Morayo

It was the first thing that came to mind, and I did it. I jumped on Olufemi and wrapped my body around his.

In the immediate moments that followed, I felt several things I hadn’t imagined possible. And trust me, I have an array of wild thoughts to my name. First, his chest was like solid ground, holding me up against gravity like I wasn’t permitted to fall. Then the boulders he called shoulders were fully committed to letting me know they’d hold me for however long I wanted them to. And for that, I was grateful. So grateful that I didn’t seem to mind the sweat coating his body and seeping through his Gymshark tank top. Not that I was checking him out, by the way; the brand logo on the chest of the cloth was just impossible to miss.

A couple of seconds passed after I jumped into his unaware arms before my brain settled enough to realize that the unusual firmness I felt in his body was simply the poor man being tense from what had just happened. I must have been too slow to realize that I had done something absolutely unprecedented, because it was his gentle couple of coughs that finally made me open my eyes. Briefly. So brief that the only pair of eyes I could see were those of Bimpe, and they were wide like she had just come face to face with a polar bear.

“Uhm. What are you doing?” He said, his voice pitched right in the middle of calm and panic.

I squeezed my eyes even tighter. It would be absolutely embarrassing to get down at that point. I was literally wrapped around a man who had not as much as spared me any crumb from his plate of looks all afternoon. Hands, legs, everything. Wrapped around him like I was some freaking octopus.

Several more microseconds passed, and I knew he needed an answer. He probably wanted to know if he should pluck me off like one would discard a disgusting beast, or let me down gently, since I was still his direct superior.

Shit, I hadn’t thought the move through properly. Watching Adelaja steal glances at Ibironke throughout the game must have loosened some screws in my brain, made me want my team to win a point so badly, and subsequently sent me flying into the arms of my subordinate all in the name of revenge. Impressive response, indeed. I’m just a fucking mess, sometimes. Maybe all the time. Because I’ve been making silly mistakes around this big guy over the past couple of days, the latest of which was making him ask what the hell I was doing girdled around him like a primitive human.

He must have figured I had absolutely no idea what I was doing, because he soon suggested a solution. “I’d wrap my hands around you now, so you don’t look like an idiot who flew into the hands of the wrong man.”

“Hey, that’s not nice,” I murmured a rebuttal into the sides of his neck as I felt his left hand gently sit above my waist. Thank you, I thought.

The sides of my head felt the muscles of his chin move. Was he smiling? I was sure it was a smile. That smile melted the knot forming in the lower parts of my tummy. Thank goodness he was more of a gentleman than I deserved at the moment.

“Do you want me to be nice and drop you right this second? I bet you’re eager to see the curious eyes of everyone right now.” I could hear his voice right from the side of his throat. It was a murmur, one delivered at a decibel that certainly made it so that I was the only one who’d hear what he was saying.

I shook my head gently, burrowing into his neck with my face as the embarrassment simmered. The deeper I went, the more my entire being was blessed with the aroma of his skin. It was like…

“Are you guys playing or what?” Tunde’s voice cut in before my brain could process the bed of fragrances I was lying in.

“Thank you for choosing LinkWorks Airline. We look forward to welcoming you back on board soon. Watch your step as you get off the plane.” Olufemi leaned forward to let me down from the ride of shame gently.

For some reason, it felt like a flight I’d want to take again. I patted my body to get nothing but sticky, on-looking eyes off of it. My eyes found Adelaja’s for less than a second before swerving to Olufemi. The gentleman seemed to be checking if I was okay upon landing. I was. So, I did what anybody who’d just embarrassed themselves would do. I smiled.

Thankfully, he smiled in kind.

He mouthed something. I mulled over what it could be for several minutes before clocking it must have been “you owe me.”

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Olufemi

Still, no one had a definitive answer on whether the CEO and Morayo were in a relationship, or whether the outburst over the phone weeks back was about a fleeting situationship. I knew, because I asked my colleagues, as nonchalantly as possible. I mean, chipping in the question during normal, random conversations was bound to raise no brows. And for record’s sake, the stealth investigation was days before the woman who’d been the object of desire flew into my chest, like she was trying to barge into my heart.

Anyways, like Dara advised before I checked into The Residence, I had stopped caring, before and after the investigation. The investigation period was a moment of weakness; it doesn’t count.

But that flying hug was enough to fuck with every bit of progress I had made in the school of not giving a damn about Morayo.

Consequently, I reported myself to the couple who had made it one of their primary missions to be my guardian angels. I narrated the whole story so far. From the uncertainty around Morayo’s relationship status, to the collision at the stairs, to the sweet efforts she made to salvage my stained shirt, to how she remembered my food choices amongst the other microscopic things she did with a straight face without thinking twice. And finally to the flying hug while playing volleyball.

If Dara had reacted any differently, I’d have thought the sun rose from the west that day.

Remi: You, this man, you seem to have cotton wool blocking your ears. I thought I gave you an instruction. D.

I knew it was Dara typing through Remi’s WhatsApp thanks to the initial of her first name.

Me: Forgive me, your highness. I have sinned, please behead me.

Remi: Of course. I plan to. But before that, you have to solve an impossible task. Why not just hear it from the horse’s mouth directly? Ask your boss if he was in a relationship with Morayo, or ask Morayo herself. Whichever feels more convenient for you. D.

Dara always made a lot of sense. No wonder Remi was irrevocably in love with her. You hear her speak and you instantly know she was well-grounded, direct, and not one to mess around. She was an anchor to Remi’s lifestyle, and by extension, mine too. Whenever I was laying down my problems in Remi’s DM, I was merely trying to get advice from Dara. He ran everything by her, down to how many pairs of underwear he should pack for a weekend trip. I once third-wheeled with them on a quick trip to Almat Farms, and Remi couldn’t decide whether taking a morning bath before the scheduled swim was a good idea. Of course, his logic in human form came to the rescue.

Me: I think I’d ask the CEO.

Remi: I was going to say you should ask the girl. But no problem.

Remi was back on the chat.

I wanted to ask the CEO directly to get a sense of how he actually felt about Morayo. I still couldn’t shake off the fact that I had caught him flirting with Ibironke when she had just arrived at the camp. If I had not made the trip to the next compound where she was lodged, that detail would have been lost. My investigative instinct, developed thanks to my guardian angels, led me to believe there was more to the story. Somewhere deep in my bones, I felt that he was into some shady business, and the itch to find out was beginning to consume me. The woman who owned the tender body that flew into my hands during the volleyball game didn’t deserve to be with a cheater. I wasn’t planning to tell her. Certainly not. Intruding on her relationship was not something I’d ever consider. But for some reason, I wanted to know. Partly because the logical side of me wanted to shut down the bubbling thoughts of Morayo in me; all it would take would be to hear Adelaja gushing over his love for Morayo, and all the suspicion of him and these feelings for Morayo would be dispelled from my heart. At least, so I hoped.

Me: Yeah, man. Gotta go to bed now, bro. Peace.

I turned off my internet, returned the AirPods to their case, and was instantly exposed to Tunde's snoring fits. For a moment, I forgot what a train-wreck he was.

But the years of noise-resistant sleep honed at Obafemi Awolowo University were going to pay off once again. I slept. And dreamt. And it was Morayo in my arms again.

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Morayo

The new week began with a boardroom meeting featuring representatives from GoldenGrains Foods. Thankfully, there weren’t any instances of Can you see my screen? I think they finally hired a competent IT person at that company. The old men who wore suits two sizes above their body class kept their skeptical looks as I relayed the results of the work we’ve done so far. They weren’t impressed. Understandably. Even if the wildfire were no longer spreading, there would always be cause for concern because the internet never forgets. Until their company’s image was reliably repaired, nothing we do will ever cause them to smile.

“I think we are done here for now.” Adelaja wouldn’t know how much those words meant to me as he brought the meeting to a close.

I realized they were the best words I’ve heard from him since Ibironke arrived, and that doubled whatever bile piled at the base of my stomach.

“Let’s just have our strategy meeting now, since we are all gathered anyway.” I refused to be the only one in misery.

They were all halfway through standing up.

“We still have about 30 minutes before the meeting.” Lois dared.

“We are having it now.” I snapped.

“Morayo, can…”

“Now!” I stared into Ibironke before she could get any further. If only she knew how much pain she’d been causing me since her arrival, she’d let me have this one.

In the corner of my eyes, I saw them waiting for Adelaja to intervene. Only he had the power to overrule me. But he knew better than to do that. This was my team, and I’d run it however I saw fit. We had that understanding since I took the role, and he better not start backtracking now. He was welcome to leave, though; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d starve me of his presence over the past week. And whenever I chatted with him about how much I missed him, he seemed to have an array of professional responses at hand.

Adelaja sat down. They all did. So, we talked about strategy. We had been fondling a campaign idea since last Thursday, but among the other options we’d aggregated so far, it was the best.

Thanks to the fire burning in me, I outlined a laundry list of tasks to keep everyone busy in the near future, at least until the next day’s meeting.

Relief washed over Adelaja. “I think we are finally done here.” He said. “Remind me not to fall into the trap of your daily meetings anymore.”

He had the nerve to make a joke and chuckle. Others followed suit. I saw him send a wink towards Ibironke, and my small intestine tried running up my throat once more. The only consolation was that she ignored him and started chattering with Olufemi, who was seated beside her.

I found that interesting. I was the one who spilled his coffee and flew into his embrace, but he seemed to have found a friend in Ibironke since yesterday morning. Well, our encounters have been rather unfortunate events that I’d like to wipe from my memory.

My body shuddered again upon remembering how I practically pleaded with him to help me save face. And now, I’m in his debt.

Fuck. Again.

I needed a 40°C shower. Fuck everyone!

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Olufemi

I caught him before he got to his car. And I instantly realized it was the first time Adelaja and I would have any reason to speak one-on-one. For a split second, I thought about switching the topic. Not out of cowardice. It just felt weird that the first topic we’d be discussing was something so personal. In a professional setting, that was certainly a case of misplaced priorities. Damn it.

Immediately, he turned to look at me, and a smirk ensued on his face. “If you are here to apologize for what happened yesterday, you don’t have to. It’s nothing.”

He continued to hold the door of his car, ready to leave. He was sure the conversation wasn’t going to be long enough to warrant paying full attention.

I wondered what made him expect an apology from me, because that had never occurred to me. I did nothing wrong, and there was nothing to apologize for. “Uhm…” I began before realizing there was actually no need to correct his perspective on why I paced after him. I could use it to my advantage instead. I could get an answer to my question without asking the question. “Thank you. I mean, I’d never make a move on your girlfriend. But I just wanted to clear the misunderstanding.”

He didn’t retort. So, she was indeed his girlfriend.

“There’s absolutely no need for that. I’m sure yesterday was nothing.” It was for less than a second, but I swear I saw his eyes dart from my head to toe. “No offense, but I’m sure she just had a temporary lapse in judgment. It’s all good.”

I held his gaze for longer than I’d have liked. I couldn’t believe the things I heard from him.

“Is that all?”

I nodded.

Somehow, from the slightly lower angle he stood at from me, his left hand found my shoulder, and he left two quick pats on it before getting into his car and driving off.

Tunde was right. Petty motherfucker indeed.

See you on the next one. Have you enjoyed the story so far? Got questions? Kindly leave a comment below.

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I know it’s been a while since you last heard from me. I sincerely apologize for that. I had too many things going on at once, which didn’t leave me enough time to write as creatively as I should have. I will keep trying to write more timely and better, and I hope you keep enjoying the story.

I don’t take your readership for granted. Thank you very much.

Previously on Hearts and Hashtags.

I tried to make this episode worth the wait (as per volume). Enjoy.

Olufemi

I was twelve when my mother made me have sex with one of her younger friends.

She stood there, beside the creaking bed, and watched, directing my every action and yelling instructions on what to do. She held my hands to touch where she said were the most sensitive parts of a woman and what kind of motion would get the best reaction from the person under me. She was spot on. I watched the woman on the bed squirm with pleasure. She smiled and said I was really a man like my mother said. My mother smiled too, as she eased me into the strange woman. I closed my eyes, hoping to find answers to the unending questions that popped up in my head. Mother pressed me harder against the woman. She said it was to compensate for a deficit in length and width. Several minutes passed, and everything became blurry.

But one question pierced through my thinking: Why did my mother smile?

Through the decades that followed, I found zero answers. And neither could I understand my mother. Even when Dr. Moon said I needed to try, I never could manage it, and it bothered me. It always did, even before therapy. I couldn’t understand why she lived life the way she did. The things she did on a day-to-day basis were all beyond my control. And because our lives were some mother-son package deal, my own life soon became incomprehensible to me. I was lost at everything. Everything, except leaving.

Excusing myself from the complexities she had going on in her life had been my best decision over the past couple of years.

The anarchic lifestyle of that damned city called Lagos must have temporarily neutralized whatever disarray I had going on inside of me. And I didn’t realize it until I was over seven hundred kilometers away. Because all the trigger I needed to start hearing the troubled voices in my head was to experience the calm of Abuja. There was less noise from the outside, so the demons inside my head started to sing like a well-rehearsed orchestra.

Fortunately for me, I had great friends and met a god-sent therapist who was nothing like the shrinks I had heard about. Life got better, with vibrant colors coating my days and making a spectacle of it. Hope for a better future stopped feeling like a futile dream. So, I spent the past couple of years making calculated decisions.

But in the few days that have passed since I started staying at what Remi now called The Residence, I’ve been making decisions that are the polar opposite of best.

Everything Dara said on the day I got into this house remained etched in my consciousness. Remember, she’s taken, and whatever goes on in her relationship is none of your business. She was right. I understood every part of that statement, to the letter, even before she made it.

Unfortunately for me, being in the same house with Morayo was way different from the remote communication I was used to having with her. Online, once meetings were done, everyone got off the call and spent most of their time corresponding via text on Slack. Rinse and repeat, every day.

But here in The Residence? I saw more of her. I saw personas of Morayo I wouldn’t have believed existed.

The one that struck me the most was how she wore responsibility like skin.

And it wasn’t just about how she approached the day-to-day of the job - which was already impressive, by the way. It was in the little things, all done when no one was there to see. If my heart hadn’t been super interested in her, I wouldn’t have noticed. I mean, was it the shifting of chairs back into place after long days of everyone’s frenzied activities in the living room? Or the fact that she remembered everyone’s nutritional preferences when making a list with the chef. I don’t remember telling her I hated Salad, but somehow, she knew. Gosh! She was hellbent on making it harder for me to keep my racing heart ribbed in its cage.

“You know you have to be careful, right?” The voice broke into my thoughts. I’ve been so caught up in my thoughts of the past and the present that I totally forgot Tunde was some centimeters beside me, sunset bathing.

He suggested it - lying on the poolside lounge in nothing but shorts.

I guess it wasn’t enough that he terrorized my eyes with unsolicited views of his nude waltz to and fro the bathroom every morning and night; he needed to flaunt his belly to the world. And despite my strongest protests about bathing in the sunset, citing inability to swim, he wasn’t having any of it. Roommates have to stick together.

His words made me remember my NYSC camp roommates, and the night they made sure I drank whatever they mixed in that red cup. A few sips in, I only remembered the floor becoming a treadmill, and all I could do was run.

“Careful? Careful of what?” The words stumbled out of me, but my eyes remained shut behind the sunshades I had on.

“You don’t want to get on the bad side of the CEO, man. He’s a proper tool. Don’t be fooled by the coy smile he wears. He’s such an insecure motherfucker and can get really petty when he wants to be. And even if no one is certain he’s dating Morayo, you don’t want to tamper with his plaything. The last time someone at the company looked at Ibironke for too long at a company gathering, he sacked the poor guy the following day.”

Alright, that’s enough. What the hell? My eyes flung open like the lids were going to fly off. I didn’t need to tell my neck to turn; it did, of its own volition.

“What are you talking about?” I spared him the hell in the sentence.

“Come on, man. I know you like Morayo. I’ve seen the way you look at her. You’ve tried to hide it, but the bulb in your eyes lights up whenever you look at her. I mean, I wasn’t sure of it though, until I saw your notes.” He didn’t stop peeling the slices of cucumber from over his eyelids.

Notes? My notes? What notes? Oh, my notes!

“What the fuck, man! Why would you read my journal?!”

Echoes of doom rang loud bells into my eardrums. Until he said, “Chill, man, I didn’t read all of your journal. I saw the book on your desk while I was trying to find the note you used to take down meeting minutes. I opened it to check if it was the right book. The page I opened had Morayo in the title. And from the very first line, your written confessions were jumping out at me. So sorry, my bad,” the little smile seated on the edge of his lips said otherwise. He didn’t seem to think it was a big deal. My eyes darted around the poolside to make sure no other ears were close by.

He was wrong. There had been no bigger deal than this in my life. Okay, maybe the day I tried to meet my maker would count as a pretty big deal. But this was serious in ways I couldn’t begin to comprehend.

“That’s just not cool, man. You don’t see me going through your stuff and making a laugh about it.” The temperature of the body parts above my neck rose quickly beyond normal. But I had to keep a level head. That was the only way I’d be able to play the whole thing off as a joke. If not, I was doomed.

He finally got up and raised his hand in surrender. “I’m sorry, man. If I knew it was such a personal journal, I wouldn’t have opened it.” With a little wiggle of his ass, the towel dropped from his waist, and he leaped straight into the water.

He obviously figured out that I didn’t want to discuss the topic of Morayo any longer than we did. But as I watched him do his breaststrokes towards the deep end of the pool, I knew this was far from over. Somehow, I felt the matter wouldn’t blow over, but I wished I was wrong.

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Morayo

Fuck. It’d been a long time since I exerted myself so much. Just one work week under the same roof as my coworkers, and I already felt like fighting a bear. Yes, they were great people, but I’d rather be on my own. At least, then, I wouldn’t have to rearrange the chairs in the living room a million times every day. Back home, deep cleaning only always happened once a week. The weekend. But here, half a day is too long a time to wait between cleaning rounds. I mean, why are dining chairs not perfectly returned to position? Just like I told them on the second day, looking at the tiles on the floor, they’d see the symmetry that’d help pick the spot of every chair to be tucked under the table. Like, what the hell? Their tardiness was just mind-boggling.

Now, beyond the horror of having to deal with other human activities in the house I temporarily live in, not being in Delaja’s embrace at any point over the past week also contributed to my hell. He’d been around several times as we worked through fixing the issues with Golden Foods Grains, but he was being nothing more than the CEO. Not my boyfriend. And I don’t even know if I’m imagining things again, but I’d seen him look in the direction of Ibironke during meetings more than he had at mine. Though he did say he was trying to avoid putting the team members in an awkward position earlier in the week. The only issue with the arrangement was that unease was beginning to hold me by the scruff of the neck.

Alright, Morayo, calm down. You gotta trust your man, I told myself as I glided down the stairs, headphones blasting through my playlist of John Legend’s specials. Though it wasn’t enough to keep my tired eyes awake as I got some early Sunday morning work in. I needed a coffee refill.

Descending the stairs, the idea of getting some love-related top-up from Adelaja to start the day appealed so much to me, but he wouldn’t be around till later in the day. Thank goodness he was coming around; if not, I’d have hailed a ride to his house. Taking my car to his place wouldn’t be much of a surprise because the tracker he installed on it would have snitched.

Since that bitch arrived, this plan for a one-day team-bonding hangout has been the only positive thing she added to my life. Ibironke insisted so much on it on Friday, and everyone jumped on the bandwagon. Such a hivemind these guys were. I just hoped they weren’t resting easy simply because we had figured out who was responsible for the smear campaign. We still had a long way to go to turn the tide and earn our money’s worth.

The only place where I didn’t have a long way to go was on the stairs. I took the last step down, and somehow, a human entity appeared from just around the corner and rammed straight into me. We didn’t butt heads, but whatever liquid they had in the cup experienced a huge storm and spilled on both our attire. My footsteps stumbled backward, eyes closed in pain. I wished to God that the culprit was Ibironke. I swear to God, I’d pull her hair out.

“Oh” was the only word my mouth could conjure when I realized I had just bumped into the lover boy who wrote about how he liked me in his journal. The muscles on my face relaxed. The curses backpedaled as I pulled down my headphones to see him properly.

The memory from the day before hit me again, and it gave life to a little smile on the left edge of my lips. First, why would a man keep a journal? It was such a girly thing to do! Despite all the muscles he packed under his skin, Olufemi was nothing but a princess.

He was pretty shocked when he looked up to see me. I made a mental note of how alluring he was to stare at.

His perplexed expression quickly morphed into concern, and I mourned that change so deep in my soul.

“Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you coming.”

Of course, he couldn’t have. The blind spot between the stairs and the kitchen was the only flaw in the design of the apartment. It wasn’t my first time ramming into someone at that exact spot. The last time, my small frame bounced back against Tunde’s potbelly. At least, this time, my crash was into firm packs of flesh distributed across chest, stomach, shoulders, and legs. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

It was a shame that my favorite non-lingerie nightwear was ruined with tiny stain spots, but he looked to have it worse.

The spill drew the map of an unknown country on his white tanktop. If the top wasn’t tight around his frame before, the spill certainly cemented it to his chest now, carving out the space his left nipple took in the world for my eyes to see.

“Looks like you’re going to need some quick treatment on that before the tannins refuse to let go,” I suggested.

“Tannins? What are those? Sounds like a dangerous chemical.”

“You bet. They are dangerous, dangerous chemicals. Anything white runs for its life in the presence of tannins.”

“Oh shit!”

He was going to damage the shirt by rubbing the spill site with his fingers before I grabbed them to stop the costly mistake. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but my hand couldn’t curl properly around his wrist. But just clutching to them like a toddler trying to keep hold of a teddy bear twice its size did the trick of stopping him in his tracks.

“You do that, and your white shirt goes six feet under.”

Without seeking permission, I pulled him towards the kitchen to grab some paper towels despite a body mass that must be close to a hundred kilograms. The fact that he followed me was certainly not a testament to my strength or power.

In that short trip to the kitchen island, I swear, I could feel his smile on the back of my head. He must have been laughing, wondering why someone so small was pulling him. My hand dropped his in such a hurry that one would think I got caught stealing.

“When did you start drinking coffee? I thought you were more of a juice person.” I asked, dabbing gently on his chest with the tissue paper. His backside was now leaning against the island top.

Thankfully, the height difference and my proximity to him must have made it so that all he could see of me was the center of my head. It would be a disaster if he saw just how much I stared at his chest and overall upper body build. My long, persistent look wasn’t because I fancied him or his body. It was curiosity. I had never been that present in the physical space of any man who loved the gym.

By the way, those were Olufemi’s exact words on one of the forms he had to complete when he started his role. What’s your favorite recreational activity? I love the gym.

Personally, I thought he was just a show-off, but from the first time I saw him in person at the door, I realized there were certainly differences in the bodies of men. I mean, Adelaja’s body, especially his tummy, told tales of his wealth these days. For Frank - the guy I dated during one of the dating breaks Delaja and I took when I was in school - his body was as scrawny as they came.

So, yes, some men definitely looked like freaks that loved the gym.

“I’ll tell you the lore behind my coffee journey if you answer my question.” Olufemi’s voice floated into the front of my mind from above. Consequently, I looked up into his eyes that seemed to have been staring down at me for a little longer than now.

He was not going to ask me if I liked him, right? Because I didn’t. I don’t, and I won’t. I wanted no part of whatever he had going on in that journal of his. Yes, I know I shouldn’t have eavesdropped on his conversation with Tunde, but I was glad I did. Now, I can steer clear of that wrecking ball. All I needed to say was an emphatic no, once his question dropped. I couldn’t imagine giving off interactions that made him think he could have a go at me. My heart belonged to Adelaja, period. My father had spent sixteen years trying to break us up, but as far as I was concerned, there was no one else for me.

He was on the verge of saying something. Then, he said nothing. His mouth closed, and his throat swallowed.

I had never seen him hesitate since we arrived in the lodge. During meetings, he was always vocal. Assured and confident. Like he knew it all. Alright, I’d be lying if I said he didn’t. His work was always comprehensive, and from the interactions we've all had with one another in the house so far, he seemed to know a bit about everything. Leaving me to wonder what manner of question would cause his eyes to loiter timidly.

“Do your three brothers have the same eyes as yours?” He didn’t stop staring into my soul as the words rolled out of him one after the other. There was a sea of darkish brown caramel in his eyes, and I drowned in it for several seconds before I caught myself.

I stepped back. A couple of steps.

It was obvious I wasn’t prepared for that question. One of the few things people always hailed me for was my sharp mind, but for some reason, I was without my quick thinking in that moment. So, I smiled and threw accusations his way. “Is that your way of telling me I have ‘beautiful’ eyes?” I drew quotes in the air to make him realize his lines were cheesy and cliché.

“Nope, I wasn’t telling you that. I don’t give compliments that easily. Though you’re my boss, you’ve got to really earn any good remarks from me.” He held my gaze, even in the new position I stood in. And while my now-dull mind searched far and wide for a rebuttal, he finally took a sip from the cup he still held onto, leaving a coffee mustache on his upper lip.

He must be pleased with his response, because he stood there with that smug face of his, totally oblivious of the paint job on his lip, and that made me smile. A fit of laughter bubbled up rapidly in me, but I tried to control it at the last second, letting only a nasal snort escape.

“Is something funny?” He asked, matter-of-factly.

If he ever needed additional reasons to shoot me on sight, this moment was all he could ask for. Because his question only made me fail miserably at suppressing my laughter. My whole insides jumped straight into a laughing fit.

While I held my empty morning tummy in response to the aching laughter, I kept pointing at the refrigerator so he could see what his reflection looked like. Unfortunately, he must really have become a dork thanks to the coffee paint on his mouth. His head spun on a swivel between me and the refrigerator, and he had absolutely no idea what I was trying to communicate.

“Okay, now, you have me worried. Is there something on my face?”

Finally, dumbass. Getting a hold on myself, I nodded in affirmation as I dampened the tears that had formed in my eyes.

“Shit! No!” He looked horrified as he strained his eyes, looking into the makeshift mirror.

Shit. Yes. My mind echoed within its walls.

When my laughter eventually wore off, he sported a pained look, like I had just betrayed him. “That wasn’t very nice of you, at all.”

“Of course, I’m not nice. You guys call me The Witch. You even have a group chat where you gossip about me.”

His legs buckled under him before he found support with the kitchen island.

“Good lord! How did you know that?”

My neck cocked in surprise. “So, you guys really do have a group chat where you gossip about me? Just wow! What a great team!” I turned to leave.

He must have been stunned to space since he remained rooted in position even as I stumped away. About six heartbeats later, he followed. He called out to me, but there was no way on earth I would answer him. Who cared about their little gossip group anyway? Who cared what it was called?

Wait!

The question crashed into my existence, and my body turned on a whim. “What’s the name of the group?”

He paused in his tracks, pursed his lips, and shook his head vigorously. His eyelids parted like someone hellbent on not letting me in on the secret sitting right on the tip of his tongue. I wasn’t going to let go, so I took steps towards him. In response, he retreated hurriedly.

I was going to go after him, but hearing the door creaking upstairs made me course-correct.

Moreover, I needed to stop doing things that were out of character. I needed to get my coffee and go back to my Sunday morning grind.

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When the alarm blared, I was in the middle of a dream.

A nightmare.

It was a dream with no words. I was there, quiet, watching as Adelaja hugged Ibironke for what felt like an eternity. I remembered checking my wristwatch to note that it’d been two hours of them being in each other’s embrace. If her existence had not bothered me before, it did, at that moment.

I seethed with irritation as I sat up on the bed. I just wished she stopped existing or went back to the United States of America. But I preferred the former, because the latter meant she could run into ‘Delaja if he ever traveled to the US for business.

I picked up my phone to check the time. It was twenty minutes past three. I stood up, ignoring the side of my head that was beginning to ache. Stalling for a few more seconds would certainly mean I ended up being late to the sporting appointment they were all dragging me to. ‘They’, as in the team. I still couldn’t believe that I was living my day-to-day with coworkers.

“We have all worked hard this week; we have to go let out some steam!”

When Ibironke made her declaration, the support was unanimous from everybody else. And though I didn’t care about my reputation within the team, I had to prove that I was up for anything that made us work better.

I stumbled into the shower, washed off all the bad omens that led to the nonsensical nightmare, and got clad in the gym wear Adelaja gifted me earlier in the year. When I tried it on in his presence that day, he said he liked how snug my butt looked in it. So, I looked forward to him not being able to peel his eyes off my ass. I’d make sure he wanted nothing but to steal me out of the sports center and spend the rest of his evening in my bosom.

Descending the stairs with my bag of essentials, I slowed down at the last step to make sure I wasn’t running into another person who would spill something else on my gym fit. I needed to be pristine and scrumptious whenever I appeared in front of Adelaja later in the day.

When I eventually stepped into the living room, everyone turned to look at me, gawking and swooning like I was some otherworldly creature.

“No one told me we are walking a runway today.” Amarachi raised her question, ushering in the spill of applause and admiration that flowed my way.

Everyone had something to say, and an eye to make. Everyone, except Olufemi. But I’m glad he had gotten the memo. I was out of reach; the only person I needed lusting after me right at that moment was Adelaja.

If the dream I had earlier felt like bad luck, then the stars must be re-aligning, because Adelaja drove into the compound, leading to a sunrise of smiles across my face.

“I guess everyone is set. Let’s go!” Ibironke chirped as she scuttled closer to Olufemi. The motherfucker smiled back at her after she gently nudged him on their way to the rental bus.

I couldn’t help but shake my head. She was flirting with him, and he knew it, and he let her. Men, the very lot of them, are scum. All except Adelaja, by the way. Because how was a man who wrote about me in his journal not even looking at me while everyone commented on how stunning I looked, and was then only a moment of magic away from being in bed with another woman?

I walked closer to the slightly ajar front door, my chest buzzing as I looked for Adelaja. As long as he walked through that entrance to pull me into a hug and tell me how beautiful I looked, all else - Olufemi and his body - could be damned for all I cared.

Adelaja didn’t come into the house. We were in a hurry not to miss the 4:30 PM booking.

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Olufemi

That was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Every fiber of my being was willing to turn, and stare, and remain in awe of her. But that would have made her uncomfortable. I had seen her briefly when she stepped into the living room, but had to turn away before she raised her head to see us.

That fleeting moment was a miracle. My humanity was exposed to something purely divine. Something I didn’t dare look at a second time without losing my senses.

Through the week we’d all spent in the house, Morayo had worn nothing but clothing that was as free as they came. Seeing her in activewear, just like the very first time I saw her a few months ago, amidst the hundreds of people at the City Run Club was breathtaking, and I couldn’t blame anyone for drooling. It was a shame she didn’t remember me from the one encounter we had during the run, hustling to get a water bottle at half the race distance. Thank you was all she said when I left the bottle to her before she jogged off into the distance. That day, I worried we’d never meet again because I couldn’t find her after the race. So, I did something terrible. I illegally checked through the race directory, found her name against her passport photo, and found her on LinkedIn. With an empty profile, I had no idea where she worked or schooled.

I decided to keep the mystery when I ran into her on that interview call. How could I have introduced myself without seeming like an opportunist trying to lobby her into getting the job? It also didn’t help that I was busy running my mouth. All I could be grateful for was that I got the job I needed, I got to admire her from up close, and now she was teamed up with me and others in the volleyball game.

That was more than enough.

Unfortunately, the other team, consisting of the CEO, Ibironke, Lois, and my annoying temporary roommate, had been winning all the points since the game started.

“Guys, we have to be locked in. We can’t let them win it all.” Bimpe, my teammate, yelled, determined and ready to conquer. I was sure she forgot that it was all a game and her Growth Marketing career wasn’t at stake.

I was, however, not ready for the determined response from Morayo standing just to my right. I turned to watch her clap her hands, deadset on game mode, her eyes laser-focused on the opponent. “Come on,” she roared, and that was all the motivation I needed to get back into the game.

The ball tossed to and fro our side of the court. Amarachi made a great save of the ball somewhere on my left before Bimpe tossed it back to the opponents. Ibironke, on the other side, rose into the air to tip it back to somewhere I couldn’t reach. But Morayo did. Her clasped hands parried the ball into the air on our side of the court. “Your ball,” she shouted. Watching the ball spin and eventually respond to gravity, I climbed high into the air. Once the ball came within touching distance, I fisted my palm and smashed it into the opposing court. There was no save on their end, despite the best diving effort of Adelaja.

My side of the court erupted in cheers as I landed on both feet. We won a point, finally! Before I could find anyone to give a high five to, someone came flying into my embrace. Arms around my neck, and legs around my waist. I couldn’t make out the face since it happened so fast. But I knew that scent. She had it when we both wanted to grab that bottle of water during the City Run Club mini-marathon. It was also the fragrance that greeted me when she opened the door upon my arrival at The Residence.

Morayo, hanging on my neck. Adelaja, staring up at me from where he'd crashed on the floor. I couldn’t make out anyone else’s reaction, but there was silence, and it was awkward, and it was deafening.

See you on the next one.

Read Episode 10 here

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16 Years Ago

Morayo

It had been two days since my 13th birthday. I was there in my room, seated at my desk, failing woefully at the task of coming up with a poem for the school's end-of-year spoken words performance. I already agreed to do it, so I stuck with it. Unfortunately, whatever focus I managed to conjure disappeared when my heart went to heaven and back to earth in a split second as my younger brother crashed into my room.

“Jesus! What is wrong with you?” I yelled.

“Have you been talking to Jesus recently? When will he respond to your question?” He quipped, with his eyes locked on mine, as a matter of fact.

I bit his head off with my eyes. “Can’t you enter the room like a normal person? You should also learn to knock on the door. I’m 13 now.”

His eyes bore an instant question on what my age had to do with anything. I knew he just wouldn’t get it. The faster he vomits what he’d been dying to say, the better. “What is the issue? Did someone steal your snack again?”

“A new family moved into that compound.” He walked towards my bed to pick the stray biscuit before depositing it in his mouth.

That was all he came to say. When his mission was done, he headed out of the room and closed the door loudly. Brothers! Having one of them was bad enough. Now, having three? It’s been hell.

Anyways, sometimes they do have their uses. Gossip was the last on the list. But Dapo, the first of the three boys after me, loved it. And like always, he’s delivered the goods again. Concerning his most recent update, though, to be honest, I just didn’t care. We never interacted with the previous family who lived in that compound because my father said their father smoked. He didn’t even need to tell us not to talk to the man or his children; we just knew.

Nothing was going to be different this time. Something was bound to be imperfect with the new family; father would highlight it, and we would just know not to interact with them. Like clockwork. That same night, true to his nature, father did his thing. I wondered how he gathered information on them so fast.

“Their mother sells clothes in the market, and their father looks like one to gallivant with a lot of women,” My father said that night, in between slurping his food on the dinner table.

I just sat there, struggling to understand him. Why did the neighbors’ profession dictate whether we could interact with them? I was confused, though afraid to seek clarity on the questions that left me befuddled. At some point, the morsels of semovita threatened to find their way back up my throat, but thankfully, there was enough water in the jug to drown them. I forged forward with my meal.

Two weeks after that day, I was picking up cookies from the shelf of the supermarket when I bumped into someone as I made a standing turn from my crouched position. What I picked from the shelf fell to the floor, alongside some of his. He wore a bright smile when he handed my fallen purchase to me.

“You are the next-door neighbor,” he said casually. He must have seen the confusion on my face because he quickly clarified how he knew me. “My family just moved into the house beside yours. I see you whenever your school bus comes to pick you up.”

At that moment, I found it very difficult to articulate my thoughts. My throat dried up, so much so that when he stretched out his hand for a handshake, my body jerked backward. Somehow, the air conditioner in the aisle ran towards decreased temperatures. My body shivered just from looking at him. He was beautiful. I had thought Michael, the Senior Boy at school, was the most handsome boy I had ever seen, until this boy stood in front of me.

His hand stayed outstretched, waiting for mine. “My name is Adelaja, but you can call me Laja. It’s nice to meet you.”

Taking his hand was the best decision I ever made in my 13 years, 2 weeks, and 2 days of life. He paid for the soft drinks he came to buy, and I paid for my cookies. I didn’t intend it, but I found myself tiptoeing after him as we headed in the direction of home, careful not to send any disturbing sound into his existence while he whistled on in his otherworldly strides. His back stretched for at least five kilometers. He wore a green shirt, round at the neck, and hugging his upper frame like a covenant. Despite my best efforts to keep a low profile, he knew I was there. He knew I walked behind him and glanced back. Once. He smiled. Then, he let me be. He just let me follow him.

That evening, and for the hundreds of days that followed, the trees on the roadsides started to look ethereal. The evenings began to hold so much happiness, and the nights that followed frequently became fireworks of stars. Walking with him made me notice just how artistic the sight of Deborah’s mum pounding yams outside was. The rise and fall of the pestle was nothing but poetry in motion. Often, I caught myself giggling just from how sweet everything in life had become.

One evening, he debuted the rap song he wrote for me. We were at our usual spot on the fence separating our compounds. Me, on our side, and him, on their side. It had become our thing, whenever my parents were not around, and my siblings were taking turns killing themselves on the console.

That fateful meeting at the supermarket was all we needed. In the first few days that followed, I studied when he ran errands and soon became an expert at timing my errand runs to his. “You are so cute,” he said when I eventually told him I was intentional about making sure we ‘ran’ into each other during errands. And now, we are here.

I watched him with every attention my human body had to give. The words flowed out of him and did everything right to my hearing.

Against my every wish, the song he rendered finally came to an end. I thank him with my eyes, with my hug, and with my lips on his cheek.

“You make me have a dream. I finally know what I want to do in life.”

For a few seconds, he just held me tighter. Then he released me from his embrace to look at my face. His face shone, even though the evening sun was starting to let darkness take its place.

“I hope your dream life doesn’t involve building your own cookie factory?”

I chuckled. Every word of his just had a way of being funny to me.

“I might end up doing that when I have money, but I want to start by working in the music industry.”

I had no idea what role I’d take in the industry, but I knew such work would help me and my dreams be closer to his. Because Adelaja’s lifelong dream was to become a musician.

**

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Environmental sanitation days were the worst. But when I woke up on the particular Saturday morning that Delaja and I both looked forward to, I was the happiest 13-year-old in the world. Even the monthly mandatory cleaning exercise couldn’t steal an ounce of the joy that bubbled in me as I ran out of my room and into the embrace of expectations. I blitzed through my chores with a smile on my face, hopping and singing along to the music blasting from my headphones. My mother got me the Monster Beats solely because the school asked parents to get devices that would help students study with audiobooks. But, that blessed Saturday morning, I figured that Dr. Dre really just wanted folks to enjoy bass-heavy music the right way.

And I did.

The chores became little checkboxes I didn’t think much of as I marked them complete. With the mop, Michael Jackson's spirit took over from me immediately. The next song started playing, and, like a miracle, there was a golden microphone stand in my hands. So, I spun. And danced. Moonwalking became a piece of cake. I performed every move of Billie Jean better than Michael did at Motown 25. Like every arena, Michael found himself in the frigid air of our house warmed up with no warning, and the gloom morphed into a bloom. The aura from me did the trick. There was no audience, and that didn’t matter. In the world behind my closed eyes, I was on a circular stage right in the middle of thousands of people cheering me on, telling me the day was a happy one.

All was well with my world until I heard my mother's voice. Somewhere, from the world I tried to leave behind, to protect the joy I found that morning, her voice reached me. Solemn and almost quiet, but my body knew it so well that it responded even when my ears were drowned out by loud music. So, I stopped, opened my eyes, saw my mother, and pulled down the headphones to sit on my shoulders.

She wore a heaviness that I had seen all my life but hadn’t gotten used to. As a Professor, I expected her to have the world at her feet, but somehow, she looked like an imposter. Living on borrowed time in a borrowed space. She lived every day with one goal. To make my father proud. And I had to do the same. She told me that every day. She never told me to make her proud; she just wanted my father to grade us at the end of each day with a satisfactory nod. On any day he made her see his rare smile, she went about the rest of the day like she had won a lottery. She’d smile ear to ear as she rounded up things in the house, all because my father smiled at her. He was her joy, and she’d do anything to protect it. To protect him.

In that early morning when my eyes met hers, I knew she saw me as a rebel, but she had no energy to be anxious at my treason. She must have found it preposterous that I was dancing in the living room, where anyone - my father - could see me.

“A woman’s whole merit in a man’s eye is not her mind, but her manners and her decorum,” She said, her voice barely making it out of her mouth.

I heard every word because I had heard them a thousand times and over. Whenever I did something she deemed unseemly and vulgar, she’d point out how that wasn’t how to be a woman.

I believed her for a long time. Because she loved me. And I loved her. But that morning, part of me was beginning to doubt her words. I watched her turn to leave and head back to her room. Her physical body wore an invisible somber cape for which there could only be one reason. It had been several months since my father invited her to sleep in his room. Every day, she went to work, came back in the evening, gave a very brief rundown of her day to my father, waited for his verdict, and then the rest of us followed suit. As the first child, I always went first, and whatever I said about what my day entailed dictated the tone with which my siblings' narration would be received. Many times, the reports ended with me, and the boys would have nothing to worry about

I watched as my poor mother made her way across the living room. I knew she missed receiving the kind of hugs I always got from Adelaja whenever I went to him after school. In a way I had never felt before, something in me moved me forward.

I moved.

After a short run, I arrived at her back, wrapping my hands around her. It wasn’t exactly a bear hug since my hands couldn’t find each other on the other side, in front of her. But it was enough to make her stop and find more life. She placed her hands on the back of my hands, and it was warm. I never knew she felt so warm so early in the morning.

This hug we shared was out of character, and she had always warned me not to step out of what had been dictated to me. Fortunately, she stayed.

I closed my eyes to take in her scent. She smelled like strawberry ice cream, and I loved strawberry ice cream. So that made me happy, and I wanted to make her happy too. My mother must have been happy too, because she turned around to hug me into her chest. The warmth made me know I needed to save her so that I could get more hugs every day. But to save her, I needed to save myself first. I knew I needed to not turn out like her. I needed to be the rebel she tried her hardest to prevent me from being.

Right there and then, I knew how the rest of the day had to go.

**

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Immediately, the curfew that characterized Saturday's environmental sanitation ended, and I ran.

Father took the boys out for a haircut, and mother needed to get some things at the market. Adelaja sent a message an hour ago that he was home alone. At his door, I texted him again that I was waiting, not knocking, because I wasn’t sure if any of his family members were back home. I peered around to confirm no one was watching. No one was.

The door opened.

Adelaja stood there in between the door frame, wearing his smile like I was the best thing he’d ever seen. He’d just had a haircut. It had really been two days since I last saw him. Having him right there in front of me was surreal. I saw him almost every day, but I hadn’t gotten tired of the concept. The concept of seeing him every day, and staying in his hugs, playing silly games with him, receiving his kisses on my shoulder blade, and hearing him say he loved me.

“Wow, you really do look like a princess.”

I had picked the best clothes in my box to wear. Mother bought it for me last Christmas. The dress had two colors on its spectrum. Black for the upper half, and creamy off-white pleated lower half. The neck was round and beaded, circling out towards the shoulders that led to a long sleeve.

‘Delaja looked me over once again, for what must be the third time already in the few seconds I stood at his door.

“And you look like a prince.” I finally managed to say. “Happy birthday to you, my prince.”

His eyes gathered some things that looked like happy tears. He wasn’t crying, but if I spent any more seconds smiling at him, he might cry. “You are such a boy. How are you already nineteen years old? You are getting older than me.”

“First, you need to come in before anyone sees you here.”

He pulled me into his house. I had never been into his house, and he had never been in mine. But somehow, it felt like I knew everything about his home. I had seen pictures, heard tales of how the place was laid out, and even the position of his favorite chair. My eyes caught the chair once I was inside. It was a three-seater chair where he loved taking his naps and talking to me on the phone when everyone was asleep upstairs.

My body tingled with excitement, but I locked my fingers to stay calm. I had always dreamt of what it would feel like to be in his house, and now that I was there, I was happy.

“Do you want juice?” ‘Delaja asked.

“I thought you were an adult now. Why do you still take only juice?” My eyes danced around, trying to confirm all the house’s details I got familiar with remotely.

“You can’t take the drinks I take yet, you are still 13.”

I frowned. He was right, but I hated that he still saw me as a kid. I had been very intentional in showing him that I wasn’t a child anymore. That I knew what I was doing when I followed him everywhere. But he still saw me as a child. So, I folded my hands and sat in the chair with a huff.

“You seem angry.”

“I don’t think so, can’t you see my smile?” I forced a pursed smile.

“You know I would always look out for you.”

It took a little while before I spoke.

“I know you are looking out for me, but I’m not a child anymore. I’m 13 now. I don’t even want so much of it. Just a little.”

The resignation on his face made me hesitate a little, but I waited. Then, he took me by the hand and led me up the stairs into his room. He opened the small fridge beside his bed and emerged with a can. I couldn’t pronounce the name on the can. It had a unique spelling, too. SMIRNOFF. Oh, there was also the word Ice on it.

He opened the can and handed it to me. I took the first sip. It was sweet.

“Don’t tell me you are just here to devour my drink without giving me a gift.”

I knew he was going to ask, but I had intentionally left what I bought for him at home. I looked around his room, dropped the can, and stood in front of him. He looked at me with wonder in his eyes. I must have been really beautiful for him to be that awestruck. But I had a surprise for him. My hand went to my back, it found the zip, and pulled it down.

“What are you doing?” His voice was shaky.

I said nothing until my gown dropped at my feet.

“This is your gift.”

Until that moment, we had only kissed and touched each other. But this was my rebellion. This was the most disappointing thing I could do to hurt my father, just like he always hurt my mother and me.

“Have sex with me, ‘Delaja”

He couldn’t believe his ears. I couldn’t believe myself either, but it felt right to let ‘Delaja have me. The only detail I would have changed in the moment was to swap the bed for his favorite chair in the living room that seats three people.

‘Delaja and I have seen enough porn clips together to know this day was around the corner. I was sure he just didn’t know how to ask me. So, I let him do the rest of the undressing and live through the rest of our fantasies. Together.

***

That night at the dinner table, after my mother finished her report of the day, I told my father.

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See you on the next one.

Olufemi

It’s been two days since we arrived at the residence, and I’ve loved every minute of it. Okay, maybe not every minute. Certainly not the hundreds of minutes Tunde had spent snoring into the crevices of my existence through the nights. The only reason his terrorism hadn’t denied me quality sleep was that I survived worse in the deplorable hostel conditions of my undergraduate days. Students cursing loudly at each other in the middle of the night? Check! Roommates and their girlfriends moaning loudly while rocking through each other on their various bunk beds? Check! So, what is a little bit of snoring that I won’t survive? That reverberation through my skull won’t kill me; it will make me stronger. And since there was good food to look forward to during the day, the tradeoff felt worth it.

On the evening I arrived, the Chef and his assistant came around with a truckload of food. Since then, they had come around twice a day, making dishes of such high quality that it’s safe to say this is heaven. I love food. I love good food. And every opportunity to eat in this place is one I cherish with all my heart, because it’s been just two days and we’ve done so much work already. I used to think the work Morayo made us do remotely was a lot. It wasn’t. That was just the tip of the iceberg. In the residence, she had just kept going and going, curled up in a bean bag and churning out a myriad of sticky notes that kept finding home on the walls and boards. We are yet to find concrete evidence, but we are starting to suspect that the whole thing was nothing but a witch hunt. Maybe Ms. Ibironke's perspective would shed more light on things. And somehow, I’ve been elected to go to her after she requested help moving some things.

Her apartment building was right beside ours, but the architecture was different. Ours was a duplex that looked like cubes of different sizes were cut and interlocked in a way that celebrated precision geometry. Thin, straight lines of white blocks jutted from the walls along the x, y, and z axes, giving the structure a cold, calculated personality. If Morayo were a building, she’d be our building.

The building where Ms. Ibironke lodged had a different vibe. A stack of apartments, each enjoying the presence of a large balcony overlooking the sloping terrain of the area. Pots of plants and hammocks featured on each of the shaded balconies, ready to set the tone for evenings where no work was to be done beyond picking a wine from the cellar. I wondered if the apartments had wine cellars.

“I’m from LinkWorks, we are occupying that building,” I pointed at our building while identifying myself to the security personnel at Ibironke’s.

He smiled and closed the small hole in the pedestrian gate through which he communicated with me. I looked down the road and realized that to my right, the block of buildings was similar to Ibironke’s, and to my left, the architecture was similar to our building. It’s surreal that I’m referring to a building as ours. But since I had had more work interactions with Morayo over the past two days than I’d ever had, it’s safe to say the building was ours now. What’s more surprising was that the car in the compound housing Ibironke looked familiar. I could swear that I saw it in our compound yesterday when I took my usual evening walk. Or maybe I was mistaken. Before my brain could come up with plausible answers, my phone beeped thanks to a useless message from MTN.

MTN: Yello! Need data fast or want to check your balance? Zigi does it…

“Good morning. How may I help you?” The receptionist looked like she didn’t get much sleep. Maybe she worked the night shift.

“I’m going to the penthouse. Ms. Ibironke asked me to come around. I’m from the next building.” I wasn’t sure she understood what the latter part of my statement implied, but she pointed at the elevator in case I didn’t figure out where it was.

“In the elevator, click on the ‘PH’ button.”

I wasn’t sure if she heard me thank her, but I swiped up to close the messaging app and pressed the down button to call the elevator. It took some seconds before it got to me from the 8th floor.

The elevator door dinged to announce my arrival before I stepped out into the excuse of a hallway that led to the penthouse door.

“Delaja. Are you bored? Do you have nothing better to do with your morning?” I heard the voice rise from beyond the door as I got closer to the entrance.

My suspicion turned out to be right. The car downstairs belonged to the CEO. I wondered what he had to do so early in the morning in his ex-wife’s apartment.

In the few seconds that followed, I walked back towards the elevator. So, whatever was said after the first statement I heard fell out of my hearing. It was none of my concern.

I tapped the “G” button repeatedly to make the door close faster. But before it did, I thought, the CEO is Morayo’s boyfriend. What the hell was he doing in another woman’s apartment at 8 in the morning? I began to wonder if he slept in her apartment. A million thoughts ran through my brain like a flipbook, but the only response my body knew to give at the time was to stop the closing door.

I held the door and stepped back out. If something was going on, it certainly affected Morayo. And if it affected Morayo… My brain was incapable of calculating the latter part of the dominoes, but the effect of the next few words that floated into my hearing was anger.

“I didn’t spend several hours crossing the Atlantic just so you can charm your way into my pants, Delaja. I’m here to protect my company before you and your baby cause complete damage. Remember, I own 15% of the company.”

That asshole. I knew he wasn’t right in the head, but just couldn’t prove it. My fingers curl into a menacing fist, but their first action was to knock on the door.

**

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At the sight of me in the doorway, Mr. Adelaja picked his key from the stool and headed towards me. He looked pissed, as if I was intruding on something. For reasons I couldn’t explain, his anger made me happy. And when he eventually got to where I was at the entrance, we locked eyes, and I wondered why I still retained the Mister in front of his name. Thanks to what I walked in on that morning, I concluded he was undeserving of my respect, so I won’t be serving him from now on.

“I see they’ve sent the most beautiful man on the team to come to my aid.” Ms. Ibironke was beaming smiles I was sure she didn’t have when the CEO was in the room.

He must have heard the happiness in her voice, because he stopped briefly in his tracks on the way to the elevator. To pile on the bile in his tummy, I summoned the happiest version of my voice.

“Hey, Ms. Ibironke. It’s such a pleasure to meet you finally. You look even more beautiful in person.”

If the elevator door hadn’t been automated, I was sure he’d have slammed the hell out of it.

I stepped into the apartment upon her beckon. From the little information I gleaned from Tunde, who was very eager to share all he knew about her, I knew she loved shopping and had the money to fund that lifestyle. What I did not expect was to see eight large boxes open and spread across the living room. There was enough stuff to open a variety store, and I wished I was kidding.

“I hope you’re able to find some space to go get that bag.” She pointed at the black leather bag sitting in the distant corner of the living room.

She must have seen how distracted I was, trying to take everything in. “It’s a lot of stuff, right?”

I hesitated, unwilling to say anything offensive on a first interaction. “Not really. I’m sure you have your reasons.”

“Oh. I can feel your judgment from a mile away. You can’t fool me,” I could tell she was trying to remember my name, so I helped out.

“Olufemi.”

“Oh, yes! The man with the first name a woman desiring peace would find on any list of Yoruba male names to avoid. What’s your surname? Let’s see if it balances your demon aura.”

She’d made me smile before, but she succeeded in making me laugh as the words rolled out of her. She seemed like a decent, jovial person, a stark contrast to Morayo. Adelaja must really be a womanizer. His dating range with women seemed extensive.

“Adeleke. Olufemi Adetomiwa Adeleke.”

“Hm. Interesting. That’s such a nice name. Ibironke Adeleke sounds even better. Right?”

I wasn’t sure why she fused her first name and my last name. I gave her a look that asked for clarity, but she just smiled and asked me to carry the box, saying she’d be with us in less than an hour.

That works.

Even if we had no official closing time in the residence, the day only officially started at 9 AM.

“Femi.” She called out to me as I awaited the elevator, leaning out of her door with her upper body. “I would appreciate it if you didn’t tell Morayo about anything you might have heard or seen here today, and it’s not because I want to have anything to do with the CEO. Morayo is our team lead, and we need her to perform at her best. So, we have to keep any distractions away from her. Do you get what I mean?”

Of course. I nodded.

**

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There she was. The boss of the team. Morayo. Arms folded, back straight, and standing at the exact spot she was fifteen minutes ago when I came downstairs to get breakfast. I watched her as I descended the stairs with my empty plate, wondering what she contemplated so deeply while spinning the marker in her hand. She arrived at the residence first, woke up first, slept last, and never looked fazed. In fact, she looked so good. I stood still on the staircase. Standing there in a pleated suit pant, I couldn’t help but enjoy just how good burgundy complemented her skin.

The view of the board was breathtaking, just because she was in it. Some views were worth going to war for, and there was no doubt that wherever she was instantly fell into that category. True to my conviction, my insides began going through things I couldn’t decipher. First, it was my heart, exceeding its standard limit into the triple figures. Then, my bowels moved in ways that suggested the wracking of nerves. But soon, my entire being was drenched in sadness at the remembrance of the simple fact: she’s taken. Though not even telling her how I felt was sadder. But there was nothing I could have done. Not after my first impression of her. Not after the whole world found out she was in a relationship with the company's owner. Even if we didn’t know the exact nature of their relationship, we were sure it involved sex. Sadly.

“Are you having a trance?” A voice sprang into my consciousness from somewhere behind me.

It took a few seconds before I registered that the hand on my shoulder belonged to Amarachi’s. The smile on her face as her eyes darted between me and Morayo made me realize I was frozen on the staircase for so long. She must have thought I was a perverted creep.

“You’re surprised at how hard she works, too, right? Online, I used to think she was just a frustrating person. But if this was her real-life work ethic, I’m starting to think she was even generous with what she demanded of us. No wonder she always got so much done in little time.”

I caught myself and quickly bought into the narrative she had inadvertently used to save me from the awkward situation.

“I used to think she had an assistant we didn’t know about,” I commented.

Morayo finally turned around, and it was a sunrise. Our little chatter must have caught her attention, and that left a sour taste in my mouth. It was like the Mona Lisa suddenly stood up to leave while I admired her at the Louvre Museum.

“Tell the others it’s time for the meeting.”

The boss commanded.

**

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At exactly 9 AM, Ibironke let herself into the living room.

“Hey, guys.” Her voice dragged with much delight as her hands swerved in the air. She seemed ready to throw everyone a high five. “I’m hereeee.”

Okay. Tunde was right. Ibironke was a diva. But a cultured, well-mannered diva. She earned my respect in just one interaction, and that would always earn her a smile from me until she acted otherwise.

“Hi Ibironke,” Everyone, except Morayo, chorused in not-so-perfect symphony.

My eyes caught Morayo’s, and they looked like they were shooting lasers at me. My smile disappeared from me as she held my gaze. She must really hate that we were happy to see Ibironke. They must share some personal history that Tunde, the chatterbox, knew nothing about.

“You are late!” Somehow, Morayo’s voice rose above ours.

The delighted woman pulled a beanbag chair closer before peering at the wall clock to check the time.

“It’s 9 AM. On the dot.”

“Yes. If you had checked Slack, you would have seen my message asking you to arrive five minutes early for the meeting so we can start the discussions as early as possible. We have a lot of work to do, and it would be best if you didn’t slow us down.”

My eyes couldn’t bear to stay open. My brain kept yelling at Morayo to relax; she didn’t need to rip into Ibironke. Not after the woman had done nothing but protect her and her relationship all morning. I needed to say something. I should cut in like I always did, to change the topic and prevent the further degeneration of whatever cord connected both of them.

“I’m sorry about that. I didn’t see your messages yet,” Ibironke’s said, just as I opened my eyes.

Dead silence enveloped the room for several seconds. I passionately scribbled nothing on the book I had in hand.

“I think it’s a witch hunt. Nonetheless, we need to turn public perception around because we can’t go around telling the public it’s a witch hunt; that doesn’t help our cause.”

“Do you have data to back up your claim?” Morayo asked.

“Yes,” Ibironke replied, to everyone’s surprise.

We’ve been trying to dig to the root of the matter over the past few days, to no avail. I glanced at Morayo briefly and noticed her slight discomfort. Her jaw clenched briefly before she gestured to Ibironke to have the floor. With Morayo sitting to my left, I wished I could hold her hands to let her know she didn’t need to be insecure about Ibironke. There was no need for her walls to be that high.

Ibironke pulled her laptop from the satchel and connected it to the television to use as a duplicate display. After opening different folders and minimizing her music app, a folder called “Source” appeared on the display. She double-tapped on it, and an array of images formed a grid. She clicked on the first, and it came into fuller view. It was a tweet we had seen before. Then another. And another.

“I was doing some research into some of the earliest tweets from when this issue began, and I realized the very first trash talk about the campaign came from this account.”

“Yes, we aggregated all the tweets from that account and more. They are there on this board.” Lois stood up to pull the board closer.

“What’s interesting about this account is that the only tweets on the account were related to our ad campaign, so it seems they created the account specifically to tweet these things.”

“We noticed that too, but it’s not enough evidence of a witch hunt,” Morayo said.

“Of course, it is. Look at the username.”

We all looked more closely at the screen. Like a detective really trying to prove a point, Ibironke zoomed in on the username of the account that made the tweet.

@skrowknil023

“When you look closer, you will notice that the username is simply an ananym of LinkWorks.” Big satisfaction sat on Ibironke’s face as she stated her case, matter-of-factly. “It means the person literally spelled LinkWorks backward.”

The eureka moment smashed into everyone. How on earth had we not seen that? Before we could finish digesting Ibironke’s brilliant discovery, she hit us with another.

“There’s more.” She held her hands out like the conductor of an orchestra, willing us to hold on for a minute. “Looking at the number 023, I think it might have something to do with the employee number.”

“That’s possible. The HR platform we use assigns numbers to everyone.” Bimpe contributed.

“Awesome. So, we need to find out who employee number 23 was. That doesn’t fix the public sentiment issue. But lends the feeling of progress, and we can prevent any further deliberate targeting.”

Everyone chorused in agreement. Of course, except Morayo. After a few seconds, we all turned to await her contribution from her end of the table.

“You could have saved us some time and confirmed who employee number 23 was. No?” Morayo’s voice was chilly, and once again I wished she would just wear a smile. Ibironke wasn’t the enemy here.

“You’re the team lead. I can’t simply go over your head and meet the HR.” Ibironke’s words sent happiness across the room, though everyone other than the boss knew not to bask visibly in it. So, we just waited. Held onto our dear breath like there was an elephant in the room.

“Okay. I will reach out to HR to confirm who employee number 23 was.”

She immediately started typing into what I knew was Slack.

The meeting proceeded in ways no one thought possible for almost an hour, with tasks assigned and things getting clearer. And at the end, Ibironke called out to Morayo.

“Morayo, can I see you for a minute?”

We, the employees caught in the crossfire, all watched them both climb the stairs. Expectedly, my phone dinged with a new message in the Marketing, Minus the Witch group. It was Amarachi’s. I think the civil war is starting now.

**

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Morayo

I stood there, staring into her eyes, and she into mine. Her presence unnerves me in ways I couldn’t begin to describe. Every second she spent in Nigeria just felt like more time for what I shared with Adelaja to dissipate. She had only arrived a few hours before the moment when she asked to talk to me, but it felt like an eternity. And I needed it to end promptly. The earlier we get the conversation going, the better.

We were in my forte, and I needed to act like it. So, I straightened my back and cleared my throat.

“You wanted to talk to me about something?”

She studied me for some more seconds. Then her eyes projected a bit of pity. Then I watched her clear the pity away with a smile. “Why do you think I came to Nigeria?”

That caught me off guard, but I didn’t show it. “To fix the mess I made?”

She sighed, as though she was tired of my naivety. I knew she was four years older than I was, but I hated it whenever she looked at me with those eyes. I hated it whenever she treated me like a younger sister; she gifted a man she was no longer interested in. The man was always mine, right from when I was thirteen years old. She stole him from me, and when they were through with their divorce, which I had no influence on, the man came back to me. Simple.

“I’m here to support you, Morayo. I know you think I’m a bitch. But I’m just here to help save the company I own 15% of. I told Delaja the same thing. I’m not here to get him back or to cause any trouble for your relationship.”

I could see the sincerity in her eyes. Ibironke liked men, but only the single ones. She met Adelaja when we weren’t together and asked him out. And they got married.

“You don’t need to be uptight with me. We have to see each other as a team if we are to prevent this titanic from sinking. You have to trust me.

I trust you, Ibironke. I trust you. It’s Adelaja I don’t trust. I think he still likes you. I think he still wants you. Sometimes, he moans your name when he’s at the climax during sex with me. He moans your name, Ibironke. Ronke. That’s what he calls out, sometimes, when he’s basking in the heaven of releasing inside of me. The first time, he said it was because my seventh middle name was Aderonke. But he never calls me that. Not since we’ve been dating intermittently for sixteen years. Not ever. He never calls me Ronke. Up until that moment, he didn’t even remember Aderonke was my middle name. I was the one who asked him if it was because one of my middle names was Aderonke. I watched him nod so fast as if I gave him a lifeline. In truth, I did. I intentionally gave him a lifeline when his clarity returned. I knew he called your name when he was nutting, but I desperately wanted it to be mine. I wanted him to make love to me, not to a replacement for you.

My folded arms clutched each other harder at the elbows. Tears rolled down my face as I said none of these words to her.

“Why are you crying?” She hurried closer, hands on my shoulder. Like she was my elder sister. She was treating me that way again. The I’m better than you, so I will be kind to you treatment.

I hated it. So, I said nothing but “I’m fine.”

I cleaned my tears and exited the room.

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See you soon with the next episode.

Morayo

One shot. That’s it.

All I’ve got was this one opportunity to make things right, and I was ready to lose myself to the process. Am I scared we won’t be able to turn the crisis around? If the mini crashout I had in the shower was any indicator, then absolutely. Pacing the bathroom floor didn’t help me, nor did hoping the people running rampage online quiet down. I have to be there to mop the mess, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to let that bitch take a lead on this operation. I wiped the mist that had settled on the mirror and stared intently at my reflection.

“I’m not going to fail. Even if it marks the end of my lineage, I’m going to turn this around.”

When I reached the limit of my tight grip on the porcelain toilet sink, I eventually let go and splashed water over my face again. I dried off with the towel and walked back into the room I was supposed to share with the AWOL Adelaja.

By 7:30 AM, I was seated at the long dining table, legs crossed, carefully going through the documents Lois had excellently compiled in the Google Drive folder as instructed. As expected, Twitter folks had the most to say, many of whom I’m sure never watched the advert they criticize so passionately. I read through what user @fastenyourbelt had to say; I couldn’t help but shake my head. I took another sip of my morning coffee as I skimmed through the numbers once again.

“Good morning.” Bimpe greeted me as she struggled down the stairs.

Her under-eye bags told the story of someone who got little to no sleep the night before. She was the last person to arrive, in the early hours of this morning, all thanks to Air Peace postponing her flight till midnight.

“Good morning,” I replied, and continued watching her on the periphery of my vision.

She was in ridiculous button-down pajamas that had teddy bears drawn on them. She dragged her feet across the tiles with her eyes almost closed, like a zombie, as she scratched an itch on her temple. When she finally made a left turn towards the kitchen sink, my eyes caught sight of a sign embellished across the butt of her pajama pants. Yomi’s.

“Did you steal your brother’s pajamas before traveling?” The words jump out of me at the sheer ridiculousness of what I was witnessing.

Bimpe grabbed a cup before my travelling words finally reached her ears. She found a jug of water in the refrigerator, dispensed some into the cup, and emptied it into her throat. When she was done cleaning up the spills on her lips with her tongue, she turned to look at what was written on the back of her trousers. One would think she really did steal it without knowing it had the owner’s name written in large, pretty letters. A slutty smile arose on her face like a rabbit in heat.

“That’s my baby’s name. We have matching pajamas with each other’s names. He likes slapping my ass when we…”

“That’s enough.” I raised my palm to cut her off while forcing a pursed smile. I wasn’t about to be an audience to any detail of her sexual escapades. At least, not on a Monday morning. “We have our first meeting in about twenty minutes. Don’t be late.”

She circled, scanning the walls to find the clock before shouting shit and bolting back up the stairs. I almost smiled, but a number soon caught my attention on the summary page I flipped to.

…there are an estimated 48 million impressions on major influencer accounts across different channels with the damaging reviews.

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**

“Were you able to sleep properly, Bimpe?” Olufemi asked, while being the source of audibly painful sounds as he dragged the chair from under the table, which was tucked in. Such a nosy human being. I wondered what he was doing awake when I had to go open the door for her.

“Not really. I think I will survive, though. I have my inhaler ready to go.” She patted the pocket in front of the shirt she’d now changed into from that godforsaken nightwear. “But I won’t rule out the place of going over to take an hour nap once it’s noon.”

“Is that why your responses are always delayed at midday?” Tunde asked.

Panic engulfed her eyes as they dashed from him to me and back to him. “I don’t delay my responses at midday. Maybe just a few times when I go to grab lunch.” She lied.

“Last week Thursday, it took you almost two hours before you replied to my message.” Lois’ voice rose from behind the laptop she was super focused on.

The silence went on for a little stretch before they all broke into laughter. Finally, they got Lois’ full attention.

The befuddled woman looked up from her laptop. “What happened?”

“You’re going to make me lose my job, that’s what!” Bimpe’s retort sent more laughter around the room, making for a good ice breaker.

They’ve had their fun; it’s high time I ruined it.

“Alright, we’re starting the meeting now.”

I sent the Google Meet link to Ibironke once it was exactly 8:30, and like the workaholic I had always known her to be, unfortunately, she joined the meeting immediately, like she’d been waiting all year long to come back into my life.

**

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“You all look like you’re having a good morning,” She said. Immediately, her image came up on the large screen setup opposite where I was seated on the long table.

With the webcam setup on the TV, and its screen projecting my laptop screen, she had a full view of the table, and we got crisp, clear live footage of her purple bonnet, tired eyes, and, unfortunately, pretty round face. It’s way past sundown where she was, and she looked damned pretty without any makeup on. I hated that.

“And you look like you’re having a great Sunday evening over there,” I trolled.

“My substitute. You don’t have to flatter me.” She winked in a way I’m sure everyone found repulsive.

“Hello, Ms. Ibironke. It’s so nice to see you again. You haven’t aged a second. And your wink is still as cute as ever.” Tunde couldn’t read the room, apparently.

“Hello Tunde!” She dragged his name with that new American accent of hers, like they knew each other beyond the few months overlap of their time at LinkWorks between her departure and his resumption. “Wait a minute.” Ibironke leans closer to the screen. “Who is that beautiful man seated over there?”

The only other man in the room, if we can call him that, is Olufemi.

Everyone turned to look at the ‘man’ seated to my left on the longer side of the table. He was busy typing some things into his laptop, and wasn’t paying attention to whatever wink the American lady was sending over the airwaves. I liked that. I leaned sideways a little to see what he was doing. Preparing a new Google Keep note.

Lois couldn’t have been more focused if she tried. “He’s taken, Ms. Ibironke!” She said loudly. I think she wanted to make sure her voice was indeed heard in faraway America.

“Oh. Is he now?” Ibironke didn’t seem to care that much. Maybe she figured it was a lie, or was waiting to hear from the horse’s mouth.

Not quite following, Olufemi looked lost. His eyes wandered across the faces of everyone seated in the room with him, and finally, the screen.

“Lois said you’re in a relationship.” Amarachi helped him clear his confusion. “During your onboarding, you said you were single. Did you already find a girlfriend?”

For once, I was interested in his answer, so my ears perked up.

“No, I’m not!” He replied almost immediately, and the rain of sadness drenched Lois before Ibironke could let out a smile.

I hated that damned smile of hers. It was how she charmed Adelaja, and for reasons I couldn’t decipher, I still hated it now. It must be because Laja was on his way to this meeting already. I needed to wipe off that smile before he settled in.

The side of my eyes caught Olufemi’s face suddenly. There was a smile on his face, directed at the large screen opposite the table. I looked back at Ibironke and knew I needed to put her in her place.

“How is the plan for your 34th birthday coming along? I guess you won’t be celebrating it since you’d be here with us, working.”

“Now that you mention it, I think I should throw a party once I’m in Nigeria. It works now that Delaja was able to help me secure one of the apartments in the compound next to the one you guys are staying in.”

He did what? Securing an apartment for his ex without telling me?

“You look like you’re about to choke on something. Don’t be alarmed, my substitute, I have nothing but work to do with your man.”

I hate it when she calls me that, and she knew. “I’m not your substitute. If anything, you’re the substitute, but you don’t see me moaning about it.”

“I think we should just start the meeting now!” Olufemi cut in.

It angered me, but he’s sort of mastered the art of cutting in to reel me in whenever I was about to go off on someone. I said a silent thank you in my heart to him. I shouldn’t let Ibironke get under my skin. Not at the moment when all hell has been breaking loose by the second.

“Good man. Let’s start with a review. Morayo, please play the original video advert that led to the disaster. I’m sure you have it somewhere on your laptop.”

That’s it. I knew it. I knew she was going to come in and try to take control of proceedings as she’d always been here. Newsflash: she hadn’t. I’m the one that had been here over the years, busting my ass to make things work. I’m the one that had gotten the company its big clients and got our valuation up so high. Without me, LinkWorks wouldn’t be the best strategy and consulting agency in the whole of the Federal Capital Territory. I did that, and…

“Boss?’ Tunde called out to me.

I stormed out of my momentary blank space and shared the video on the Google Meet call.

It was a simple video with a storyline that everyone agreed was almost too overplayed in the Nigerian media space. We decided to go with it because it worked for the family-first values we wanted to portray. But somehow, it had backfired at GoldenGrains Foods.

The video follows the journey of a Nigerian mother. She starts as a young, struggling woman in Mushin, Lagos, in the 1990s, feeding her children on GoldenGrain semovita because it was all she could afford. Fast-forward through the decades: her children grow up, go to university, and get good jobs. Now it’s 2026, her son is a successful man in Abuja with his own family — and he still asks for GoldenGrain, because “nothing touches Mama’s cooking.”

We tagged it: Some things should never change. But everything changed, and now we have to find a way to reverse it.

We spent the entire morning debating strategy till Ibironke had to go to sleep because she needed to catch a morning flight.

**

She arrived. She did arrive.

Continue to episode 7

See you next Sunday

Read the bonus episode here.

Olufemi

“Doesn’t this sound like a getaway with your crush? And it’s not even for a two-day weekend, you get two weeks minimum. Lucky bastard!” Remi couldn’t stop running his mouth on the phone.

I held the phone to my left ear with a raised shoulder as I tried to retrieve my travel box from the trunk of the sedan that was dropping me off. Frankly, I don’t know why I ended up buying a new travel box for this work trip. I already had four travel bags, but none were hard plastic. And can I even call it a work trip if my entire journey was a 12-minute ride from Area 11 to Guzape Hills, Abuja?

“I don’t think he’s lucky, though. I mean, he’s probably going to experience all the shenanigans between the CEO and Morayo from up close. That sounds like torture if you ask me.” Dara’s voice seemed to be coming from somewhere in the background.

I smiled a little bit. I wasn’t ready to give either of them the satisfaction of being correct. Not today. “You know, guys, when I say I’m over her, I need you to believe me. What more do I need to do to prove it to you?”

Finally, I got the box out of the trunk without dropping the phone between my shoulder and ear, nor the backpack flung hanging across my other shoulder.

“Show me your journal. I’d bet my next month’s salary on the odds that there’s a recent entry about Morayo in there.”

Arsehole.

“What’s your account number?” I asked the Bolt driver as I switched the call’s output mode to use the speaker.

When I was done with the fare transfer, I gathered myself and reconfirmed that I was at the right house number. Number 12.

“You know I’m not going to dignify you with an answer. And there’s no way on earth I’m letting you into my journal.” I peered around the area, and I realized, for the millionth time, that Nigeria’s money really resided in Abuja. The buildings reeked of opulence on a level I didn’t see every day, with architecture so exquisitely done that the designers probably got national awards.

“I’ve made it my mission that the next time we are at your house, I’m stealing the journal. I can’t have you keeping any secrets from me.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve not had any recent thoughts or plans to kill myself. If I do, I will probably send you a link to live stream it.” I continued to drag my baggage towards the gate of the compound that will be my home and office for the next few weeks. Through the short gate made of slender bars of red-coated metals, I could see a roofed patio with fancy chairs and tables.

“That’s not funny, Femi.” Dara’s voice carried some anger and frustration. She knew I was trying to make a joke, but it’s one she’d never been comfortable with, not since she’d had to dedicate several weeks to taking care of me after my last attempt two years ago.

“I’m sorry, Dara.”

A call came in. The number wasn’t saved, but I recognized it. Bile filled my intestines instantly, so I contemplated dropping the call before it rang for too long. But I knew her; she’d keep calling until I picked up. The school of thought that you should stop trying someone’s phone number after the second unsuccessful attempt didn’t seem to be a part of her understanding.

“I don’t know why you keep making that joke. You are fine and healed forever in Jesus’ name.” Dara’s prayers brought me back to the present.

“Amen. Uhm, guys, I think I’ve got to go. I’m here already.” I wanted to pick up the call and get it over with, but if they knew I was picking up her call, they’d panic and probably make their way down to Guzape at the speed of light. So, “I’ll talk to you guys later tonight. Or never.” I tried to hide my agitation in a chuckle. Thankfully, it worked.

“Alright. Don’t stare at Morayo too much. Remember, she’s taken, and whatever goes on in her relationship is none of your business. It took you a lot to get here and this job. Do your work and play some chess. We’d drop in later with some snacks.”

“Thanks, mum.” I teased her. Dara couldn’t help but act like my mother. Her protective instinct was like none other.

If only the woman who made my phone ring were half as motherly as Dara, life would have been a lot better. I hung up the call with my best friends and accepted the call of the woman who had hated me from the very first day of my life.

“Hi…” The word mum was impossible to voice.

“I thought you’d make me call you five times again before you’d pick up the phone.” Her words slurred loudly over the speaker. She must have been getting drunk again, and it was only three hours past noon. “Where are you?” She didn’t care if I had a response to give her.

“I’m at work.” I managed.

“On Sunday? Have you added lying to whatever is wrong with you?” Words continued to fail me as my heart couldn’t stop racing. I stood there, motionless, with beads of sweat forcing themselves out of every pore on my skin. For a moment, I considered sitting on the floor, because every time I heard her voice, my body always lost ninety percent of its strength. But if I sat on the floor in the area I was in at the moment, the gateman who emerged from behind the building after I pressed the bell would think I was not right in the head.

I continued standing. And she made a lot of remarks and accusations that failed to register in my brain. “Are you listening to me? Since you destroyed my life, shouldn’t you take responsibility for my life and send me money?” The magic words dug my consciousness out of the miry clay. I mouthed to the gateman that I was a LinkWorks employee, and he unlatched the little pedestrian gate.

I’ve heard those words all my life, and for a long time, I really thought they were the absolute truth. During the days I lived with her, from the floor on which I slept, I would hear her crying herself to sleep, cursing at the reality that was her life. Even after distance eventually came between us, she never failed to hold me responsible for every misfortune in her life. It wasn’t until Dr. Celeste Moon spent several sessions helping me see why I should forgive her that her words began to hurt less.

“What did your mother do before she gave birth to you?” Dr. Moon asked.

“I heard she was a singer. But she gave up even after I was born.”

Celeste watched me intently. I could tell she was looking into my eyes over the call. Even though I had always appreciated the blue of her eyes, in that moment, I had to hide my anger by staring at the ground. She was 18 when she eventually gave birth to me. She could have gone back to pursue her dreams before she was 20. She didn’t have the agency or the will to do what she needed to do. She was simply a failure of her own making, and she was merely making my life hell to make herself feel better.

“What if some other things beyond her control had happened at the time? From what I can tell, you don’t know the full story.” She must have read my mind. She was good at her job, which explained why she was the most recommended therapist on TeleHealth.

I finally found a way into the blue of her eyes, again. They were kind. Her eyes. She listened and spoke with a firm yet tender tone that made talking about the past easier than it ever had been.

“Femi,” she was getting better at murdering my name less. “I think you should forgive your mother.” She said, and I knew she didn’t know what she was talking about. I should forgive a woman who once had a knife to my throat when I was 6? The scar remained despite the doctor who applied the stitches doing his best.

“At the end of the day, our parents are just boys and girls, men and women who once had dreams, goals, and a vision of the life they wanted. So far, they remain men and women who have to live their lives, too. Parenthood doesn’t change that. Just as you want to live your life, your mum was once in your shoes. If something was getting in the way of you achieving your dreams right now, I believe you’d want to do everything possible to remove that obstacle. You’d hate the obstacle till it’s no more, especially if you really want that dream.”

“Are you saying my mother was right?”

“No, Femi. I am not justifying what your mother did; I am simply saying that you’re now an adult, and you should start understanding the context of your mother’s past from the perspective of a 26-year-old man. You’re no longer that 6-year-old boy, Femi. You need to free yourself from that knifehold she had you in. Try to understand, then forgive, even when you don’t currently know the full story. Then, hopefully, one day, when the conversation that needs to happen does, you can thoroughly break the mess out of the box and do all the mopping you need to do. Till then, you need to forgive her to make your life lighter. It’s high time you lived your life.”

As Dr. Celeste’s words found new home in my mind, I steeled my spine and resumed the call with the woman who gave birth to me.

“How much do you want from me?” I knew she was going to use the money to pay some useless men to sleep with her, but it was the easiest way to get her target off my back, at least for the next couple of weeks.

“N500,000”

It was the highest lump sum amount she’d ever asked me, and I knew I was setting myself up for greater demands from her in the future. But I was too drained to haggle with her.

I was at the front door now. I dropped the call, transferred the money, and rang the bell.

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After ringing for a second time, a voice that had become familiar arose from somewhere on the other side of the door.

“Who is there?” Morayo asked.

“Femi. Olufemi.” I wasn’t sure what name tag she had for me in her memory.

Silence greeted my name announcement, but after a few seconds, clicking sounds erupted from the door’s lock. The door between us gave way to what would be our first physical interaction, even though I had seen her in person a couple of times, from afar. On the other hand, I was sure she’d never seen me before in flesh. That must be why she stood there, frozen, looking up at me with a bit of confusion in her eyes and her mouth slightly ajar. She had a black beanie atop her head, a crop top that hugged her slender frame like a glove, and black Palazzo pants that folded in volume over her slippers. I waved across her face a couple of times to bring her back to earth.

“You are…” I could see her searching her brain for the word, “huge.”

Okay. That came out of nowhere, and I wouldn’t exactly define 5’11 as huge for a man, but I guessed my upper body frame must have fooled her. I took the compliment and had some of mine to dish.

“And you are pretty?” My tongue failed me. Remi and Dara warned me. But right at the door, what I thought of her, before I knew she was in a relationship, dropped out of me.

Typically, she wore no smile. And there was only one reason a lady wouldn’t smile if you told her she was pretty. She didn’t give a fuck about who you were or what you thought about her. Olufemi, another reason to face your job and go home. Morayo can handle herself; you don’t have to worry about her. Dara’s voice in my head recited all I expected it to.

She finally went back into the living room, and I followed. Beside the door, I pulled off my shoes as cautiously as I could.

“You don’t have to pull your shoes in the house.”

The expanse of the compound had been impressive, but the open ground-floor layout made me fall even more in love. The design made the space feel larger than life —absolutely larger than my whole apartment, room, kitchen, bathroom, and whatever space the walls took up. Everything is summed and then multiplied by at least 2.

“Good afternoon, Morayo,” I remembered we hadn’t shared a greeting since the first few seconds of meeting had been spent on being stunned at each other’s physicality.

“Good afternoon.”

Ice cold like Cole Palmer. She didn’t bother looking up to respond; she typed rapidly. I thought I was pretty fast at typing, but there had been no point in my life when my fingers operated as fast as hers were doing.

“The rooms are upstairs, you can put your stuff in the first room to your right. You’d share with Tunde. I hope that is fine?”

Her words felt more like a declaration than a question. I tried my luck with not responding, and I got away with it. Marched up the flight of stairs and found the room in question. A dual bed with almost everything else in twos. Thank Goodness. The thought of sharing a single bed with someone who might have weird sleeping habits left me somewhat apprehensive. But a whole bed to myself? Yes, please.

I wasn’t sure why I took a shower because I hadn’t been in the sun for more than 5 minutes. But once done, I headed back down the stairs.

Morayo’s sitting position had changed. She rested on the sofa, her legs folded in front of her on the seat, serving as the base for her laptop. My eyes caught sight of a graph she was intently studying. The television was on, muted, replaying Arsenal’s last match, which they lost to Bournemouth.

I roamed a bit. The kitchen. The Snooker table. The dining area has an obvious destiny of hosting all-hands meetings. The two hammock chairs are towards the corner of the living room. I never thought many of the things that adorned the living area were meant for indoor usage until those moments. If the magnificence on display was the norm for all Airbnbs, I needed to rethink my living situation. It’s high time one rented an Airbnb for full-time living.

I walked back into the silence of the sitting area. To break the massive Arctic region glaciers in the living room with us, I started with an easy question.

“Do you watch football?”

Some seconds passed before she dropped her laptop beside her on the chair. When she focused her gaze on me, the interior’s lighting rendered her face with a sheen I never knew could be possible for a human. The round of her face looked like it could fit into the cup of my palms. It had really been a while since I last saw her in person, and somehow she had gotten even more beautiful.

“Are you trying to make small talk?” Her voice brought me back to focus.

“Yes, actually.” I wore a little smile. She just kept looking at me. I wondered what she studied so intently across my entire frame. “You know it feels so weird to meet you in person finally,” I said, to pull her out of the prolonged gaze of her eyes on my chest.

“How so?”

“I mean, remotely, everyone is scared of you.”

“I know you all call me a witch.”

She knew?

“For the record, I don’t.” I saw the rendering of her side eyes. “Okay, maybe once. You can’t blame me, though.”

“I actually like it.”

“You do? You like being called a witch?”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s such an interesting branding to have.”

“How so?”

“You are…” No words came to mind, and somehow I thought I’d find one to complete my statement on the TV, but then the replay of Bournemouth's second goal to defeat Arsenal got screen time.

“Small?”

If that were the word I racked my brain for, I’d have used a synonym, something like petite. Small sounded derogatory, weirdly.

“Not that. I meant to say that you don’t look scary. I don’t remember witches being this beautiful.”

“Have you ever seen one, or are you relying on the ancient Nollywood movies you grew up watching?”

“You know what? Fair enough.”

“By the way, if you’ve not eaten, there’s some food in the kitchen.” She pointed toward the kitchen. She must be oblivious of the inspection work I had done since entering the house. I already knew where the kitchen was. But I wasn’t hungry.

“I ate lunch before leaving home. Thank you.”

She reclined into the sofa’s armrest. Of all the times I had pictured her existence in my brain, not once had the image of her resting in a chair popped up.

“This is why the concept of personal branding scares me. It’s crazy how the internet has made it very easy to create false personas.”

“That’s some very serious accusations you’re leveling against me. I’m naturally a bitch, and I don’t think I’ve given you any reason to think otherwise.”

“Maybe not. But, generally, we are all hiding who we truly are for different reasons. But most of the time, I think it’s because we are scared. Scared of who we truly are. So, we build a facade. Then we worry about people finding out what’s beneath the mask. We want to show people the best image of us they should see. And I think that’s exhausting. For the mind, for the soul, it takes everything out of us.”

“Is that why you lied on your resume?”

“Okay, that’s such a low blow. But you’re right.”

“I was only pulling your leg. It’s no big deal. You’re good at your job, and all your other roles checked out. Sometimes, we have to do some unhinged things to get ahead in life. No one’s going to give us an easy first chance.”

“Hm, wise words from the very smart leader of the LinkWorks marketing team.”

“If I were smart, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Would we?”

“I knew you were going to be hard on yourself. But I don’t think you need to be. I’ve reviewed all the materials Lois has collated on the drive so far, and this all feels like a witch hunt. It’s just someone’s subjective reaction that went viral, and everyone is trying to score a smart point.”

“I should still have caught the possibility of that. It’s my job to make sure things like this don’t happen. I failed at that, and now, I have to see that bitch again.”

I wanted to ask who she referred to, but decided to let it be.

“Wait, on that meeting with Jennifer, HR, I can’t believe you actually farted.” Her question jumped out of nowhere, rising to a seated position as if it were her eureka moment.

Shit. I needed to disappear. I willed the heavens and the earth to come to my rescue. Nothing happened. I was alone. All by myself.

“You guys scared the living out of me. I really thought I was going to be fired.”

“Forget about that. But one question has been eating me up since then. Did you shit on yourself? It sounded like more than a fart on the call. I think …

Not in my lifetime would she finish that statement.

“Is there anything to eat in this house? I’m famished.” I jumped to my feet.

“You said you had lunch earlier?”

“Everything disappeared. Thanks to you.”

In what was certainly the 8th wonder of the world, she smiled, and she was a different person, and she was perfect.

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Two years ago.

Olufemi

“I am tired.” This is a complete statement. I have said it to myself over and over. It’s a combination of three words strung together in no particularly brilliant way, but they describe everything that’s wrong with me in ways I cannot begin to comprehend. I just know that whenever I say it out loud, or recite it in my mind, I feel it deep within my bones that it’s absolutely correct. So, yes, “I am tired.”

Without a destination in mind, I bolted my apartment door and headed out into the darkness of the night. To shield myself from the noise of the world, I moved my headphones from their resting position on my neck to over my head and their cups over my ears. I tapped twice on the outside of the right headphone cup, and the noise-canceling mode activated.

After that, every step I took from the gate to the main road all happened outside of my consciousness. Last I remembered, I nodded in acknowledgment of the gateman. And the next second, I was stumbling against the curb of the main Ahmad Bello Way. On a normal day, when I wasn’t out of my mind, that distance would be several hundred steps at the very least. So, when I realized that everything had disappeared into the blur of a second, I knew that it was over.

Everything I feared was beginning to happen. I feared that the creditors would come calling when I didn’t have it, and they did that morning. I feared my mother would eventually tell me how much she detested my existence; she did that afternoon. I knew the company I worked with was going to shut down for reasons beyond my control; it did that evening. The only fear that didn’t eventually manifest was that the walls of my room would crash down on me. Because when all I did was sit on the edge of my bed and stare into myself, I saw the walls shifting base, coming closer while the rest of my world zoomed out. The silence deafened me, and for a moment, I felt relief that the walls would eventually crush me and put an end to my miserable life. Unfortunately, before I got what was coming for me, my phone rang. It was Remi. He’d called me a thousand times already that day. On the last call, he said I shouldn’t worry and that he’d send me some money the following day, once his salary came in. But I hated every syllable of those words, so I didn’t answer the phone when it rang again. Instead, I headed out.

As I found balance after stumbling, I realized that my last fear had come true. I had eventually lost my mind. I had gone from my gate to the main road, oblivious of the world around me.

My mother was right, “This isn’t life you are living.”

I tried to look up at the sky, in search of some stars, or at least a silver lining. In the split second before my eyes met the sky’s, I promised the heavens that if I found one single star, I wouldn’t take this next step I am about to take.

Again, my mother was right: “You are just an unlucky child.”

I pursed a little smile. Then I released the purse and let the smile take on a bit of life on my face. Then, the comedy of everything hit me all at once, and all I could do was laugh. They rolled out of me in torrents that made my stomach hurt. And because of that, tears joined the party, coasting the sides of my face in response to gravity as I continued to search the damned dark blue sky, in search of one single star. Prayers were distant, so I hoped to find even the glitter of an artificial satellite.

Nothing. Just darkness.

So, I took the first step forward. From the fringes of my vision, I could see the floodlights of a vehicle piercing through the air. I took another step forward, gauging its perceived speed against the number of steps I needed to take to meet it right in the middle of the road. I knew I had to time it to perfection, when the brake would not be able to save me.

Closer. I took another step. And closer. And another step. I planted a foot forward and uprooted the trailing one. And just when I knew it was time, I took two quick steps forward and squashed my eyes shut with a last couple of tears, making their way to kiss dear earth one final time. In those last moments, the long honks and loud screeches of the vehicle and its tires rammed into my hearing, and almost at the same time, I felt the metal of it push into my sides. The darkness filled my existence all at once.

**

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“Are you his brother?” An unfamiliar voice found its way into my muffled consciousness. It was a woman’s. As my mind slowly came to be, soreness across different parts of my body began to register in my brain. Her British accent also found its way to my speech receptors. A couple of other voices engaged in brief, distant conversations with her, and at some point, I heard someone sniffle. My nose also finally found life, but it was covered in something. So, I moved my fingers, willing to raise the left hand, but there was no strength in it. I tried to move my eyeballs to see what was going on, but they were covered by something. Everywhere was dark, so I tried to remove the covering, which I later remembered was my eyelids. Just as there was no strength in my hands, for the first time in my life, my eyelids weighed a ton. Wait, did I say “life”? Where am I? What’s happening? I expected to feel so much heat and so much burning on my skin, but everywhere was cool. There was no way I made it to heaven, not after intentionally ending my own life. Maybe I was still at the reception to the afterlife. But that would have been a bizarre question by the woman with the British accent, because I had no brother, so there was no way whoever managed the gates to the afterlife would be asking anyone if they were my brother.

As I kept struggling with my eyelids, another voice floated into my hearing. “Uhm, guys, I think he’s awake. I think Femi is awake.”

Okay. The speaker knows my name. Even better that I know my name. Because I’ve always wondered whether people remembered who they were on earth, in heaven, or in hell, as my case promised to be. I heard footsteps rushing towards me, and before I could fully understand what was going on, someone was tugging at my eyelids. Finally, they gave way, and a flood of light flushed into my eyes.

“Can you see the light?” The woman with the British accent asked.

Even though my whole body felt like I was under a very heavy object, I tried to talk. Courtesy. Only then did I realize there was something in my mouth, held in place by something that stuck to the lower part of my cheeks. Whatever was going on, the initiation into the afterlife was instantly categorized as weird in my brain.

For some microseconds, the light was blinding. But soon, I was able to focus on it and follow the light when she asked me to. Left, right, left, right.

“Okay, he’s responding positively.” She said again. I need to know her; her accent was beautiful.

The people beside her dissolved into relief, some very happy chatter, and rubbing my hair. After my eyes recovered from the luminous flooding, I finally registered the voices and faces of the other people in the room. Remi, Dara, someone cosplaying as a nurse, another with a stethoscope around her neck, and one other man I failed to recognize. What were Remi and Dara doing in the afterlife?

Shit! Was I still alive?

“Why did you want me to become a murderer?” That man I couldn’t recognize charged at me before Remi started pulling him away.

Dara came closer to me, probably trying to fill my view so I don’t see the raging man. Who was he, though?

“Hey, Femi.” Dara’s voice was tender as she gently palmed my hair. Tears rushed out of her as she continued to snifle.

From somewhere behind Dara, that man’s voice rose again. “You better fucking take him to see a therapist so that he stops trying to jump into the road to kill himself.”

That’s when the memories came rushing back. My headphones. My gate. The curb. The fast car. The headlights. The darkness that engulfed me in that last moment. He must be the driver.

Against my wish, I survived.

“Get him to therapy. I’m fucking out of here.” The man yelled again and disappeared from the ward.

“How are you feeling, Femi?” Dara bloomed into a smile, trying to cover my ears as she looked straight into my eyes.

I don’t know if it was because I had never been that physically close to her, but her pupils weren’t entirely black. They had a hint of brown, like dark chocolate. She loved dark chocolate. Whenever I bought her some, she smiled really beautifully, and I could always see the happiness in her eyes. But this time, despite her very endearing smile, I saw nothing but devastation in her eyes, and I knew I caused it because I tried to kill myself again.

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Olufemi

On most days, I don’t like journaling. I never understood why people did it until that fateful call with Dr. Moon. I asked the same question when the TeleHealth app matched me with a therapist after subscribing to a free trial. Moon? Americans and their weird affinity to intriguing nomenclatures. When I got on the call with her, she had a bright smile, like the moon. If the edges of her mouth had curled upwards further, there would have been no difference between her smile and a crescent moon.

That day, I had to force the best smile I could give. I mean, if one was faced with a stranger on the other end of the screen, smiling like everything was okay about the day, it was only courteous to reply in kind to her very sweet “Hello” and little wave. Life had been dishing me all the unsolicited lessons in its arsenal, so I really wondered if her smile would remain at the end of the call. One other thing I was curious about before the conversation even started was her first name. So I asked, and she smiled again, which led me to truly believe that she had nothing bothering her in life. No one going through any life issue, major or minor, would smile as much as she had within thirty seconds.

“If I got a cent for every time someone asked for the first name cos of my last name, I should have over a billion cents already, and that’s a lot of money.”

“Yes. That’s ten million dollars.”

“Good lord. I think I should start charging everyone. I can’t believe I never thought of that.”

There were indeed glimmers in her eyes as she smiled with the pair of them. Beautifully and sincerely. And it made me feel good, and smiley, and relaxed, and ready to talk to this new friend from over 8,000 kilometers away.

“Celeste Moon.” She finally said.

I did check Google for what Celeste meant. Heavenly. Heavenly Moon. Americans!

I still think of her when making my journal entries. I’m sure she’d have some scolding to do if she knew this was the first time in about a month since I last opened the book. Life had been busy. Life with Morayo as my boss had certainly not been a walk in the park. It also didn’t help that I had to write in the journal with a pen because Celeste insisted on using pen and paper instead of typing in Obsidian or Google Keep. She had mentioned that writing by hand is slower, no shit, which will force me to think more. And since there was no backspace or delete to hit on paper, there are no takebacks. She said that honesty is important for clarity. A prerequisite. Honesty removes the interference.

When I got the transcript of the call in my email, I pulled out some of her specific words and wrote them on the first page of the journal as a reminder to myself that, no matter how ugly my truths are, I must write them without mincing words.

“When you’re performing, editing yourself, or writing what you should feel rather than what you do feel, you’re working with corrupted data. Clarity can’t come from that.”

So, yes, journaling helps with clarity and looking back on the day, but whenever it sheds light on the darkness of my soul, I want to run away. To hide and avoid coming to terms with the shadow my person casts on the wall.

But whenever I’ve opened the journal, I stayed. Staring my monster in the face as I put words to paper. And since I couldn’t sleep tonight, I decided to confront more monsters, particularly those from LinkWorks. I sat at my desk and picked up a black pen.

Dear Celeste,

Yes, I address my entries as letters to Celeste. Of course, she’d never get to read them.

I hope you had a great day at work today. Mine? It was all chaos. I know there’s so much I haven’t told you, and I’m very sorry about that. I’d catch you up on some things later, especially regarding the new job. But, do you remember that lady I said I had a crush on? Yes, the last one who almost killed that restaurant security with her words. Yes, that lady. Uhm, don’t scream (I wonder what your scream sounds like btw. Do you even scream? Does anything make you panic in this life?). Anyways, turns out she is my direct boss at my new job. Yeah, that’s so fucked up. And whatever drama you can imagine would have unfolded, it’s been worse than that. I mean, I already farted and slightly messed myself up on the call with her. To be honest, I can’t be sure if she knew about me shitting myself, but she certainly heard that fart.

Yes, I did wish to disappear into the ground. But no, I didn’t get suicidal thoughts like I used to. I can’t thank you enough for helping me with that. Though she’d teased me about it once already, and for someone of her personality, once is plenty. Does that mean she’d been thinking of the whole scenario? Thinking of me?

That doesn’t matter anymore anyway, because she told the team that she was in a relationship. No less so that than she’s dating the CEO of the company. I heard it clearly. I heard them talking. Everyone heard them talking when she didn’t know her microphone wasn’t muted. I had texted her immediately when he barged into her house, but she wasn’t responding. I called her phone, but couldn’t hear it ring over the Teams call. Maybe she joined the meeting on her phone? Celeste, it took Morayo several minutes to figure it out, but it was too late; all his vulgar words had made it to the call.

Thank God I am over my crush for her. The whole thing was messy. He spoke to her like she was his house help. One shouldn’t even speak to a househelp that way, Celeste. I wished I were there, I would have punched him when he talked about being the one fucking her. Who the hell is he? Did he think he was Khal Drogo and she was some whore? He said so many abusive things to her, and it just makes my blood boil. I’m even more angry that it seemed to be what everyone in the company would have been talking about for the rest of the day. In the Marketing, Minus the Witch WhatsApp group, the guys kept talking, asking questions that didn’t concern them. Tunde even said someone from Finance asked him whether spreading her legs was how she became Head of Marketing at such a young age. I don’t know how 29 years is a young age. Why do people derive joy from gossiping about other people? How is that the question they have after everything they heard on the call? Fucking idiots.

I paused to breathe.

Celeste, I wonder how she’s feeling. Not that I care about her anymore, but you know, this is just concern for another human being. I wish I could connect her with you so you can give her some of that candid, life-saving advice you gave me two years ago. When she sent, “I will be out for the rest of the day, but by tomorrow, we are going into firefighting mode,” I wondered if she was crying as she typed. But she’s not someone who cries, right? She’s strong, black, and independent. Okay, maybe not independent. I mean, it’s natural for anyone, male and female, to depend on their partners, right? It’s what being in a relationship is about, being there for each other.

Anyways, Celeste, we messed up big time with the marketing campaign for GoldenGrains Foods. And I feel worse ‘cos I was responsible for the copywriting and a large part of the communication decks. She trusted me with a lot of things, which we all thought made sense, though. But now, it’s caused that fucking CEO to hurl abuses at Morayo publicly.

I guess tomorrow is another day, and I just have to take the days one at a time, right? If I go into each day believing that things will be fine, they will end up being fine, one day, right?

Thank you, Celeste. Talk to you later. And I’m sorry I’ve used the word ‘fucking’ too much in this letter. I’m just pissed off that everyone was picking on her, just like I’d be angry if anyone were picking on you, too.

Okay, bye now. For real.

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Morayo

It was not the end of the world. No crisis ever was. If a crisis had ever led to the disappearance of the world, it should have happened when my father found out I had sex with Adelaja when I was 13 years old. The poor man kept asking if the 19-year-old boy in the next compound had forced himself on me. I said no each time. Because he didn’t. I loved Laja. I wanted him since the very first day his family moved into the house next to ours. He had the eyes of someone who knew exactly what he wanted from life. Fierce, focused, and ready to go to war. Like that of my father. Even though the old man recently lost the war to cancer, Laja was still here with all his quirks and kinks. That was more than enough. I knew I’d deal with everything that came my way, as long as he was still here, anchoring me to life.

So, when my father beat the shit out of me that day, 16 years ago, I couldn’t help but smile on the inside. I loved the boy, and he loved me too. He said it first, and it continued to echo in my brain to date, even on the days when his current words were a little bit harsh. I know he meant well. We loved each other and always found each other. It’s why we still found our way back even after his marriage and subsequent divorce. He was why I forayed into Marketing. He saw me write and said I had the creativity to be in the marketing field. It was a no-brainer to start a career immediately after university. He made me. So, if he now felt like I handled this marketing campaign like someone without a brain, he was probably right. I just needed to fix the crisis, and all would be well with the world again.

I groomed myself for the morning and settled at my desk.

Slack messages rushed in immediately. All about the failed marketing campaign. Sheesh! They’ve got no chill. Or maybe they do. I wasn’t sure what I had expected to find on the various Slack channels. I expected a lot of gossip about the wrecking ball conversation with my lover. But conversations continued amongst them all as expected. I tied my braids into a bun and read through the channels I deemed critical to get up to speed.

First, the marketing channel. I couldn’t help but scoff at how scanty it was on there. Their resolution had been to individually review their materials and compare them to reactions the campaign was having on social media. Secondly, the All-general channel had Laja's last message. He instructed everyone in the company not to post or tweet any personal reaction or comment about what was going on online. I’d get back to you on the next steps.

That was it. No comment about what had happened between us the day before. No acknowledgment of our 16 years of intermittent dating, either. I picked up my phone to check WhatsApp and was disappointed to find no messages from him. He stormed out of my home a few minutes after I dropped the call yesterday, and I haven’t heard from him since then. Maybe it wasn’t the time to talk about such personal issues when hell was all loose in the company.

I clicked on the Executive channel to find some messages from Patricia. Hey guys, we had to end the meeting as it was clear it couldn’t proceed towards a clear summit. But please, each team lead should make sure their team continues to function as usual and review the potential cause, effect, or impact of this GoldenGrains Foods issue. We’d reconvene tomorrow at the CEO’s discretion.

Always the diplomat. Laja really trusts her. He had once mentioned how he couldn’t have built the company without her in the early days, when I was still in school.

I peered at the time. It was 7:45 am. My laptop chimed just then with a Slack notification. It was a personal message from Laja, though his name was Adelaja Aderibigbe on the home view sidebar.

Be at GoldenGrains HQ in one hour. We have a meeting with their board at 9 am. Reports might be expected.

I could tell he was still fuming. I could hear his tone. It’s the one he has when things weren’t going his way. Anyways, we’d fix that later. Spending the weekend over at his place would do the trick. It always had.

Going back to the Marketing channel, I started typing. I was going to be busy so early in the morning, which meant the daily standup meeting wouldn’t hold. But I need them on some things as soon as possible.

“Good morning, everyone. I trust you are all well-rested and ready to clean up the mess we made.

First, Lois, I need you to review the social media platforms where there have been conversations about the marketing campaign and collate everything into a file. Create a folder on the Drive, and drop it in there. Name that file with today’s date. Update the file every hour with screenshots and links to posts, tweets, news articles, and everything. I need the file updated every hour. You’ll do the same each day for the foreseeable future till we get this campaign back on track.

Amarachi, I know your job is design. But join her on this. We need all hands on deck.

Bimpe, I need you to follow up with the in-house Social Media person at GoldenGrains Foods and make sure they don’t post anything, and don’t like or dislike, or tweet or retweet anything, either in support of or against the marketing campaign. In fact, if possible, they should log out of the accounts. They must not disable comments on any of the social media. Follow up with them and monitor.”

Just then, another message dropped from Adelaja Aderibigbe. I hadn’t replied to the initial one.

Get every member of your team to Abuja. Even if it’s the last thing we do, we have to fix this shit. I’ve directed finance to make the funds available for that. Don’t disappoint me again.

The fact that he was disappointed in me made my intestines twist. Fuck! I couldn’t believe all that was happening. All I could manage was a Yes, boss. I so badly wanted to call him babe, like I always did. But I feared that would only piss him off again. I had stressed him enough already. I mentally ran through the whole process of creating the marketing campaign. The initial meetings.The campaign decks. The moodboards. The first drafts. The options. The concept that was finally chosen. More meetings. The edits. The video shoot. The final approvals. The rollout. I had carried him and every important stakeholder at GoldenGrains Food along. They were all happy with what we had created. But it was only right, I guess, that I be blamed for the campaign's failure. It was my forte after all.

I typed some more messages on the Marketing channel.

“Also, every one of you should prepare to be in Abuja over the weekend. More details will be communicated soon.”

The electric kettle whistled loudly from the kitchen, startling me a little bit. I stumbled out of the chair towards the kitchen. As if life couldn’t get any shittier, I rammed my pinky toe into the edge of the kitchen door. The pain shot through my spine and straight to the back of my eyes. In a couple of microseconds, I was down on the floor, with unwelcome tears pricking through the veil of my eyes. Through the thorny eyes, I watched blood seep out from under my slightly ajar toenail.

“Why is nothing fucking going right this week!” I whined as I peered around for the first aid kit.

***

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A sneaker was all I could afford to wear with all I had going on with my right foot that morning. Even though it was an official meeting, fitting into any form of heels would have been a death sentence. So, I prepared a brief report based on all I could glean from social media and some news channels that had published pieces early in the morning. Downed my cup of tea. Sprayed some perfume on my skirt suit and drove 20 minutes to the GoldenGrains HQ in the Central Business District. Thank God traffic was light. The only good thing about the day so far.

“Why are you in sneakers?” Laja queried me immediately upon setting eyes on me.

I wanted to fall into the girlfriend character, but I saw Patricia marching towards us from somewhere in the background.

“I hit my leg against the doorframe this morning.”

“You know we have a meeting with their board today. What does it speak of us if you’re dressed like this to such a meeting?”

His eyes didn’t spend much time on me, nor did his mind, because he was soon occupied with greeting Patricia and looking through some files as they marched ahead into the building. I followed after them, sucking in air through my teeth as I took every painful step towards the elevator.

Jerk!

***

“I need answers. What exactly will your team be doing about this nonsense, ‘Delaja?” The loudmouth Director of Communications shouted from over there.

My elbows sat on the ridiculously tall boardroom table in a way that made my back stay as straight as it could be.

“First, I want to thank you all for trusting us to solve this.” Laja began.

“No, we are not trusting at this point. We simply don’t have the time to fire your company and hire another to handle this campaign. So, you'd better make sure everything you say going forward makes more sense than all you and your team have managed to do so far.” A director I can’t identify descended on Laja from across the room.

I had never seen Laja flustered. Angry? Yes. Worried? Yes. But this look of confusion he wore was new. He didn’t even shave in the morning. This was indeed big. I always knew that. But the whole thing was taking the moment to refresh my fogged-up brain. I shifted my leg every two seconds in the sneaker, searching for non-existent comfort. Laja didn’t even ask how my foot was.

Laja had been talking.

“I know the company is in a very tight spot right now. But we have a plan already in the works, and it would require that you please trust us no matter how difficult it might be.”

That director growled again.

“But please, I need you to make sure that no member of your team writes anything on social media regarding the whole issue, either through their personal account or the company pages. Also, we must not pull the ads on social media. Though the TV station messaged me that they have put the jingle on hold for now. But beyond that, we are going to wait and not react. Everything we do from here onwards has to be carefully thought through and within the scope of a broader strategy. I am bringing my core marketing team from across the country to Abuja as we speak, and once we iron things out, we will let you know. I am also going to engage the services of a US-based PR Crisis expert. You have nothing to worry about, sir.”

His eyes stopped at each of the 14 members of the Board of Directors as he delivered the mitigation plan.

“Adelaja. You have to give me something now. You can’t tell me to just wait and see, while my house is burning down.” The founder’s voice was soft and gentle, typical of a 75-year-old man.

Laja turned to his flanks for help. First at Patricia, then at me.

“How about we release a very simple acknowledgment tweet? If we try to debunk public concerns, it will only fuel outrage. And if we make them feel they are right, we’d look like we all don’t know what we are doing. If we can’t say anything, we can at least let them know we are listening.” I said.

Eyes that hadn’t noticed that I was in the room turned to me as I spoke. That growling director had something to say.

“And who are you? And I noticed you are wearing your fancy boots when I came in. I can see you’re not serious about our work.”

Before I could reply, the founder came to my rescue.

“Go on, young woman.”

I frantically typed what I had in mind and read it out after about a minute of thinking.

“We have seen your responses to our anniversary campaign, and we are sincerely listening. More soon.” I read out.

The founder scrunched his nose and mouth in deep thought for a few minutes.

“I like that. Let’s do it. Adelaja, keep me updated on how things go. I really hope we start course correcting by next week at the latest. I have another meeting to attend to.”

With that, the old man exited the room with two lines of directors shuffling into place after him.

Laja let out a deep breath, sinking into the soft chair as the boardroom grew empty. While Patricia was typing away on her laptop, I handled the armrest of Laja’s chair and swiveled it a bit till his eyes met mine.

“Who is the PR Crisis expert we are bringing in?” He hadn’t mentioned that to me before.

I studied his face for what felt like an hour. Searching for answers that weren’t coming. I watched him swallow, and saw his expression go from uhm, I don’t think I want to say this to fuck it, I’ll just say it.

“Ibironke Adedapo.”

The name reverberated through my being. It was familiar. Like a name I should know. Like a name I had always known but forgot ever existed. Ibironke Adedapo. It rolled over and over in my brain, with near misses at remembrance. Ibironke Adedapo.

Then, it clicked.

“Your ex-wife? You are bringing your ex-wife?!” The question left me in a hurry, and it was loud.

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Continue to episode 5

See you next Sunday.

Olufemi

The thing about embarrassing moments is that they never know when to let go. Unlike good memories, where details soon start to fade into mental polaroids, moments of irrevocable undoing burn themselves into long-term, high-resolution storage in the hippocampus. With each passing second, the unfortunate event became clearer to my inner eyes, and more details came into the spotlight. I willed to forget, to lose that specific portion of my memory, but that loud splat sound continued to reverberate through my being, breaking me into instant cold shivers. Shoot! It came to mind again. My eyes squeezed shut in tight pain as my body dropped into a ball and my head ran into the space between my knees, groaning in denial and falling into a world where there was a legion of Morayo’s heads laughing at and pointing at me. My hands rushed to the respective ears they had easy access to. On my knees, I begged to make it stop. I groveled in shame and just hoped a short circuit would happen. For a few seconds, the torture became bearable, but the affliction soon rose a second time.

“Guy, calm down. Don’t kill yourself; the cringe attack should only last for about ten years. Though I’d make sure to remind you for another five after that.” Remi’s voice finally came through the orchestra of mockery Morayo was putting me through in my head.

My body straightened a bit, still on the floor, I had turned into my bosom. My eyes locked onto laser guns in their visual arsenal as I turned to my said best friend and his wife. Her laughter was loud and with microsecond delays that made it seem like she was laughing in staccato. But there was an object in her grasp. She pointed it at me as she continued to look at it. My brain resumed work partially in a bid to find some answers to what was going on.

“What are you doing?” My knees found some power to push my body up.

“Just gathering evidence. Something to show your wife when you eventually have one.”

I start to stand, wanting to steal the mobile phone from her hands. That video she’d just recorded must cease to exist. “Give me that phone.” But before my hand could swing in retrieval, she was behind the chair. The brown upholstery stood between us as we looked into each other’s eyes. Her laughter continued to flow like a river, powering the dam of my resolve to get that mobile device. “Dara, give me that phone, will you?!” It wasn’t a question; it was my whole existence begging for some reprieve.

I went left, she went right. I went right, she went left. I went left, she went right. I went right, she went left. Rinse and repeat. Wanted to go over the chair, but thought against it. I called on Remi to join my plea to his wife, but the motherfucker didn’t even bother responding to me, since he got busy taking the Call of Duty. His hands continued to hit the gamepad as he fought through the sea of zombies in Black Ops III. I stole the pad from him and flung it to the other chair across the living room for him to fetch. I slopped into the seat beside him, chasing my breath. He cursed me sincerely as he ran to grab the gamepad from where I had dispatched it. Before he could turn back to the screen, his soldier was already food for the zombies.

“Guy, na bastard you be.”

“All the best. You gotta feel some of my pain too.”

I gave no concern to the fury in his eyes. He was soon back in position to resume from the last saved progress marker. Dara found some rest on the chair on the other side, too, though I could tell she was ready to bolt if I ever made any move towards her.

“You guys should let me know when you’re ready to eat. In fact, babe, you only have 15 minutes left on that console today. You need to rest those hands for more important things.” Dara said in between her ventilating excitement.

Whatever she meant by important things, I wasn’t ready to pursue. Fucking sluts. I fished around for my phone in my pocket, hoping to scroll through a Twitter timeline that could take my mind off things. But Dara wasn’t going to let me do that, was she?

“I still can’t believe you actually farted loudly and shat yourself slightly right on the call.” The words stormed out of her in the company of some more laughter as she rewatched the video of me crashing out a few minutes ago.

Too tired to pursue, I could only make threats. “Just wait till I have something on you. You will beg me for eternity, but I will turn a deaf ear.”

“Thank God Morayo had very sharp ears, unlike that HR lady, what’s her name again?” Remi chimed in, from his peripheral consciousness.

“Jennifer,” I responded. “It would have been worse if she realised what happened. I can’t imagine people on other teams finding out the new guy messed himself up on a call. At least, Morayo doesn’t seem like one to give in to gossip.”

“Never say never. She might be waiting for the right moment to do your dirty laundry in front of the team.” Dara had swapped locations. She stood behind her husband, combing through his hair with her claws.

“She hasn’t said anything since that day?” The gamer asked.

“Nope. Since then, I’ve not waited to even have any one-on-one interaction with her. I jump off meetings like I’m fleeing the Egyptian plagues.”

“It’s been one week, maybe she doesn’t even think of it or remember that it happened. I mean, she must have a lot on her plate. She could have brushed it off as one of those inconsequential things.”

Maybe Dara was right. Maybe it was indeed inconsequential, and my brain was merely it seemed like a bigger deal than it actually was. But the thought of something related to me being classified as inconsequential to Morayo made me sad. I wished it wasn’t a forgettable part of her day. But that was such a stupid wish to have, considering she was in a relationship. And through the first month of my work with her, it wasn’t out of place to conclude she didn’t care much about my existence outside of getting tasks done and increasing shareholder value. To be fair, she was consistent in her dealings with everyone. She was the same with everyone. Except maybe the CEO.

“At least, it’s cool she helped you retain your job. Your ass woulda been back in the job market immediately after making that long ass LinkedIn post you made about working with the incredible people of LinkWorks.”

I willed for thunder to strike him, but I quickly rolled back the request because I would only end up with a minus one on my friend list.

He was right. Though I still didn’t understand why she did that. She had no incentive to stick out her neck for me. Maybe she just wanted to save herself the stress of hiring another person. Maybe. In the final moments of that call, when the HR mentioned I should thank my direct manager, I stared at her side of the screen, searching for the words, but I couldn’t read much from her face, except that she was trying to hold back a laugh. Shit. She must have been thinking about my loud mess at the time.

I closed my eyes in pain, again, and groaned into my throat.

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**

Olufemi

Monday meeting. 10 am.

“How are you guys doing? Hope you had a great weekend?” Morayo asked as she joined the call.

Thankfully, we didn’t need to turn on our cameras for the daily meetings. Despite the improved network experience that was supposed to facilitate it, Lois’ voice kept cracking as she tried to run through how her weekend went. Keywords she was able to pass through included wedding, fun, my, bus was, yeah, hate that, public holiday is. That was after everyone had given short, varied versions of I’m fine.

“Okay. Great.” Morayo began. “Firstly, let’s go through the reports. Over the weekend, I got a message from the President of Ibikunle and Sons Oil and Gas that they were able to get their proposal signed by the guy sourcing and approving vendors for the Armed Forces at the Ministry of Defence.”

We erupted in a loud cheer at her announcement. That was fast.

“So, I guess your idea of leasing most ad spaces between the Ministry of Defence and the man’s house and spamming his consciousness with Ibikunle and Sons worked, Olufemi.”

I brimmed with pride as the rest of the guys dropped celebratory balloons and thumbs up on the call. But of course, I had to feign humility.

“Thank you, boss. But you deserve more accolades. The idea wouldn’t have worked if you weren’t able to use your connections to get the man’s home address.”

More thumbs up surfaced on the call from everyone else.

“Anyways, that’s history already. There’s no need to dwell on the success of yesterday; we have something new to focus on. And since Lois’ network seems to be in shambles, I will just give you guys a brief of what the project is about. It’s simple, GoldenGrains Foods is celebrating its 50th anniversary in July, and we will be handling the marketing campaign for that. We will have a meeting on Wednesday with their internal marketing department to further align on goals and objectives. Till then, go through the brief document Lois will drop on the group later today.”

More thumbs up.

“Alright. That’s the end of the meeting. Let’s come up with great ideas for this project. We can’t afford to drop the ball and do something shitty.”

“Can you guys hear me now?” Lois’ voice came through with an undertone of panic. Her head was about to be ripped off by the boss.

I held my breath, awaiting Morayo’s…

“Yes, Lois. Send the research document you prepared to the channel.” Morayo cut into my thoughts with words I’d never have expected her to string together at the moment. “And Femi, make sure to do your business properly and be in good physical condition for that meeting. We don’t want you sweating unnecessarily. Bye.”

Before words could form in my throat, she dropped off the call. Others followed suit. I continued to stare at the empty screen. I swear, I heard some amusement in her voice. My business? Properly? Good physical condition? Sweating? Her words continued to shatter glass walls in my brain long after she’d left the call. Business? Business? Oh my. Did she know that it was more than a fart? I jumped to my feet as agony erupted from my belly. My neighbor’s dog barked in response. I pace the room in a frenzy. Asking questions that need no answer. Business already did. I crashed to a kneel beside my bed and buried my face in the fresh sheets, screaming into the ears of whatever micro-organisms lived in there. Even if I don’t see them, they must feel my pain too. Morayo figured? Jesus.

Before I could ask my lord and savior for an explanation on why this was happening to me, my phone dinged. WhatsApp group message. Marketing, Minus the Witch.

Tunde: Is it just me, or did anyone notice a difference in Morayo today?

Bimpe is typing

Me: How do you mean? (My heart detached itself from the great vessels and headed for my mouth. I tasted blood instantly.)

Bimpe: True. This is the first time she’s ever asked us how our weekends were.

The blood in my mouth waterfalled back down to its natural course. Calm down, Olufemi.

Amarachi: I was so surprised I couldn't even mention that my boyfriend proposed to me on Saturday. I just said the weekend went well. ( “ - “ )

A flurry of celebratory stickers reached the group in seconds. I joined in with one of PawPaw's dances. Lois’ congratulatory message led the way. Soon, we forgot about the pain of a boss who did the most normal thing ever - asking colleagues how their weekends were. Before I could hop off WhatsApp, Lois asked about the elephant in my room.

Lois: Femi, what did Morayo mean when she said you should make sure to do your business and stop sweating?

Gossip must be shut down instantly. Thanks.

Me: I have no idea.

**

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Three weeks later.

Morayo

The part of the job I fucking hate most is sitting in on long meetings. There’s a minimum of one meeting per day, in addition to the scheduled daily team meeting. I wish a lot of these meetings had been Slack messages or emails at most. But no, people just like talking, taking notes, and playing stupid team-bonding games. This was my seventeenth meeting in the week, and it was only Wednesday. Yes, I counted. The past three weeks have been intense, with work on the 50th-anniversary marketing campaign for GoldenGrains Foods. Endless streaks of meetings followed by all-nighters, and email threads that hadn’t ended. Finally, the campaign launched this morning, and it was time for the weekly LinkWorks company All-hands Meeting. Bowl of cornflakes in hand, I took a careful look at myself in the mirror. I looked like a mess, the ideal result of not visiting the hairstylist in over a month, a real marker of what I had been going through.

I palmed the hair down and peered at the wall clock. There were still seven minutes to the scheduled meeting time, so I sat down at my desk, downing two spoons of the cereal in my hand, and cleaned the milk dripping on my jaw with my shoulder. Others joined the meeting, with the app chiming on each arrival. None of them were my direct team members. I smiled when Kike from Finance joined the meeting because I heard she had gotten caught with a married man, and the man’s wife stormed into her house. I wondered whether she’d be able to show up to work if everyone at the company knew of her escapades. If only I were as petty as she was, the whole company would be asking her how she was by midday.

Several minutes passed, and the Chief Operating Officer finally made her arrival known on the call. Patricia. Relatively, we have no known issues. I’m sure she was no longer pissed that I refused to let my team be subjected to an impromptu report compilation at 4 pm on Friday, two weeks ago. Everyone was already busy, adding extra work cherries to our cake of work, thanks to her personal tardiness, would be taking things too far. So, I put her in her place, to the best of my capacity.

“Hello, everyone. Since the CEO is out of town this week, I will be delivering on the state of affairs of the company.” She began. I’m sure she had everything she was going to say in front of her on some sort of teleprompter.

The meeting blurred in time, and it was my turn to give a report on the marketing team. Which I did, in record time. I really needed to get off the call and take a quick nap. I had worked all night, making sure everything was right with the GoldenGrains Foods campaign materials. Everything was. Everyone on the call also cheered when I told them the campaign had been successfully launched.

Just then, a loud knock landed on my front door. It continued rapidly, startling me and making me wonder if a war was breaking out. Or a national protest? It had to be something I wasn’t aware of, because that was the knock of panic and chaos and trouble.

“Morayo!” the person called out.

I knew that voice. Babe. But what could be the issue? Bouts of jitters took control of my body. My breath suddenly found itself on the sinking sand, making me struggle to inhale and exhale. A million simulations ran through my brain, hoping to figure out what I’d done wrong in the past three days he’d been out of town. Answers were nonexistent. The bangs continued.

“I know you’re in there, babe.”

I didn’t want to be. He hadn’t done this before. This year. Not in a long time. I searched through my memory one last time, but found no cause that could have led to this effect my door had to live through. I deployed some strength into my shaky hands, found the Touch Bar on my Mac, tapped the volume icon, and muted the call into silence.

“Babe, what’s going on?” I opened the door, and hell broke in.

“Why haven’t you been answering your phone? Did you put it on silent again? I told you to never do that again, especially not when I’m not around. When will you get that into your fucking head?”

“I… I… I wanted to focus on the final details of the GoldenGrains Food campaign.” The words must have been written on the ground, because that was the only place my eyes could look without scurrying back into my skull.

He made his way further into the living room, his foot printing to the ground thanks to the muddy grounds he walked through to my door.

“And is this all that you can come up with, with that empty brain of yours? I told you how important this project was. I told you we needed to make this work perfectly if the company were to remain in business.” He wagged the phone so close to my face that his nail broke through a thin line on my face. I felt the sting, but I needed to see what he was trying to show me that had warranted the tantrum.

I grabbed the phone with both hands and rapidly scrolled through the Twitter trend timeline open on his phone.

“Chief Thomas called me. Their Marketing Head called me too, saying that Twitter is going crazy in reaction to the goddamn marketing campaign you and your team came up with. I was out of work for three days, and everything is burning down…”

The rest of his words must have found their way into a black hole. Everything else was tuned out, and the ringing of dead silence engulfed my hearing. The tweets were unending, all with the same hashtag, #GoldenGrainsChains, criticising the marketing campaign with words like “a multimillion-naira love letter to female subjugation.” I quickly tapped through another hashtag and was greeted with tweets tagged by #BoycottGoldenGrains.

Finally, babe’s words came through into my consciousness. “Is All-hands still on?” He was making his way to my desk when I ran to stop him in his tracks, to remind him that that was my desk.

“I’m logged in with my account.”

“Is this the time to be worried about them finding out that I’m the one fucking you? Even if I talk on the call with your account, I can easily tell them we are working together to fix the issue you caused. We are talking about five hundred million naira here, woman!”

He was right. Co-working wasn’t weird between remote colleagues living in the same city. Right? So, I turned. To do the transition. To inform the team of an emergency and that I was with the CEO upon learning of the online escalation in response to the GoldenGrains Food marketing campaign.

But then, my eyes caught the microphone icon filling up with color as I said, “Let me handle it first.” The microphone caught my voice and sent it over the network. That wasn’t right. I muted the call. Before I went to open the door, I muted the call. I remember doing that. Yes. I did hit the Touch Bar, and… The touch bar??

The realization knocked me dead in the head. Hands that had done nothing but type over the past few weeks flew to my mouth. Shit. I had turned off the speaker volume and not the microphone. Life, death, and everything in between flashed before my inner eyes. Doom came visiting, and I shared it with my whole world. My whole world.

Finally, I came to be, and rushed towards the cancel button. My eyes flooded with some hot liquid into a blur as I tapped rapidly to cancel the slot machine, where everything about my life had just made it to the ears of the forty-six employees of LinkWorks.

“Laja, they heard everything.”

Continue to Episode 4

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See you next Sunday.

Footnote: I’d like to sincerely apologize for missing the 7 pm (WAT) publication time. Had a very long week and couldn’t get the story to a quality level I could publish on time. I thought of sending a notification email about the delay, but I didn’t want to overshoot the 1 email slot I’d like to take in your inbox per week (we all get too many emails already, I wouldn’t want to add to that).

So, I thought I should create a WhatsApp group for general newsletter notifications and to hear from you about the characters, the story, the plot, etc. Just to easily discuss with you, if you’d like. Kindly let me know if you’d be interested in joining such a group, where I promise there would be no spamming.

I hope you enjoyed this episode. See you next Sunday.

Morayo

The whole process of onboarding a new teammate is nothing but a pain in the ass. One would have to show them the ropes, who to report to, how not to nuke the whole goddamn company, and emphasise how whatever material they’d put out on behalf of the company must be checked and approved by no less than two teammates. I’m the only one exempt from that rule, most times. When I feel the need for them - I mean team members now - to feel relevant, I bring a couple of them into the review loop, or just ask for review on the Marketing team channel. That’s the privilege of being the boss of the team, and I totally deserve it, because I busted my ass so much to be here. I know they all think of me as an asshole, but if I gave a rat’s ass about what others thought of me, I wouldn’t be here. And I sure as hell wouldn’t have let this guy join the team if I did.

His very first assessment of me was that I was out of my mind. That was totally unexpected. It usually took about two or more interactions before someone said I was a jerk or that I had a faulty vibrator stuck up my ass. Yes, I remember the exact words of Frank, the last guy I dated in the university, because it pained me. And I don’t even use a vibrator. Never ever did. He was just a vulgar human. Men, the freaking lot of them, are very close to trash in the food chain. I’m not sorry. It’s why I don’t understand why God had to make us depend on them to sort some feelings and needs. Like, God sees the beginning and the end, so he must have known that…

“Good morning, Morayo.” Bimpe’s voice floated in over the Teams call.

I reacted with a thumbs up emoticon. Then I turned on my video and continued reading the printed copy of last month’s marketing report.

“I’m sorry for being late. I had some trouble with my internet.” Ifunanya struggled to catch her breath as she settled at her desk . Who knew fixing a wireless internet connection would require such physical exertion. But I’m too engrossed in this paper. Shit, it’s turned upside down. I see no reason to reply to her.

It’s still five minutes to the scheduled meeting time, and that’s when Amarachi and Tunde Badmus joined the call. Just left with one person and the marketing team will be complete. The new hire. The crux of this call. Olufemi Adetomiwa Adeleke. He has so many crowns in his name he deserves to be crowned the king of late coming.

Yes, joining a meeting at any point less than five minutes to the scheduled time is tardiness. It reveals a lack of proper planning, disrespect for the other participants, and an irreverence of the meeting’s agenda. If he wasn’t so freaking competent I would have dropped the call on his ass during that interview. I had been waiting for him on the call, and he had the effrontery to say I wasn’t in my right mind for using Microsoft Teams? He’s just one of the disloyal bunch. Before Zoom and Google Meet, all we had was Skype. It’s just right to continue sticking with the Microsoft equivalent of the OG video conference call platform - Teams.

Anyways, he’d better be worth the contract, else he’d be gone in two weeks.

“Good morning, everyone” His voice had no iota of guilt when he finally joined the meeting.

“Thank you for letting us know who to report to going forward” I said. Lasers beamed from my eyes into the space occupied by his video streaming on my screen. Who else? Olufemi Adeleke.

Crickets took over for a few seconds.

“I’m referring to you, Olufemi!”

“Me?” I watched his eyes dart between the polar ends of the screen in confusion. “Report to me? I’m not following.”

“Of course, you aren’t following. This is our first general meeting, and you’re late.”

I watched him peer at his wrist-watch. First, who wears a wrist-watch indoors? Second, my word is law. “If I say you’re late, you’re late.” I emphasized and kickstarted the meeting.

The purpose of the meeting was simple. Introductions. By estimation, it should take just fifteen minutes, all things being unequal. If equality took precedence, eight minutes. Five team members spend a minute each, introducing themselves and what they do, and I spend the remaining three minutes highlighting what is expected of them in the remaining days of the week. Easy.

I wished.

I knew Lois was going to do something crazy. She’s just such a clusterfuck. The instructions had been to say your name, your role, and ‘I look forward to working with you.’ Somehow, she’s gotten creative and included her month and day of birth, and relationship status. She’s gone all I am Lois Mabushi, I work on the Marketing team, with a focus on content research and community management. My birthday is January 29, and I am single. I look forward to chatting, sorry, working with you. I wondered what twisted her tongue. Why the hell was she adjusting her wig and smiling like a sheep? She’s ogling the hell out of the poor boy.

Anyways, I cared less about whatever went on with her vision and tongue, as long as she was in good physical condition to continue, the meeting would proceed. Thanks to the terrible precedent she’d set, everyone went ahead to state if they were single, taken, or married. And now, it was my turn. I abided by the original rule. Morayo Akintunde. I lead the Marketing Team. I look forward to working with you on the team.

I was going to wrap up the meeting with some action points when Tunde interjected.

“Uhm, boss.” He began, slowly. “You’re yet to mention your relationship status.”

I watched his throat swallow. All their eyes fixated on the screen like poultry birds waiting to be fed. This time, I decided to oblige, for the plot. Sometimes, one just gotta humor the minions.

“I’m in a relationship.” I announced while every organ in my stomach tangled into a mess.

The squeals and shrieks were deafening. What a bunch of gossip! Did they expect me to be a pathetic lady with no love life whatsoever? Is that why some of them call me the witch? Do witches get no love? To find some answers, I opened another quick tab amidst the chaos. Google’s Gemini argued otherwise. Witches feel human connections like everyone else. So, “Why are you guys surprised?”

“We didn’t know you were in a relationship!” Bimpe surmised.

“In fact, I had a bet with guys from the Sales team that you weren’t dating.” Amarachi announced before she could bridle her tongue.

“You guys had a bet?! On me?!”

They must be crazy!

“I know we are all working full remote, but this remains a professional environment. Placing bets on subjects within the organization is not only indecent, but stands as an utterly disrespectful thing to do, especially considering that I am your boss. This is nothing short of insubordination, and I would make sure to report…”

“Hello! Please can you hear me? Hello. My network seems to be acting up and I had to rejoin the meeting. Can anyone hear me?” The goddamn new hire cut in.

I swear I didn’t see his video disappear. He was here all the while. I know because I watched him retch his godforsaken pointy nose some seconds ago. And I could swear on my mother’s grave that the time it took me to blink wasn’t enough for him to leave and rejoin the call.

Gosh. These guys got me agitated for no reason.

I swallowed the leftover words but remained stunned at this new hire disrupting me by feigning internet issues. I really think I made the wrong decision to hire him, though he’s just managed to wipe the ghost-sighting look off the faces of everyone with that stunt. That was the sole reason I hired him. One of the marketing campaigns in his portfolio was during the industrial espionage case of BigBuck Industries. That PR creativity was gold, and he’s already proving my point even if I didn’t expect it to be used on me.

The silence lingered, like the awkward aftermath of a failed joke. “Am I a joke to you?”

Moments of non-verbal communications passed. Till Tunde spoke. Always the one who spoke when shit hits the fan.

“Uhm, boss…” I’m sure he intentionally called me that. Boss. He never called me that in usual interactions. “I don’t think Amarachi meant it as a bet involving monetary exchange. They had only discussed it in passing, with each choosing a side. I’m sure Amara didn’t think it over.”

Shit! My eyes found Amarachi in the corner square where her big body frame sat on the screen. The glimmer in her eyes suggested that she was about to tear up. Literally. I gripped the edges of my seat with both hands as I aimed to squeeze the embarrassment out of my being. The vertical dichotomy of my teeth pressed against each other till they threatened to explode. Have I jumped the gun and made a fool of myself? I watched their eyes, glued to their laptop and desktop screens, in whatever corner my image sat in their view, waiting for me to say something. Well, crap, if there was anything positive they had to say about my personality before now, it’s surely out of the window.

But, chill. They were wrong. They had no right to discuss my personal life like some gossiping teenagers. They…

“Hello?! Is anyone speaking? Okay I can hear you guys now. Did you say the meeting was over?”

I didn’t need to see his mouth move to know he’s blabbing with that loud buccal cavity of his again. Goddamn Olufemi! The voice of that pest is beginning to form memory pathways in my brain, against my will. Neuroplasticity never disappointed. But I’d let it slide this time. So, “Yes, the meeting is over.” I found the red button with my cursor and nuked the call.

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Olufemi

She’s a tough cookie. That bit was clear from the interview. And that totally justified the sparse details about the job role I found online before applying. So on brand - she’s made it tough for everyone before even applying. I should have taken the cue and known the recruiter was nothing but a psycho. Remi was absolutely right. Though, in my defence, I didn’t know she worked here before applying to this job. It goes without saying that her LinkedIn had no information about where she worked.

Morayo Akintunde. Such a beautiful name for a wild woman. For someone standing tall somewhere between 5’5 and 5’7, she exuded the terror of a 6’2 witch. Actually, those weren’t my words. They were Bimpe’s.

“You need to be careful, my dear. She’s fired three people in your role already this year, and it’s only May.” Lois’ message came in on the covert, off-the-record whatsapp group tagged “Marketing, Minus the Witch.”

More than sharing information, the group was a coping mechanism. To deal with the pressure of working with the Boss. Whenever Morayo slammed a pdf back into the face of Lois, she’d rant on the group for hours on end. Two days ago, Tunde couldn’t stop typing epistles about how Morayo rejected a video he’d been working on for two weeks. He was especially pained because she had approved the idea he pitched, but somehow, I expected more from you Tunde. Every morning, Bimpe dropped prayer stickers on the group before heading into her daily report meetings with the boss. At the end of every meeting, Bimpe dropped a selfie of herself; her afro hair disheveled from persistent racking, with her palm planted into her face. I suspect it’s because she’s always not had a shower at that time of the day though. But what’s a genius growth marketer without drama?

In my time here, I’ve been able to confirm a few things. One, everyone feared Morayo Akintunde. Two, the few people that didn’t get scared shitless by her? They hated her guts. Even across departments. Sayo, the CEO’s Executive Assistant said she intentionally pummelled Morayo with numerous shots at the paintball event during the last company holiday retreat. Of course, the EA with the punchable face blamed it on a jammed trigger when Morayo charged at her.

All liars will go to hell, and for some reason, I prayed Sayo didn’t find a way back to the narrow path. I looked forward to the next retreat, I found my target. I promise to shoot the S out of her name.

Anyways, thank God Morayo is taken. It makes the whole stepping back thingy easy. If everyone had the same thing to say about someone, it must be true. Right?

She didn’t even let anyone within the company recommend an acquaintance or friend for the role. I’m looking for someone who really has what it takes, she had told the marketing team two months before I joined. Yes, she searched for me for two months. Okay, technically, not me. But someone who’s got what it took. Unfortunately, I don’t think I have what it takes. The first two weeks have been hell on earth. Yes, she’s a killer creative. Emphasis on the word Killer. She’s good. Too good even. I didn’t know anything about her work before, but I was blown away the moment I was added to the Google Drive folder and other work tools. I saw artifacts of viral campaigns she’s led over the past half a decade, starting from a Content Manager role to being the Head of Marketing. She’d been responsible for many of viral marketing campaigns that have graced the Nigerian digital space and she’s not even thirty, yet.

On the top right corner of my screen, a gmail notification slid in. I hate notifications, but made an exception to let Gmail have its way, at least until I’m fully settled in. I switched tabs and opened the latest unread email. Nothing more could be unsettling than seeing a calendar invite for a meeting with the HR. The only other invitee is none other than the most beautiful witch I’d ever seen in my lifetime. The Morayo Akintunde.

Shit. I could feel the bad omen from a hundred miles away. This seemed like trouble. I mentally scanned everything I’d done in the past two weeks, every slack interaction, every standup update, every email, every… shit! Could it be because I didn’t respond, yet, to the email I was cc’ed on yesterday?

For the two hours leading to the scheduled time for the meeting, my brain ran out of steam from streaming through hundreds of scenarios. I downed my breakfast of beans and yam as fast as I could. Yes, I know that a meal at 12:30 was no longer breakfast. But, I don’t deserve to be judged. Working with Morayo has altered both my circadian rhythm and social lifestyle. I haven’t even visited Remi and Dara in two weeks. One more week, and they’d declare a state of emergency. I love them.

But right now, I don’t love what I’m looking at on the screen. Jennifer, the HR, wore a look I last saw on Chuck Norris when he fought Bruce Lee. Gosh. I was being let go. I’d never been fired after two weeks before. I can’t believe LinkWorks would not make it to my future resume.

“How are you doing this afternoon, Olufemi Adeleke?’ I knew it. My full government name.

The terrible thing about me is that whenever I’m nervous, my insides start turning. Instantly, like clockwork. But I was foolish enough to devour a full plate of beans and yam, right before the meeting.

“I’m…” I closed my eyes briefly, willing my whole biological system to calm the fuck down. This is what I get for eating only beans over the last three meals. It just was too good. About the only thing I can prepare perfectly in the kitchen. But this? This was no good. “I’m fine.” I eventually managed to say, ensuring the vibration of my throat didn’t travel down my abdomen.

“Awesome. Uhm. Firstly, I’m sorry that this call was scheduled urgently. We just had to bring you in quickly, to get this out of the way. I hope you don’t mind.”

The words were there. In my brain. But I dared not give them a voice at the moment. So, I shook my head across the x-axis. In my 3D frame, I focused every organ that shared oxygen in my body to make sure the fart came out silently. All while keeping a composed image on call. Easy. Easy. Easy, Olufemi. You’re almost there. Almosssst. There you go! The smell wrapped me in immense nasal pain. It stung like sulphur, but one that had gone bad. Very bad. Right there and then, I questioned my nutritional life decisions and vowed never to eat that much beans in quick succession ever again.

Apparently, Jennifer had been saying some things I hadn’t been paying attention to.

“Are you there, Olufemi?” The HR queried.

“Yes. Yes. Sorry about that. My internet froze for a moment. What did you say again?”

“I said we want you to explain your internship experience to us.”

“Uhm. I… I” Beads of sweat formed and coasted my temporal region. Slowly, leaving faint tickles in their wake.

“We were finally able to get in touch with the founders of the company and they said they don’t remember you working with them. So, why have you included them in your resume?”

The words from the inpatient Human Resource Manager dropped into my existence like it was Hiroshima 2.0, causing my heart to skip several beats. I lost control of the sphincter I’d been carefully contracting, and in a sudden loud splat, a mess erupted out of me in the four states of matter. The sputtering manifestation flung my eye lids wide open under my raised brows, and I just couldn’t believe my life. The borborygmus ended, but at what cost. Because in the few seconds that followed, Morayo leaned in, from the chair she was sunk in, to get a proper look of me on the screen, a million questions in her eyes. But she asked only one.

“Did you just…”

Continue to episode 3

See you next Sunday.

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Episode 1.

Olufemi.

This is why I don’t tell my friends when I have a crush, especially when it’s someone they know.

It’s just annoying how they are always right in their assessment of the people that make my heart beat faster than normal. To be honest, I think Remi is in the wrong profession; he has no business being an Executive Assistant. He was born to be a detective, and he just doesn’t know it yet. Of course, I’ve tried my best to steer him in the right direction as the good Samaritan that I am. But he quickly countered my offer by making me Google search how much a detective gets paid in Nigeria today.

The first time he busted the myth around my sudden liking of Grace in our final year on campus, I thought it was a one-off. But over the past four years since tossing away my Obafemi Awolowo University (OAU) I.D card somewhere on Road One, Remi - and his partner in crime, Dara - have successfully pricked three of my hot-air love balloons with that needle they call a tongue.

Grand total of four successful saves. They “saved me” from liking the “wrong person.” I might just be the wrong one though, but that’s not the point here.

So, yes, I hid my past two crushes from them. Though Remi still found out. I tried. I really did try to hide their names from him, but this bastard still found out, and in no time, he burst those bubbles.

Grand total of six successful “saves.” What a track record he’s had in my life!

And he’s doing it again.

“Between you and Cordelia of The Residence, who do you think is a better detective?” I needed an answer to this question that’s been brewing in my mind for a while now. “Because the only difference I see between you two is that you don’t go bird watching with your nephew.”

His laughter must have triggered something in his girlfriend, seeing as she went spiralling and howling. They knew they’d done it again, freaking myth busters!

I snatched the phone from him and rewound the video, swiped down the widget panel, and increased the screen’s brightness to the max. I had to see, in 4k, how my new crush bit off the head of someone for two full minutes in what looked like a restaurant. She went on and on, her vituperations forcing ripples of air around the speaker of Remi’s phone.

Another one slips away.

It’s been twenty-eight years of life without anyone wielding the official title, “Femi’s girlfriend.” For a while, I wondered what I was doing in heaven when others lined up their luck. A better deal with God would have done the trick. If only I had gotten him to make me six feet tall before the sojourn to Earth, finding a partner wouldn’t have been this hard.

These days, I don’t look forward to my mother’s call. Every single one of the last hundred and one times she’s called, she’s alternated between rendering wife-related prayers or outrightly asking me when I’d bring a girl home.

It would have been great if wives were sold at Garki market.

To be honest, I don’t know how guys do it. And Remi has also been no help. Back then, during the final year dinner organised by the Redeemed Christian Fellowship), i inquired a bit into how the menfolk got themselves a partner.

“You just need to walk up to a lady you like and ask for her number.” With that smug face, he made it sound so simple.

The truth in his words made me feel like punching him. He had done the same and got himself the girl. That fateful Saturday evening as sophomores, we were walking to the hostel when Remi saw Dara talking to her friend. He walked up to her, told her he fancied her, got her number, and they became friends. About four months later, he told me they’d been dating for two months.

I just needed to walk up to one of my crushes and get their phone number. Right? I did. The walking up to, I mean. But rehashing the humiliation I suffered that day might divide my lifespan by three. That experience annihilated whatever bit of confidence I had in myself in the context of wooing any lady who is outside my acquaintance.

Loser! Of course.

I lost again. I watched Morayo decimate a doorman like it’s second nature to her. “Why am I always unlucky with the type of ladies that catch my fancy?” I queried whoever cared to listen, roaring my frustration into the dead of the night. “I give up, man. I’m just going to stay single till someone probably asks me out, and I’ll marry whoever it may be, without thinking twice.”

“A man might ask you out, though.” Dara quipped.

“You’re a visionary, babe. No human mind should be this beautiful.” Remi said, a broad smile camping on his face as he looked at Dara as if she was heaven.

“I know, right! How would you have navigated life without me?” Probably trying to dissolve into his skin, she snuggled closer into him.

The menace planted a kiss on every part of her face before making her know there was “no way” he’d have navigated life without her.

If these were the lies couples told themselves, God was right to spare me that foolery.

I glanced at my wristwatch. It was half past nine already. They turned to look at me.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Still gotta do some reading tonight before hitting the pillow. Got an interview on Thursday, and I wouldn’t be able to prepare properly during the week.” The other reason might have been to disband the couple that would make out right there beside me, without a care in the world. Would you blame me?

“I can’t believe Monday is here again. Already. Whoever created a 2-day weekend system needs to be sued.” Dara chimed in. She picked up her jacket from the backrest of the chair and started dressing up for the chilly weather outside, all while handing Remi his shirt.

Remi, being the scatterbrain he was, wore his shirt inside-out. Thankfully, Dara pointed that out, laughed about it, and helped him tug it off. What would his life be without her? I guess we’ll never know because they’d be getting married in the next few months. Their proposal had been a beautiful highlight of my year so far, because watching the love of these two - who always acted like my parents - grow from zero to everything had been…everything.

They loved me so much they made sure I relocated into their estate, just so I could be under their noses. But I must admit that the quality of my life skyrocketed once I did. Who knew living close to friends could be so amazing?

“We should see before your interview on Thursday, right? What company are you interviewing with? I’m sure you mentioned it, but I’ve totally forgotten.”

There. Scatterbrained Remi.

“LinkWorks. I didn’t just tell you once, I told you a million times.” Not surprised, but it’s still incredible how he forgets some of the little details you’d expect him to remember, but the ones you don’t need him to recollect are etched on his brain. “How do you cope with this guy?” I learned to search Dara’s face for answers.

She defended him. As usual. And with that, I had had enough. So, I disappeared into the corner.

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***

I really don’t know why we have to interview for roles. It’d have made everyone’s lives easier if the recruiter just looked at my resume and determined if they wanted to give me the job or not?

Even more, I hated the interview I’d spent the past four days preparing for. I was flying blind. I didn’t know the recruiter or recruiters I’d face on the interview panel. Maybe the company was intentional about making the preparation as difficult as possible, since they only published a post on their careers page for the Senior Marketing Manager role. I applied, and here I am watching the clock ticking away towards 2 PM.

In the search box of my Gmail account, I typed in LinkWorks and clicked on the last email I received from them. The one with the link to the call. There were still five minutes to spare, but this is Nigeria, and one can never wholly trust the internet service providers. I watched the loader spin tirelessly on the screen as the accursed network tried to get me into the call. My heart made a quick prayer as I looked for something else to do in preparation. One loose end to tie. A ‘t’ to cross, or an ‘i to dot.

Earlier, I had scoured LinkedIn to take a page out of Remi’s book and identify the Head of Marketing at LinkWorks. All to no avail. Nothing came up.

One last time, I flipped through my notes, certainly not picking up any new information, but I somehow hoped whatever I had studied earlier would stay in my brain. At least, until I logged off the Microsoft Teams call.

I had questions, though.

“Who in their right mind uses Microsoft Teams for an interview?!” I asked no one in particular.

But a voice rose from somewhere in the galaxy and spoke straight into my existence. “That would be me.” The feminine voice took my breath away.

“Shit!” My eyes flung away from the book I was flipping through to the screen. With a reaction time that must be faster than that of a Formula 1 driver responding to the lights out for a race start, my finger found the mute button on the screen via the trackpad.

It’s time to die. I’ve had a good run. Yes, I didn’t know the call had finally connected. No, I didn’t know my mic wasn’t muted. But really, how could I have known that there was someone else on the call? It didn’t matter anyway; no justification could stop me from disappearing at that moment. Because right after I muted my mic, I triple-tapped on the red button to end the call.

One full minute counted down as though it were two seconds. Just like Avatar Aang, Superman vanished when my world needed him the most. He’d have rotated the Earth backwards for me, so I can take my words back. Because as I watched the time go from 1:59 to 2:00, I knew there was no way in heaven or earth that I’d pass the interview. Not after saying the interviewer wasn’t in her right mind. My brain ran through several simulations of how I’d explain the situation to Remi and Dara without looking like a fool.

Before the time changed to 2:01, I joined the call.

“I thought you also went out of your right mind like me?” The voice floated through again. I deserved that.

“I’m so sorry about my comment. I didn’t mean…”

“To say I’m not in my right mind? Of course, you didn’t mean for me to hear it, but you meant it.” I watched the animated avatar of hers move in waves, indicating that she was currently speaking.

I had nothing to say. No defence. No rebuttal. Just my tail between my legs. “I’m sorry.”

“Keep your apologies to yourself. Let’s get started with the interview. My colleague is running late, so you’d have to deal with me for now. I’d turn on my video now, you can turn yours on too if you’re in your right mind.” If there was ever any doubt that I had already failed the interview before, now, that was cleared. I looked forward to the “unfortunately, we’ve decided to move on with some other candidates…” that’d find its way to my inbox before the sun checks out for the day.

The woman who had sent shivers down my spine from the very second her voice came through the call finally turned her camera on. The image came through initially blurry thanks to Nigeria’s foremost internet provider - the best of the worst. But once the pixels focused a bit more, her face formed properly.

As though hit by g-force up to 4.5g, my brain yanked to the right, crashing into the insides of my skull and sending my hands flying to my mouth. How on earth is this woman on the other side of my screen? Why is she here? My eyes searched around her face on the screen. The nose, pointing towards the earth. Her hair? Packed away in an homage to the heavens.

It was certainly her. The myth that Remi had recently debunked. The woman who bit off the head of the poor doorman in the video Remi shared with me over the past weekend. The woman who had recently been the object of my desires.

The Morayo Akintunde.

“Tell me about yourself.” She began.

Read episode 2.

See you next Sunday.

“Are you my mother?” Nosa asked, shaken to his core.

“Yes, I am, Nosa. I am your mother.”

A cold washed over Nosa, causing his knees to buckle under him like a house of cards. In tears, she joined him, knees down, hugging and pleading, clenching at her chest in pain - the agony of leaving him to go through twenty-eight years of life on his own, with no memories of her. Nosa hugged her back, willing to fill the decades of absence in her embrace. His heart heaved, ached, and tore to pieces as he tried to phantom ‘why.’

“They told me you were dead.” Nosa’s voice quaked into her neck.

**

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A few days before finding his mother.

“You guys are making me poorer with every visit.” Nosa lamented as he welcomed the other members of The Four Minions into his home.

“If you run out of savings and become broke, send your resume to Helen. I think she mentioned that we need to hire a new cleaner at the office.” Ifedola tapped his chest as she made her way in. Effectively, his heart skipped a beat.

“In the spirit of job hunting, my boss said we need a new company driver. Your Formula 1 addiction might come handy for the job. Pay is just shy of one hundred and twenty thousand naira. You don’t need a resume, just show up on Monday, I’ll put in the word.” Rose hugged him briefly before rushing to his fridge to steal some McVities biscuits.

“How kind of you guys.” Nosa left the door ajar, heading back to his sofa.

“Won’t you give me a welcome hug too?” Gabriel protested. “Na man dey do man for this country.”

“Be specific with the type of doing you’re referring to, Gab.” Ifedola insisted, helping herself with some of the shortbread delicacies Rose saved from the ice-cold refrigerator.

“Use padlock on your jeans, Nosa. Gab has been acting funny since we picked him up. Arsenal lost again, so he needs some consolation. Don’t let him come on you.” Rose advised, with a mouthful, as the chilled biscuits embraced her teeth.

It took a while before they all settled down, but when they did, they breezed through the remaining work to be done in implementing the biggest A Box of Daisies program yet.

“By the way, how did you come about the name A Box of Daisies?” Rose asked while sorting through the list of volunteers expected on D-day.

The question caught Nosa reading an iMessage from Gabriel, who was literally seated beside him. When will you and Ife stop stealing looks at each other? When will you solve this chemistry or physics going on between you two? Nosa tucked the phone back into his pocket. The chemistry wasn’t the issue; the commitment was. Anyways, “I heard that my mother’s name is - was - Margaret, and Daisy is the nickname for Margaret. Also, when I checked the meaning of the word Daisy, I realized it’s the name of a flower that represents stuff like loyalty, innocence, purity, joy, childhood, and many other cute nouns like that. It fits perfectly with the idea I had in mind of reaching out to orphaned children every Christmas. It’s more like my way of reconnecting with my mum every year. Keeping her in my mind since I can’t build a statue yet.”

“That makes a lot of sense. She must be incredibly proud of you in heaven.” Rose wore a smile that warmed Gabriel’s heart.

“I hope so.”

“You hope she’s in heaven?” Rose added, cross-checking the state of supplies from vendor responses she received earlier in the day.

“Yeah. I heard some stories I’d rather not get into at the moment.

“Wait. Your mother’s name was Margeret?” Ifedola watched Nosa nod in agreement. “My mum’s name is Margaret too.” She proclaimed, excited by the newly discovered fun fact.

“The heavens must have destined the two of you to be lovers. Now, get married!” Gabriel couldn’t help himself as he’d watched the two of them continue to deliberately mistakenly brush their legs against each other under the table for the past several minutes.

The whole room erupted with laughter.

**

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A Box of Daisies

The sun was setting now. The golden brown hue it cast from beyond the horizon held Nosa in its embrace. The outreach program had been a massive success, the largest he had done. Not only were they able to cater to the over two hundred and fifty children at the orphanage with the help of ten volunteers, but he was also able to enter into CSR agreements with two companies to sponsor the program for the next three years. His heart was full, and it showed in the big smile he wore on his face. But, while the good things happening to the children through his initiative were a contributing factor, the major reason for the fullness in his chest was the sight of Ifedola playing with the children. Running around, barefooted, playing football with the kids alongside Gabriel, with Rose being a joke of a referee. The whole day was more than he wished for, and his gratefulness shone through as he bowed and greeted the volunteers who were now making their way home.

“Thank you very much. We’ll see you at the after-party tomorrow.” Nosa greeted the last two volunteers heading out of the large Ason Orphanage Homes compound.

Ifedola took a break and ran over to where he stood. He handed her a bottle of water, chuckling as she emptied the chilled content into her guzzling throat.

“I didn’t know you could play football.” He finally found the consciousness of mind to say. Even her sweaty face was distracting him from reality.

“I didn’t know, too. I guess the death scare did a number on me. Now, I want to live life fully.” She passed him the empty bottle, which he promptly accepted.

“Even if you tested positive for HIV, it doesn’t mean you are going to die, you know.” He commented before making a three-point throw of the bottle into the trash can.

“I don’t want to know. I’m just glad the test came back negative. That guy almost ruined my life. He must have contracted it after we broke up.” She jogged on the spot, ready to head back into the game. Her team was two goals down now. Those kids didn’t know what was coming for them.

“Aunty Ife,” a voice called from the front of the administrative building. The teenage girl arrived, short of breath from the running she had to do. “Mummy said you and Uncle Nosa should come to her office.”

**

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After a quick shower, Ifedola was seated beside Nosa in her mother’s office.

“Mother of Many, please don’t tell me you’ve called only the two of us because you want to talk about why he’s not asking me out yet o. Except you want me to die of embarrassment.” Ifedola quickly warned her mother, who sank into a good laugh.

“How did you know? I was going to ask his family name already since you decided not to tell me anything about him. Then, I’ll give him the list of things he needs to bring when asking your hand in marriage. I’ll even tell him about the fantasy honeymoon destination you have in your head with him.”

At that point, Ifedola teleported to where her mother sat to cover her mouth from saying anything more, wincing as she watched Nosa enjoy it all. Mother of Many was strong enough to wrestle free of her daughter, who remained glued to her side.

Nosa sipped his juice. He had visited the orphanage about three times before the program, but he had always met with Mother of Many in the boardroom in the company of other facility staff. This was personal and intimate, with Ifedola being a total baby ready to suckle from her mother if given the chance.

“Thank you so much for today’s program, Nosa. The children will remember it forever.” Her eyes smiled as she spoke softly with him, and when she asked about how he decided to start the program, Ifedola cut in.

“Mum, did I tell you that his mother’s name was also Margaret?” Her eyes lit up as she looked at and informed her mother.

“Really? What state was she from?” Ms. Margaret asked.

“Delta state.”

A brief silence ensued in the room, the tick from the wall clock being the only dominant sound as everything else drowned out.

“Mum, aren’t you also from Delta State?” Ifedola finally broke the silence.

“Yes, I am.” Her distant self answered. The drowned-out noise returned in bits, and she heard the world around her again. “What’s your father’s name?” Ms. Margaret finally asked.

“Victor…” Nosa began. “...Eghosa,” Ms. Margaret and Nosa chorused the surname in sync. His jaw dropped as he watched her say her father’s name with him. How did she know? Who was she? A truckload of questions was ready behind his teeth, but he did not have the courage to ask. So, Ifedola did.

“Mum, how do you know his father’s name?”

Ms. Margaret couldn’t take her eyes off Nosa. Watered and weary, her eyes stayed on Nosa’s face, taking in the ridge of his nose, the shape of his ears, the brown of his eyes, the shape of his jaw, his mouth, and his hairline. Carefully, achingly, she imbibed his looks, comparing it to the image of Victor buried deep in her mind. How could she not have seen it? How could she not have seen the spitting image of the man she loved and married against all odds? Seated right in front of her, twenty-eight years after; her son, in flesh and blood.

“Nosakhare…” her voice froze, giving up on letting the world know of her. Her heart dared not to believe, but she found a grip, taking a stand, for herself, on her way to him. One step, gently after the other. Nosakhare, her heart called again, this time as tears. “Are.. are you really… Nosakhare… Eghosa?” her words, choked and trembling, found the will to escape her being. Broken, but making sure to be on record.

“Yes, I am.” hesitation laced his words as he looked into the eyes of the woman who now cupped his face in her palms. He rose to his feet, and Ifedola followed suit somewhere in the background, beads of tears responding to gravity on her face as the reality simmered in her.

“Are you my mother?” Nosa asked, shaken to his core.

“Yes, I am, Nosa. I am your mother.”

A cold washed over Nosa, causing his knees to buckle under him like a house of cards. In tears, she joined him, knees down, hugging and pleading, clenching at her chest in pain - the agony of leaving him to go through twenty-eight years of life on his own, with no memories of her. Nosa hugged her back, willing to fill the decades of absence in her embrace. His heart heaved, ached, and tore to pieces as he tried to phantom ‘why.’

“They told me you were dead.” Nosa’s voice quaked into her neck.

Ms. Margaret sniffled, finding the words. “I saw your death certificate; I saw your father’s death certificate. I saw your burnt remains.” Her head could not stop bobbing, from left to right, as scenes from the burning flat that night flooded her mind. It’s been twenty-eight years, but it was yesterday, when she willed to run into the building, and up the stairs to save her family, her two-year-old child, and her husband, whom the neighbors said had run in to carry the child. Wait for him, they said as they pulled her by the arm, letting her struggle in their grip but not releasing their hold on her. She waited, in those moments when one second felt like a lifetime. Then the fire exploded further, sending shards down like rain. She had just arrived from a work trip, and before she could see her family, she watched the inferno consume them, knocking her out of consciousness. When she woke up hours later, the fire was out, but their charred bodies remained. Her husband. Her son. She shrieked to the heavens as life dipped her in a pool of thorns, the nurses barely helping her stand by the IV line passed into her veins. Somewhere in the background, the wails of her mother-in-law harmonized with hers. She heard it, she saw the fire, and she buried her husband and son. But right here, at this moment, a man kneels, in tears, with the name she christened her son, claiming to be the descendant of the husband she lost decades ago. The eyes, the nose, the jaw, everything, the same as Victor’s. What had happened? Before she answered any further, Ms. Margaret rose to her feet, hastily, running to her desk and digging through piles of paper in her drawer. There. There it was. She unearthed the papers: the death certificates that were handed to her. And the image of the man she loved.

“Is this your father?” She held the weathered photograph in Nosa’s face, hoping and praying he say no. Wishing that all she believed about the death of her family was true.

“Yes. This is my father.” Nosa answered. Then he looked back into her eyes. He’d never seen those eyes in his thirty years of existence, but they felt like from whence he came to be. “What happened to you guys?”

“There was a fire…” Ms. Margaret began, but Nosa cut in.

“They told me you died in a fire.” he searched her body; it glowed, underneath her golden-yellow boubou with dark green and navy blue stripes.

Without answering, she ran past Ifedola, who was drowning in her own tears, to the file cabinet beside the door. Like a beast, she ravaged through years of neatly arranged documents, in search of the one file she kept away. The one with his picture. Then, she ran back, stumbling against the edge of the rug, right into his waiting arms. He steadied her and felt her tender arms against his palm. It felt like Mum. Here, she showed him the picture. It was the one he had of himself, from his one-year birthday party. There he was, seated and strapped to blue Baby Walker, with mouth scattered from throwing a fit of tears and spluttered cake.

“This is me.”

“Yes.” She looked into the whites of his eyes, wiping the tears that streamed from them with the inside of her thumb.

He hugged her. Again. And again. This wasn’t real. But Ifedola was right there, on the floor, crashed from shock and wailing like a widow in the rain. So, this was real. He had actually found the mother he believed to be dead. But what happened? What happened in that fire? Why did his charred remains walk the face of the earth for twenty-eight years towards his mother? Why did the mother whose memorial he held every year suddenly have life at this memorial? Who could he get answers from?

As he watched Ifedola force a smile at him, from where his head hung beside the neck of his mother, only one thought lingered on his mind. The only one that made sense in light of these contrasting revelations.

Did Father fake his death?

Epilogue

It’s been three weeks now, with several questions left unanswered since his father and grandmother were dead. But with this woman, who turned out to be her mother, Nosa decided to spend all the days he could afford, which was every day. His room was opposite Ifedola’s, just beside their mother’s. Yes, their mother. Mother of Many took Ifedola in when she was five, nurturing her to be who she is today, the first child that inspired Ason Orphanage Home. Ason, the antigram of Nosa. Lots of stories have been shared. Stories that would shape the future they all will step into. Nosa, Ifedola, Gabriel, Rose, Ms. Margaret.

Away from all the mash of emotions that engulfed the orphanage home, Nosa heeded Ifedola’s request and continued the drive into Ahmadu Bello Way. The events of the past weeks have been nothing short of incredible. The dual carriage road shone with warm lights, turning the night into a drape of calm. Ifedola wound down the mirror to her right with a press of the toggle.

“Passenger Princess, are you sure you want to do that? There’s some degree of dust out there in the air.”

“If I get sick, you’ll take care of me.” She perched her head on the base of the open window, hands out to catch the air while exploring the aerodynamics of her palm facing forward or downward.

“You need to get yourself a new boyfriend. So the guy and his friends can come prostrate in front of me and mum.”

Cool air swam across her face as she strained her ears to register his words. “No. I think I will be single forever, because the man I want does not want me.”

“Who is that dickhead who dares to reject my newly found sister?” He was enjoying teasing her with their newly discovered complex reality.

Frustrated, Ifedola sat back in her chair, pulling the toggle to have the window back up. “You know you’re the dickhead, right?”

Of course, he knew. He’d be a dickhead if he didn’t. And an even bigger dickhead for pretending he didn’t.

“You’re my sister now, remember?”

“Shut up, you. You know that’s bullshit. You know it doesn’t matter that my mum is your mum. She’s your biological mother, and she has no biological ties to me. Or do you need me to lecture you on how orphanage systems work? Why do you keep trying to play ignorant with me. Yes, I know you were hurt with Grace, but it’s been almost two years now. What do I - we - need to do to get it through your thick skull that it’s time to move on. And don’t give me that bullshit about healing; I know you’ve been over her for a while now. And even if you aren’t, why don’t you just…”

Before she could say anything more, Nosa yanked the wheel to the right, bringing the car to a burning stop. He pushed the emergency blinkers button and exited the vehicle.

Ifedola wasn’t done. Pissed, she unbuckled her seat belt and soon slammed the door behind her.

“What the hell is your problem, Nosa?”

“It’s because I’m scared!” He stopped her right there. Loud, resounding, whole, and true. “It’s because I’m scared, Ifedola. I know myself. I know who I become when I’m in love. I know how crazy and obsessed I act when I start to call someone mine. When every waking hour of the day, all I think about is you and how I can give myself to you, completely. When everything about me, takes a backseat, and your wellbeing becomes my priority. When your breath becomes the only other air I want to breathe, and I don’t ever want to lose the ambiance on the in-side of your neck. When all you do becomes my source of happiness, and every other thing starts to look mundane. When life without your presence loses its essence. When in the multitude of people, all I see is you, and all I choose is you.” Huffing, Nosa paused to catch his breath.

He walked closer, holding Ifedola’s gaze like dear life depended on it. He saw her shoulder twitch and jerk as tears rushed to the behind of her eyes. So, he placed his hands on her shoulders, each on either side, clutching as gently as he could. Then he continued, willing his voice not to break.

“The second I start to call you mine, I won’t know what to do but to pour out everything I feel about and for you, all at once. Your pain becomes my pain, your needs become my need, your wants become my wants, your happiness becomes my happiness. My entire physicality starts feeling incomplete without you, and only when I can hold and wrap you in my arms will I feel a semblance of completion. Even then, I still would be missing you while my face is buried in your hair.”

The tears finally started down her face, gently and in lonely streaks. Nosa didn’t like that. Her tears shouldn’t be lonely; nothing about her should be. Because he was there. His heart was there now. Petrified? Yes, but he knew his heart was there now. He neutralized her tears with his thumb and continued with his attempt to get her to reconsider, to get her to say she didn’t want that type of love.

“I know it’s scary. Hell! I’ve been told it’s toxic, even. That it is not love. That it is an obsession. An addiction. That doing all these and other things I haven’t even mentioned makes me a mad man. Ifedola, when I start to call you mine, everything and anything would only make sense to me when I do it with you. And since I’ve not yet learned how to control how I know I feel and act when in love, or how to love properly, it might suffocate you. And that would break my heart even more than seeing you happy with another man. The thought that my show of affection and attraction might make you feel unsafe and suppressed would make me more miserable than what you can imagine. I know these, because it happened.” He stopped, and with a sniffle, she made her tears do the same. To stop.

He continued. “That’s why I just want us to remain friends; to give you the best bits of me without the burden that comes with being mine.”

“How then will you be hurt again?” Ifedola cut in, her hands dropping the hem of her blouse to cup his face from under his jaw, looking into his soul as his dark brown eyes glimmered behind the thin film of tears. “You wrote it in your book of poems yourself. That you want to be hurt again. Because to love is to give a stranger the power to hurt you. And if that’s the price to pay for love, you’re healing and preparing yourself to take the leap again. So, leap. With me. Don’t be a coward. Don’t tell me what would be a burden to me. You’re not me. And I am not you. But we could be us. Together, finding each other’s missing pieces and filling up each other’s blank spaces. Don’t only trust your love for me; trust my love for you too. If all you’ve mentioned are the things you’ll do as mine, then bring it the fuck on!” Taking a breather, her eyes danced around on his face. The iridescent beauty of him under the gleam of the roadside neon lights was simply astonishing. Surprise took form on his face. “Yes, I know I dropped the F-bomb. Nosa, I want you to hold me every second you’re not busy; I want you to look at me like some risk you’re analyzing, to stay right by my side, huddled and cuddled that even paper wouldn’t find much room between us. Let’s breathe the same air, let's make new memories, let’s find new versions of ourselves together and with each other. I don’t know much about love, but I’m confident we’d figure it out together. We’d learn, and grow, and find all the right ways to do forever.”

“How can you be so sure?” Nosa asked, pressing his head deeper into her palm as his eyes closed in the euphoria of the fragrance she used on her wrist. He made a mental note to find out the perfume later.

“Because all I want is you.” She assured him, picking her words with utmost care so he could imbibe everything she meant by them. “Do you want me, too?”

The white of her eyes became a cloud his consciousness had no choice but to ascend into. Her words stuck to the walls of his heart, pulling down the stronghold fear and pain had mounted over the past months. With every space his body closed up as he leaned into her, his heart worked better, pumping blood like an animal on Ecstasy. He could feel her breath on his face now, the one she said she wanted to share with him. It was warm, and soothing, introducing him to a version of her he’d never had before. The version of her that rose to her toes with eyes closed as their lips melted into each other. Slowly, gently, and with caution, they found each other and unwrapped layers of insatiable desire. And then, all at once, they consumed each other in ways that numbed their nerve endings, totally yielding to one another as they found support by the side of the car.

The street light flickered and went off for enhanced privacy and as a stamp of heaven’s approval.

The End.

(Dropping your thoughts in the comment section would be nice.)

Thank you all for reading this series and probably enjoying it.

See you soon on the next one titled “The Two-Year Old Shooter” (hopefully, this remains the title. But there’s an 80% chance that’s what I’ll publish next - the story is forming in my head, and hopefully, it’ll be out by the end of January, so we can have time to meet some new characters for Valentine’s Day - hopefully, cos, 9 - 5 might decide to get crazy. Anyway, I’ll always do my best to write something worth reading.)

If you haven’t, please share this story with your friends and urge them to subscribe. Thanks. Au revoir.

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May 24, 2024.

Just when you think you have time, suddenly, it’s yanked away from you, and all you have left are regrets of things you should have done and the bold steps you should have taken. But then, on rare occasions, the universe shows mercy, giving you another chance to do it afraid. At that point, all eyes are on you. The past, the present, and the future, all watching you with intent and rapt attention, obsessively waiting for what you will do next. Nosa knows that, and that’s got him going crazy at the moment when his gaze locked in with Ifedola’s.

Around the centre table where the four of Nosa, Ifedola, Gabriel, and Rose sat on the floor, they sorted documents, prepared pitches, and made several notes of how they could make the day special for the children of Ason Orphanage Home. Ever since Ifedola suggested the orphanage home as the 2024 destination of A Box of Daisies and came out to her friends that the home was where she grew up and that the Director there was her mum, Mother of Many, they all took the outreach seriously. Even Rose, Ifedola’s friend since their university days, summoned all the will and time she could afford to join actively.

The group of friends has met twice so far in their planning for the program, and on this second meeting, the agenda was to sort out the strategy and implementations for going after sponsors. Ifedola has some contacts willing to hop on the goodness train, but the presentation still had to be right. With little time to spare to work on the project on weekdays, they decided to have a sleepover this Saturday at Ifedola’s place. Everything about the night had gone well. Strategy notes, proposal drafts, Canva presentation designs, and spreadsheets to track and manage funds. So, at about midnight, Rose suggested some wine to celebrate the progress. She’ll always be a party lover but also terrible at holding her alcohol. One bottle of wine became two, and soon, the measly percentages of alcohol in those exotic drinks were no longer cutting it for her. Without asking, she dug into Ifedola’s vodka collection; expensive drinks reserved for whenever an Abuja politician visits her home. In no time, the ethanol began to hit Rose in all the right places, and in the spirit of friendship, Gabriel joined her. Soon, they were both passed out and splayed on the rugged floor.

“These two are just made for each other,” Ifedola scoffed as she watched them turn and snore on the floor.

“You’d think it’s been up to a year since they knew each other.”

Ifedola and Nosa remained loyal to their wine and did not end up wasted like their jolly friends.

“Doesn’t this feel like the right vibe for some music?” Ifedola asked.

“Sure, it is. With something playing on the TV, without sound.”

“Perfect ambience for cuddling up with someone.” She remarked absentmindedly, fumbling with the controls of the sound system she rarely touched.

“Too bad we’re both single to stupor.”

“I’m better than you though, up until six weeks ago, I had a boyfriend.”

“Permit me to remind you that it only lasted four months and three days. I don’t think that counts enough for you to diss me.”

“Half bread, they say, is better than what?”

After turning on the music, she entered the kitchen to confirm that the backdoor was locked. She returned to the living room and did a second check on the main front door. Check! The surveillance lights were on, and all curtains were drawn. Check!! Now, she could fall asleep without fear of being robbed. A repeat of the robbery she faced when she lived at Mpape would only worsen her PTSD. When she was sure she’d done everything humanly possible to prevent anyone from breaking in, she returned to the centre table.

“You have two able-bodied men in the house; nothing can happen to you.”

“That would be great if both of you weren’t drunk. You think Gab has anything he could do in defence against thieves if they come around right now?” She asked, chuckling and pointing at the drunk man whose left leg was now on Rose’s waist.

“Why do I think this bastard is flirting with Rose even in his sleep?” Nosa quipped.

Before Ifedola could answer, Rose ‘flirted’ right back by subconsciously turning and wrapping her hands around Gabriel’s back, with her face buried in his chest.

“The ‘flirting’ seems mutual.” Ifedola sat down. “We should take a picture of them, they’d deny all these when they wake up tomorrow.” She picked up her phone, took six photos of the drunk friends from different angles, and sat back down.

In silence, they sat there, tired from the night’s work, staring at the motion pictures on the TV with no sound, just a series of songs playing from Ifedola’s playlist. Then, like a sweet dream, the faint strum of a guitar floated into the air, swimming in the soft chords of the keyboard, before Lady Gaga’s ethereal ‘uhh uhh’ bloomed into the music. Jumping to his feet, Nosa grabbed one of the plastic bottles of water on the table and accompanied Bruno Mars and Lady Gaga through every lyric of Die with a Smile. His performance birthed smiles on Ifedola’s face as she watched him chase every note on the song. He performed, giving life to every emotion birthed by the song for her as she sat there, smiling, blushing, and moving to the melody. She remembered the night they met in the karaoke bar, with him singing a Bruno Mars song. He made her fall in love with Bruno because she immediately got home that night, searched for his songs and buried herself in them.

And now, this man who unknowingly gave her a favourite artist has become her most treasured person, one she finds so much comfort and happiness with. One who’s causing the organ sitting behind her rib cage to race fast and hard, so much it’s beginning to ache, as he came closer, kneeling right before her and looking straight into her core. His brown, dreamy eyes pulled her in till she no longer saw herself. In his eyes, she began to see them. She saw his throat swallow as his right hand found her left hand on the floor.

The warmth that shot into his being from that touch told him something - that the universe had given him a second chance. And now, their past, present, and future watched him closely, waiting for what he’d do next.

She watched his eyes close as his lips met hers’ briefly. The most fleeting of touches, delicate yet defence-wrecking. He retreated a tad, just enough space for air to pass between them. She saw the questions in his now open eyes, and with no more hesitation, she answered by pulling into him. Sinking her lips into his. Gently, slowly, they found themselves embraced in the tenderness. All the words unsaid over the past months found voices in their moans as man found woman, pressing and molding into each other. He was the porter, and she was the clay, and with his hands, he did things that made her fold, made her stretch, made her contract, and made her dilate. For each of his probes, she offered her seal of approval, holding firm into his back, wrapping her legs around his waist. And when he searched for her tongue with his, she offered without question, feeling all of his hardness against her wetness.

And when the dream ended, they stared and smiled into each other for several seconds of bliss, rubbing their noses against each other. But then, his smile disappeared, and his eyes darted around, avoiding hers as he slowly released her from his embrace, all the warmth they shared fizzling into thin air.

“I’m so sorry, I should go.” Nosa said, looking everywhere except at her.

Before she could object, he begged her to let him leave. He paced around the house as he did, like an animal starved of breath. His brown eyes were heavy with tears. His hands were clutched, his thumbs biting at each other. His spine shuddered, and words came out of him cloaked in cold shivers. “Please…” his cracked voice began, “can you… let… let me…go?”

Stunned and unable to process what had just happened, all Ifedola could do was nod, and in no time, she watched him stumble out of the door, listening as the vehicle drove out of the compound before Muhammad locked the gate behind him.

He was gone.

***

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June 1, 2024.

Whenever Gabriel wanted to have a serious discussion with Nosa, he always called him over to his palace, as he liked to call his two-bedroom apartment. The single-seater sofa facing his TV was his throne, and Nosa knew not to sit there on a good day. But nothing has been good about the past eight days since he kissed Ifedola and bolted like it was doomsday. He knew there was no other reason for Gabriel to have invited him over with such a curt body of words in his message. “We need to talk. My place. 5 pm, tomorrow.”

“Wine?” Gabriel rhetorically asked. He reached for two glasses, and after a gentle pop of the cork, he filled each glass to just above the wider part of the bowl. Handling the cups by the stem, he headed for the living room.

“You know I love that sofa. You simply want my trouble this beautiful Sunday evening, and I wouldn’t let you bring the worst out of me. Today, I’m locked into my role as a mediator.” He handed Nosa a glass and placed his phone face down on an armrest.

“Thanks, man.” Nosa brought the rim of the glass close to his nose, swirling the liquid with a subtle flick of his wrist. The aromas of the red berries and cherries filled his nose with savour.

“Of course. This should seep into every turn in your body and get you relaxed; it’s time for some lie detector test.”

“Are you going to question me about my chance meeting with Jola and FK in the elevator at Sheraton?”

“The ‘I Said What I Said’ girls? Nah, the interrogation this evening is about what happened between you and Ifedola. I thought I was done with Tom and Jerry as a kid, never knew I’d have to deal with Nosa and Ifedola as a thirty-one years old man. Anyways, here we are. So, take a sip from your wine and start spilling. I could bring the whole bottle for you if you want.”

Cueing into Gabriel’s suggestion, Nosa took a long sip from his glass. He stared into nothing as he rummaged through his brain for how to begin his confessions.

“When Rose and I woke the next morning, we saw Ifedola with her bloodshot eyes that looked like she saw a ghost. And you were MIA.” Gabriel continued. “If you must know, Ife has told me her side of the story, let’s hear from you.”

Nosa remained hesitant. Ifedola had refused to talk to him over the past eight days, and all his forty-two messages of ‘I’m so sorry’ have been left unanswered. Yes, he counted. Even the Four Minions WhatsApp group has been dreadfully sombre; only Rose's random questions about some tasks related to the A Box of Daisies outreach program had been answered by Ifedola.

“She said you guys kissed, and you disappeared.” Gabriel took his first sip of the wine. The fresh, smooth sweetness of 37* Pinot Noir lingered on his taste buds. “I’ve only seen guys that kiss and tell; kiss and bolt is a new one, even for me. She said you were literally gone in less than ten seconds.”

“I didn’t run. I just… I just…” more wine for Nosa. “I just panicked.”

“Was the kiss that good? I didn’t know Ifedola had game, ‘cos I know the magic surely wasn’t from you.”

Nosa shot his friend an eye. “I’m not kidding.” More sip of the win. “The kiss was wonderful, I think we both knew it was coming all the while.”

“Yeah, it was obvious to the blind that you two had a thing for each other. I’m surprised your lips have taken this long to find each other.” Gabriel was clearly enjoying himself. The wine.

“Anyways, I don’t know what came over me when we were done. It was like I caught myself doing the wrong thing - like I was cheating,” Nosa paused, working on re-invoking what he felt on his nerve endings that night.

“Cheating on who? Grace?”

“Yes. And that’s crazy because she’s literally engaged to someone else right now?”

“How do you know that? I thought you said she blocked your number?”

“Instagram exists.”

“I see. Let’s take some steps back to the cheating talk. Why does locking lips with someone you clearly share feelings with feel like cheating.” He knew it was more than locking lips (Ifedola gave him quite a rundown of events), but he wouldn’t tease Nosa with that right now.

“I don’t know. I just … couldn’t go any further. That moment felt like we acknowledged our feelings and the implications of that scared the hell out of me too.”

“If I get you clearly, it’s two things now; one, it felt like you were cheating, and two, the implications of the acknowledgment scared you?”

“Yeah. it’s all messed up. It’s been two fucking years, and I’m still messed up like this. Everything just came back rushing at me all at once. All the thoughts and words, all the conclusions and mistakes. Everything. Bro, having Ife look into my eyes that night, I found myself analyzing all the risks involved - I’m not good enough, I’m simply going to hurt her, and I’m a bad influence, I don’t know how to do love right. It’s the one thing I’m terrible at, with a proven track record. Once I realized all that, one weird cold rose from my feet all the way up to my head. I couldn’t stay still. I had to run home to drench myself under a warm shower, clothes on.”

“That’s crazy, bro, I thought you were over that girl.”

“That’s what I thought too. Apparently, two years hasn’t been enough time for me to heal. I’m just a fucking klutz.”

“I was going for a simpler word like stupid, but you nailed it with the synonym.”

“Thank you.” Nosa emptied his glass.

Gabriel went to the dining table, retrieved the whole bottle of red wine, and poured his friend a refill.

“Thanks. I bet Ife hates my gut right now.”

“Sincerely, she has so far deviced a few hundred ways to murder you. One memorable idea was that she’d give you a fill of water scooped from Jabi lake, let all those microorganisms that can’t be named eat you up from the inside, ‘cos your fast and furious exit had been eating her up like a bug.”

“I know. Even I felt like drowning in the shower when I got home.”

Everything went silent between them for a while before Nosa spoke again. “I’m just not ready, bro. I like Ifedola, she’s incredible, but I’m really not in control of the heart that should give her the commitment she deserves. After Bayo played her, she doesn’t need another jerk to turn her life upside down.”

“How did you know she’s changed your contact name to Jerk on her phone?” Gabriel watched Nosa crack a smile. “But really, Nosa, you need to be deliberate about moving on from Grace. And please, stop with all the self-degrading words about yourself. You’re not as terrible as you’re making your mind believe. Whatever Grace might have said to you in the past, let it stay there. Don’t let your idea and definition of yourself be based on what someone who’s probably picking out wedding dresses right now said about you. Whatever mistakes you think you made in that relationship, it’s in the past, like Manchester United's glory days.”

“It’s hard. It’s hard when someone you show all of yourself to, who knows you in and out, whom you loved totally, makes an assessment of you. It’s hard to get it out of your system. It’s hard not to believe it.” The wine was working its magic now. “I hate it too, I hate her, but I still miss her. It’s like a curse and I don’t want to bring that messiness anywhere near Ifedola. I don’t want to hurt her. I can’t bear to see her sad because of me. It’d kill me cos she’s the best thing in my life right now, and I’m worried I’d mess things up again. So, it’s just safe to remain friends.”

“Before you go any further and turn into a ball of tears on my sofa, I think you should say all these to her directly.” Gabriel cut in, placing his phone on Nosa’s lap. “Ife, you can hear him, right?”

“Yes.” Her voice floated in over the loudspeaker.

Gabriel had her listening in on call the whole time. Nosa’s throat ran parched. Gabriel was nothing but a torn in the flesh. With the most efficient introspective process he could implement, Nosa scanned through everything he had said so far. Nothing damning, right?

“Hi, Ife.” Nosa’s greeted like a teen caught wetting the bed.

“Hi, Nosa.” Ice-cold over the phone. Classic angry Ifedola.

***

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The following day, Nosa had just finished his morning reps of wide push-ups, followed by a quick shower. After the various Dang! skincare products had found their way to his face, he sat in his chair, ready for the day’s work. His phone beeped; it was an email from HR. He’s been relieved of his duties with the company. His senses went numb as he tried to make sense of the reasons stated in the letter, cc’ing his line manager and the CEO. The company was downsizing; with this two-week notice and the promise of a three-month severance package, he was meant to find another job.

He shot quick messages to his manager, who promptly responded with re-spun versions of the email he received earlier. His direct messages to the CEO were met with Slack silence, leaving him to wonder what the actual F was going on. He got emails of revoked access to some internal company tools in no time, with others meant to facilitate his handover process to HR.

It all felt like a scene from All of Us Are Dead, prompting him to seek the wake-up call that might help. He took a screenshot of the email and sent it to The Four Minions.

Gasping and gawking emojis flooded the group chat like a runoff of the Atlantic. It was true. This whole thing was happening. He was being let go.

**

June 6, 2024.

“Hey, jobless man. Let’s go shopping for a tux. We have a party tonight.” Ifedola’s message dropped in her usual boss-lady fashion. No asks, just declarations.

Nosa always found it amusing whenever she did that. And this time, he found himself smiling sheepishly. It was the first time Ifedola would message him since her consolation message when he lost his job. Those four days of no comms felt like four years for reasons beyond his comprehension.

A second message followed up. “See you in an hour. Don’t be late.”

The next fifty-five minutes after her message had him grooming and beautifying himself for no just cause. Oh, there was a tangible reason - not to embarrass Ifedola at her party. Of course, it couldn’t have been that he was trying to look good for her.

The Mercedes E-Class E220d honked twice, and he knew she was outside waiting.

“You know it’s not yet up to an hour, right?” Nosa bent to look into the car through the open passenger side window.

“You didn’t tell me you have a kid you were breast feeding.” She looked at his face; there was something different about it. A bit of sheen she hadn’t always noticed. She wasn’t going to probe. “Hope you have your cologne and some other stuff in that bag, ‘cos we’re heading straight to the party.”

“Yes. But really, you only gave me an hour’s notice. What if I hadn’t got my haircut yesterday?” He protested further, fixing his seat belt, enjoying and grateful for the return of their vibe.

“I got Gabriel to tell you to go get a haircut. You looked like a caveman.”

“So, you had this party … Tag Along planned since when?” he wasn’t going to use the word date. He had to be more careful before ruining things. They had only managed to get past the kiss-and-bolt saga. For a moment, the experience of that night flashed some scenes across his mind, again, with his body remembering hers’. Thank goodness she said something to cut into the euphoria his subconscious was slipping into.

“I didn’t plan to attend, but I figured you could use some human interaction and not knot yourself to the ceiling fan.”

So, did she decide to attend the party for him? We’re so back!

After several minutes of driving, Ifedola pulled into Gents Inc.’s compound and led the rakishly handsome man up the stairs and into her friend’s atelier. Khalid, CEO of Gents Inc., came out of his office with a larger-than-life smile in his striped navy blue suit, no tie, and classic oxford shoes featuring a suede quarter.

“Ifedola, my love.” He greeted, planting a kiss on her cheek before engulfing her in his embrace. “I really thought my existence has become nothing to you. You haven’t been in touch, until today.”

“You haven’t been in touch either.” She replied with a smile.

“You know what? You’re absolutely right. But I’m so delighted you decided to bless my space with your royal presence today. I presume this gentleman right here is the object of my magic for the day. Hello, mister, you must be the Nosa I’ve heard so much about in the past ten hours. You see that picture of you dicing green peas, with the apron, you should have it in a museum. If I had a kitchen brand, I’d sign you as an ambassador straight away. You looked heavenly.” Khalid couldn’t stop talking despite all of Ifedola’s eyes and awkward laughs to get him to hold his horses.

Nosa was surely confused. What pictures? He had never taken an apron picture of himself. He didn’t even own an apron. The only time he’s worn an apron recently was in Ifedola’s…

“Why don’t we get started with the fittings. You said you have his size ready-made, right?” Ifedola pushed Khalid further into the open studio, with racks of suits lining the perimeter of the space.

Nosa smiled and kept pace with his hosts.

After two hours of trying different suits, they finally found one with which Ifedola was pleased. A few minutes later, Helen walked in with some people behind her.

“I was this close to buying a suit for myself to wear to the party.” Ifedola smiled as her assistant walked in with her dress.

“You know I’m always right on time, every damn time.” Helen smiled, greeting everyone with a slight bow.

Khalid was super delighted all these were going down in his studio. He had no problem with Ifedola booking two private rooms as makeshift green rooms, one into which Nosa entered, accompanied by a makeup artist. Helen and the other makeup artist escorted Ifedola into the other room.

“We met sometime last year, and I could tell she was crazy from the very first time we met.” Nosa was done with his dress up, so he humoured Khalid by telling him the story of how he met Ifedola while they waited for her.

But Khalid couldn’t say more in conversation with Nosa as his jaw dropped at the sight of Ifedola stepping out of the green room. “Oh. My. God! Who is this angel?”

Nosa turned slowly, wondering what the fuss was about. His heart rate picked up as he set eyes on the woman whose existential realism was beginning to make his’ a fantasy. Fully aware of the power she had on him, she stepped out with effortless elegance as her heels made those stamping sounds that found rhythm and sync with the beating of his heart. As she approached, slowly, his heartbeat followed suit, pulling him into a world where no one else existed. Just him. Just her. Holding his gaze, she continued her walk, hips swerving miraculously in the fabric perfectly snatched against her curves. The lace sleeves of intricate flower patterns delicately climbed up her arms and over her shoulder, embracing her neck in a gentle line just above the gap, exhibiting the shine of her chest and the gentle dip of…

“Go on then.” Khalid poked Nosa in the back before he could finish embellishing her image in his consciousness and subconscious forever. “You wouldn’t let her walk all the way here, would you?”

Nosa took enough steps and met her with a smile. “You didn’t tell me committing murder was part of your plan tonight.”

“I didn’t know it was easy to take your breath away.” She flushed, the white of her eyes highlighted thanks to all the items used on her eyelids and their surroundings.

“Not me. I’m talking about the people at the party.” He watched her scoff; it was the most pleasing sight in the world. “I love the diamonds on the dress though. Against the black, the stones make your body look like the galaxy, and that is even an understatement in describing just how glorious you look.”

“Quick, get me Gideon from his office, this couple must not leave here tonight without pictures. Ifedola, I’m framing this look, placing it right there in the center.” Khalid instructed his assistant and took permission, all in one beat.

The photo session ended at about 8 pm, and the duo of Ifedola and Nosa were ushered back into the car, with Helen handing the car keys to a designated driver.

“Transcorp Hilton, please.”

***

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The long line into Transcorp Hilton Hotel wasn’t unusual. The trunk check and the police dog sniffing around the car were compulsory procedures. The boom gate swung open immediately as Ifedola’s car approached, thanks to the VIP sticker on the windshield. Driving down the straight, ignoring the first three exits of the roundabout, all of which led to secondary car parks, the car turned ninety degrees left, went straight, passed the crescent, then went several meters down another straight and turned right. With a wave of his white-gloved hand, the doorman gestured for the car to come to a stop right in front of the entrance. Nosa alighted and went over to get Ifedola out into the slightly chilly air, which caused him to worry briefly about her catching a cold.

“Thank you.”

They placed their purses and mobile phones into a tray and watched it slide into the baggage scanner while the metal detector archway welcomed them as they walked through. Upped by the elevator, they soon found themselves on the second mezzanine floor, followed the directions made by the roll-up banners for the fundraiser, and headed towards the conference room.

“Have you been to Transcorp since you’ve been in Abuja?” Ifedola turned to look at his face.

“Yeah. Once, with Gabriel. He had a meeting with some of his white business partners, he asked me to follow him, posing as his assistant. I came for the free food.”

She chuckled like a princess, not letting go of the left arm he had offered her since alighting the car. They walked arm-in-arm into the conference room rearranged as a ballroom, teeming with members of the country’s top one per cent.

“Ifedola! It’s been ages since the last time I saw you.” A man who looked in his fifties came closer. “I heard you don’t attend events like these. What changed your mind this year.” The man continued, gently rubbing vertically on Ifedola’s tricep, totally ignoring Nosa’s presence.

On a closer look, Nosa realised it was Senator Dino Meloyi. He watched Ifedola force a smile at the man.

“I think I see your name on that table.” Nosa cut in, gently leading Ifedola away from the Senator.

“Thanks. He’s always like that when his wife is not in sight.” Ifedola explained.

“Are they all like that?”

“Most of them, yes. That’s why I always avoid these dinners, but it’s actually a good way to meet these guys. They are all here looking for a good cause to spend their money on. See it as a sort of branding.”

“Why did you decide to come today, it’s certainly not only because you wanted to get me out of the house. We could have gone to Alex's Game Room if it was just about having fun.”

“I’m going to introduce you as my boyfriend to some of those guys.” She looked in the direction of the young men chattering away around a table in front. “Who knows, we could be lucky to have one of them who needs a risk analyst or knows someone who does. I looked into it, and apparently, a risk analyst can work in several places. Many of these guys run their family’s private equity firms, hedge funds, asset management agencies, and so on. Can you see that guy with the blue tie, Ahmed Badru, Rose told me he’s the founder of the largest cryptocurrency startup in the whole of Northern Nigeria. Of course, he started with his dad’s money, but who cares where he got the capital.”

Nosa couldn’t take his eyes off her as she continued reciting the bio of almost everyone in the room. Beyond the beauty she radiated, there was an essence to her being - one cultivated over the years of sheer graft and unyielding determination. He thought back to her narration of how she got into the fashion business and the hoops and hurdles she had had to overcome to dine with the kings and queens of Nigeria at twenty-nine years of age.

“You’re incredible.” Nosa heard himself saying.

She turned to look at him with an amused smile. Nosa looked brilliant, like a polished rare stone, different from all the men she had met. But he wasn’t ready for her, for anyone. And it hurt her again, but she kept the smile. Still, she held his gaze. “Those hedge fund guys I mentioned earlier are looking at us, probably wondering who you are. Don’t turn. It’s time to start selling our story of the night. You’re my boyfriend, remember? So, kiss me while they are staring.”

There was nothing more he had wished for the whole night than to feel the tenderness of her lips again. Without hesitating, he leaned in. But just then, her phone dinged with a message. Ifedola picked up her phone, opened the message, and froze with her hand over her mouth. The world stopped spinning, sounds stopped travelling, and everything became nothing but darkness. Somewhere in the distance, she heard Nosa calling out to her. Not until his hand touched her’s did she zap back to earth and let out the tears that welled up instantly in her eyes.

“What’s wrong?” Nosa worried.

Like one who saw the dead, she turned slowly and handed him the phone. A message from Bayo.

“Hey, Ife. How are you doing? So, I think it’s only right I let you know. I took an HIV test today, and it came back positive. You might want to get yourself checked too. Love.”

See you on the final episode (and an epilogue)

March 28, 2024 (Six months and a few days after karaoke).

“So, tell me, what does having a mother as an adult feel like?” Nosa asked as he passed Ifedola the salt before heading to get the rice.

“Why do you ask? Were you meant to inherit a mum somewhere when you clock 30?” Ifedola crashed into uncontrolled laughter.

“You are just a fucking idiot!” Nosa declared from somewhere in the store, peering through the stack of foodstuff and ingredients neatly arranged in rows and columns on the shelf. The sheer volume of stuff in the store made him wonder how much Ifedola budgeted for monthly feeding. The tall shelf stood only a few inches away from the ceiling.

“Do you need your mouth pressed with a hot iron? I told you, no F-bomb in my house. In fact, I think I should upgrade that law. No F word from your mouth again, ever, forever. Is that clear, mister?” Ifedola issued her commandment, standing with arms at akimbo and staring deeply into the soul of the disobedient man exiting the pantry with a bucket of rice in his hands.

“Aiye, aiye, captain.” He stopped in his tracks. “Is this the rice?”

“That’s normal rice, Nosa. Basmati rice is the one with the longer grains.”

Ifedola couldn’t help but shake her head in pity for the man who couldn’t excel in the kitchen to save his life. Then she went back to chopping her carrots into dice before pausing to think of an appropriate answer to his question. She’s actually never stopped to muse on the reality of having a mother.

“I think the feeling of having a mother will be different for everyone. It all depends on our relationship with these mothers when growing up. I’ve heard of someone who doesn’t feel comfortable staying in the same house as his mother. Then, another who practically tells her mother everything going on with her, no matter how small the detail is. Some love their mothers, some others wait for them to exit the world, and some don’t really care whether they go or stay.” Ifedola paused, reviewing her relationship with her mom through the lens of her statement. “You know Helen, my assistant, her relationship with her mum is like they are running a business. Give and take, though Helen is the one doing all the giving. Her mum only calls her when she needs something, and Helen has no problem with that. Her mum didn’t even come to take care of her baby when she gave birth, it was her husband’s mum that came. Anyways, it’s all complex. Different strokes for different folks.”

Finally, Nosa found the Basmati rice.

“What about you and your mum? What type of stroke?” He asked, sincerely hoping her brain wasn’t misinterpreting his words.

“I love my mum so much. I don’t even want to imagine the world without her. Having her is like having a place of rest. Except when she’s threatening to sell me off to the first man who offers to pay my dowry, no matter how scrawny, plump, lowly, or mighty he might be.” Suddenly, she missed Mother of Many.

“Unfortunately, you don’t take after your mum. She’s the place of rest. But you? Nothing but trouble.”

Now, you’re going to see real trouble. Ifedola went at him with the knife in her hand. Nosa ran for dear life around the kitchen island as she kept chasing, and their laughter filled the air. Just wait for me; I’m going to dice that short tongue of yours. How do you know my tongue is short? I’m Ifedola; I just know these things. Durrh! Catch me if you can. She stopped. He stopped. She faked a dart to the right, and he responded with a fake dart to the left. She went left; he went right. You can’t catch me, loser. Angered by his words, she went quick right and back to the left, catching Nosa right in the middle. Nosa’s hands flew into the air in surrender. I surrender, have mercy on me. Dropping the knife on the island, she held her stomach as boisterous waves of laughter rolled out from her belly. Do you know what you look like with your hands like that? Like a hot Hollywood star? Nope. Do you know those balloons in human form used in those circuses? Stumbling from her laughter, she found hold as Nosa steadied her on the shoulders. Exhausted from all the running, she rested her head gently on his chest. Don’t tell me you are tired already. I’m so unfit, right? Good that you know. He smiled.

A few seconds of absolute peace passed. Happy birthday, Nosa. Her words gently took to life as she stared into the space around the sink tap from which solitary drops of water escaped. Thank you, but this is the fifth time you’ve wished me a happy birthday.

Before she could tell him she planned to greet him twenty-five times more for the count to be thirty, her phone rang.

“Hey babe!” She greeted the caller. “Yes, we’ll be done with cooking in the next hour.” The caller’s inaudible voice went on as Nosa typed on, responding to birthday wishes pouring in already on his WhatsApp, thankful that it was a Saturday when all his friends would be available.

“Yes. Don’t forget to pick Rose when you’re coming. And tell her to check her Whatsapp for the list of wine you guys will buy at Grand Square. See you soon. Love you.”

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***

“Oh. My. God! Did the two of you make all these food?” Gabriel gasped as he made his way to the dining area of Ifedola’s home, mentally counting the number of courses neatly arranged on the table.

“Nosa did next to nothing, except stealing the fried meats,” Ifedola retorted.

“It’s my birthday, hello. I deserve all the meat in the world.”

“What even made you decide to cook. Are you sure you’re still Nosakhare? You’re beginning to scare me with these new characters you’re becoming. First, you became a poet. Then, you started going to karaoke. One random weekend, you joined a bicycle club, and suddenly, shawarma made its way to your list of favorite foods. You even started learning mathematics on YouTube. Now, your birthday wish is to cook?”

“You should check out Khan Academy on YouTube; you’ll learn a lot of maths. Because the assignments your children will bring home will only make your dumbass go crazy.” Nosa commented.

“Are you cursing me? Let the children and their mathematics wait in heaven.”

Ifedola came back out from the kitchen with the cutleries in her hands. Nosa quickly got to her, collected most of it, and neatly wrapped them in serviette beside each person’s plate. The host mentally counted the number of plates on the table now. Five. Complete.

“You know you unnecessarily indulge this guy.” Gabriel caught Ifedola’s attention.

“It’s no big deal. I have a large kitchen. We couldn’t do this in that bachelor’s pad of his’. And I’m happy having everyone around. It’s probably the first time I’d have all my important friends on one table. Moreover, he’s gonna pay me.”

“Good. Tax the hell…heaven out of his life.” Gabriel corrected his language upon catching Ifedola’s warning eyes.

A couple of messages buzzed from their group chat. Bayo and Rose were stuck in traffic at Nepa Junction. The traffic soon cleared, and in about five minutes, Ifedola’s door opened as the incoming duo made their way in with plastic shopping bags and smiles.

“Hellooooo.” Rose’s pitchy voice took over the house and got the lunch in motion.

Once Bayo was done getting his dose of French kiss from Ifedola, they settled at the table. Nosa made a short speech about how he felt honoured to have the group together in person after several months of unending chats, randomly fragmented meet-ups, and a number of WhatsApp group calls.

“Cheers to the big 30, my brother. Let me know once your back starts aching, I’ll share a prescription with you.” Bayo joked.

Rose ate away as soon as the meal touched her plate, while Ifedola took a million photos of the food, the whole table, the group, and more of the food.

“You’ll have to pay my cameo fee if any of these pictures with my face in it shows up on your IG.” Gabriel said, not looking up from the well-done steak he meticulously dissected.

“I still can’t believe you didn’t sell Nosa all these years. That’s an incredible degree of self control to curtail your ravenous appetite for money.”

“He sells me actually. Whenever a football match involved monetary prize, he’s always quick to flip me out of his team. This damned money grubber.”

“You know you’ll never be my first midfield option. I like ball carriers. You, on the other hand, play just like aging Casemiro.”

The table tumbled into laughter. Only Rose didn’t understand the reference, but she didn’t care anyway. The steak was very good. Through the meal, some intermittent chatter ensued in the group, then in subgroups. Gabriel stressed Nosa’s life. Bayo caressed Ifedola’s thighs whenever his hand was free to go under the table while he asked her about work. Rose asked Gabriel several questions ranging from his favourite body wash to the new fish business he started the month before. When the table of food was almost completely devoured, Gabriel remembered.

“Nosa, would you be doing that stuff this year. You missed it last year.” His voice went over other micro-conversations and caused everyone to listen in.

“What stuff is that?” Nosa asked, downing some wine to wash his palate.

“That stuff you always pulled up a GoFundMe for every Christmas when you were based in Lagos. I can’t just remember the name for the life of me. Something about boxes or roses or something.”

“Oh. A Box of Daisies?” the sun in Nosa’s eyes rose on a whim before setting immediately, sadly.

The switch between his lit eyes and downcast pupils only spanned a second, but Ifedola saw it. She saw his eyes glow in a way she hadn’t ever seen. That must have been an interesting topic to him. So, she doubled down. Asked questions. And more probing questions, which made Nosa spill everything he achieved with the holiday outreach program to orphanage homes, how it worked, and why he stopped (which was certainly due to the healing process he found himself in that caused him to relocate from Lagos to Abuja almost two years prior).

“Let’s do it this year.” Ifedola declared, stunning everyone at the table. She peered around at the surprised faces of her friends. “What? There are lots of orphanages in Abuja too. And morever, you needed to see the shine in this guy’s eyes when Gabriel mentioned A box of daisies. Shouldn’t we save our poor friend from the hell his breakup sent him too?”

Their surprises started morphing into agreeing eyes, finding the sense in her words. How hard could it be? If it would help Nosa find himself, then it was a good idea.

“You know you have a talent for really catching people unawares and just stunning the hell out of them.” Rose inferenced.

“Yeah. She’s been crazy since the first day I met her, asking me to marry her and bullshit.” Nosa added.

“I promise you, that day, it was the wine. That stuff had more than the 5% alcohol they wrote on the label. I should sue them.” Ifedola defended her honour, downing some more wine in the process.

“Babe, you literally are drinking more wine.” Bayo caressed the back of Ifedola’s head as she dropped the empty cup. Nosa looked away.

More laughter characterised the afternoon; before long, it was time for another Manchester United game that everyone settled to watch while Rose locked in on some gelato.

That night, at about 11:50 pm, Nosa’s phone dinged again. It was Ifedola.

“Happy birthday, Nosa. Thank you for making my life special with your presence. You rock.”

And on that note, her thirty Happy Birthday wishes were complete for his day. He’s really thirty years old. Damn!

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**

April 25, 2024.

Nosa sank into his chair as the three-hour meeting finally ended. He hated meetings, but working as a risk analyst for a Nigerian FinTech had him signed up religiously to ‘Can you see my screen now?’ and ‘Kindly find attached’. Crunching numbers and hidden facts were the fun part of the job and all he thought he’d bury his head in. But alas, he had to live through three compulsory meetings per week and several other impromptu sync sessions. However, through it all, he always looked forward to 2 pm - lunch hour.

He stood from his chair to warm the stir-fried spaghetti Ifedola dispatched to him the previous day. His chair creaked as he settled back in, a tray sitting pretty on his left hand while the fork on his right was ready to work. His phone dinged. Gabriel’s message popped out in the notification centre. “Code blue. Ifedola and Bayo. Check the group.” Finding the perfect spot for his food on the table, he opened the group chat to see the last information: Bayo - Ifedola’s babe, left the group. Before his mind could decipher what was going on, his phone rang. Ifedola.

“Come pick me up at the office.”

There was no arguing with the commandment. He heard her voice breaking and knew something had happened between Ifedola and her lover. Were the five minions down to four now? After driving for about twenty minutes, he pulled the car into the premises of Timeless Studios. The gatemen rushed to him with a mash of smiles and ‘good afternoon oga’s. He barely returned a forced smile before rushing up the stairs and waiting as Ifedola delivered further instructions to Helen, her assistant.

“Can you believe he was cheating on me with a nurse in his clinic?” Ifedola sank into tears immediately she closed the door beside her in the passenger’s seat of Nosa’s car. She’d been holding it all in at the office. One more minute of delay and her steady, in-control, and firm persona could have come crumbling in front of her employees.

Asking how she found out or handled it was pointless. Someone must have tipped her off; she confronted him, broke things off, and he left the group chat. Just like that. This was a prime example of how things can quickly get awkward when there’s a dating couple in the friend group.

**

To Nosa, it’s been one week since Ifedola broke up with Bayo. But to Ifedola, decades of pain have happened in that week. As much as she hated to admit it now, she liked him. Bayo. He had everything a woman wanted in a man: a good job, good background, leadership qualities, and all those other things Mother of Many said she should look out for in a man. Apparently, her mum was wrong. A man could have all those and still spend his lunch breaks shagging one of his nurses. That fact took some energy out of her, causing her to work just half a day, every day, throughout the following week.

“Do you know why I didn’t like celebrating my birthday?” Nosa asked, his hands clutched on the wheels of Ifedola’s Toyota Solara.

“Don’t tell me it has something to do with Grace again. Did you life really revolve around her?” Ifedola was serious with the question.

Nosa couldn’t hold his laugh. “Ok. First, it has nothing to do with Grace. Second, yes, unfortunately, my life did revolve around her at the time. It was foolish of me, I know. But that’s not the point I’m trying to make here.”

“Go on then, pointman.”

He wasn’t going to respond to that. “The thing is, I’ve only told you about my foster mum. How she loved me, took care of me, made me fast and pray, and died when I was fifteen, bla bla bla. Now, what I haven’t told you about is about my real mother.” He paused and cleared his throat of whatever was building up in there. “I was told she died a few hours after I was born. So, I didn’t really know her, but for some reason, there’s just this sadness that used to wash over me on my birthdays because of her.”

“That’s probably ‘cos you miss her.”

“But how can I miss someone I didn’t know? It’s weird. Anyway, there are some other little things my dad told me about her before he died too. How she loved to sing and ride her bicycle. She also loved mathematics. And oh, she loved cooking.” His smile returned to his face.

“Wait, is that why you’ve now picked up all those hubbies after your heart got broken?” She turned in her seat to ask with amusement written in caps on her face. She watched him nod.

“I told you I was a fool in love. And I couldn’t even do it right. Double foolery.”

“I’m glad we were able to cook on your birthday. Your mum must be so proud of how pro you’ve gotten at boiling water.”

“I know, right? Anyways, what I’m trying to say is that on my birthday this year, I woke up very happy, looking forward to the cooking stint, and then we had lunch, and everyone was laughing and enjoying themselves at your place. Doing that with you…and the guys, made me so happy. I anticipated it so much that I forgot to be sad as usual.” In his peripheral vision, he could see the lips of his FRIEND curled upward with a shy smile as he went on about that day. When she leaned closer to his side of the car, he saw a glimmer in her eyes. But he dared not turn to look her in the eye. “Anyways, you’re a good person, a good friend, and a great woman. You deserve better than Bayo. So, cheer up, my friend, let’s go to The Rink and skate the hell out of those roller skates. Trust me, any man would be lucky to have you.”

Yeah, Nosa. Any man but you, right? Dickhead.

She turned forward in her seat, unlatched the car's convertible roof, and let the air wash against them in the car.

*******

Continue to episode 3

He knew damn well she was God-sent, but he spent the last month of the relationship watching her morph into the devil’s assistant. Of course, in her version of their story, he’s worse than Lucifer, but that’s beside the point. The crux here is he accepted fate and continued the sojourn through time alone. But whenever he decided to catch a break from the affairs of life he had busied himself with? Her words arrive from the past to plunge that wrench back into his heart, turning it from side to side.

“Yes! Yes! I’m fucking leaving you, Nosa.” Grace exploded in his face that fateful day. He knew he’d had her back to the wall and hated himself as she continued. “The three years with you made me realize all I don’t want in a man. Everything you stand for is on the other side of all I yearn for. Everything! Yes, you’re a good man, but not only were you bad for me, you’ve made me bad for myself. And now I’m going to have to go forgive myself for letting you ruin me.”

Every breath she took, every heave she made, every tear that coasted on her face, all were emblazoned on his brain alongside her words. Verbatim. So, whenever the heart-wrenching words came back to his remembrance, he’d groan, cough, and bleed more blood on paper in the form of poetry. Because only when he wrote botched odes to agony did he feel like he could breathe again. Until the next time.

The only problem was that Nosa’s ‘next time’ always arrived after a short recess. And that’s not what the therapist promised when she asked him to pick up poetry. “Let out the emotions. Don’t internalize them.” Mrs. Osas said, leaning back into her old creaking chair.

“What should I do with the poems afterwards? Publish them?” Nosa quipped, sincerely wondering how poetry was supposed to help him heal from those wounds he couldn’t even touch. Is this fucking therapist even a professional? Nosa mused as his eyes gently resurveyed the dimly lit room, searching for clues that she knew her job.

“Nothing. You don’t have to do anything with them. That’s the point. You let them out, and you do nothing with them. Render them useless - take away the power they have on you.”

That evening, five months ago, Mrs. Osas went on and on, and he did feel like she was making sense with her counsel. But he wasn’t so sure anymore as he yanked yet another page of paper from his poetry book. It’s the fifth poem he had written today, and he ended up apologizing to Grace every single time, which wasn’t helping him get over her in any way. So, he’d been making 3-point throws of crumpled paper into the dustbin at the room's far end. He’s failed every time.

“Fuck this, man!” Nothing was going well today; even Manchester United got dismembered by Liverpool in cold blood earlier in the day.

Before closing the poor book that suffers the brunt of his frustrations, his eyes met with the only stanza that had made sense since the journal became a part of his life. Like a north star, telling him everything would be okay - that he couldn’t give up on the process - those four lines sat in the book, alone on the page dedicated to them.

I want to be hurt again.

Because to love is to give a stranger the power to hurt you

But if that's the price to pay for love

I'm healing and bracing myself right now to take that step again

The phone reminder beeped. Again. This time, he didn’t hit snooze. He picked up the phone from atop the most priced furniture he owned - the IKEA desk he paid for in cash and sweat. As expected, iMessages from Gabriel already piled.

“Yo, nigga! How are you feeling today? Blue or red hot ready to play some footy?”

“As white as snow, man.” Nosa typed a quick response, accompanying the text with a white flag. He’d pass on the offer. Rule number one post-breakup: as a guy, never tell your friends how it hurts; it’s like giving a child a hand grenade.

Gabriel was typing, so Nosa dived quickly into Instagram, scrolling through the various posts he’d saved. Spending less than a second on each, he scoured through the hundreds of recently saved posts inside the folder ‘Places to visit in Abuja.’ Finally, one reel caught his eye. A group of Caucasians huddled around a microphone, singing ‘Halo’ by Beyonce, and the lyrics followed suit on the screen. The ladies grappled with salvaging the song's melody, while the men were hellbent on destroying the keys, resulting in a real struggle of terrible voices trying to match the ethereal Beyonce. Evidenced in his smile, D USUAL ABUJA was where he needed to be this evening.

[iMessage chat]

Gabriel: “Come on, man, we need a midfielder on the team. Bode ditched us for some date with his new Hausa babe.”

Nosa: “I have a date too.” (He surely didn’t think that reply through.)

Gabriel: “I thought you said only your mum could tell you to love again, and there was no chance of that happening since she’s dead. Did Mrs. Magaret come back to life?”

Nosa: “Saw her in my dream. She sends her regards to you too.”

Gabriel: “Did you tell her you now write poems?”

Nosa: “I guess you have another midfielder.

Gabriel: “Guy. Meet us at the Isle of Man in 2hrs.”

Nosa got some work done before heading to the football pitch, bagged a couple of assists, came back home, showered, and headed back out to the Karaoke lounge he had seen earlier on IG. As the name suggested, the lounge seemed to be the usual place where everyone whose nightlife interests intersect with music hung out every Saturday in Abuja. The car park teemed with cars. The main lounge was no less crowded, with guests huddled in groups across tables in different corners. There. Nosa made his way to the bar, where a Tender greeted him with a smile. Welcome to The Usual. The bartender spoke loudly over the culmination of speakers. Unfortunately, sir, all the private rooms are filled tonight. Would you mind joining one of the tables over there?

None of what the bartender said made Nosa feel better. The night was being flipped on its head from how he planned it. In the middle of working his brain for the next course of action, a voice rose over his head. Room 5, please. A flowery air filled the space as the woman’s knocking heels stopped beside Nosa. After confirming her name, the bartender fumbled with a bunch of keys and handed one to her.

“Hold on. I thought you said all the private rooms were occupied. Why are you giving her the keys. I was here first. How is that fair? ” Nosa was ready to replace his poetry book with the bartender; let all hell loose on him.

But before more words could spill out of him, the bartender cut in with a wicked smile disguised as polite. “She already reserved the room before you even thought of visiting us today, sir.”

“I saw what you did there, and that’s rude. Do you know when I thought of coming here?”

“Surely can’t be last weekend. Right?”

Fair enough. The bartender was right, but Nosa wouldn’t give him that joy. So he jumbled up some more words at decibels that were conveniently not more than that of the now blaring speakers. Lounge guests were increasingly in the spirit of their various songs, especially those guys over there spitting the lyrics of ‘Not like us’ like they wrote it with Kendrick.

“Do you wanna join me?” the woman who had been studying Nosa for the past three minutes of his word-wars with the bartender finally said something. And it was to make a play at him? Hell no!

“Do I look like a play thing to you?” Anger sat conveniently on his face now, and he wasn’t scared to show it. Not anymore.

“Hold your horses, brother.” The woman flashed the back of her left hand to him, revealing a ring Nosa couldn’t identify. Gold? Silver? Bronze? He couldn’t tell. The party lights flickering around the room refracted off its surface, scattering in a dance of colours. But one thing was certain: that evidence of unavailability glimmered on her finger.

Well, he wanted a change of life. Doing things out of character is how you live out the reality of that decision, like writing poems when he hadn’t held a pen in ages or coming to a karaoke bar when his usual was to be at the arcade.

**

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One more thing Nosa was going to have to revamp was his mindless and endless scroll on Twitter. The app always had an eighty per cent chance of gobbling down every iota of free time he could afford per day, and that’s terrible. His performance rating at work was at an all-time low, majorly thanks to the rough start to the year he had, but there’s no denying Twitter had some role to play.

“Local or international?” a voice in the room with him cut into his mindlessness.

“What?”

“What type of song do you want to sing? You can go first.”

“Wouldn’t that be bad manners on my end? For starters, the room is in your name. So, it’s just right if you’re the one to set the mood.” Mood wasn’t the word he was going for, but his brain was in a jam. Being in a closed room with another woman other than Grace felt all shades of wrong, but Gabriel’s voice was there in his head to call him stupid. It’s been a year, man. Grace has another man now; she’s no longer yours. Relax.

He did. Finally, he relaxed. Crossing his legs and resting into the sofa, he could see her better now. She looked unmistakably like old money in her delicately sewn Mai Atafo SS24 Look 11 gown (of course, he didn’t know the brand) as she sipped from her flute of wine, studying this man who’d debunked her theory.

“Your first time here, I guess?” she could tell. She just knew these things.

Took him long enough, but the bartender finally knocked and came in with a platter of everything Nosa hadn’t ordered. Outside noise flooded the room before the young man in his white shirt, black bow, and black trousers could shut the door. The woman thanked him as he set it all down before her.

“When will my order be ready?” Nosa queried, still irritated at the insolence of the bartender.

“It will be ready in few minutes. I’m sure you’re not in a hurry to leave.” With the wry smile on his face, Nosa could tell what the bartender insinuated.

“You’re pushing it now, Mister.”

“I think you’re being rude.” The woman’s voice cut in, and for a brief moment, both men turned to her, wondering who she was referring to. “John, he’s a guest. You’re being unprofessional right now, and I think you should apologize.”

The bartender apologized and headed out promptly, refilling Nosa’s glass before he shut the door behind him.

Seething, Nosa downed every drop of wine he’d been served without pause. Apparently, not every business believes that ‘the customer is always right.’ Some people are just downright dickheads, and well deserving of the one-star rating he was bound to drop on them once he was back home. For now, he’d focus on the songs he came to sing. The woman was going to busy herself with the plate of Peppered Gizzard, Plantain, and Chicken Suya. Not that he stared at her food to know all that was on there anyway. He could tell by the aroma that filled the room. Are you sure? Okay, he scanned. Who wouldn’t? Anyways, back to singing. He searched and selected a song from the list, and the thirteen-second piano intro was enough for him to prep his vocal chord before he began.

Same bed, but it feels just a little bit bigger now

Our song on the radio, but it don't sound the same

When our friends talk about you, all it does is just tear me down

'Cause my heart breaks a little when I hear your name

It all just sounds like (Ooh, ooh)

Mm, too young, too dumb to realize

[chorus]

That I should've bought you flowers

And held your hand

Shoulda gave you all my hours

When I had the chance

Take you to every party

'Cause all you wanted to do was dance

Now my baby's dancin'

But she's dancin' with another man

Before he could finish the song, a knock ensued on the door. Again. This time, it was his platter making its way to the room in the hands of a hostess. To hell with John.

“I think you should eat first, if you’re going to hit all those notes Bruno Mars hit later in the song.”

A little dose of regret hit Nosa in the chest as he settled back into the sofa for his Yam fries and spicy dip. He could do with meat and more meat at the moment. They ate in silence for about two minutes before he decided to ask a question on his mind since stepping into the room with her.

“What does it take to book one of these rooms?”

The woman spent the next few seconds chewing on her mouthful before honouring his question with an answer.

“I thought you had a phobia for having conversations with women.”

“Oh, you don’t want to imagine how much fear your gender strikes in me these days. Moreover, you’re a married woman. I dont’t want to play in another man’s park.”

“Uhhhh!” she mouthed, impressed. “What a gentleman! Anyways, I’m not married. Neither do I have a man.”

“Bullshit. You literally flashed your ring in my face earlier.”

“Don’t mind me. See it as a trauma response.”

“A ring, as a trauma response? It’s hard to see the connection. Are you desperate to get married?”

“If I was desperate to find a man, would I go around flashing a ring?”

Nosa thought about it. True. His phone dinged, and he could see Gabriel’s message from the notification pane. Coming to crash at your place tonight. My house has become a swimming pool.

“Wanna talk about your trauma? I have experience going to a therapist myself, so I could play a reverse-role and be your therapist tonight. Consider it payment for letting me share Room 5.”

For the first time that night, she laughed, and it was beautiful, and…

“Well, fake therapist, if you insist. It’s not a big deal anyway, it’s just something with these Abuja men who are always eager to know what’s under my dress. So, I started wearing the ring to tell them off. But at some point, I realised that rather than making the single guys shoo, it was like sugar to their ant. It just made them hungrier - like they wanted me more once the ring told them I was taken. What’s with you men and hunting. I wear a ring and I suddenly become a more attractive game?” Rhetorical question, though Nosa wasn’t ready to answer. “Anyways, today I decided to wear the ring again, hoping that my theory of flashing the ring to get male company would work.”

Nosa was starting to feel like shit in his seat. She must think her trick worked on him in the way she imagined. She watched for his reaction and saw his lip tighten in a thin line. Oh, he’s pissed. She’s managed to get him boiling.

“But I imagine that isn’t the case with you.” She quickly added a detour. “You weren’t up for the hunt, you just wanted a room to do your song in. And by the song you’ve attempted tonight, that lady must have done you incredibly dirty.”

Shit! His face tightened further in a grimace. She hit another sore spot. It’s better that she stopped talking altogether.

“She sure did.” He managed to say through his teeth, really needing some meat to chew on. So, he pressed the button to call for a host.

John was back. Took his order and went back out.

“What do you do for a living?” Nosa picked up from where he left off, expecting nothing but ‘I work at my dad’s company’ from her.

“I own a fashion house. We make clothes for men and women. Ever heard of Timeless Studios?”

“Sounds familiar.”

“I know right. We make pieces for the who is who in Abuja. But that has nothing to do with how I was able to secure this room for tonight - you just needed to call the number on their Instagram bio. And it’s best to call about a week ahead, as you can see, the whole city gathers here on Saturday night.”

“Is the dress you’re wearing from your brand?” Nosa inquired, almost expecting a yes.

“No. My competitors! He’s also my mentor; I learned from him at some point.”

Fair enough. A businesswoman indeed. “Why have you joined the whole city here tonight? You don’t look sad enough to be sitting in this large room by yourself.”

“I come here when I need to clear my head, and relax from work. You know what? Sometimes last month, I was here, in the same room, and I slept off because I was so tired. Of course, because I reserved the room for the whole night, no one knew I’d lain on this sofa and just passed out. All I wanted to do was rest for about ten minutes. It was at about past midnight that John came to knock and wake me.”

“The sofa is indeed too comfortable.”

“I know right. It just wraps you, and tells you that all is well with the world.”

“And what could be further from the truth than that. Russia is still nuking Ukraine, and those kids in Congo are still being used to mine cobalt for iPhones. And…” Nah, Nosa, don’t talk about that. “It’s still a messed up world out there.”

The woman picked another gizzard from her plate. “And what do you do for a living in that messed up world?”

“Take a guess.”

“I don’t like guessing games. There’s too many variables.”

“I’ll give you a clue. I work in a sector that keeps the world going.”

“Food industry?”

“Nope, but I see why you’d say that. We are all gonna die without food.”

“I can survive on only water.” She sipped from her flute of wine.

“For how long? Let me guess, you’ve tried fasting for forty days and nights before, right?”

“People fast for that long?”

“My mother made me fast for thirty days when I was twelve, I’m sure she could’ve easily added ten more.”

“Your mother sounds like mine.”

A vibration cut into the conversation somewhere from her right. Dipping her hand inside the mini flap Chanel bag on the sofa beside her, she unearthed her phone. Only one person could call her this late into the night on a Saturday.

“Speak of the devil. My mother.”

The conversation between mother and daughter got Nosa wanting the same. It’s been almost two decades since the death of his mother.

“Mum. I told you not to call me to talk about marriage again. Do you really want me to run away? I’d take off, change my number, and only send you emails.”

Nosa couldn’t help but smile. Mothers seem to be the same everywhere, no matter how successful you get. Apparently, the CEO of Timeless Studios is still hounded about getting married. As annoying as that was, he would give anything to have his mother alive, pressure-cooking him to bring his missing rib home. Lost in the darkness of his closed eyelids, sipping his Chamdor Sparkling Red Grape wine, Nosa tried to imagine what his mother’s voice would sound like. Sharp and tough as it always was? Or she’d have grown soft and aged like Gabriel’s mum?

Before he could find an answer, a woman’s voice cut into his trance. It wasn’t his mother’s. It was the voice of this strange woman in the room with him.

“Hey!” the voice called out, bringing him back to earth. “Will you marry me?” she proposed, aloud and clear.

Nosa choked on his drink, sending a spray of grape wine across the table before he could stop his mouth from spluttering. Did he hear her right?

“What is wrong with you this woman?” his eyes stayed on her, bewildered. “I don’t even know your name. Marry…”

“Ifedola. Ifedola Adeniji.” she stated, matter-of-factly

Continue to Episode 2. You can show your love by kindly sharing this with your friends.

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The one-time Aderonke had tried to fall in love, it blew up in her freaking face, leaving her with a million pieces of shattered hearts - no, not hearts, because that love didn't happen. So, something else. Like glass. A million pieces of shattered glass. 

So, when Mike asked her if she ever had any friends, she had to take a few seconds to answer. Thinking. Wondering if she was ready to go over the embarrassing story of a ‘situationship’ she wished progressed more than it did.

It was four years ago, and the jerk of a white boy who caught her attention was cheating on her before they even committed to one another. Ok, fine. She's not sure if what Murphy Brown did could be considered cheating because she hadn't told him she liked him...too? But, it had to be that he liked her, right? Why would he have been nice to her? That time he buried his fist in the scrawny face of that racist scumbag, in her defense, it had to be thanks to something he had for her. Right? The early morning 'hi's and midday lunch grabs. The random winks, known for sending heat to her cheeks. The smiles that seemed to be only for her (Murphy didn't smile much, but he did, whenever he was with her. That had to count for something). Ah, yes, the gentle and persistent hugs that always left her in the embrace of his Eau de Parfum for the rest of her day.

It wasn't a sweeping-you-off-your-feet kind of 'love', but she had found herself gradually looking forward to the misty blue of his eyes at every rising of the sun. That's how real the blooming vibe felt in her chest. Maybe not. Maybe the medical jargon that filled her brain had just left no room for common sense, because when she saw him in the hallway swallowing that Latina babe's tongue and performing a magic she wished he'd do on her own ass, her mouth betrayed her. She called his name. Murphy Brown. Her lips flew into a purse once she realized her folly. Why on earth had the name escaped her being with traces of pain? What's worse? Murphy had turned with a broad smile, saying hi and waving like a jolly balloon to her. That damned smile again. The one that seemed to be only for her. Murphy waved at her like he saw a friend he grew up on a farm with. Like it was nothing, and that his act shouldn't hurt her. But it did, and she had to swallow a huge lump as he approached her - Latina babe in hand.

"Hi, Ronks" he called the shorter version of her name that rolled off easily on his tongue - the one she had suggested and allowed only him to use. To everyone else, it was Aderonke, despite how their Caucasian vocal cords murdered the name. But at that moment when Murphy said 'Lisa, meet Aderonke, my friend from Nigeria' he became like everyone else to her. The waves of feelings that had been stubbornly gathering flutter power in her tummy turned into a lake. A lake drying so fast as seconds ticked by, leaving a bed of salt she willed to pour on him. But that wouldn't be civil. So she smiled and shook the outstretched arm of Lisa. Aderonke wasn't sure if that was a mocking smile she had seen on Lisa's face - like, duh, loser, the Greek statue with the 'Murphy' moniker is mine. Murphy indeed looked like a statue straight out of Greek mythology. Literally. 

Thankfully, none of that mattered anymore. 

But, just like the stint with Murphy, life was running a circus around Aderonke's heart, again. Only this time, life went too far. It made her almost kiss Mike. Their lips faintly greeted one another with a contact that wasn't there, cursing her with warm regret of what could have been.

Everything went downhill when Nurse Omolara barged into the room. 

The shock on Mike's face confounded Aderonke at that moment. And it stayed with her for the four full moons afterward, leading to now.

The shock. She had never seen Mike's face like that before then. Yes, they hadn't spent much time together. But in the two weeks leading to that day, she had seen different expressions enjoy life on his perfectly symmetrical face. Pain from his leg breaking. Sadness from being unable to hit the gym. Happiness, when his boss sent him an email that his application for medical leave was granted, accompanied by some hundreds of dollars credited to him from the company's account. Even in that sensually tense moment when reason was locked out of her brain and estrogen controlled her being, she still saw passion tell stories on his face. So, she had seen Mike's face reveal an array of emotions, but not the one of that day. Not when he said 'Omolara', and the nurse's mouth released the sound of 'Mike.’

When Aderonke searched Mike's face in the brief still and heavy moment, he looked like emptiness smeared with confusion and pain. Throw a little bit of loathe in there, and some gobbles of regret and sadness. What do you have? Aderonke combed through her brain for the perfect one word to describe the look on Mike's face as he sat up in bed, but she came up with nothing. For four months. Nothing. Aderonke had no answer. And Mike? He wasn't saying anything.

He was a new Mike - one with a dead spirit. One who no longer replied to her messages. 

Every day after that intrusion, Aderonke willed to inherit Superman's Cape and power, ready to use it all to initiate a reverse rotation of the earth. Turn back the damn hands and legs of time, then make sure she locked the damn door so Omolara wouldn't be able to throw stones in her glass house. Better still, she'd have not left her phone on the office table, which had caused someone to come 'looking' for her when she wasn't picking up the phone.

Not her fault though. Rushing out of her office after a 12:30 am consultation to see the man with the broken leg certainly wasn't her fault. It was her heart's. Before condemning her head to the gallows, what should she have done when being in his presence was the only lunch she craved ever since they met? When it wouldn't be right to start her end-of-workday night without those recurrent two hours, gisting about everything with him. Even his jokes about whales always left a sweet tingle at the root of her belly.

Sadly, thanks to one freaking nurse Omolara, the only sweet thing about her life was up in flames. The distance between Aderonke and Mike kept adding miles, and it burned her. How did a stranger become such a balm to her soul? A balm that was now missing, leaving the charred spots on her heart to itch like crazy. Leaving her befuddled mind to scamper for answers.

Aderonke itched to know what had gone on between Mike and Omolars, but who would she have asked? Mike? The man with whom conversations started feeling like solving a 3x3 matrix question? Every moment together since then became less interesting till he was discharged. Like a sore wound that went in the direction of the superlatives of ‘bad.’ The two hours end-of-day hangouts gradually eroded to ten minutes. The smiles and lit-up eyes faded into curt nods and distant stares of silence.

Or should she have asked Omolara? The nurse she didn't notice before, but now became so aware of, over the past four months? Every working hour, Omolara now existed in Aderonke's consciousness. The awkward meets in the hallway, the stiff exchange of daily pleasantries. When Aderonke asked Mike who the nurse was - a day after the botched kiss, "My ex," he simply replied. And that was it. Two words that excruciatingly bore a gaping hole in Aderonke's heart. Two words that sent her on the journey of bereavement, alone.

Aderonke's father died.

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It was on Christmas Eve. The hospital turned on its head in those final hours when every effort was hurried to save Chief Ayoola. His death hit Aderonke. Hard. Like the punch of a heavyweight champion, straight to the chest. Choked by tears and wrapped in fears, Aderonke gasped for breath as the weeks blurred into each other. From the national death announcements to Will-reading sessions to Funeral day, it was all a single-length nightmare for Aderonke. Going through the messy motions imbued fresh perspectives on people, purpose, family, and career, in her. Aderonke, at the end of the day, you are all alone. Thanks to her father's preparedness, she was able to keep most of his estate from the prying and furious eyes and hands of ‘family.’ Chief also allocated the rest to them - the family - in deserved proportions.

Papa was all Aderonke had. He was everything, every time, and everywhere. Papa shielded her. My only angel, he used to call her. He was a father. He was a mother. He was a brother. And he was a friend. And none of the things she worked so hard for was going to replace him in any of these roles. Not ever. So, Aderonke cried herself into an empty shell. No one could fill the void Papa left. Not even... Mike? Mike. Maybe Mike could? 

Mike was there on 'funeral day.' But he wasn't there as she wanted him to be. In the black tux Aderonke only came to appreciate weeks after the day, Mike stood beside her. Stoic. More like a bodyguard than the lover she hoped he was. 

He was her only friend in the country. Her only friend in the world. God, how did I become so lonely? On occasions, as her father's body went into the ground, she looked over her shoulder and up at him. In search of strength. But he only offered a flat smile. Not the bright, heavenly smile he offered in their first two weeks even when he was in pain. Fine. She took whatever strength the flat smile offered, and pulled through the day. Up until she crashed into his embrace just as the last visitor to the tomb site drove off. She bawled and emptied herself of every droplet of tear. The solace of his arms, the soothing beat of his heart against her ear, the palm that kept patting her, everything balmed her to ease.

"Don't tell me you're going to fall asleep here?" Mike had said.

She knew he wanted her to laugh, and she gladly ran with it. Her first chuckle in weeks escaped her tummy, and into his chest, it went. But that had been it. He took her home and disappeared.

As of the funeral, they hadn't been able to talk. They needed to, right? About them - Aderonke and Mike. About them too - Omolara and Mike. Mike, the common factor in these talks about the past, present, and future. 

Mike Ogundele, where the hell are you?

"I'll find you today," Aderonke said, to herself, cladding herself in her white night robe before settling behind her desktop. 

First stop. LinkedIn.

"There you are!" New life descended on her being as she scrolled through Mike's page at eleven in the night, after typing his name in the search box. This wasn't Aderonke stalking. It's a simple professional search for the expert who held the keys to helping her feel good. And like every other professional service one needed to pay for, she was paying for this search with her pride. So, watch her scour his resume, and click the link on there to his Twitter (not X) profile.

A bio that read "Pulling my weight in the gym and VSCode" could only be Mike’s. Sipping from her cup of juice preceded her scrolling through his tweets and replies. There was barely any tweet of his in the past few days, just retweets (Aderonke's mind failed to see it as a 'repost'). His last tweet finally caught her attention.

"So close, yet so far. The future that could have been, haunted by the past. But all we can control is the present, and it tells me to let it go."

Aderonke Ayoola stormed to her feet. Fists in the air in celebration, as she hopped around like a mad woman. Yes. Yes. Yes. She found him. She found his heart. She found hope. He longed. Mike longed for her too. For a future with her. A future haunted by the past, yes. But a future anyway. All she - they - needed to do was resolve the past. That will be easy, right?

Calming her nerves, Aderonke dug deeper into Mike's socials, until she found something. The name of his gym. The one he was probably headed to on the day their race unfolded. Motion pictures of how his muscles flexed, while he ran that day, flooded her mind. Those damned muscles, properly mounted in appropriate areas. Gosh. 

It's time for a new mission. Ecstasy flooded her biological system. Smiles painted her face with blush. It's time to get to work. So far, the series of her adult life has been titled "Saving Dad". But now, everything in her willed the new season to be titled "Finding Mike," and that's exactly what she planned to do.

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"How may I help you?" The gym attendant at Agura Hotel Fitness asked with wide eyes as he checked her out.

She was in a good mood today, so she’d let him feed his eyes.

"You can help me tell that man he's mine," Aderonke replied. A smile as bright as the sun shone brightly on her face as she set eyes on Mike who was hard at work on the bench press. Surprised at her newly found boldness, she went through the registration process hastily.

"Welcome to Agura Hotel Fitness," the attendant said as he handed her the member's pass.

But Aderonke no longer paid attention to the unnecessarily bulky attendant. His voice was in the background as her mind zeroed in on the real deal. Mike Ogundele. As she watched him put in the reps, her joy morphed into fear. All the plans she had figured out grew wings and soared. Her newly developed self-confidence deflated like a punctured balloon. But before all the air left her balloon body, she plastered paper tape on the leak. You can do this, Aderonke. He likes you too.

Heads turned as she made her way through the gym. Expected. Even if she couldn't explain why she decided on gym wear that tightly hugged all her features, parting into the folds and crevices of her backside, she could explain the head-turn of these old men trying to work their backs back to shape. Focus, Aderonke, focus. Her standard smile sat pretty on her face as she closed in on her target.

"Come on. One more. Come on! You can do this, bro. Come on." The huge Spotter monitoring Mike kept shouting.

Aderonke gestured and smiled at the Spotter, suggesting she was there for the man pushing what looked like 120kg of multiple weights.

In no time, Aderonke stood in the Spotter's spot. Making her best impression of Mr. Bean's smile.

Mike looked up. His eyes burst with surprise. 

“Aderonke. What are you doing here?” he asked, with a ghost of a smile as his leg pushed him into an upright stance. 

He was full. Tall, ripped, and towering over her in a non-intimidating way. Had he always been this tall? Maybe her fear suddenly made her feel small. But it was now or never. She knew that. So, there was no room for fear. What’s the worst that could happen? Papa was gone anyway. That’s the worst thing she feared, and it had happened, and life continued, painfully. It was time to build a new world. Here, in Nigeria. A world where she gets to manage more than she could have imagined. A world where her one decision affected the livelihood of a thousand others. Literally. A world where she had everything. All, but one. Mike Ogundele. Mike was the only puzzle missing in her rebuild, and she was here to change that. 

“I came for you.” The words crawled out of her mouth, sending cheers and hails around the gym. Those gossipy old men. Anyway, there was more. “I’ve been thinking of you, Mike. Every day. You suddenly changed. Everything just changed between us, and I don’t know why. Ever since the day we almost…”

Mike’s hand flew over her mouth. A mention of that word here, and Mike knew he’d have to register at another gym. These old men came to the gym for two things: to mend their backs or knees, and to discuss every other topic under heaven. Mike sure as hell wasn’t planning to become the topic for the next two weeks. 

Let the woman breathe, Mike. Mr. Cranium sang some sense into Mike’s mind as he saw the smile on Aderonke’s face. Was she enjoying his palm over her mouth?

“Enough. Let’s go outside. You can’t do this in here.” His large palm wrapped around her wrist. 

Like a puppy after its master, she followed. Smiling and taking in the bulge of his tricep as he led her out of the gym. This wasn’t the Mike clad in hospital wear. This Mike was hotter. Tall, sweaty, and in the wild. Not bound by swarming Nurses, or Omolaras. 

The smile disappeared from her face thanks to her remembrance of that name. Omolara. The ex they needed to talk about. Just in time, they arrived at a quiet place after making a few turns away from the gym area. He still held her wrist. A subconscious act to which she let herself flush from head to toe. Oh. How she had missed that feeling of holding him. The last time was at the funeral. 

Say something, bro. Mr. Cranium rightly advised Mike. 

Releasing her wrist and pocketing his hands, he took a firm stance. 

“What do you mean you came for me? I thought you said I didn’t need to worry about the hospital bill.”

“Good try.” Aderonke paused, focusing on the brown of his eyes. Woah! So, this was Mike. In flesh. Holding her gaze with the confidence he held them in those magical two weeks. But now, he checked the time to let her know he itched to escape the stillness. “Why are you avoiding me, Mike? What happened to us?” Forgive Aderonke, she had no better word to describe things than ‘us.’ Her stress-induced memory loss was all down to this man. 

“Us?” His mocking surprise laced the word. His finger waved between him and her, to establish the physical representation of the word ‘us.’ “Aderonke, there was no us. There will never be a us. I’m sorry. So, I don’t think there is anything to talk about. We were just friends, and that’s all it should be. We don’t…”

She’s had enough of his bullshit, so, she cut in. Because the last time she didn’t speak up fast enough, the man she liked was rocking a Latina babe against the wall. Fuck you, Murphy Brown! Really.

“So close, yet so far. The future that could have been, haunted by the past. But all we can control is the present, and it tells me to let it go.” 

Her words felt familiar but didn’t quite register in his brain. 

“What’s that?” His eyes and neck asked the question too, in gestures. 

“That’s your tweet.” Aderonke paused, searching his eyes for a reaction. She got it. Shit. His whole body spoke. “You miss us. You know we had something, and you want it too. So, I don’t quite understand why you’re chickening out and not replying to my messages. The whole one hundred and three of them!”

Did she count the total number of messages she’s left you? Man, she’s a keeper! Lose her at your peril. No one else but Mr. Cranium continued, relentless. 

“Shut up!” Mike blurted. With a quick follow-up. “Sorry. That wasn’t for you.” His eyes, hand, and mouth pleaded with Aderonke. His outburst wasn’t directed at her, but at…himself. Willing his brain and mind to be in accord before voicing a response, Mike took his time. Mulled over what to say - how to say it, how to let her know that he was scared. That the past is too complex to analyze and come to terms with in one conversation. That with a past like his, there would be no future. That, rather than waste her time with him, she was better off finding someone to take her confidently by the hand without the fear of being outed. 

He knew Aderonke was relentless. It’s how she made it through medical school studying neurosurgery. So, he had to hit the hammer on the head. He needed to. If not, she’d keep coming at his heart like a raging bull. 

“So, you talk to yourself now?” Aderonke cut into his thoughts. A few seconds passed. “Tell me what happened between you and Omolara, because I noticed everything changed after you saw her that day. You became this… this different person. Why would seeing your ex-girlfriend change things for us?”

“Again. I said there’s no ‘us’, Aderonke!” His finger flew into the air to draw the quotes, accompanied by his words several decibels high. “There’s no us!” He repeated. 

“But, you like me!” she shouted back at him. Fury in her eyes, but plea in her heart. 

“Yes. I like you.” Shit. No. You wanted to say No, nigga. Mr. Cranium whispered into Mike’s inner ear before running to take cover. “No, I mean…” Mike’s words stumbled to the I-told-you-so eyes of the beautiful little 5’9 devil standing at akimbo, and crowding into him. “Fuck. Yes. Yes. I like you. Hell! I love you. I’ve thought about you every fucking day since I met you. I miss the kiss we almost had. I loved it when you cried into my chest at the funeral. I loved it so much I wish we could do your dad’s funeral every day because I want to be the guy that consoles you.” Mike stopped to breathe. “I love you, but I won’t have you. I can’t have you, Aderonke.”

“Why can’t you have me? What’s so difficult about two adults loving each other? You like me, I like you. So, why do I have to go to bed hugging a picture of your leg’s x-ray?”

“I raped her! I raped Omolara. That’s why she broke up with me. It had to be.”

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