

I watched the car leave.

Then stood there for longer than a reasonable man should stand in a parking lot after a woman had already gone.

**********

By eight-thirty, I was outside the church building in my car. On time. Because I had principles. Also because Derin had threatened me.

Christ Collective met in a converted warehouse somewhere between industrial Lagos and deliberate minimalism.

From the outside, it did not look like a church. No enormous signboard with a photograph of the pastor. No “International Global World Outreach Ministries.”

Just: CHRIST COLLECTIVE

Black lettering against a concrete wall. Simple and suspiciously tasteful.

I parked and stepped out.

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TEGA’S P.O.V:

The Haven, Accra

Tega had been thinking about the second thing since ten seventeen that morning. He knew the time because that was when Mansa had stopped speaking to Dara and looked at Akosua.

It had lasted perhaps a second.

Maybe less.

A glance.

Nothing anyone would have noticed if they weren’t looking for how decisions moved through an organisation.

Tega had noticed. Then he’d noticed it again. Not always as obviously.

A staff member would answer a question and look toward Akosua at the end of the sentence.

Someone would explain a process and qualify it with, unless Madam says otherwise.

A question would be directed at someone else and Akosua would remain silent, but the person answering would still seem aware of her silence.

None of it was dramatic.

That was what made it important.

The Haven did not look badly run. Quite the opposite. People knew what they were doing. The work moved. Residents were cared for. Problems were solved quickly. Akosua herself was extraordinarily competent.

Tega had spent most of the morning watching her prove it.

The problem was that competence could hide structural weakness better than incompetence ever could.

If Akosua saw a problem, she fixed it.

If someone needed an answer, she gave it.

If money needed to move, she moved it.

If a resident needed medication, Akosua found the budget line.

If an emergency intake arrived without warning, Akosua found the room.

The organisation worked.

But Tega still did not know whether The Haven worked—or whether Akosua worked hard enough to make The Haven work.

Those were not the same thing.

The triage conversation had confirmed part of it. Not because Akosua had resisted structure. She hadn’t. She had argued with him, certainly, but Akosua appeared to regard arguments as a legitimate project-management methodology.

Once she understood what he was trying to protect, she’d worked with him.

Well.

Very well, actually.

The three questions on the whiteboard were evidence of that.

So this wasn’t about whether she could change. It was about something more difficult. Whether she could leave the room.

Tega looked down at the interview schedule Dara had reopened.

Mansa first.

Then Yaa.

Safeguarding.

Residential care.

Four conversations intended to tell Ark how The Haven functioned from the perspective of the people who actually ran it.

Akosua reached for her tablet.

“Fine.”

Tega wiped his hands. He had considered waiting.

Do the first interview.

Observe.

Gather more evidence.

Raise it tomorrow.

That would have been easier.

It would also contaminate the interviews.

“Oh.”

Akosua looked at him.

“What?”

“The second thing.”

Her brows drew together.

“What second thing?”

“I said there were two things.”

Recognition crossed her face.

“All right. What?”

Tega looked at the interview schedule.

Then at her.

“You will not sit in on the staff interviews.”

Silence.

Akosua stared at him.

Tega watched the ease of the last thirty minutes disappear from her face.

Not slowly.

Completely.

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t want you in the room while we interview your staff.”

Her tablet lowered to the table.

“Why?”

“Because I need them to speak freely.”

“They speak freely.”

“Not with you sitting beside them.”

Her expression changed.

There it was.

The fight.

Silence.

Dara lowered her eyes. Not because she was surprised. But because she had enough sense to remove herself from the blast radius.

Akosua’s expression did not change immediately. Then her fingers slowly released the back of the chair.

“Excuse me?”

“I do not want you in the room.”

Her eyes sharpened.

“I heard you.”

“Good.”

“Then perhaps you would like to explain why you believe you can exclude the founder of this organisation from conversations about her own staff.”

“Because they are not conversations about you.”

“They are conversations about The Haven.”

“Yes.”

“I am The Haven.”

There it was.

Tega leaned back slightly.

“No.”

The word came quietly.

Akosua went still.

Dara stopped typing.

Tega held Akosua’s gaze.

“You founded The Haven,” he said. “You lead it. You carry a significant part of its institutional memory. But you are not the organisation.”

Her jaw tightened.

“That is semantics.”

“No. It is governance.”

“You enjoy that word too much.”

“I enjoy accuracy.”

“And you think removing me from the room improves accuracy?”

“Yes.”

The answer landed exactly as he expected.

Akosua gave a short laugh. There was no humour in it.

“You have been here for less than a day.”

“Yes.”

“You have spoken to maybe six people.”

“Yes.”

“You have not read half the documentation.”

“No.”

“And already you have decided my presence contaminates information.”

“I said it influences it.”

“That is the same thing.”

“It is not.”

“You are splitting language to make an accusation sound polite.”

“I am choosing language carefully because the distinction matters.”

She stepped closer to the table.

“How?”

“If I thought you were contaminating information, I would be questioning your integrity.”

Her eyes flashed.

“And you are not?”

“No.”

“Then what exactly are you questioning?”

“Whether your staff feel free to disagree with you while you are sitting three feet away.”

Silence.

Akosua looked at him as though he had insulted her.

Tega did not soften the point.

He had learned a long time ago that there was a difference between gentleness and retreat.

She folded her arms.

“My staff disagree with me all the time.”

“Not today.”

“You do not know that.”

“I have eyes.”

“That is not evidence.”

“It is my observation.”

“And no, your observation has become the assessment?”

“You asked me that this morning.”

“And?”

“And this is the part where I decide what the observation may mean.”

Her mouth tightened.

Tega continued.

“Mansa looked at you before answering almost every question.”

“She respects authority.”

“Yaa changed the wording of her answer when you frowned.”

“I did not frown.”

“You did.”

“You are imagining things.”

“I am not.”

Her eyes narrowed further.

Something hot moved through the space between them. Not anger alone. Tega felt it and ignored it.

Or tried to.

Akosua was beautiful when she was composed. She was more dangerous when she was angry. Her face became sharper. More alive.

Every emotion she usually kept locked behind discipline appeared in flashes, and every time it did, he understood how easily people could misread her. Her restraint could look like indifference if you weren’t paying attention.

She felt everything. She simply hated being seen doing it.

“Tega.”

The way she said his name was a warning.

He liked it more than he should have.

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NAETO’S P.O.V:

Naeto knew Solape was cooking before he opened the door.

The smell had travelled into the corridor. He stopped outside the apartment, key halfway to the lock, and inhaled. Stew. Something fried. Possibly plantain.

His stomach reacted before the rest of him did.

He had eaten one sausage roll at twelve that morning and half a bottle of Coke sometime around four. It was almost eight. Medicine was going to kill him before he got the opportunity to save anybody.

He opened the door.

Noise greeted him first.

“No.”

NJ.

“Absolutely not.”

Solape.

“Njideka, if you touch that pot—”

“I’m not touching it. I’m saying there’s too much water.”

“And I’m saying nobody asked you.”

“I’m trying to help.”

“You cannot cook.”

“I can cook.”

“You can boil egg.”

“Egg is food.”

“Naeto!”

He closed the door behind him.

Miriam appeared from the kitchen.

She had a wooden spoon in one hand.

“Please come and carry your sister.”

He smiled.

“Why?”

“She’s frustrating the chef.”

“I am not frustrating anybody,” NJ shouted.

Solape’s head appeared behind Miriam.

“Your sister has been standing here for ten minutes explaining to me how to cook something she cannot cook.”

“I can cook!”

Naeto dropped his bag beside the sofa.

“What can you cook?”

NJ appeared.

She folded her arms.

“Several things.”

“Name three.”

“Why?”

“Name three.”

“Rice.”

Solape scoffed.

“Boiling rice is not cooking.”

“It absolutely is.”

“Two more,” Naeto said.

NJ stared at him.

“Egg.”

“We’ve established egg.”

“Indomie.”

Silence.

Naeto nodded slowly.

“Impressive.”

Miriam turned away, but he saw her shoulders shaking.

NJ pointed at her.

“You. Don’t laugh. Who taught you how to make stew?”

“My mother.”

“Exactly. Somebody taught you.”

“Yes,” Miriam said gently. “But, you can’t learn by standing beside Solape telling her she is poring too much water.”

Solape slapped the counter.

“Thank you!”

Naeto laughed.

NJ looked betrayed.

“Miriam.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t look sorry.”

“I’m a little sorry.”

That made him laugh harder.

Miriam looked at him.

And for a moment, they simply smiled at each other.

Then NJ said, “I hate everybody in this house.”

She marched out of the kitchen.

Solape called after her.

“Set the table!”

“Why?”

“Because you can’t cook!”

“I hate you most!”

“I love you too!”

Naeto shook his head.

“How did you people become friends?”

Miriam handed him the wooden spoon.

“We ask ourselves every day.”

Subscribe now

*********

Dinner was very good.

Naeto said so twice because Solape demanded independent verification after NJ claimed the chicken had too much pepper.

“You drank two glasses of water,” NJ pointed out.

“Because I’m thirsty.”

“You’re sweating.”

“It’s Lagos.”

“We’re indoors.”

NJ,” Solape said slowly, “I need you to understand something, food without pepper is an abomination to my ancestors.”

NJ looked at her.

“I don’t care.”

Miriam covered her mouth.

Naeto laughed.

Solape turned to him.

“You see what I endure?”

“You chose her.”

“So did you.”

“I was born first. I had no say in the matter.”

NJ threw him a look.

“Technically, I didn’t choose to be born either.”

Naeto sighed.

“Of course that’s your response.”

“It’s the correct response.”

“According to who?”

“Biology.”

Solape put her fork down.

“Please. Nobody should encourage her.”

Miriam laughed quietly beside Naeto.

He looked at her.

She had been quieter during dinner than the other two, but Naeto was beginning to realize that quiet did not mean absent.

Miriam watched. Listened. Then every so often, she said something that landed precisely where it needed to.

It was different from NJ. NJ entered conversations like a lawyer entering court. Facts assembled. Argument prepared. Opposition already presumed wrong.

Solape entered like fireworks. Each word launched out of her mouth like cannon balls, hitting their target with painful precision.

Miriam waited.

Then spoke.

Naeto liked that.

Probably because his life contained enough noise.

“So Miriam,” Solape said, “tell them what you said earlier.”

Miriam frowned. “About what?”

“The lecturer.”

“No.”

“Which lecturer?” Naeto asked.

“Don’t mind her.”

Solape was already smiling.

“Miriam says Dr. Adekunle is not wicked.”

NJ made a sound of disgust.

“He is.”

“You don’t know the man,” Miriam said.

“I don’t need to know him. I have evidence.”

“You have Solape’s version of events.”

“Which is evidence.”

“It is testimony.”

Naeto looked between them.

“What did he do?”

Solape leaned forward.

“Thank you. A neutral party.”

NJ pointed at him. “He is not neutral.”

“Why?”

“He’s a man.”

Naeto stared at his sister.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing. I’m just establishing variables.”

Miriam laughed.

Solape ignored them both.

“Dr. Adekunle told one girl in my class that she should reconsider Mass Communication because she couldn’t answer a question.”

Naeto frowned.

“What question?”

“Does it matter?” Solape said,

“Yes.” Naeto responded

NJ nodded. “It matters.”

Solape glared at her.

“Whose side are you on?”

“The side of complete information.” NJ answered

“See why nobody likes you.” Solape said

“Several people like me.” NJ responded

“Name three.” Solape said,

Naeto almost choked.

NJ’s eyes narrowed.

“Don’t use his nonsense against me.”

Miriam was laughing now.

Naeto watched her for a second before returning to Solape.

“So what was the question?”

“I don’t remember.”

NJ threw up her hands.

“Exactly.”

“That’s not the point.” Solape said

“What is the point?” Naeto asked.

“The point is that you shouldn’t tell somebody they don’t belong in a profession because they couldn’t answer one question.” Solape responded

“I agree.”

Solape sat back triumphantly.

“Thank you.”

“But—”

She groaned.

Naeto continued. “Some people genuinely aren’t suited for particular careers.”

Miriam spoke for the first time.

“How do you know?”

Naeto turned to her.

“What?”

“How do you know someone isn’t suited to something?”

“Performance.”

“At nineteen?”

“Sometimes.”

Miriam tilted her head.

“So if someone struggles in first year, that’s enough information to decide what they’re capable of becoming?”

“No. But repeated performance tells you something.”

“It tells you what they can do now.”

“It can tell you aptitude.”

“It can also tell you preparation.”

Naeto paused.

Miriam continued calmly.

“Or confidence. Or whether they’ve been taught properly. Or whether they even understand yet why they’re there.”

NJ nodded.

“That’s actually correct.”

Solape pointed at her.

“Now you agree?”

“I agree with Miriam’s argument. Yours was emotional and badly presented.”

“God will judge you.”

“That’s fine. He has all the information.”

Naeto laughed.

But his attention stayed on Miriam.

“So nobody should ever be told they’re in the wrong career?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Then what are you saying?”

“I’m saying people are too quick to make permanent conclusions about temporary versions of people.”

Something about the sentence landed.

Naeto leaned back.

Miriam picked up her glass.

“That’s all.”

“No,” he said. “That’s not all.”

She looked at him.

“Explain.”

NJ glanced between them.

Miriam shrugged.

“I just think sometimes somebody meets you at one point in your life and decides that’s who you are. Then they keep relating with that version of you even after you’ve changed.”

Naeto went still.

He wondered whether she knew. Probably not. But the irony was almost offensive. Because three days ago, Miriam had walked through his front door and Naeto’s brain had immediately produced an twelve-year-old girl in an oversized cardigan.

He’d been doing exactly what she was describing. Relating to a version of her that no longer existed.

Miriam looked at him.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s twice now you’ve said nothing when it’s clearly something.”

Solape’s eyes moved between them.

Naeto noticed.

He looked away first.

NJ, thankfully, was already returning to the original argument.

“The issue is still insufficient data.”

Solape groaned.

And just like that, the conversation moved on.

Naeto didn’t.

**********

Two days later, he came home to silence.

He knew immediately that something was wrong.

Naeto closed the door.

“Miriam?”

Nothing.

He stopped.

Why had Miriam’s name come second?

He frowned at himself.

Then called louder.

“NJ?”

“Anybody home?”

“Kitchen.”

Miriam.

He followed the voice.

She was sitting at the small kitchen table with a book open in front of her and a bowl of groundnuts beside it.

Alone.

Naeto leaned against the doorway.

“Where’s Professor?”

“She went with Solape.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere.”

“Very informative.”

Miriam smiled.

“I wasn’t listening.”

“You weren’t listening to NJ?”

“I’ve discovered it’s possible.”

“Teach me.”

She laughed.

“They went to see somebody. Solape needed something.”

“And you didn’t go?”

“I wanted to read.”

Naeto nodded.

“Good.”

He went to his room to study. At least, that had been the intention. Twenty minutes later he was back in the kitchen.

Hungry.

Miriam was still reading.

Naeto opened the fridge. Nothing useful. He closed it. Opened it again.

Miriam looked up.

“Did you expect something to appear?”

“Hope is important.”

“There’s stew.”

“With?”

“Nothing.”

“Exactly.”

She looked at him for a moment.

“I can make spaghetti.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

There was something about the way Miriam said I know.

She had said it the other night too.

Not Oh, it’s no problem.

Not I don’t mind.

Just:

I know.

As though helping somebody and owing them were completely separate things in her mind.

Naeto liked that.

“I’ll help.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“Can you cut onions?”

“I’ve been known to.”

“Good. Solape said that’s your specialty.”

Naeto opened a drawer.

“I’m a surgeon.”

“Almost.”

He looked at her.

She smiled sweetly.

“Knife.”

Naeto handed it to her.

“You are troublesome.”

“You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

Naeto almost answered.

Because you used to be quiet.

Because you used to look at me like speaking was an exam.

Because the Miriam in my head is twelve.

Instead he said, “You’ve changed.”

Her hands paused.

Only slightly.

“Is that bad?”

“No.”

Too quickly.

Naeto cleared his throat.

“No. It’s not bad.”

She looked down at the tomatoes she was cutting.

“Good.”

Something in her voice made him watch her.

“Miriam.”

“Hmm?”

“You know that, right?”

She looked up.

“Know what?”

“That changing isn’t bad.”

She smiled, but it was smaller this time.

“I know.”

He wasn’t entirely sure she did.

**********

They ate at the dining table.

Naeto had intended to take his plate into his room and study.

He didn’t.

Miriam had brought her notes out too, and for almost fifteen minutes they sat opposite each other without speaking.

It was strangely comfortable.

Naeto was halfway through a paragraph when Miriam asked, “Do you actually like Medicine?”

He looked up.

“Yes.”

She smiled.

“That was fast.”

“Because I do.”

“Even with all the complaining?”

“What complaining?”

“You came home yesterday and said you were going to die.”

“I was hungry.”

“You said Medicine was trying to kill you.”

“That was also hunger.”

Miriam laughed.

Naeto smiled.

“I love medicine.”

She closed her notebook.

“Why?”

He paused.

People asked him what specialty he wanted. When he would graduate. Whether he was going abroad. How difficult medicine was. Nobody really asked him why he loved it.

“I like knowing things.”

Miriam smiled. “You and NJ are definitely related.”

“No, hers is a disease.”

She laughed.

Naeto continued.

“I like understanding why something is happening. Someone comes in with pain here—”

He touched his side.

“—and there are twenty things it could be. So you ask questions. You examine them. You eliminate possibilities until suddenly everything makes sense.”

“So you like solving puzzles.”

“Basically.”

“Except your puzzles can die.”

Naeto paused.

“Yes.”

“That escalated quickly.”

He laughed.

“But yes. That’s part of it.”

“The pressure?”

“The responsibility.”

He thought for a moment.

“Somebody walks into a hospital and gives you access to the most vulnerable version of themselves. They’re frightened. Sometimes they’re in pain. Sometimes they don’t understand what’s happening. And they’re trusting that you do.”

Miriam was listening. Not politely. Actually listening. Naeto found himself continuing.

“There’s something about being able to help in that moment. Even when you can’t fix everything. Sometimes you can make pain stop. Sometimes you can give somebody an answer they’ve been looking for for months. Sometimes you can tell a family their person is going to be okay.”

“And sometimes you can’t.”

Naeto nodded.

“And sometimes you can’t.”

“How do you deal with that?”

The question caught him.

“You learn.”

“To stop caring?”

“No.”

His answer came immediately.

“Never that.”

Miriam watched him.

Naeto shook his head.

“I don’t ever want to become that doctor.”

“What doctor?”

“The one who has seen so much suffering that people become cases.”

He tapped the textbook beside him.

“Bed twelve. Appendicitis. Bed six. Bowel obstruction. You have to use those words because you need to communicate quickly, but that’s still somebody’s father. Somebody’s child. Somebody is sitting outside that ward praying.”

Miriam’s expression softened.

“You’ll be a good doctor.”

Naeto smiled.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“How?”

“Because you’re worried about becoming a bad one.”

He stopped.

Miriam picked up her fork again as though she hadn’t said anything particularly important.

Naeto stared at her.

She looked up.

“What?”

There it was again.

That question.

She kept catching him looking at her. And every single time, she seemed genuinely confused about why.

“Nothing.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You say nothing a lot.”

“You ask too many questions.”

“I thought doctors liked questions.”

“We like asking them.”

“Ah.”

She nodded solemnly.

“Control issues.”

Naeto laughed.

“Now you’re diagnosing me?”

“I’m studying Mass Communication. We diagnose everybody.”

“That’s not what Mass Communication does.”

“You don’t know. You’re a doctor.”

“Almost.”

She smiled.

He remembered her using the same word earlier.

“Exactly.”

Naeto leaned back.

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Why Mass Comm?”

Miriam shrugged.

“I like it.”

“Terrible answer.”

“You asked me a question. I answered.”

“No. I gave you a beautiful explanation about the sacred responsibility of Medicine. Try harder.”

She laughed.

“Sacred responsibility?”

“I’m paraphrasing.”

“You’re flattering yourself.”

“Answer the question, Miriam.”

She thought about it.

“I like stories.”

Naeto waited.

“And people.”

“You’re very quiet for someone who likes people.”

“I like listening to people. That’s different.”

That made sense.

Almost immediately.

Naeto had known her for years and somehow had never thought about it.

Miriam was always listening. Even as a child. NJ filled silence because NJ generally believed silence was an invitation for information.

Miriam inhabited it.

“What about stories?” he asked.

“I think they change how people see things.”

“Movies?”

“Everything. News. Advertising. The way companies talk. The way politicians talk. Even gossip.”

“Gossip?”

“Especially gossip.”

He laughed.

“Explain.”

“If I tell you somebody is stingy before you meet them, what happens?”

“I look for evidence that they’re stingy.”

“Exactly.”

“And if they’re generous?”

“You’ll probably think it’s an exception.”

Naeto nodded slowly.

“So the first story wins.”

“Sometimes.”

She leaned forward slightly.

“That’s what fascinates me. People think communication is just saying things. It’s not. It’s deciding what something means.”

Naeto looked at her. There it was. Again. That little recalibration he’d been doing all week. He’d known Miriam was intelligent. Of course she was intelligent. But knowing something abstractly and sitting across from someone while their mind unfolded were completely different things.

“What do you want to do with it?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Journalism?”

“Maybe.”

She wrinkled her nose.

“Not really.”

“Television?”

“No.”

“Radio?”

“You’re just listing Mass Communication jobs now.”

“I’m helping.”

“You’re terrible at it.”

Naeto grinned.

“So what?”

She thought about it.

“I like the idea of shaping perception.”

He waited.

“Brands, maybe. Public relations. Strategy. I don’t know what exactly it’s called yet.”

“You want to tell people what to think.”

“No.”

She pointed her fork at him.

“I want to understand what they already think and why.”

“Then tell them what to think.”

“Influence.”

“Manipulation.”

“Communication.”

“Propaganda.”

Miriam gasped.

“Doctor.”

Naeto laughed.

She shook her head.

“This is why people don’t like medical students.”

“People love us.”

“Your mother loves you.”

“That’s enough.”

She laughed again.

And Naeto realized he was enjoying himself. Really enjoying himself. Not tolerating his sister’s friend. Not being hospitable. Not indulging the little girl he’d known growing up. He liked talking to Miriam.

That was different.

He liked the way she thought before she answered. Liked that she didn’t speak merely because silence existed. Liked that when she disagreed with him, she didn’t become louder. She simply sat there with that calm face and dismantled his argument one sentence at a time.

He liked making her laugh.

That one he already knew.

He’d always liked making Miriam laugh.

But this—This was new.

He wanted to know things.

“What kind of man do you want to marry?”

The question left his mouth before his brain approved it.

Miriam blinked.

Naeto immediately regretted it. Where had that come from?

She laughed.

“How did we get here?”

“We were talking about your future.”

“My career.”

“Marriage is also the future.”

“Is that what you ask all your female patients?”

“Only the difficult ones.”

She smiled.

“I don’t know.”

“Everybody knows.”

“I really don’t.”

“Nothing?”

Miriam considered it.

“Kind.”

Naeto waited.

“That’s it?”

“No.”

She smiled.

“Someone who loves God. Someone intelligent. Funny would be nice.”

“Handsome?”

She laughed.

“Obviously.”

“Ah.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“There’s that word again.”

Naeto smiled.

Miriam continued.

“Someone safe.”

The smile disappeared from his face.

She didn’t seem to notice.

She was looking down at her plate.

“Safe how?”

She shrugged.

“I don’t know. Just... safe.”

Naeto knew. Of course he knew. He remembered a twelve-year-old girl running down a school corridor. Remembered red marks around her wrist. Remembered blood on his own knuckles.

Something hard moved through him.

But Miriam looked up again and smiled.

“And rich.”

Naeto blinked.

Then laughed.

“Miriam.”

“What?”

“All that emotional depth just to end with rich?”

“Love doesn’t pay school fees.”

He laughed harder.

“Your future children don’t even exist and you’re already billing the man.”

“They will attend good schools.”

“Of course.”

“And travel.”

“Anything else?”

“I’ll send you the document.”

Naeto shook his head.

Peace.

That was what he’d always associated with Miriam. Sweet Miriam. Gentle Miriam. The girl who carried food upstairs because she was worried he’d been punished because of her.

Except there was more now. So much more.

She was funny. Not Solape funny. Solape entered a room and demanded laughter. Miriam slipped humour into a sentence and waited for you to discover it. She was intelligent without needing you to know she was intelligent. She was soft without being uncertain.

And the longer Naeto sat across from her, the more irritated he became with himself.

Because he liked her. Not Miriam is sweet. Not I’ve always had a soft spot for that kid. He liked her.

This version.

The woman sitting across from him, arguing about propaganda and planning imaginary school fees for children she didn’t have.

He wanted to keep talking to her. That was the problem. Because physical attraction could be dismissed. He’d noticed she was beautiful.

Fine.

He was a man. She was a beautiful woman. People had eyes. It didn’t have to mean anything.

But this?

This was considerably less convenient. He wanted to know her. And worse—he was beginning to think he would like what he found.

Naeto looked down at his plate.

This was Miriam.

NJ’s friend.

His little sister’s friend.

The same Miriam who had followed NJ around their house when they were children.

The same Miriam who still called him Brother Naeto without the slightest hesitation.

There were women everywhere.

Women who had not once called him Brother anything.

Women whose childhood photographs probably did not contain his sister.

Reasonable women.

Available women.

He should find one.

Miriam pushed the bowl of groundnuts toward him.

“Eat.”

Naeto looked up.

“What?”

“You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Going somewhere inside your head.”

If only she knew.

“I’m here.”

“Good. Eat.”

He took some groundnuts.

“Yes, ma.”

“Thank you.”

She returned to her notes.

Just like that.

Completely oblivious.

Naeto watched her for another second.

Then another.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and frowned at something she’d written.

He looked away.

This was bad.

Very bad.

Because Naeto knew himself.

He could ignore attraction.

He could discipline desire.

He could create distance.

What he couldn’t easily do was stop liking someone once he genuinely liked them.

And somewhere between one sugar in his tea, an argument about communication, and Miriam laughing across his dining table—he had started genuinely liking Miriam.

The front door burst open.

“We are back!”

Solape.

Naeto’s first emotion was irritation.

Immediate.

Unreasonable.

He looked toward the door.

NJ entered behind her.

“Why are you shouting?”

“Because nobody welcomed us.”

“You opened the door two seconds ago.”

“Exactly. Plenty of time.”

Solape stopped.

Her eyes moved to Miriam.

Then to Naeto.

Then to the plates on the table.

Then back to Naeto.

Her eyebrows lifted.

“Oh.”

Miriam looked up innocently.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Solape smiled.

Miriam returned to her notes.

Naeto did not.

Because Solape was still looking at him.

And there was entirely too much understanding in her face.

Naeto narrowed his eyes.

She smiled wider.

He looked away.

Of course.

Of all NJ’s friends, the loud one had to be observant.

********

By the time Miriam’s week was over, Naeto was ready for her to leave.

This was what he told himself.

His apartment had been invaded for six days. There were things everywhere. NJ’s things, mostly, because his sister seemed incapable of occupying a space without gradually colonising it.

Solape’s things somehow, despite the fact that Solape did not live there.

And Miriam’s things. A scarf over the back of the dining chair. A bottle of lotion beside the television. A paperback face-down on the arm of the sofa.

Her mug.

Naeto had started thinking of it as her mug, which was ridiculous because it belonged to him. It was a plain white mug. He owned four exactly like it. Miriam had simply used the same one every morning. That did not make it hers.

And yet, that morning, when NJ reached for it, Naeto had said,

“Use another one.”

NJ had looked at him.

“Why?”

He hadn’t had an answer.

So he’d taken the mug himself.

That had been worse.

Yes.

Miriam needed to go home.

Immediately.

Share

*********

“I’m going to miss you.”

Solape had been saying this for the last twenty minutes.

Miriam laughed.

“You met me in person for the first time six days ago.”

“And?”

“And that’s dramatic.”

“You don’t understand friendship.”

NJ looked up from where she was checking something inside Miriam’s handbag.

“She’s known me for months and has never said she’ll miss me.”

“Because you don’t go anywhere.”

“I go places.”

“You come back.”

“That’s generally how going somewhere works.”

Solape ignored her and wrapped both arms around Miriam again.

Naeto stood beside them with Miriam’s travelling bag in one hand.

“Can we put her on the bus before Solape proposes?”

Solape turned.

“Jealousy is ugly on you, Doctor.”

“Get out of the way.”

Miriam laughed.

The motor park was loud around them.

Conductors shouted destinations Naeto could barely distinguish from one another. Hawkers moved between cars with trays balanced on their heads. Somewhere behind them, a horn had been blaring intermittently for the past five minutes as though persistence would somehow create road where there was none.

Naeto hated motor parks.

NJ had insisted they all come.

We’re escorting her.

As though Miriam were emigrating.

She was travelling a few hours away.

Still, Naeto had come. Obviously. Someone had to drive them. That was the reason. The only reason.

“Your ticket?” NJ asked.

Miriam sighed.

“Yes, NJ.”

“Phone?”

“Yes.”

“Charger?”

“Yes.”

“Wallet?”

“Yes.”

“Your ID?”

Miriam stared at her.

“Njideka.”

“What?”

“I’m travelling home. I’m not crossing a border.”

“You’ll be grateful when you don’t forget anything.”

Solape leaned toward Miriam.

“She does this to me too.”

“Because both of you are disorganised.”

Miriam smiled.

“You checked my bag yourself before we left.”

“And I’m checking again.”

“Professor,” Naeto said.

NJ looked at him.

“Leave the girl alone.”

“I’m making sure she has everything.”

“She has survived without you in her school. She will be fine.”

“I’ve known her longer than you have.”

“Unfortunately.”

Miriam laughed.

Naeto looked at her.

He had become far too familiar with that sound in six days. That was another reason she needed to leave.

The conductor shouted something.

Miriam glanced toward the bus.

“I think that’s me.”

Something inside Naeto tightened.

Ridiculous.

Solape immediately grabbed her.

“Call me.”

“I will.”

“Not NJ. Me.”

“I heard you.”

“Because NJ will hoard you.”

“I don’t hoard human beings,” NJ said.

“You absolutely do.”

Miriam hugged Solape.

Then NJ.

That one lasted longer.

Naeto watched his sister whisper something in Miriam’s ear. Miriam smiled and squeezed her again.

Then she turned to him.

For half a second, neither of them moved.

Naeto almost offered his hand. That would have been strange. They’d known each other for years. Then Miriam stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him.

“Thank you, Brother Naeto.”

There it was.

That bloody name.

Naeto hugged her back.

Briefly.

Carefully.

Except there was no useful way to hug Miriam anymore without noticing that Miriam was no longer twelve. He became aware of her softness against him. The faint scent of whatever she’d put in her hair that morning. Her cheek near his chest. His hand against her back.

And immediately—Enough.

Naeto released her.

Miriam stepped back without the slightest change in expression. Of course. Because for her, it had been a hug. A perfectly ordinary hug with her best friend’s older brother.

Meanwhile, Naeto apparently needed deliverance.

He cleared his throat.

“Call when you get there.”

“I will.”

“Not just NJ.”

Miriam smiled.

“I’ll call you too.”

Something stupid happened inside his chest.

Naeto ignored it.

“Good.”

He put her bag into the luggage compartment himself.

When he straightened, Solape was watching him.

Naeto looked at her.

She looked away.

Too late.

He narrowed his eyes.

Solape suddenly became extremely interested in a woman selling plantain chips.

Naeto filed that away for later.

Miriam climbed into the bus.

She found a window seat and waved.

Solape waved back with both hands.

NJ shouted, “Call me!”

“I know!”

“Immediately!”

“I know!”

The engine started.

Naeto put his hands into his pockets.

The bus pulled out slowly.

Miriam waved again.

Naeto lifted one hand.

Then the bus disappeared into traffic.

“That was emotional,” Solape announced.

NJ looked at her.

“She’ll be back.”

“I know.”

“You’re behaving like she has gone to war.”

“You don’t understand love.”

“I understand object permanence.”

Naeto snorted.

Solape gasped.

“This family is horrible.”

“Are you coming with us?” Naeto asked.

“No. I’m going back to campus.”

NJ nodded. “I’m going with her.”

Naeto looked at his sister.

“You live with me.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you going with somebody who doesn’t?”

“We have something to do.”

“What?”

NJ gave him a look.

“Do I submit an itinerary now?”

“You live in my house.”

“Daddy’s house.”

Naeto closed his eyes.

Solape laughed.

He pointed toward the road.

“Both of you. Go.”

“Gladly.”

NJ kissed his cheek.

“Bye, Brother.”

Solape saluted.

“Doctor.”

“Noise pollution.”

“Your favourite.”

“Not even top ten.”

She grinned.

Then she and NJ disappeared into the crowd.

Naeto stood there for a moment.

Alone.

Finally,

Peace.

He exhaled.

Thank God.

*********

The apartment was silent when he got back.

Gloriously silent.

Naeto dropped his keys into the bowl beside the door and stood in the living room. No Solape shouting from the kitchen. No NJ correcting somebody. No Miriam laughing.

Peace.

Exactly what he’d wanted.

He went into his room. Changed. Came back out. The apartment was still silent. He turned on the television. Some football match was showing.

Naeto sat.

Five minutes later, he turned it off.

He picked up his textbook. Opened it. Read half a page. Put it down.

He was hungry. That was the problem.

He went to the kitchen. Opened the fridge. There was food.

He wasn’t hungry.

Naeto closed it.

Then he saw the mug. White. Plain. Exactly like the other three. Sitting upside down beside the sink.

He stared at it.

No.

Absolutely not.

Naeto turned away.

This was getting embarrassing.

She had been gone for—He checked the clock. Fifty-three minutes. Fifty-three minutes and he was standing in his kitchen staring at a cup because Miriam had drunk tea from it for six mornings.

He rubbed both hands over his face.

“What is wrong with you?”

The apartment offered no diagnosis.

Naeto walked back into the living room. Miriam’s paperback was gone. The lotion was gone. The scarf was gone. Her shoes were no longer beside NJ’s.

Everything that had quietly announced her presence for the last week had disappeared.

Good.

Excellent.

His house was returning to normal.

He hated it.

Naeto sat down.

This was Miriam. He needed to keep remembering that.

Miriam.

NJ’s best friend.

A girl he’d known since she was a kid.

A girl who had once looked at him like he was the greatest thing God had ever put on the earth because he’d chased away some stupid boys.

A girl who still called him Brother Naeto with complete sincerity.

He was twenty-four years old.

He had sense.

At least, he had previously believed he did.

And now?

Now he knew how Miriam took her tea.

He knew she hated pawpaw.

He knew she couldn’t sleep if the room was completely dark.

He knew she wanted to work in public relations but hadn’t quite figured out what that would look like yet.

He knew she thought stories could change how people understood the world.

He knew she wanted a husband who was kind, loved God, made her laugh, made her feel safe—

And was rich.

Naeto smiled despite himself and then he stopped smiling.

Because he knew something else.

He liked her. Really liked her. Not the way he’d always liked Miriam. That had been easy.

Sweet girl.

Good kid.

Take care of her.

This wasn’t that.

He wanted to call her. That was the irritating part. He wanted to ask if she’d settled into the bus. If she was comfortable. If the driver was driving like a madman.

He wanted to continue the argument they’d abandoned two nights ago about whether advertising was inherently manipulative.

He wanted to hear her laugh.

Naeto picked up his phone. Her number was there. He’d gotten it two days earlier after she called him because NJ’s phone had died.

He opened the message app.

Have you left Lagos?

He stared at it.

Deleted it.

Typed again.

Let me know when you get home.

He stared at that too.

Perfectly normal message. Nothing wrong with it. He’d told her to call. She was his sister’s friend. He was simply checking that she was safe.

Naeto deleted it.

NJ would tell him.

That was enough. It needed to be enough. He dropped his phone beside him.

There were women everywhere. His classmates. Doctors. Nurses. Women at church. Women who were not nineteen. Women who had not spent half their childhood in his family home. Women who did not call him Brother Naeto.

He would find one of them attractive. He would date. He would finish school. He would become a doctor.

And whatever this thing with Miriam was—It would pass. It had to.

A knock sounded at the door.

Naeto frowned.

NJ had keys.

He stood and opened it.

A young man stood outside holding a large brown envelope.

“Naeto Bankole?”

“Yes.”

“Delivery.”

Naeto took it.

“Thank you.”

He signed where the man indicated and closed the door. He looked at the envelope. His name and address were typed neatly across the front.The return address was American.

Naeto’s heartbeat changed.

He knew what this was.

He had almost forgotten about it.

Months ago, he had applied to do his internship at a hospital in the US.

He tore the envelope open and pulled out the letter. He read the first line. Stopped. Then started again from the top.

By the time he reached the second paragraph, he was smiling.

“No way.”

He read it again.

Accepted.

He’d been accepted. Months of applications, interviews and waiting—He’d gotten in.

Naeto laughed. A loud, disbelieving laugh that sounded strange in the empty apartment.

He picked up his phone immediately.

His father.

No.

His mother would kill him if she heard from his father.

He dialled her.

She answered on the fourth ring.

“Naeto?”

“Mummy.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing happened.”

“Then why are you calling me like this?”

He laughed.

“I got it.”

Silence.

“Got what?”

“The internship.”

Another beat.

Then screaming.

Naeto pulled the phone away from his ear.

“Mummy.”

“You got it?”

“I got it.”

“Jesus!”

He laughed.

Somewhere in the background his father was asking what had happened.

His mother wasn’t answering him.

“Naeto got it!”

More noise.

More shouting.

His father took the phone.

Questions.

When?

What next?

When would he have to leave?

Naeto answered as much as he could. Nothing was immediate. There were documents. Processes. His final examinations. Graduation. Registration.

But it was real.

America was real.

When the call finally ended, Naeto sat back down. The letter remained in his hand. This was what he wanted. Training. Exposure. The opportunity to become better. To see medicine practiced differently. To learn. To build. Excitement moved through him again.

Then, because his brain had apparently lost all discipline this week, he thought of Miriam.

Naeto’s smile slowly faded.

Miriam.

He looked at the letter.

Then something else came.

Relief.

Small at first. Then unmistakable.

America.

Thousands of kilometres away. New hospital. New people. New life. Distance. Naeto leaned back against the sofa.

Maybe this was good.

Not maybe.

This was excellent.

He had been wondering what exactly he intended to do about Miriam. Apparently, God had answered him.

Nothing.

He would do nothing.

He would finish his examinations.

Graduate.

Leave.

Work.

Train.

Meet people.

Live.

And whatever ridiculous thing had happened to him over the past six days would eventually disappear.

Of course it would.

It had been one week.

One woman.

One inconvenient attraction that had become an even more inconvenient affection.

That was all.

Naeto looked toward the kitchen.

The white mug sat beside the sink.

He looked back at the letter.

America.

Perfect.

By the time he came back to Nigeria, Miriam would probably be dating somebody. Maybe he’d be dating somebody too.Maybe they’d laugh about this someday.

Well—He would laugh.

Miriam would never know.

Naeto folded the letter carefully. For the first time all afternoon, the quiet apartment didn’t bother him. He had a plan. He was going to America. He was going to become the doctor he’d spent seven years working to become. He was going to build a life so full that there would be no room for foolishness.

And somewhere between Lagos and the other side of the Atlantic, Naeto Bankole was going to get over these Godforsaken feelings for Miriam.

He had to.

Author’s Note: It appears the term “Brother” is still a problem. 😂 Naeto doesn’t wanna be brotherzoned.

With America in the picture now, will going to another continent really solve anything? 👀 Let’s talk.

Leave a comment

Catch up: Chapter one here, Chapter two here, and Chapter three here

See you next week.❤️

KUNLE’S P.O.V:

Weddings made people sentimental.

I had forgotten that.

Not because I had become cynical about marriage. Quite the opposite. I liked being married.

Most days, I preferred it to the alternative. There was something deeply inefficient about dating that I did not miss. The endless interpretation.

What does this mean?

Where is this going?

Should I call?

Should I not call?

Is she upset?

Why is she saying “nothing” when clearly something has happened?

Marriage removed at least some of that uncertainty. At least, mine had. Adaora and I knew each other. There was comfort in that.

History.

Rhythm.

The kind of familiarity that meant I did not have to ask how she took her coffee or whether she wanted the air conditioner colder.

I knew her.

She knew me.

That mattered.

So when I stood beside Tunde at the altar and watched him lose all his usual composure because Lamide had entered the chapel, I understood why everybody was emotional.

I was happy for him.

Genuinely.

I also knew there would come a day when he would stop staring at Lamide like this every time she entered a room.

That was not a bad thing.

People liked to talk about the beginning of love as though maintaining the intensity of the beginning was the goal.

It was not.

Nobody could live there permanently.

Real life required bills.

Children.

Sickness.

Deadlines.

Family.

School fees.

Plumbing.

Traffic.

There was a kind of love that came after fascination.

Quieter.

Less cinematic.

More useful.

This is what marriage was supposed to become.

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FOLARIN’S P.O.V:

There are certain moments in a man’s life that make him question every decision that brought him there.

Standing beside Tunde at the altar while Seyi whispered, “Breathe,” was one of them.

Not because anything was wrong but because everything was right. Which, I was learning, could be just as destabilising.

Tunde looked composed. Of course he did. If somebody had taken a picture of him from the neck down, they would have seen perfectly aligned shoulders, hands settled in front of him, polished shoes, black tuxedo sitting exactly where it was supposed to.

His face told a different story. He had looked toward the entrance at least fourteen times.

I counted.

Not deliberately. There was not much else to do while waiting for your friend’s wife to arrive.

Seyi leaned toward him again.

“If she changes her mind, I know a route through the back—”

“Finish that sentence,” Tunde said quietly, “and you will not attend the reception.”

Seyi smiled.

I looked at Kunle.

Kunle shook his head.

There are friendships where people affirm you gently. Ours mostly involved threats.

Then the music changed.

Everybody stood.

The doors opened.

And Lamide appeared.

I looked at Tunde before I looked at her. That was the better view. The man was gone. Finished. Whatever portion of Tunde Kabir had been maintaining masculine dignity disappeared immediately.

His whole face changed.

I smiled.

Seyi caught my eye.

We both grinned.

Kunle reached over and squeezed Tunde’s shoulder.

I leaned slightly closer.

“My guy.”

Tunde did not even hear me.

Good.

There was something satisfying about watching your most controlled friends lose all ability to hide himself.

Lamide walked toward him.

Beautiful.

And I understood something then.

You could tell when a wedding was about spectacle. You could also tell when it was about two people who genuinely wanted to get to the end of the aisle and begin the thing they had promised each other privately.

This was the second kind.

I liked it. More than I expected.

The vows did not help.

Tunde had apparently decided to use his wedding day to become a poet.

“You made room for joy in parts of me I had already decided would remain quiet.”

I looked at him.

Excuse me?

Who wrote that?

Because the Tunde I knew communicated affection through things like checking whether your tyres were due for replacement.

His voice cracked.

Seyi’s eyes widened.

I immediately looked away because if I caught Seyi’s face, one of us would laugh and Tunde would murder us before signing his certificate.

Then Lamide gave her vows.

That was worse. Not worse. Better. Emotionally inconvenient.

“You never asked me to stop carrying what mattered to me. You only kept reminding me that I did not have to carry everything alone.”

The room went quiet.

I looked at the floor.

Not because I was emotional. There was something on my shoe. Probably. Maybe. Nobody needed to investigate.

Then the minister said: “You may kiss your bride.”

Seyi lost his mind.

“FINALLY!”

I laughed.

Tunde looked like he wanted to kill him.

Then he turned to Lamide.

And paused.

That caught me.

The pause.

Not hesitation.

Reverence.

Almost.

He touched her face carefully.

Then kissed her.

The room exploded.

I clapped.

Seyi shouted again.

Kunle was laughing.

And for a few seconds, I was simply happy for my friend. Then my mind did something inconvenient.

I thought about Derin. Not even deliberately. Just—Her hand under mine at dinner. I have feelings for you too. The hug outside the restaurant. The way she had looked at me after I kissed her forehead.

I stopped.

Absolutely not. This was Tunde’s wedding. I was not going to turn somebody else’s covenant into personal romantic projection.

Growth.

I clapped harder.

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SEYI’S P.O.V:

There are two kinds of men at weddings.

Men who are moved by the marriage. And men who are waiting for the reception.

I was both.

I had been awake since six that morning, which was already proof of deep friendship because there were very few things I respected enough to wake before the sun for.

Tunde Kabir was one of them.

By eight, I was in his room with orange juice, excellent intentions and several necessary questions.

He appreciated none of them.

“Have you had a bowel movement?”

He hung up on me.

Very rude.

Forty-five minutes later, I was standing inside his hotel room watching a tailor pull at his jacket while Tunde behaved like he was preparing for a board meeting instead of his wedding.

Flo was at the mirror fixing his cufflinks.

Kunle had already started solving problems that nobody had assigned him.

And Tunde was quiet. Not regular Tunde quiet. That man was naturally quiet. If silence were an Olympic sport, he would have medals.

This was different.

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TUNDE’S P.O.V:

I did not sleep properly the night before my wedding.

Not because I had doubts. That would have been easier to explain. Doubt had a shape. A question. A problem to solve.

This was something else.

Anticipation, perhaps.

Responsibility.

Joy with weight inside it.

At 4:17 a.m, I was still awake staring at the ceiling while my phone sat face down beside me because Seyi had sent seventeen messages to the groomsmen group chat between midnight and two-thirty.

Most of them were useless.

One was a picture of an agbada he wanted to wear to the after-party, even though there was no after-party.

Another was:

Seyi: Last chance to run.

Kunle replied:

Kunle: Please don’t encourage him.

Folarin:

Flo: He has already paid vendors. Running now is financially irresponsible.

I had stared at that one for a full minute.

Then:

Me: All of you sleep.

Seyi responded immediately.

Seyi: Groom is awake o.

I muted the group.

That had been at 1:14 a.m.

Three hours later, I was still awake.

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ANJOLA’S P.O.V:

Anjola loved weddings.

Not in the desperate, “God when?” way people sometimes assumed once a woman crossed twenty-seven and had the audacity to attend somebody else’s marriage without looking personally offended by it.

She just genuinely liked them.

There was something about a wedding that made people suspend cynicism for a few hours.

Nobody stood while the bride walked down the aisle calculating divorce statistics.

Nobody listened to vows thinking about irreconcilable differences.

For one afternoon, everybody agreed to believe love could work.

Anjola found that beautiful.

Tunde and Lamide’s wedding made it particularly easy.

The joining was small.

Small by Lagos standards, which still meant enough people to fill the intimate chapel Lamide had chosen, but there was none of the usual wedding madness.

No distant aunties fighting over reserved seats.

No politicians arriving twenty minutes late with six security men and the expectation that everybody should be grateful.

No MC turning the ceremony into a comedy special.

Just family.

Close friends.

People who actually knew them.

Anjola got there early. Of course she did.

I mean it was a wedding!

She sat three rows behind Tunde’s family, close enough to see the front properly without being close enough for anybody’s auntie to assign her an emergency responsibility.

The chapel was beautiful.

White flowers. Greenery. Tall candles in glass cylinders along the aisle. Cream ribbons tied around the chairs. Everything soft. Nothing screaming.

Very Lamide.

Anjola settled into her seat and looked around. She recognised more people than she expected.

Some from church. Some from the overlapping Lagos social universe where everybody seemed to know everybody through one cousin, one colleague, one former classmate or one badly attended birthday dinner.

Her phone buzzed.

Dele.

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AKOSUA’S P.O.V:

The Haven, Accra

Monday Morning.

Tega arrived at eight fifty-three.

Akosua knew because she checked the time when the security guard called from the gate.

“Madam Akosua,” Kwame said through the intercom, “the people from Ark Advisory are here.”

“Names?”

There was a brief pause.

“Mr OgheneTega Edewor and Ms Adedara Akinwale.”

Seven minutes early. She disliked that she noticed. Akosua looked through the glass wall of her office toward the courtyard.

Rain had fallen before dawn, leaving the paving stones dark and the leaves of the hibiscus plants bright with water. The compound was already awake.

A delivery van stood near the kitchen entrance. Two children in school uniforms waited beneath the veranda while one of the caregivers searched for a missing lunch bag.

A resident crossed the courtyard carrying a laundry basket against her hip. From the training room came the low murmur of women beginning the morning’s skills session.

Ordinary life. Or The Haven’s closest approximation of it.

“Let them in,” Akosua said.

She ended the call and returned her attention to the folder open on her desk. The intake summary for Abena and Efua lay on top. No identifying photographs. No full names beyond what the legal team required. No details of the allegations the girls had not yet made.

There were still too many empty fields.

Akosua preferred empty fields to guessed answers.

Ama sat across from her, scanning a staffing schedule.

“You have read that page four times,” she said.

“I have not.”

“You have.”

Akosua did not look up.

“The legal officer still has not confirmed whether the aunt can act as temporary guardian.”

“She is waiting for the district office.”

“They were supposed to respond on Friday.”

“It is Monday morning.”

“Exactly.” Ama said as she lowered the schedule, “They opened thirty-seven minutes ago.”

“Then they have had thirty-seven minutes.”

“Sometimes I forget you are a real person.” Ama said

“That sounds like a personal problem.” Akosua replied

Ama smiled faintly.

Akosua turned the page.

“The girls should not remain in the counselling room beyond Wednesday.”

“I know.” Ama said with a roll of her eyes.

“Has the carpenter measured the training-store partition?”

“He is coming this afternoon.”

“And the second emergency mattress?”

“Delivered.”

“The mosquito nets?”

“Also delivered.”

“The night roster?”

“Adjusted.”

“The counsellor?”

“Will see Abena at eleven. Efua has not agreed.”

“She does not have to.”

“I know.”

A knock sounded against the open door.

Adjoa stood there.

“Sorry, Akosua.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to ask whether we should move the digital-literacy class to Thursday because the laptops are still—”

“Speak to Mansa.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“She said to ask you.”

Akosua’s mouth tightened.

“What did she recommend?”

“That we move it.”

“Then move it.”

Adjoa nodded and turned to leave.

“Wait.”

She stopped.

“Next time, if the programme lead has made a reasonable decision within her area, you do not need my approval.”

Adjoa looked uncertain.

“Okay.”

“Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you look worried?”

Adjoa glanced at Ama.

Ama returned her attention to the schedule.

“It is just that last time we moved a training date, the partner complained.”

“Did the partner withdraw?”

“No.”

“Did the programme fail?”

“No.”

“Then make the decision and document why.”

“All right.”

Adjoa left.

Akosua looked back at the intake summary. Ama said nothing. That was worse than commentary.

“What?”

“I did not say anything.”

“You are thinking loudly.”

Ama’s brows lifted. “That is his line.”

Akosua looked up. “Whose?”

Ama’s expression became carefully innocent. “The consultant.”

“You have heard him say it once.”

“And remembered.”

Akosua closed the folder. A vehicle rolled into the compound. She could hear the tyres move slowly across the wet paving stones.

Ama stood.

“They are here.”

“I am aware.”

“You should come out.”

“They know where the office is.”

“They are guests.”

“They are consultants.”

“Those categories can overlap.”

Akosua remained seated for another second. Then stood. She had chosen a cream blouse and dark-green trousers that morning. Structured, practical, neither overly formal nor welcoming.

Not that clothing could be welcoming.

She stepped out of the office. Tega and Dara had already left the vehicle. Dara stood beside the passenger door in a slate-grey dress, a leather tote over one shoulder. Tega was speaking to the doorman.

He wore a pale-blue shirt with the sleeves buttoned at his wrists, charcoal trousers and no jacket. His leather folder was under one arm.

He had also left his phone in his hand.

Akosua noticed that first.

Then he turned. His gaze found her immediately. The warmth from the conference returned to his face. Not as openly this time. They had work between them now.

But it was there.

“Good morning,” he said.

“You are early.”

“I am improving.”

“You are seven minutes early.”

“I assumed that would earn at least provisional approval.”

“It demonstrates capacity.”

Dara smiled.

“Good morning, Akosua.”

“Good morning.”

Ama joined them.

Introductions were brief.

Professional.

Ama and Dara had exchanged emails over the weekend and immediately began discussing the document schedule.

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FOLARIN’S P.O.V:

Tunde’s wedding invitation sat on my desk for three days before I did anything about it. Not because I forgot. How could I forget Tunde’s wedding?

Tunde himself might have tried to forget the guest list, but the rest of us were invested. Lamide deserved joy. Tunde deserved to be publicly embarrassed by love.

Seyi deserved the opportunity to wear agbada and behave like the reception was his personal fan meeting.

The issue was the plus-one.

The invitation did not say plus-one. It did not need to.

Tunde had said it himself at the hangout.

“Come with someone if you want,” he said, like a man who did not understand that those five words could disturb nations.

Seyi immediately asked if he could come with three people.

Kunle said no.

Tunde said absolutely not.

I laughed then.

But now, sitting in my office, staring at the invitation, one name kept rising in my mind.

Derin.

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7 Years Later…

NAETO’S P.O.V:

By the time Naeto got home, his feet hurt, his head hurt, and he was almost certain he hated medicine. Not permanently. Just until he had slept for twelve uninterrupted hours. Which, considering he had a surgery seminar at eight the next morning and at least sixty pages left to read, was unlikely to happen.

He pushed the door open and dropped his keys into the small ceramic bowl beside it.

“Professor?”

Nothing.

Good.

NJ wasn’t home. Thank God. He loved his sister. Deeply. He also loved her more when she wasn’t talking. Naeto kicked off his shoes, loosened the top button of his shirt and headed for the kitchen.

There was rice in the fridge. At least, there had been rice in the fridge that morning. He opened it.

Nothing.

Naeto stared.

He checked the second shelf, as though the bowl might have developed legs overnight and relocated.

Nothing.

“NJ.”

He said her name to the empty apartment with the weary resignation of a man who already knew exactly what had happened.

His phone rang.

He pulled it from his pocket.

NJ.

He answered.

“Where is my rice?”

There was a pause.

Then she said, “Good evening to you too.”

“NJ.”

“How was your day?” She asked, ignoring his question completely.

“My rice.”

“I ate it.”

“I know you ate it.”

“So why are you asking?”

Naeto closed his eyes.

“Because there was enough rice in that bowl to feed three human beings.”

“Yes.”

“You ate everything?”

“I was hungry.”

“You are always hungry.”

“That sounds like something you should discuss with our parents. They made me.”

Naeto laughed despite himself.

“Where are you?”

“Coming home.”

“From where?”

“School.”

“It’s almost seven.”

“I know what time it is.”

“Who are you with?”

“Solape.”

That didn’t surprise him.

Since NJ had started university, Solape had become almost permanently attached to her. Half the time Naeto wasn’t sure which of them actually lived in his house.

“And Miriam.”

Naeto paused.

Only for a second.

“Miriam?”

“Yes.”

A small smile came before he could stop it.

“When did she get here?”

“This afternoon.”

“How is she?”

“She’s fine.”

“How’s school?”

“Fine.”

Naeto opened a cupboard and pulled out a packet of Indomie.

“She’s enjoying Mass Comm?”

“You can ask her yourself. She’s staying for a few days.”

He stopped.

“Here?”

“No, Brother. In the gutter outside.”

“NJ.”

“Yes, here.”

“And you’re telling me now?”

“I’ve been trying to call you since afternoon.”

“I was in the hospital.”

“Exactly. So how is it my fault?”

Naeto put the noodles on the counter.

“How many days?”

“I don’t know. Maybe four. Maybe five.”

“And Solape?”

“She’s not sleeping here.”

“Thank God.”

“That’s rude.”

“Your friend has no volume control.”

NJ laughed.

“I’ll tell her you said that.”

“Please do.”

There was noise in the background. A horn. Solape shouting something. Then another voice, softer, saying something Naeto couldn’t make out.

He knew the voice anyway.

Something old and familiar warmed in his chest.

Miriam.

He hadn’t seen her in… He frowned. When had he last seen Miriam properly?

Years.

There had been Christmas visits and the occasional family event, but they’d mostly missed each other. University had swallowed his life, and Miriam had gone off to her own school.

The Miriam his mind produced automatically was still small. Big eyes. Cardigan sleeves pulled over her hands. Always hovering somewhere beside NJ. She’d been a sweet child. Painfully shy sometimes.

Too polite.

And for reasons Naeto had never quite understood, she’d looked at him when they were younger as though he’d personally hung the moon.

He’d known about the crush. Of course he’d known. She hadn’t exactly been subtle. He’d found it adorable.

NJ’s little friend going quiet whenever he entered a room, suddenly finding the floor fascinating.

He remembered once catching her staring at him during—

“Brother?”

Naeto blinked.

“What?”

“Were you listening?”

“No.”

“Wonderful. We’ll be home soon.”

“Bring food.”

“We bought groceries.”

“That is not food.”

“We bought chicken and Solape will cook.”

“Better.”

“Bye.”

“NJ...”

She’d already hung up.

Naeto looked at the phone. Then at the kitchen. Then around the living room. There were medical textbooks on the dining table. His white coat was hanging over the back of a chair. There were two pairs of shoes beside the sofa. A towel he’d left there that morning.

He frowned.

Then caught himself.

Why did he care? Miriam had practically grown up around their family. She’d seen worse. He picked up the towel anyway. Then the shoes. He stacked the books. He was carrying an empty mug to the kitchen when he stopped. Naeto looked down at the mug. Ridiculous.

He put it in the sink.

He was not cleaning because Miriam was coming. He was cleaning because the house was untidy. That was all.

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**********

The front door opened twenty minutes later with NJ’s voice preceding her.

“Naeto, come and help us!”

Naeto didn’t move from the dining table.

“You have hands.”

“We have bags!”

“You knew the number of hands you had when you bought them.”

“Naeto!”

He smiled down at his textbook.

Then another voice floated in.

“Please ignore her. We’ve been ignoring her since Shoprite.”

Solape.

“I heard that!”

“You were supposed to.”

Naeto shook his head and stood.

He had barely reached the living room when NJ came through carrying two shopping bags, looking personally betrayed by their weight.

Solape followed with another.

“Doctor,” Solape greeted.

“Noise pollution.”

She gasped.

“NJ, did you hear what your brother called me?”

“I’ve been telling you he doesn’t like you.”

“I don’t.”

“See?”

Solape put her bag down. “Yet you eat the food I cook.”

“Against my will.”

“You’re wicked.”

“I’ve been told.”

NJ thrust one of the bags at him.

“Carry this.”

Naeto took it.

Then someone stepped through the doorway behind them.

He looked up.

And stopped.

Miriam.

For a second, his brain simply refused to reconcile what he was seeing with the person attached to the name.

She had a bag over one shoulder and another in her hand. Her hair was pulled away from her face, and she was laughing at something Solape had said before she noticed him standing there.

Then she smiled.

“Brother Naeto.”

There she was. Except—Not quite.

“Hi.”

Brilliant, Naeto.

Seven years of medical school and that was what his brain produced.

Hi.

Miriam smiled.

“You look tired.” She said

“I am tired.” He answered

“You always look tired,” NJ supplied.

“Thank you.”

“I’m just saying.”

Naeto ignored her.

He looked back at Miriam.

She’d changed.

Obviously she’d changed. Years had passed. People changed.

But somehow he’d expected...

What exactly?

The child?

That didn’t make sense.

Miriam had always been full. Even as a girl, she’d developed earlier than everyone around her. He remembered because other children had made sure she knew it.

But this wasn’t that.

There was nothing awkward about her body now. Nothing unfinished. She had grown into herself. And apparently, Naeto’s brain had decided this was information worth registering.

He looked at her face.

“How was your journey?”

“Fine. Long.”

“Your school closed?”

“No. I’m on break for a week.”

“And you decided to spend it with this one?”

He pointed at NJ.

Miriam grinned.

“I know. It’s a questionable decision.”

“See why I’ve always liked you.”

The words came easily. Because they were true. He had always liked Miriam. She’d been a good kid. Sweet. Funny when you could get her to stop being shy. Fiercely loyal to NJ. And there had always been something about her that made him want to check that she was okay.

Maybe because he’d seen how cruel people could be to her.

Maybe because she’d once stood in his bedroom at twelve years old, holding a tray of food and apologising because he had chosen to punch somebody.

That was Miriam. Soft heart. Too quick to carry things that didn’t belong to her.

She smiled at him now. And something about the smile made his next thought disappear.

NJ shoved another bag against his chest.

“Please, continue your inquisition later. Chicken is defrosting.”

Naeto frowned.

“Everybody should get out of my living room.”

“Our living room,” NJ corrected.

“I pay the rent.”

“Daddy pays the rent.”

Naeto paused.

Solape burst out laughing.

Miriam covered her mouth.

NJ looked unbearably pleased with herself.

Naeto pointed toward the kitchen.

“All of you. Go.”

************

By nine, he had given up on studying.

There was simply no point.

NJ and Solape had been arguing for twenty minutes about whether a lecturer secretly hated Solape.

“He gave me twelve.”

“Because your answer was wrong.”

“My answer was creative.”

“It was wrong creatively.”

“You’re not even in my department.”

“I can still recognize nonsense.”

Miriam was sitting cross-legged on the rug between them, laughing so hard she had put her plate down.

Naeto looked up from his textbook. He’d read the same sentence four times. He blamed Solape. Entirely. Then Miriam laughed again.

Naeto’s eyes moved toward her without permission. He remembered that laugh. That surprised him. Not the sound exactly. The feeling of it.

There had always been something satisfying about making Miriam laugh when she was younger because she’d spent so much time trying not to be noticed.

When she laughed, she forgot herself.

Apparently she still did.

Her head tipped back. Her whole face changed.

Naeto caught himself smiling. Then caught himself catching himself. He looked back at his textbook.

Mitral stenosis.

Good.

Heart disease.

Safe territory.

“Brother Naeto.”

He looked up.

Miriam was watching him.

“What?”

“Are we disturbing you?”

“Yes.”

NJ threw a cushion at him.

He caught it.

Miriam laughed.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t mind him,” NJ said. “If we were disturbing him, he’d have gone to his room.”

Naeto looked at his sister.

Professor.

Always unfortunately correct.

He could have gone to his room. He hadn’t.

“I’m hungry,” Solape announced.

“You just ate,” NJ said.

“That was dinner. I’m talking about after-dinner food.”

“That is not a thing.”

“It is absolutely a thing.”

Naeto closed his book.

“There’s bread.”

Solape stared at him.

“Doctor. Look at me.”

He did.

“Do I look like bread?”

Naeto considered her carefully.

“Do you want the honest answer?”

Miriam choked on her drink.

Solape picked up the cushion NJ had thrown and launched it at him.

This time, he didn’t catch it.

***********

It was after midnight when Solape finally left.

NJ walked her downstairs to meet the cab she’d ordered, leaving Naeto in the kitchen rinsing plates.

He heard footsteps behind him.

“Give me.”

He turned.

Miriam stood there holding out her hand.

“For what?”

“The plate.”

“I can wash a plate.”

“I know.”

“Then?”

“You cooked.”

“Solape cooked.”

“You supervised.”

“I cut onions.”

“Exactly. Exhausting work.”

Naeto smiled.

“You’re still like this.”

She frowned.

“Like what?”

He handed her the plate.

“Nothing.”

“No. Tell me.”

“You used to do this when you were small.”

“Do what?”

“Try to help everybody.”

Miriam rolled her eyes.

“I’m not small anymore.”

The sentence was innocent. Completely innocent. Naeto knew that. His brain knew that. Yet, something else in him seemed to find it necessary to repeat the sentence.

I’m not small anymore.

He looked at her. Really looked. No. She wasn’t. That realization arrived differently this time, as awareness.

Miriam’s smile faded slightly.

“What?”

Naeto turned back to the sink.

“Nothing.”

“You’re behaving somehow.”

“I’m washing plates.”

“You were staring at me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

He glanced at her. She had one eyebrow raised. When had she started doing that?

“You’ve become troublesome.”

“I learnt from your sister.”

“That I believe.”

She laughed.

NJ’s key turned in the front door. Naeto exhaled. He didn’t know why he’d been holding his breath. And that bothered him.

****************

He noticed it again the following morning.

Miriam was in his kitchen. That shouldn’t have meant anything. NJ had friends in the apartment all the time. Solape had practically colonised one of the kitchen cabinets.

But Naeto came out of his room, still half asleep, and found Miriam standing in front of the kettle wearing an oversized T-shirt and loose trousers, her hair wrapped up.

She turned.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

“Coffee?”

He rubbed a hand over his face.

“Please.”

“How do you take it?”

“One sugar.”

“Milk?”

“A little.”

She nodded.

That was all.

Naeto went to sit at the dining table.

A few minutes later, a mug appeared beside his hand.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

She went back to whatever she was doing.

Naeto drank. One sugar. A little milk. She had gotten it exactly right. He stared at the mug. Then at Miriam.

Ridiculous.

Someone making coffee correctly was not an event. He had exams to worry about. Patients. His future. Actual problems.

He picked up his notes.

***********

The next morning, she didn’t ask. The coffee simply appeared. One sugar. A little milk.

Naeto looked at it for far too long.

“What’s wrong with it?”

Miriam was standing across the table.

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring at it.”

“I stare at things.”

“You’re strange.”

“You’re in my house.”

“And?”

“And you’re insulting me.”

She smiled.

“Sorry, Brother Naeto.”

There it was again.

Brother Naeto.

For the first time in his life, Naeto disliked the sound of his own name.

He frowned.

Miriam noticed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She walked away.

Naeto watched her go. Then immediately looked back at his notes.

No.

Absolutely not.

He picked up the mug and took a long drink. This was Miriam. NJ’s Miriam. The little girl with cardigan sleeves over her hands. The child who had once thought he was some sort of superhero because he’d told a few stupid boys to leave her alone. The girl who used to blush when he spoke to her.

That Miriam.

Except she wasn’t twelve anymore. Naeto closed his eyes. There was the problem. She wasn’t twelve anymore. And apparently his body had received the information before the rest of him had decided what to do with it.

He opened his eyes.

Across the room, Miriam said something to NJ.

NJ burst out laughing.

Miriam joined her.

Naeto watched them for half a second.

Then returned to his book.

No.

It was a simple word.

A sensible word.

A necessary word.

He underlined a sentence he hadn’t actually read.

And somewhere behind him, Miriam laughed again.

Naeto pressed his pen harder against the page.

This was going to be a very long week.

MIRIAM’S P.O.V:

Miriam had been twelve years old the first time she decided Naeto Bankole was the finest boy God had ever created.

At twelve, this had seemed like an entirely reasonable conclusion. There had been other boys, obviously. Boys in her class. Boys in church. Boys on television.

None of them counted.

Brother Naeto was tall. Brother Naeto was kind. Brother Naeto had once made three boys who had spent weeks tormenting her suddenly develop an urgent interest in minding their business.

As far as twelve-year-old Miriam was concerned, this qualified him for sainthood. For approximately two years afterwards, she had been painfully in love with him. Painfully because Naeto barely seemed to notice.

He was always nice to her. That was almost worse.

He would say, Hello, Miriam.

And Miriam would think about it for three business days.

He would ask, How is school?

And Miriam would go home wondering if perhaps there had been something in his tone.

There never was.

By fifteen, she’d acquired enough dignity to stop behaving like an idiot whenever he entered a room.

By seventeen, she’d decided the whole thing had been childish.

By eighteen, she barely thought about him.

At nineteen, standing outside his apartment with two shopping bags cutting circulation from her fingers, Miriam discovered that she had apparently been lying to herself.

“Please knock again,” Solape said.

NJ shifted the bags in her hands. “He heard.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he has ears.”

“Maybe he’s sleeping.”

“Then he should wake up.”

NJ reached for the door just as it opened.

“Naeto, come and help us!”

Naeto appeared.

And Miriam’s first thought was—

Oh.

Her second was—

This is unfortunate.

Because Brother Naeto had somehow become finer. Which was unnecessary. Deeply unnecessary.

He had already been perfectly fine when she was twelve. There had been no reason whatsoever for God to continue the work.

He was taller than she remembered.

His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows. The top button was undone. There were faint shadows beneath his eyes, and his face carried the particular exhaustion of someone who hadn’t slept properly in several days.

It should have made him less attractive.

It did not.

Very irritating.

NJ pushed past him.

Miriam remained by the door for half a second too long.

Naeto looked up.

Their eyes met.

And he stopped.

Miriam’s heart performed something medically concerning. Then common sense returned. He probably hadn’t expected to see her. That was all.

She smiled.

“Brother Naeto.”

“Hi.”

Miriam almost laughed.

Hi?

She had known this man for most of her life and he was greeting her like someone he’d met beside a photocopying machine.

“You look tired.”

“I am tired.”

“You always look tired,” NJ said.

Miriam smiled.

Same NJ. Same Naeto. Same easy fighting between them. Something inside her relaxed.

Naeto looked at her again.

“How was your journey?”

“Fine. Long.”

“Your school closed?”

“No. I’m on break for a week.”

“And you decided to spend it with this one?”

He pointed at NJ.

Miriam grinned.

“I know. It’s a questionable decision.”

“See why I’ve always liked you.”

Her heart stopped.

Just—stopped. Stupid heart. He meant nothing by it. Obviously. Naeto had always liked her. The way older brothers liked their younger sisters’ friends. The way adults said, I’ve always liked that child. There was absolutely nothing in the sentence.

Miriam knew this.

Her heart, unfortunately, had not attended the briefing.

NJ shoved a bag into his chest.

“Please, continue your inquisition later. Chicken is defrosting.”

Naeto frowned.

“Everybody should get out of my living room.”

“Our living room,” NJ corrected.

“I pay the rent.”

“Daddy pays the rent.”

Naeto paused.

She covered her mouth.

Solape burst out laughing.

NJ looked unbearably pleased with herself.

Naeto pointed toward the kitchen with the dignity of a man who had just lost an argument catastrophically.

“All of you. Go.”

Miriam followed the girls, still laughing.

And just like that, she was twelve again. Not completely. That was the problem. At twelve, her crush on Naeto had been easy. He was handsome. He was kind. He was NJ’s older brother. She would marry him one day in the same way she would become a famous singer despite being unable to sing.

It hadn’t required anything from reality.

This was different. This Naeto wasn’t the senior boy from her childhood. He was a man. And Miriam was suddenly very aware that she was a woman. She didn’t like that awareness at all.

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************

By nine o’clock, Miriam had discovered three things.

One, NJ had grossly underestimated Solape’s cooking ability.

Two, Solape could argue about absolutely anything.

And three, Naeto’s forearms were a problem.

The third discovery annoyed her most.

She had been listening to Solape argue that twelve out of twenty was an insult to her intellectual capacity when she glanced toward the dining table.

Naeto was studying.

Or trying to.

He had changed out of the shirt he’d been wearing earlier into a plain dark T-shirt. A textbook lay open in front of him, one hand resting against his forehead while the other held a pen.

That was all.

A man reading.

There was no reason for Miriam to be looking at him.

So she stopped.

“...and I know what I wrote,” Solape was saying.

NJ snorted. “Apparently your lecturer also knows what you wrote. That’s why he gave you twelve.”

“My answer was creative.”

“It was wrong creatively.”

Miriam burst out laughing.

She glanced toward Naeto again.

He was looking at her.

Their eyes met.

He smiled.

Something warm moved through her stomach.

Miriam looked away first.

Nonsense.

Complete nonsense.

She was nineteen years old.

She had survived WAEC.

She had entered university.

She had men in her own school asking for her number. One had written her a poem. It wasn’t a particularly good poem, but that wasn’t the point. She was not going to spend an entire week behaving like the twelve-year-old who used to forget English whenever Naeto said hello.

“Brother Naeto.”

He looked up.

“What?”

“Are we disturbing you?”

“Yes.”

NJ threw a cushion at him.

He caught it.

Miriam laughed.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t mind him,” NJ said. “If we were disturbing him, he’d have gone to his room.”

Naeto looked at NJ.

Miriam watched him.

He could have gone to his room.

He hadn’t.

She immediately hated the tiny, hopeful thought that followed.

Maybe he likes having us here.

Us.

She emphasized the word internally.

Us.

Not Miriam.

Everybody.

She wasn’t doing this to herself.

Not again.

************

Later, after Solape left and NJ went downstairs with her, Miriam found Naeto washing plates.

She should have gone to bed.

Instead, she walked into the kitchen.

“Give me.”

He turned.

“For what?”

“The plate.”

“I can wash a plate.”

“I know.”

“Then?”

“You cooked.”

“Solape cooked.”

“You supervised.”

“I cut onions.”

“Exactly. Exhausting work.”

He smiled.

And there it was. That smile. Miriam remembered it. Not because it hadn’t changed. It had. But because of what it did to her.Apparently some humiliations survived puberty.

“You’re still like this,” he said.

She frowned.

“Like what?”

He handed her a plate.

“Nothing.”

“No. Tell me.”

“You used to do this when you were small.”

There it was.

Small.

Of course.

Miriam took the plate.

“Do what?”

“Try to help everybody.”

She rolled her eyes.

“I’m not small anymore.”

Naeto looked at her.

And something changed.

It was so brief that later Miriam would wonder whether she’d imagined it.

His eyes stayed on her. Not her face exactly.

Her.

The pause lasted perhaps a second. Maybe two. But Miriam felt it everywhere. Her breath caught.

Naeto looked away.

“Nothing.”

She stared at him.

“You’re behaving somehow.”

“I’m washing plates.”

“You were staring at me.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

She raised an eyebrow.

Naeto looked at her again.

“You’ve become troublesome.”

“I learnt from your sister.”

“That I believe.”

Miriam laughed.

Then the front door opened.

NJ.

The moment disappeared so quickly Miriam was almost embarrassed she’d noticed it.

Of course he’d looked at her.

People looked at people.

That was not evidence of anything.

She rinsed the plate.

Don’t start.

She knew herself.

Knew how easily attention could become something larger in her head.

She had learnt that lesson early.

Kindness was kindness.

A smile was a smile.

A look was sometimes just a look.

And Naeto—

Naeto was Naeto.

Brother Naeto.

The boy she’d had a ridiculous crush on when she was twelve.

The man who had probably forgotten all about it.

She would do the same.

**************

The next morning, Miriam woke before NJ.

This was not difficult.

A bomb could go off beside NJ’s bed and she’d probably ask it for five more minutes.

Miriam showered, changed and wandered into the kitchen.

The apartment was quiet.

She put water on to boil.

A few minutes later, Naeto walked in.

His hair was slightly rumpled.

His face still carried sleep.

Miriam stared.

This was becoming ridiculous.

Even half asleep?

Really?

God could have distributed resources more evenly.

Naeto noticed her.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

“Cofee?”

“Please.”

“How do you take it?”

“One sugar.”

“Milk?”

“A little.”

She nodded.

He went to the dining table.

Miriam made both cups.

One sugar.

A little milk.

She placed his beside him.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

That was all.

Nothing happened.

Because nothing was supposed to happen.

Still, while Miriam drank her own cofee, she caught herself looking at him over the rim of the mug.

Naeto was reading.

His brow furrowed slightly when he concentrated.

She remembered that too.

He’d always done it.

Back when she’d been twelve and he’d been—

Miriam stopped herself.

No.

She wasn’t going backwards.

She had spent too many years becoming someone different from that girl.

She liked herself more now.

Not completely.

There were still days she changed clothes three times because everything seemed to cling in the wrong places. Still moments when she entered a room and instinctively checked whether she was the biggest woman there.

But she wasn’t twelve anymore.

She no longer wore cardigans in Nigerian heat because boys had opinions about her body.

She had learnt to take up some space.

Maybe not all of it.

But some.

And she certainly wasn’t going to shrink herself because Naeto Bankole had somehow become offensively attractive.

**************

The following morning, she made his coffee again because she remembered how he took it and she was making her own anyway.

That was all.

Naeto came out, saw the mug and stared at it.

Miriam frowned.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring at it.”

“I stare at things.”

“You’re strange.”

“You’re in my house.”

“And?”

“And you’re insulting me.”

She smiled.

“Sorry, Brother Naeto.”

He frowned.

Miriam’s smile faltered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

He picked up the mug.

Miriam walked away.

But something about his expression followed her.

She joined NJ in the living room and tried to listen to whatever she was saying.

She failed.

Because for one ridiculous moment, Miriam found herself wondering whether Naeto disliked her calling him Brother Naeto.

Then she nearly laughed at herself.

What else was she supposed to call him?

Naeto?

She imagined it.

Naeto.

No Brother.

Just his name.

Something about it felt far too intimate.

Absolutely not.

Brother Naeto was safe.

Brother Naeto belonged to childhood.

Brother Naeto allowed her to have this stupid little flutter in her chest without having to ask herself what it meant.

Because the alternative was impossible.

Men like Naeto did not look at women like Miriam.

She knew that.

She had known it at twelve.

Apparently she still knew it at nineteen.

So she settled beside NJ and pulled her legs beneath her.

Across the room, Naeto turned a page.

Miriam did not look at him.

At least, not immediately.

This was going to be a very long week.

Author’s Note: Do you think “Brother Naeto” will survive this week?🤣

Should Miriam drop the title and if yes, why?😏😂

It’s going to be a long week for all of us since we’re waiting to see what happens. 🌚

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Catch up: Chapter one here, and Chapter two here

See you next week.❤️