Needing to see the truth for himself, Kitan trudges up the stairs to the glass-walled viewing gallery overlooking the operating theater.

From this height, the sight is a nightmare of bright lights and obscured movements. His hands are shaking so much that he can barely grip his phone. He unlocks the screen, his blurred vision scanning his contacts until he hit the name he’s searching for.

The phone rings twice before it connects.

“Guy. What’s up?” Kachi’s voice comes booming through the speaker. In the background, the muffled, low murmur of what could either be an office meeting or a busy corridor drifts in before a door clicks shut, cutting off the noise.

“My dad,” Kitan chokes out before he can overthink his actions. The words feel like broken glass in his throat. “He was... he was bleeding so much. There was so much blood, Kachi...” He can’t finish the sentence. Try as he might, the words refuse to come out.

“It’s okay,” Kachi says. His voice is unbelievably calm. “I’ll stay on the line with you. You don’t have to say anything, Kitan. I’ll just pray.”

Kachi doesn’t wait for permission. Through the speaker, his voice shifts into a rapid, unintelligible murmur as he begins to rattle in other tongues. The sacred cadence fills the empty space in Kitan’s ear, a shield of words he doesn’t need to understand to feel.

Kitan closes his eyes, holding the phone tightly against his ear, letting his friend’s voice carry the burden of the faith he can’t find himself right now. He stands there in the dark gallery, listening to the steady prayer, his eyes locked on the theater below.

He stays that way until Dr Afolayan’s voice cuts through the haze. He is glancing up toward the glass gallery, his sharp eyes tracking Kitan’s silhouette through the shadows. He steps closer to the intercom microphone, his voice crackling through the gallery speakers.

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“Mr. Peters. I hope you can control yourself now,” Afolayan says calmly. He pauses, letting the words sink in, before his expression softens slightly beneath his mask. “Your father has a strong heart, Kitan. The bleeding is controlled. The vascular wall is intact, and we are starting the reconstruction now.”

With the phone still pressed to his ear where Kachi’s prayers are still flowing, Kitan lets out a long, shuddering breath. His forehead sinks back against the cool glass, his shoulders finally sagging as the crushing pressure in his chest dissolves into pure relief. He wipes a smear of cold sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.

“He made it, Kachi. They stopped the bleeding.”

A huge sigh of relief floats through the receiver. “Thank God.”

“Thank you so much.”

“Please don’t mention. What are friends for? I have to run now. There’s an internal meeting that needs my attention, but I’ll be texting to check in. God will perfect his healing.”

“Amen.”

“And Kitan?” Kachi adds, his voice lightening back into its familiar, teasing drawl. “Please try not to interfere and let the surgeons actually do their jobs. You’re a brilliant doctor, guy, but you’re a terrible bystander. Go and hug your family.”

Kitan lets out a weak, genuine chuckle. “I will. Thanks, brother.”

“Later.”

The line goes dead. Kitan slowly lowers the phone, his hand dropping to his side. He lets his head fall back against the cool glass, closing his eyes as he mutters a breathless, barely audible “Thank you” to the empty room.

ENITAN

Downstairs, the minutes after Kitan walks away feel the most suffocating.

Enitan sits back down, but her gaze remains hopelessly glued to the empty corridor. As the hour passes, her mind keeps circling back to the broken sound of Kitan’s voice, the terrifying tremor she felt beneath her hands when she held his shoulders.

She has always known him as a man of steel but seeing him that shattered has left a sour patch in her own chest. She finds herself fighting off a scary, cripling panic and try as she might to brush it off, her heart keeps hammering in her chest.

Kamil has gently guided Oyinda back inside, and she now sits curled against his side on the leather sofa, with her puffy eyes closed. Near the window, Mrs. Peters is restlessly pacing in circles with her lips slowly moving in prayer.

Every tiny sound in the room feels magnified. Enitan presses her palms flat against her knees, trying to steady her own erratic pulse, her eyes glued to the double doors. Just let him be okay, she repeats like a mantra. Please, let them both be okay.

She repeats it until the sound of familiar footsteps cuts through her reverie.

Every spine snaps straight, and even Mrs. Peters freezes mid-step. Enitan’s breath catches in her throat as Kitan re-materializes in the doorway.

He looks at his mother, then at his sister, and lets out a long, slow release of air through his nose. Then, a warm, genuine smile breaks through the exhaustion on his face.

“The surgery was a success,” Kitan says, his voice rough but carrying an undeniable, triumphant resonance. “The tumor is completely out, the margins are clean, and his vitals are remarkably stable. They are closing him up now, so I’m sure they’ll soon move him to the post-op recovery bay.”

A collective, gasping wave of relief sweeps across the room.

Mrs. Peters lets out a broken sob, her knees giving way almost simultaneously. Kamil catches her arm deftly, easing her back onto the sofa as she buries her face in her hands. She immediately launches into a heartfelt, weeping prayer of thanksgiving. Oyinda bursts into her own tears, clinging to Kamil as he holds her tightly, his own eyes shutting in profound relief.

Enitan remains standing near the center of the floor. The suffocating grip that had held her heart to ransom for the past seven hours evaporates, leaving her almost breathless.

Kitan’s eyes automatically bypass the celebration, searching the room until they lock squarely onto hers.

The emotional detachment he usually wears so defensively is nowhere to be found. Without a single word, the space between them seems to vanish. Enitan steps forward, moving toward him before her brain can even formulate an excuse and Kitan meets her halfway.

He reaches out, his large hands catching her forearms, pulling her into a tight, fierce embrace. Enitan buries her face against his shoulder, her hands sliding up to grip the fabric of his scrubs. He is burning hot, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven stretches against hers, and she can feel the ferocious thud of his heart.

“Thank you,” he whispers into her hair, his voice cracking slightly near the end. “Thank you for everything.”

Enitan squeezes him tighter, her throat tightening with a sudden, overwhelming warmth that has nothing to do with the relief of the surgery. “I told you he would make it, Kit Kat,” she murmurs softly against his neck, using the silly nickname to keep herself from crying. “You did so well.”

He pulls back slightly, his hands lingering on her shoulders as he looks down at her face. His thumb traces a subtle, slow arc against her skin, a lingering touch that sends her pulse into a frenzy. In his eyes, the deep-seated terror of nearly losing his father is slowly melting into a magnetic focus that starts and ends with her.

“You’re everybody’s shoulder to cry on but you don’t always have to be the strong one, Nini,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into a lower register meant only for the two of them.

She looks up at him, unshed tears glistening in her eyes. “Coming from someone who refuses to let anyone be there for him.”

Kitan’s gaze softens, a wry, bittersweet expression passing over his face. “Maybe I’m just out of practice,” he confesses, his thumb smoothing over her collarbone, his touch almost reverent. “But having you hold me... it’s the only thing that kept me from completely falling apart.”

He rests his forehead on hers, soaking in the comfort of her breath against his skin.

A sudden heat blossoms in Enitan’s chest, leaving her dizzy. Her heart does a strange, mesmerizing flip that has absolutely nothing to do with the relief of Chief Peters’ survival. For a second, everything else fades. She has never felt him this close, this unguarded, and the sheer gravity of it terrifies her.

From across the lounge, her ears catch the low murmur of Mrs. Peters’ continued prayers and emotional whispers between Kamil and her weeping best friend.

The realization of where they are and who might be watching hits her like a splash of cold water.

Gently, with a fluttering pulse she hopes he can’t detect, Enitan steps back, letting her hands slide down his arms. “Kitan,” she whispers, her voice slightly breathless. She offers a small, self-conscious smile to soften the distance she has just put between them. “I’m sure your mum and Oyinda probably have questions about the surgery.”

Kitan blinks, as if waking from a dream, and slowly nods. He lets his hands drop, though his gaze remains fixed on her for a beat longer before he finally turns toward his mother and sister.

Enitan watches him go, her fingers unconsciously drifting to her wrist, her thumb tracing the small childhood scar as she tries to steady her breathing. Seeing him walk back to his family—knowing that she was the one he turned to when his world was fracturing—fills her with a dizzying warmth.

She looks at the Peters family wrapping their arms around one another, a tight, unbroken unit. The storm is finally over. For the first time in weeks, she actually believes they might survive whatever is coming.

But as her hand drops from her wrist, her thumb brushes the leather strap of her watch, and a cold chill replaces the heat in her chest.

She is brought right back to earth. This family is whole tonight, but they are still standing on a landmine. The image of the secret ledger files spread across her dining table flashes vividly behind her eyes—the columns of hidden numbers, the forged signatures, the names of people waiting in the dark to tear this very family apart.

The house is safe for now, and Chief Peters is alive.

But tomorrow, she will have to help Kitan fight the war to keep it that way.

KITAN

It’s been a week since his father survived the operation and the family is finding their balance in cautious stretches again

Though his father is still confined to his hospital room at Crestview, the surgical team remains optimistic about his immediate post-op progress. The surgical drains are finally coming out one by one, and he has graduated from tiny chips of ice to plain broth and eventually to the incredibly bland, low-sodium hospital meals he complains about with admirable consistency.

Kitan’s days however, have fractured into a demanding routine. He makes early rounds at his father’s bedside before rushing over to Peters Holdings, where his hours quickly disappear into high-stakes boardrooms, endless site development reports, and corporate negotiations he never imagined himself having.

To everyone else beyond the executive floor, he is simply the Chairman’s son “helping out during his father’s recovery.” But on the executive floor, they treat him like he is here to stay. Senior managers have begun bringing operational crises directly to his desk, lingering after briefings to solicit his opinion, and even introducing him to prospective clients as though his transition into the company is already a finalized deal.

His provisional office still doesn’t feel like his. The framed photographs on the shelves belong to another executive, the heavy leather chair is still slightly too high for his taste, and someone keeps leaving lemon-flavored candy in his top drawer. He hasn’t bothered to ask who.

Meanwhile, his statutory leave of absence from St. Thomas’ Hospital has been formally extended for another month. The official HR email still sits unread in his inbox.

Karen from the hospital’s Human Resources department had even appended a note insisting the break is “well deserved” because he hadn’t taken proper annual leave in years. He knows the administration is only making these rare, compassionate exceptions because he is still one of the best consultants on their rota.

His head is barely there, though. This investigation has all of his attention and has inevitably added to the stress of his days. Every financial anomaly they uncover somehow produces even more terrifying questions in its place.

He and Enitan have agreed to keep their findings between themselves for now. At least, until they know for sure what they are working with.

They need ironclad proof of who holds the strings before they pull the trigger. So, every evening after wrapping up at their respective offices, they meet at Enitan’s apartment. They work as late as their strengths can carry them with the earnest hope that the next file might finally reveal why Peters Holdings is constantly one step behind a shadow competitor.

Tonight is no different.

The first thing Kitan notices is that Enitan has stopped talking. For someone who routinely thinks out loud and mutters under her breath while analyzing spreadsheets, the sudden silence is unusual. She is still reading, still typing, and still flipping between documents with frightening speed but every few minutes, she pauses just long enough to roll one of her shoulders in a tight circle.

He watches it happen a third time.

“You know,” he says, closing the folder in front of him, “if you continue that way, you’re going to need a new neck by tomorrow.”

She nods absentmindedly, her eyes never leaving her laptop screen. “I’ve accepted my fate.”

Then she bends her head gently from side to side in an effort to release the mounting tension, her jaw tightening until a tiny click echoes in the silent room. “There.”

“Did that help?”

“For approximately four seconds.”

He chuckles as he watches her flip another page. Another note is jotted down. Another restless, absent-minded stretch.

Before he can think better of the impulse, Kitan is already on his feet.

She watches him suspiciously as he approaches her but he doesn’t slow his stride. Her hands come up instinctively to guard her shoulder as she starts to turn her head.

“What are you doing?” she frowns.

Before she can spin around completely, Kitan steps up behind her chair. He gently rests his hands on her shoulders, his fingers pressing into the stiff, tight muscles at the base of her neck.

“Relax,” he murmurs, gently steering her head back toward the mountain of files on the table. “It’s just a massage.”

She freezes for a fraction of a second beneath his touch before a nervous laugh escapes her. “Okay o.”

“What?”

“I’m just shocked at this sudden display of kindness,” she says, her voice slightly breathless. “If you saw the speed with which I turned just now, ehn... I was so sure you wanted to knock me.”

Kitan scoffs, his thumbs tracing a slow, firm circle over the tight knot near her collarbone. “Wow. I’m not that bad. Haba.”

She turns her head slightly. “Coming from the person who drew tribal marks all over my face with crayon while I was sleeping.”

“Is forgive and forget a joke to you?”

“I’ve forgiven you,” A small, genuine smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “But omo... I can never forget.”

He shakes his head, his hands working deeper into the soreness of her shoulders. “So what I am hearing is that my reputation is beyond repair.”

“Yup. No peace for the wicked”

He works in silence for a few moments, his fingers finding a particularly stubborn knot of tension just below her neck. As his thumbs apply steady pressure, a soft, involuntary moan escapes her lips. It is barely louder than a sigh but it travels through his ear and settles at the base of his spine.

Kitan’s hands halt for the briefest fraction of a second, his entire body locking up. The sound vibrates right through his palms, sending a sudden, electric jolt straight to his chest. He aggressively clears his throat to reset his internal factory settings, forcing his hands to continue with strict, clinical discipline.

“So this is how good your massage is,” she murmurs, her voice dropping into a relaxed, sleepy register. “No wonder your patients love you.”

“I don’t massage my patients.”

“Ehen? Why not?”

“They’d probably report me to the medical board if I tried that.”

She laughs softly. “Fair.”

“I do recommend physiotherapy quite often, though,” he adds, a small smile returning to his face.

She tilts her head sideways, trying to search his eyes.

This time, Kitan gently nudges her forehead back towards the open laptop on the table. “Eyes in front, ma’am.”

“Yes, Doctor,” she chuckles.

“Wait. Didn’t you have a thing with one physiotherapist babe one time? What’s that her name again? Tracy?”

“Na wa o. How is that even important now? Plus nothing ever happened between us. It was a fling at best”

“Hmmm. No wonder”

“No wonder what? You have started”

“Nothing o. I didn’t say anything”

He doesn’t realize how dangerously close they are until she suddenly turns her head again. For one suspended, breathless second, her dark eyes lift and lock squarely onto his. The playful banter completely evaporates, replaced by a magnetic static that makes his lungs feel incredibly tight. He forgets whatever sentence he was about to formulate.

BZZZZ.

His phone suddenly erupts against the wood of the table.

The loud vibration slices cleanly through the tension. Kitan steps back so quickly it is almost embarrassing, his hands dropping instantly to his sides.

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“I should...” he stammers, already lunging toward the device.

“Yeah,” Enitan clears her throat rapidly, her eyes dropping back down to the balance sheet as her cheeks flush with leftover warmth. “You should.”

He glances at the screen.

Kachi.

He has never been more profoundly grateful to see his friend’s name in his entire life. He answers on the first ring, pressing the phone to his ear. “Kachi.”

“My brother, you sound out of breath,” Kachi notes immediately over the line. “Hope no fire on the mountain?”

Kitan glances across the table. Enitan is staring intensely at a column of numbers, her pen moving back and forth, but he is almost certain she isn’t reading a single word of it.

“I’ll call you back,” Kitan mutters.

Before Kachi can even voice a protest, Kitan ends the call. He stands beside his chair for a second longer than necessary, his heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.

He points a vague, clumsy finger toward the hallway. “I’m... going to get water.”

Enitan nods quickly, still refusing to look up. “Please bring one for me, too.”

“Sure.”

He disappears into the kitchen with fast, urgent strides. He fills two glasses with freezing water, sets them on the counter, and leans both hands heavily against the cold marble.

Kitan closes his eyes, letting out a long, ragged exhale.

“What,” he mutters under his breath, “is wrong with you?”

The empty kitchen, unfortunately, offers absolutely no diagnosis.

ENITAN

For a full week following the massage incident, the investigation has been placed on a deliberate, tactical pause. They have both pushed the files to the side, agreeing to wait until Enitan can pull a few more historical trial balances from an old contact in external audit, and Kitan can map the structural timeline of the CFO’s internal transfers.

But the pause on the paperwork hasn’t created a pause between them. If anything, the sudden absence of data leaves a terrifyingly vacant space that they immediately fill with each other.

By the time Enitan finally gets home, it is almost half past nine.

She changes into one of the oversized T-shirts she reserves for sleeping, washes the day’s makeup from her face and collapses onto the bed with a sigh that seems to come from somewhere behind her ribs.

Enitan lies cross-legged on her bed, her back propped against a mountain of pillows. A confusing ache has taken root in her chest over the last seven days of non-stop communication.

They have somehow slipped into a non-stop loop of communication that feels completely divorced from the safe, distant dynamic they had maintained for years.

It started innocently enough but it is no longer just about the case. It is a morning text checking if she has beaten the traffic to work or if she has eaten. It is a midday photo of the ridiculous, un-chewable beef Kitan sends to make her laugh during a brutal portfolio review. It is a 10:00 PM call that starts with a quick question about a project code and dissolves into hours of unhurried, low-voiced chatter about everything and nothing.

She had stopped noticing when she began expecting his calls. Around eight-thirty every evening, she’d glance at the time without thinking, mentally preparing for the long phone call that was somehow now their custom.

It is, by every definition in her strict book of rules, a talking stage.

And that is the problem. Enitan is not a girl who drifts into grey areas. She survives on structure and clear-cut boundaries. Grey areas are where expensive mistakes happen.

Yet, over the last week, she has found herself caught in a series of humiliating, involuntary habits. She catches her thumb lingering over his name in her chat logs for no reason. She notices the exact, pathetic spike in her pulse whenever the phone vibrates against her sheets, followed by a sharp prick of disappointment when the screen lights up with anyone else’s name instead of his.

She is actively collecting things—saving his ragged laugh in her head like a prized lyric, cataloging the specific depth of his voice when he is exhausted, and memorizing the way his thumbs felt against the base of her neck. It is humonguosly stupid.

She tries to remind herself that this is Kitan. Oyinda’s big brother Kitan. The guy who has a whole, established existence waiting for him thousands of miles away, whose presence here is just a temporary suspension of reality brought on by a terrible illness.

He is completely beyond her reach, emotionally consumed by the weight of his father’s survival, yet she is allowing him to take over every spare thought she has. The sheer ridiculousness of the whole thing is beginning to compromise her sanity. She is playing with a fire she cannot afford to contain, entirely aware that if she doesn’t stop, the sparks in her chest can burn everything to ashes.

Her phone vibrates against her thigh, the screen lighting up his face. She answers, her voice automatically softening before she can stop it.

They spend the first twenty minutes trading effortless banter about Kachi’s latest frantic text updates, Kitan’s deep voice vibrating warmly through the receiver. Enitan lets out a loud, breathless laugh at a particularly dramatic impression he makes of Dr. Afolayan, her head falling back against the pillows.

Then, the laughter dies down, leaving a pressurized balance on the line. She hears the distinct sound of his steady breathing on the other end, and the sudden warmth in her room feels suffocating.

The reality of the gray area hits her like cold water. What are you doing, Enitan?

“What is this?” she asks, her tone shifting instantly, the corporate sharpness she usually reserves for delusional clients cutting through the air.

There is a brief pause on the line, the rustle of sheets as Kitan adjusts his position. “What is what?”

“We have been talking every single day now,” she says, sitting up straight and pulling her blanket to her waist. Her heart has already started a frantic, steady thud against her ribs. “It’s giving talking stage, Kitan. Or is this exactly how you talk to all your female friends?”

A slow, guarded exhale comes through the speaker. “But we talk all the time, Nini. You’re like a sister to me.”

“Yes,” Enitan replies, her voice completely level, though her fingers tighten around the fabric of her pyjama pants. “But I’m not actually your sister.”

“Where are you going with this?” His tone drops into that defensive cadence he uses whenever he feels cornered.

“I’m drawing a boundary,” she says, her analytical brain taking complete authority over the flutter in her chest. “I don’t want to spend hours on the phone every night and find myself investing emotional real estate in an empty basket.”

“Empty basket? Nini, it’s me o.”

She stifles the powerful urge to laugh, swallowing the sudden tightness in her throat instead. “All the more reason why I’m drawing a boundary, Kit. I don’t want to be confused. You’re in an incredibly vulnerable place right now with your family, and quite honestly, so am I. Please don’t call me later than 9:00 PM anymore. Except it has to do with the case, there is absolutely no need for unnecessary small talk.”

“Enitan,” Kitan’s voice loses its edge, turning soft, almost wounded. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing happened. Goodnight.”

With a decisive click, she ends the call and tosses the phone onto the empty mattress beside her.

She sits frozen in the stillness, her chest racing at full speed as she stares at the white bedroom door. Her palms are cold, her breathing short and shallow. She rakes both hands through her hair, utterly furious with herself.

Why on earth is she this worked up about a simple boundary? Why does the sudden distance between them feel less like protection and more like a door slamming shut on a room she desperately wants to stay inside?

She pulls the blanket over her shoulders and closes her eyes, but the dark bedroom offers absolutely no comfort.

The grey area is gone and the line has been drawn, yet the sudden silence does nothing to clear the air. She is left staring into the dark, thoroughly furious that the fire she was so determined to put out has already scorched the inside of her chest.

Author’s Note: How long do we think this grey area can last? and who do you think will cross the boundary first?🌚

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Catch up: Chapter one, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine (1), Chapter Nine (2), Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, Chapter Twelve, and Chapter Thirteen.

See you next week Monday.🫶🏽

You belong here. You deserve this. You are more qualified than you think.

We treat imposter syndrome as a temporary glitch in self-perception. Like it is a cognitive distortion that can easily be corrected with positive self-talk and external validation.

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But what if imposter syndrome is not always a fluke, but an internal calibration?

What if they really are underqualified for the job? What if everyone else is more experienced, more capable, more prepared, and the fear they have been calling imposter syndrome is actually their mind correctly identifying a gap?

To consider that someone might actually be unqualified is treated as a social taboo or an act of cruelty. Yet, if we strip away the impulse to soothe, we are left with the uncomfortable truth that sometimes, our fears are not lying to us.

Sometimes, we stand in rooms where the altitude exceeds our lungs’ ability to process the air. We find ourselves in roles carved out by luck, timing, systemic quirks, or the sheer momentum of impression management, suddenly facing a gap between who we are and who we are required to be.

When we instantly dismiss the feeling of being an imposter, we rob ourselves of a crucial piece of diagnostic information. Self-doubt is often the brain’s honest accounting of its own limitations. It is the recognition that the demands of a space exceed our current competence, depth, or readiness.

By labeling every instance of inadequacy as mere “feelings” we turn a rational evaluation into a psychological defect. We tell people that their inner alarm system is broken, when in reality, it might simply be detecting smoke.

There are times when the feeling of being an imposter is simply the psychological tax we pay for entering unfamiliar territory. You have done the work. You have the credentials. You have earned your seat, but you still somehow feel like an intruder.

In those moments, reassurance matters. You may need someone to remind you that unfamiliarity is not incompetence, that being the least experienced person in a room does not make you a fraud, that there is a difference between having something to learn and having nothing to offer.

But there are other times when the discomfort is trying to tell us something.

Perhaps you are, in fact, an imposter and perhaps that is not the end of the world.

So, what happens if the fear is true? What happens if you really do not belong?

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The initial realization is suffocating. It shatters the romantic notion that self-belief alone is enough to conquer any room. But once the panic subsides, an unexpected clarity takes its place. Stripped of the pressure to fake mastery, you are forced to confront reality as it is, not as your ego wishes it to be.

Acknowledging that you are out of your depth is not a death sentence; it is the starting point of actual growth. Belonging is forged through the uncomfortable labor of closing the gap. The moment you accept that you do not yet belong is the moment you can stop spending energy maintaining an illusion and start spending it acquiring the substance you lack.

We have convinced ourselves that feeling uncomfortable means we are in the wrong place, rather than recognizing that discomfort is the price of entry for anywhere worth being. If you are truly the least qualified person in the room, it means you have accidentally stumbled into the richest learning environment available to you.

If every encounter with self-doubt requires somebody else to tell us that we are brilliant, deserving and qualified, we never develop the ability to assess ourselves honestly. We become dependent on applause to distinguish fear from fact. And if you are always the most knowledgeable person in the room, you have probably stopped exercising your bravery.

The goal should not be to blindly convince ourselves that we belong everywhere we set foot. The goal should be to look at the gap between our current ability and the demands of the room, accept its existence without shame, and diligently set to work bridge building.

So yes, by all means, bite more than you chew. Collect what belongs to Caesar. Cut the coat oversize because in all honesty, fortune is for the brave.

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All my love,

Oreva.

By the time they finally stop arguing over conflicting approval trails, Kitan’s eyes are beginning to burn. He closes the last manila binder with a definitive snap and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I think that’s enough for one day,” he mutters, his voice raspy with fatigue.

Enitan doesn’t answer.

He tilts his head back, looking across the table. She is still entirely in the zone. One elbow rests on the table, her chin balanced lightly against her palm as she scans another ledger with attentive concentration. Every now and then, her hand moves to make a swift, sharp note in the margin before she ruthlessly flips the page.

He smiles to himself, an unbidden ripple of affection hitting his chest. Stubborn woman.

“Madam.”

“Sir?” she responds, her eyes never leaving the grid of numbers.

“Tomorrow is another day. Close it.”

She sighs exaggeratedly before finally snapping the folder shut. “Fine.”

Then she stretches slowly, her arms reaching high above her head as she rolls her shoulders to work out the stiffness from the wooden chair. Kitan watches her, completely anchored to the spot.

In her element, she moves with a terrifyingly efficient, lightning-fast precision, yet she retains this fluid, effortless grace that he cannot seem to untether his eyes from. Never in all his years of knowing her has he seen her in this light.

The shift is entirely foreign to him, but it is also truly impossible to ignore. It feels like a magnetic pull, a sudden, dizzying discombobulation that scrambles his better judgement. He aggressively clears his throat to force some common sense back into his brain.

She turns at the sound, her eyes searching his face. “Hope nothing?”

“Yeah. Uhm... yeah, I’m good,” he stammers, his fingers automatically finding the back of his neck. Why on earth is he stammering?

She looks at him, one brow raised in pure amusement at his sudden loss of vocabulary. “Oyinbo. Are you sure you’re okay?”

“On second thought, I’m just... really tired,” he blurts out, the words tumbling over each other far too quickly. “There are banging drums in my head. I think I will just go upstairs and close my eyes for a bit. Are you okay to be down here by yourself tonight?”

“Of course. I’m a big girl,” she says, her tone softening as she takes in his flushed expression. She leans forward slightly. “But is it that serious? The headache?”

The concern in her eyes makes a sudden wave of guilt crash over him. For what, though? It is not like he has done anything wrong.

Before he can do or say any more embarrassing things, he mumbles a half-hearted, “Yeah, just fatigue,” and frantically prepares to retreat. What in the world is happening to his chest?

He watches her move around the table, gathering a few stray sticky notes that have fluttered onto the tiled floor. She pauses for a brief second, lightly running her fingertips along the lines of her cornrows to soothe the tension at her temples before bending down to retrieve another yellow square.

When she straightens back up, she catches him flat-footed, still stupidly staring at her.

“What have I done this time?” she asks, confusion lining her facial features.

He blinks, momentarily disoriented as his heart starts a frantic dance against his ribs. He clears his throat again, desperately trying to find his footing. “Don’t worry about the papers. I can help you tidy up here.”

“You don’t have to. Wasn’t it you who just complained of blinding headache?” she says softly, shaking her head.

“Yeah. But you’re equally tired.”

She smiles, a dimple breaking through her exhaustion. “You’re right. But if we leave this dining table looking like a war zone, your mother will personally escort both of us back downstairs tomorrow morning to clear it.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, the truth of the statement cutting through his panic. “Fair point.”

She stacks a final pile of files onto the sideboard, her eyes locked onto his with an unshielded, intense focus that makes his lungs feel tight. “I’m already done here. You can go to bed.”

He nods once as he reins himself in. Then, turning far more quickly than necessary, he stalks towards the staircase and heads straight for his room.

He waits till he has reached the next landing before he finally allows his chest to expand and release a long, clumsy exhale. He presses his palm flat against his ribs, feeling the unyielding, terrifying speed of his pulse.

What in God’s name was that?

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*******

Upstairs, he closes his bedroom door behind him and leans against it.

He replays the last five minutes in his head, then covers his face with both hands, letting out a low grunt as the reality sets in: he had been completely, unabashedly staring. Had he completely lost his mind?

He had spent the better part of six hours watching Enitan work. Somewhere between the investigation and the ensuing conversations, a shift had occurred. He just has no idea what this shift means.

Or what he intends to do about it.

Probably nothing. Hopefully nothing. Definitely nothing.

The defense mechanism falls into place with embarrassing clarity. Wonderful.

Satisfied with this entirely reasonable strategy, he pulls off his watch and decides to run a quick, routine sweep downstairs to ensure the security locks are set and all the lights have actually been switched off before he finally calls it a night.

ENITAN

By the time Enitan steps into Oyinda’s old room, every muscle in her body is tight with a deep, throbbing ache. She closes the door with a gentle click, leaning her back against the white panel to simply absorb the space.

Mrs. Peters has changed the heavy linen curtains, and a different quilted bedspread covers the mattress, but the fond, unerasable memories from this room remain entirely untouched. The tall bookshelf still leans slightly to the left—a permanent testament to the afternoon Kitan stubbornly refused to read the manual and assembled it himself.

She makes her way toward the dark wood wardrobe, her gaze anchoring on the small dent right near the bottom handle. That mark had been carved by the sharp edge of a heeled shoe during the chaotic weekend they were packing Oyinda’s life into boxes before the impromptu wedding.

Enitan remembers the sudden, suffocating panic that had gripped Oyinda right here on this floor—the tears, the terrifying fear of leaving her childhood sanctuary behind, and how Enitan had sat cross-legged beside her on the bare mattress, holding her hands until the tremors stopped.

Now, Oyinda is happily building a sanctuary of her own with Kamil. She smiles unwittingly. It strikes her then, with a distinct clarity, that she hasn’t actually crossed this threshold since she locked the suitcase zippers for her best friend that final evening.

She steps forward and pulls open the wardrobe. Right on the middle shelf, she spots a faded, oversized graphic t-shirt, and tucked neatly beneath it, a pair of worn flannel pyjamas with tiny washed-out hearts.

A soft laugh escapes her. “Gosh. This babe.”

Half the items in this closet should have been donated a decade ago, but they had survived countless clear-outs because Oyinda insisted each item was indispensable.

Too tired to even consider showering, Enitan sheds her stiff trousers and pulls on the old pyjamas. The soft fabric fits exactly as it used to, and the familiarity triggers a memory so vivid it brings a sudden warmth to her chest.

She can practically see the two of them years ago, sprawled crosswise across this exact mattress, a single bowl of heavily salted popcorn balanced precariously between their pillows while they giggled with reckless abandon.

They had stayed up until 2:00 AM fiercely debating the iconic Beyonce & Rihanna movie they had just finished watching on DVD. Oyinda had nearly lost her voice defending Nadia Buari’s elite performance as Beyonce, while Enitan had aggressively countered that Omotola Jalade Ekeinde completely stole the entire film as the ultimate, unbothered Rihanna.

Smiling at the memory, she instinctively pulls out her phone, angles it to catch the edge of the vintage dressing table behind her, and snaps a quick selfie in the faded flannels.

She sends it to Oyinda with the caption ‘Just like old times.’

Three typing dots dance on the screen immediately.

Oyinda:

Stop! 😭😭 I recognize those exact PJs. And that dressing table mirror.

Oyinda:

Wait...

Oyinda:

ARE YOU IN MY OLD ROOM??

The texts come in rapid succession. Enitan grins, sinking onto the edge of the mattress.

Enitan:

Abeg, why are you even awake by this time?

Oyinda:

Answer my question first. 😒

Enitan:

😂😂 Yes, I’m in your room. Now please tell me why you’re not sleeping, for God’s sake.

Oyinda:

The usual heartburn. This godchild of yours is actively determined to not let me rest.

Enitan:

😂😂😂 Sorry, it’ll soon be over.

Oyinda:

But wait, how are you in my room??

Enitan:

I’m helping your brother with some work stuff. Your mum refused to let me drive home.

Oyinda:

Omg. OMG. And neither of you thought to include me??

Enitan:

So that Kamil will break our heads abi? Abeg o.

Oyinda:

Omo. When was the last time we even had a real sleepover?

Enitan:

Madam. Hope you’re aware that you are a whole married woman now with a husband and a nursery to prepare.

Oyinda:

Please remind me again because right now I just feel like a trapped whale who is constantly tired.

Enitan:

😂😂 Don’t worry, the moment Chief is fully discharged, I am hijacking you for a whole weekend.

Oyinda:

You promise?? Because I have actually seen signs and wonders.

Enitan:

I promise. Trust me. Girls only post baby-moon on me.

Before Oyinda can type a reply to that, a fresh notification drops down from the top of Enitan’s screen.

Kitan:

You should be sleeping.

Enitan snorts aloud. She instantly long-presses his message and hits the forward arrow, sending it straight into her chat with Oyinda.

Enitan:

Hot tears. Your brother has started. If he finds out that I am talking to you or that you are still awake, he might actually faint. Remember how he used to frown whenever he found out we were not sleeping when we were supposed to?

Oyinda:

Don’t mind that big head. Please do not tell him 😂 I absolutely cannot handle another lecture on the importance of maternal circadian rhythms tonight.

Enitan laughs so loudly she has to clap a hand over her mouth.

Enitan:

Your secret is safe with me. But seriously, madam. Try and close your eyes. I love you.

Oyinda:

Love you too, Eni. ❤️

Enitan places her phone face down on the bedside table and slides beneath the cool sheets, her eyes tracking the shadows dancing across the ceiling.

A floorboard creaks softly out in the hallway that makes her heart do a sudden, unbidden skip before the house settles back into total stillness. She pulls the blanket to her chin, the lingering scent of home finally closing over her as she shuts her eyes.

KITAN

Kitan takes his customary lap around the house just to ensure all the external security locks are set. By the time he steps back down into the dining room, the space is completely empty.

The sprawling landscape of paperwork has been stacked into pristine, disciplined piles according to the columns they had mapped out. Only the masking tape and the massive timeline remain on the plaster wall. A small, involuntary smile touches his face as he runs a hand over the top edge of the neatest folder stack.

He turns off the remaining downstairs switches and heads up the stairs. The upper corridor is dark, save for a thin line of light slicing across the polished wood from beneath Oyinda’s old bedroom door.

A second later, the sound of her muffled laughter punctuates the air.

He freezes in the hallway, his steps stalling against the floorboards as the sound trails off. A sharp prickle of curiosity spreads across his chest. It is way past midnight.

Who on earth is she texting or talking to at this hour to make her laugh like that? He runs through a mental list of her colleagues, her friends, or—the thought hits his stomach with a cold, unexpected thud—someone else entirely.

He instinctively lifts his hand to knock on the door, his knuckles hovering an inch from the white panel. Then he catches himself, his own sudden boldness locking his joints.

If he knocks and she actually opens the door, what exactly is he going to say? If he is being completely honest, he just wants an excuse to stand there and talk to her, but the memory of his sudden stuttering downstairs cuts through the impulse. He is not sure he can trust his own brain to behave or his voice not to betray him, so he pulls his hand back, sliding his phone out of his pocket instead.

Sending a text is a tactical retreat, a digital barrier that keeps him firmly on his side of the line.

Kitan:

You should be sleeping.

He slips the device right back into his pocket before she can even type a reply. It is far safer this way.

**********

The surgical wing of Crestview Specialist Hospital carries a climate-controlled stillness that Kitan recognizes from the marrow of his own bones. There are no plush armchairs or mahogany panels on this floor. Here, everything is reduced to sterile utility: seamless stainless steel, brushed aluminum, and the aggressive glare of LED surgical arrays reflecting off pristine white tiles.

Kitan stands by the scrub sinks just outside Operating Theater 3. He has spent the last fifteen minutes staring through the double-paned observation glass, watching the anesthesia team complete the initial induction protocols. His father lies beneath a sterile drape, looking impossibly small, surrounded by a complex canopy of physiological monitors, arterial lines, and ventilation tubing.

The water from the automated tap runs freezing cold over Kitan’s hands. He applies the antiseptic foam, rubbing his palms together in slow, disciplined circles. He has learnt overtime to quarantine his daunting fears behind a wall of objective focus. But as he watches the circulating nurse adjust the baseline vitals monitor, the stronghold in his mind feels dangerously thin.

The theater door swings outward with a soft hiss of pressurized air. Dr. Afolayan steps into the scrub bay, his hands already elevated in the standard pre-op posture.

“You don’t have to be in there, Kitan,” the consultant says, his voice low and perfectly level. “The gallery upstairs is open. Your mother and sister are in the private lounge. It might be easier from behind the glass.”

Kitan doesn’t look up from the sink, rinsing the foam from his forearms. “I need to be on the floor, sir. I promised him I’d stay.”

Afolayan studies him for a beat, parsing the tight set of Kitan’s jaw before offering a slight, respectful nod. “Okay. But you know the rules. You are only here to observe. Nothing more”

Kitan shakes his head in the affirmative.

“The mapping shows the tumor has a clear margin along the superior mesenteric vein, but the tissue around the hepatic artery is highly fibrotic. It’s going to be an incisive, slow dissection. We’re looking at a six-hour window, minimum.” Dr Afolayan continues.

“I’m aware of the details, sir. I understand that we are bypassing protocol just by letting me observe. But I’ll try not to get in your way.”

On entering the operating room, Kitan stands three feet back from the primary surgical field, his arms crossed over his chest to maintain absolute sterile distance.

Afolayan operates with the monumental patience of a veteran craftsman.

Kitan tracks every single movement of the scalpel and the dissecting forceps. He watches the surgical team carefully isolate the head of the pancreas, tracing the dense, irregular mass that had been lodged there for God knows how long.

“Forceps,” Afolayan murmurs, his focus absolute.

The hours pass in dragging, exhausting increments. By the fourth hour, the initial levity in the room has completely vanished. The tension under the bright light thickens as Afolayan reaches the critical junction of the Whipple procedure: separating the tumor from the portal vein.

Kitan moves an inch closer, his eyes narrowing. One single millimeter of a miscalculated tear, one sudden slip of the dissecting scissors under pressure, and his father will hemorrhage on the table before they can even cross-clamp the field.

The cardiac monitor suddenly hitches, the steady pings transcending into a rapid, erratic tempo.

Ping-ping-ping-ping—

“BP is dropping,” the anaesthetist announces sharply from behind the drape. “Systolic is down to eighty. Eighty-two over forty-five. We might have a deep bleeder behind the pancreas.”

Kitan’s hands drop from his chest, his posture straightening instinctively as the fear spreads within him. He steps right up to the edge of the line, his eyes tracking the dark blood rapidly filling the space behind the abdominal wall, burying the organs from sight.

“Suction,” Afolayan orders, his voice completely devoid of panic, though a bead of sweat breaks across his forehead. “Give me more visibility. Pack the upper quadrant. Now.”

The nurse moves quickly, but the suction tube can’t keep up with the flow of blood. The monitor’s alarms begin to sound a series of high-pitched alerts that echo aggressively.

“Blood pressure is down to seventy-four,” the anesthetist calls out, his fingers flying across the drug infusions. “He is losing blood too fast. Starting the first unit of packed cells. Titrating the vasopressors.”

Kitan stares down at the pooling blood, his analytical brain speedily calculating the survival outcomes. The urge to break sterile protocol, to reach into the field and place his own fingers over the hidden laceration to stop the bleed presses harder than any instinct he has ever felt. Move, Afolayan, his mind screams into the silence. Find the line.

The image of his father bleeding out on the table overrides every shred of his medical training. He steps right up to the edge of the sterile line, completely forgetting protocol.

“You’re letting him bleed out!” Kitan barks, his voice cracking, entirely stripped of its usual control. He hears the words pouring out from his lips but he cannot seem to get a grip. “Try to clamp higher up, he’ll bleed to death!”

Afolayan doesn’t look up, his hands buried deep in the abdomen, moving solely by touch. “Kitan, step back.”

Kitan takes a step back as he paces the square inch he has supposedly been confined to.

“There’s too much blood!” Kitan yells to no one in particular, stepping forward again, his arm half-extended as if trying to reach into the wound himself. “Gosh. He’s tanking. You’re losing his pressure—”

“Mr Peters. I’m going to need you to leave my OR” Afolayan snaps. He doesn’t raise his voice, but his tone holds no room for negotiation.

Kitan hesitates, his chest heaving, his eyes wide and frantic.

Afolayan finally looks up over his glasses, his gaze burning through his visor. He barks to the circulating nurse, “Get him out of my OR now.”

Before the nurse can even turn to meet him, the reality of what he has just done crashes over Kitan. He stalks out of the theater, hitting the automatic doors with his palms, leaving the screaming alarms behind.

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********

When the double doors swing open, Kitan stumbles out into the waiting lounge. He has pulled his mask down around his neck, his face deathly pale, his hands trembling so violently he has to shove them into the pockets of his scrubs.

Mrs. Peters, Oyinda, and Enitan rise from their seats instantly, their eyes locked on him.

“Olakitan?” his mother whispers, her voice trembling. “What is happening? Is he—”

Kitan doesn’t answer. He can’t. The image of the pooling blood and the sound of the dropping systolic pressure are looping in his mind. He sinks against the nearest wall, his knees giving out slightly as he slides down, his face burying into his hands. A broken sob wrenches from his throat. It is a sound none of them has ever heard him make.

He is completely broken down, fully aware of exactly how fatal that level of blood loss can be.

“Kitan!” Oyinda cries out. Seeing her brother, who almost never loses his cool, break down in that way tears her apart. Her breathing hitches as she clutches her chest in agony. “Oh my God. Oh my God, he’s dying. He’s dying, Kamil—”

She begins to hyperventilate, her gasps coming in short, ragged bursts that shake her fragile frame.

Kamil steps in immediately, his own face tight with worry but focused solely on his wife. “Oyinda, look at me. Breathe. Just breathe.” He wraps his arms around her, realizing she is suffocating under the panic. “She needs air. I’m taking her outside.” Without waiting for approval, Kamil lifts his pregnant wife into his arms, carrying her toward the exit doors to get her into the open air.

Mrs. Peters moves to follow them in a daze, leaving Enitan standing in the center of the room.

Enitan doesn’t hesitate. She drops to her knees right in front of Kitan, pulling his trembling hands away from his face. “Kitan. Look at me. Hey. I’m here. Look at me.”

His eyes are bloodshot, wild with a helplessness she has never seen in him. “There was too much blood,” he whispers, his voice cracked and hollow. “Dr Afolayan couldn’t see the line. I shouldn’t have been in there. I lost it.”

Enitan grips his shoulders, her touch firm, grounding him against the panic. “You are out here now. Take a breath. Dr. Afolayan is the best in the country, Kitan. Let him do his job.”

ENITAN

In the waiting area outside the operating room, time crawls at a maddening pace.

The room is decorated in the same muted creams as the rest of the executive wing, but the luxury feels like a mockery. Enitan sits on the edge of a low leather armchair, her hands wrapped around a paper cup of lukewarm water that has long since gone flat.

Opposite her, Mrs. Peters is a statue of fragile resolve. Her well-worn Bible lies open on her lap, but her eyes are not moving across the pages; they are fixed unblinkingly on the door.

By the fifth hour, the silence in the room has become a physical pressure.

Oyinda lets out a small, ragged sound from the sofa, her hands resting tightly over the swell of her stomach. Kamil is beside her instantly, sliding an arm around her shoulders and drawing her head to his chest with a protective tenderness.

“He’s going to make it, my love,” Kamil murmurs into her hair though Enitan notices the tight, anxious grip he has on the chair handle. “Chief is a fighter. You know this.”

“It’s been too long, Kamil,” Oyinda whispers, her voice breaking as she buries her face in his neck. “Kitan said six hours, but every minute feels like a whole day. What if something goes wrong? What if...”

Mrs. Peters looks up swiftly from her Bible. “Oyindamola, don’t entertain negative thoughts. We do not speak fear into this room. Your father is under the care of the Almighty, and your brother is standing right there beside him. Until word comes, we will only confess positive things.”

Though her words are an unyielding command, Enitan tracks the slight, uncontrollable tremor in Mrs. Peters’ fingers as she smooths the edge of the page. The older woman is forcing herself to anchor the entire family, swallowing her own terror whole so her children do not collapse.

Enitan rises from her chair, her limbs stiff, and crosses the small distance to sit on the armrest beside Mrs. Peters. She gently places her hand over the older woman’s trembling fingers, pressing down with a supportive, grounding reassurance.

Mrs. Peters looks up, her eyes bright with unshed tears. For a fraction of a second, the formidable armor slips, and she looks simply like a woman petrified of losing the partner who has shared her life for thirty-five years. She squeezes Enitan’s hand in acknowledgement.

“He will come back to us, aunty,” Enitan says softly, her voice carrying an absolute certainty she didn’t know she possessed. “He still has to see his grandchild. He still has many more dry jokes to crack. He isn’t going anywhere.”

A faint, tearful smile touches Mrs. Peters’ lips. “Amen, my daughter. Amen.”

The double doors swing open with a loud bang.

Every eye in the room latches on Kitan as he stalks into the waiting area. Enitan bolts to her feet, her hand dropping from Mrs. Peters’ shoulder in anticipation of his arrival.

The sight of him instantly shears the air from the room. He has pulled his surgical mask down around his neck, his face ghostly pale. His hands are trembling so violently he has to shove them deep into the pockets of his green scrubs just to hide the shaking.

Mrs. Peters steps forward, her open Bible sliding off her lap onto the floor. “Kitan? What is it? What is happening?”

Kitan doesn’t answer. He apparently can’t. She has never seen him this way before. She rushes to his side without thinking. Her mouth is moving but she can barely register the words flowing from her lips. His eyes are red. She does not even notice when Kamil carries Oyinda out of the room.

She is barely aware of anything else in her surrounding except the man in front of her, fighting through his apparent grief to tell her what happened in the OR. She wants to gather him in her hands and tell him again and again that everything would be okay but even as the thoughts come, she banishes them. What if it will not be okay?

Enitan grips his shoulders, trying to anchor him against the spiraling panic. “You are out here now. Take a breath, Kitan. Dr. Afolayan is the best surgeon in the country. Let him do his job.”

He closes his eyes, a long, shuddering breath passing through his chest as he fights to master himself. Slowly, he calms down and a hollow bleakness replaces the initial hysteria. He pulls back from her grasp, wiping his wet face with the sleeve of his scrubs before pushing himself up against the wall.

“Thank you, Enitan” Kitan says, his voice dropping into a flat, strained octave. “Please stay by my mother’s side. She acts tough, but she needs the comfort. Oyinda has Kamil.”

Enitan stands up with him, refusing to take a step back. “And who is going to stay by your side?”

Kitan doesn’t look at her. He just stares at the floor, his jaw tight. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

Without waiting for her reply, he turns and walks away toward the stairwell, his shoulders rigid under his scrubs. Enitan stands frozen, watching his retreating back disappear around the corner. A painful ache spreads across her chest.

She wishes, just for once, that he would stop trying to carry the universe on his own. She wishes he would let down the guard, stop being the pillar, and just let someone be strong for him for a change.

Forcing herself to swallow the terrifying thought of Chief Peters dying on that table, Enitan turns back toward the glass exit doors. Mrs. Peters hasn’t gone all the way outside; she is standing near the threshold, her hands pressed tightly against her mouth, tears streaming silently down her face. Enitan walks over, gently guiding the older woman back to the sofa, and wraps her arms around her trembling shoulders.

Author’s Note: Prayers up for Mr. Peters oo! At this point, I think we need prayers for this slow burn between Kitan and Enitan. Who agrees?

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Catch up: Chapter one, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine (1), Chapter Nine (2), Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven, and Chapter Twelve.

See you next week Monday.🫶🏽

This sounds like the beginning of a confession and in some ways, maybe it is. But before I carry on, I should probably tell you what FaceApp actually is. It is a natural-style, realistic photo editing tool.

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In my weeklong experiment, I have found that it is truly a one of a kind experience to examine your own face in microscopic detail while browsing through different editing options and countless possibilities of what you could look like with a single swipe of the hand.

This naturally led me down a mental rabbit hole which led me to the crux of this essay: Are filters just another form of beauty maxxing?

I have written before about beauty maxxing (read here) and the booming economy built around our insecurities and so as I played around with this app and edited multiple pictures of myself, I found myself asking the above question.

Beauty maxxing, in its simplest form, is the pursuit of optimizing one’s appearance according to an ideal standard of beauty. A filter becomes part of that pursuit when the edited version of ourselves begins to feel more acceptable, desirable or worthy than the person existing outside the frame.

This is where I think intention comes into play because editing a photograph and disliking your face are two different things entirely.

Think about life in general. We edit different things in different ways. We frame our homes in a way that is appealing to visitors. The stories we tell and the way that we tell them are intentionally crafted in a way that provokes specific emotions.

When getting ready to go out, many of us change multiple times until we land on an outfit option that feels “presentable”. We wear clothes that flatter our bodies without believing our bodies are inherently defective.

Why should photographs be treated any differently?

So in this vein, I can adjust the lighting in a picture because the room was poorly lit or remove unwanted background images or soften the eye bags on my face or erase a temporary pimple. None of these things require me to believe that my actual face is a problem.

Yet, public discourse around photo editing often divides us into two extreme camps: those who insist pictures must remain completely untouched in the name of authenticity, and those who edit themselves into absolutely different people.

I am far more interested in the middle ground.

There is a subtle but vital difference between saying, “I like this picture better with a little editing” and saying, “I wish I looked like someone else.”

Photographs are angled interpretations of reality and tools like FaceApp simply democratize the process, allowing us to make minor adjustments without professional software or advanced editing skills. Sometimes, all we want is a good photograph and there is nothing really wrong with that.

The counterargument, of course, is that every enhancement creates space for escalation. Once we grow accustomed to the edited version, the unedited original can begin to feel insufficient. That is the nature of optimization: Just this one thing. Then another. Then another. Until it spirals out of control.

Ultimately, I don’t believe there is anything fundamentally wrong with editing your photos. The relationship you have with the edited image matters far more than the edit itself.

The problem arises when enhancement becomes a prerequisite for self-acceptance. When you cannot post a picture unless it has been touched, or when your edited photos set a standard your physical body is expected to meet.

At that point, the question shifts from “How can I make this photograph better?” to “How can I make myself acceptable?”

I think the healthiest approach is to remember what a photograph is actually for: it is a record, a moment caught in time, a way of saying, I was here.

I want to laugh without care in some of my pictures and look flawless in others. I even want to look terrible in a few, because life occasionally demands photographic evidence of that, too. The picture is not the person; it is merely a version of a moment. I refuse to become so accustomed to an edited ideal that my real face begins to feel like a disappointment.

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Our motives are the engines underneath our desires, and the same tool can serve vastly different purposes depending on who holds it. A useful personal check is to ask:

• Would I still like myself if this photograph remained completely unedited?

• Am I enhancing something I already like, or trying to replace something I dislike?

• Would I recognize myself if I met this version of me in person?

• Am I editing because I enjoy the creative process, or because I feel I have to?

• Does the edit make the picture look better, or does it make my actual appearance feel worse?

For me, the sweet spot is subtlety which is precisely what I appreciate about FaceApp. Each filter option offers a scalable numbering, allowing you to choose the exact degree of retouching that you require.

This gives you the opportunity to make subtle adjustments that preserve a natural result rather than erasing the things that make you who you are.

We often discuss photo editing as though authenticity requires presenting the least flattering version of ourselves. I don’t necessarily buy that. You are allowed to want to look good in a picture. The key is knowing the difference between enhancement and erasure.

That distinction is so much more important now because we are surrounded by carefully constructed imagery. We constantly view others on their best days, from their best angles, under ideal lighting, with every flaw edited out. It becomes dangerously easy to compare our behind-the-scenes with someone else’s highlight reel.

I don’t want to live that way.

So yes, use the filter, retouch the photograph, play with the lighting and enhance what you already have. Just remember that the photograph is not the person. It is a version of a moment.

And you should be able to put your phone down, look in the mirror and still recognize (and love) the face staring back at you.

P.S I would love to hear your thoughts. Where do you draw the line between enhancing a photo and erasing yourself? Also, have you tried FaceApp before? Feel free to share your thoughts in the comments.

Author’s note: Below are a few before-and-after selfies that I played around with on the app. The gag is I love all the versions. Each one is equally deserving of my wholehearted admiration.

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All my love,

Oreva.

By the time Enitan turns into the Peters’ compound on Saturday afternoon, the harsh glare of the midday sun has finally softened, casting long, geometric shadows across the driveway.

The gateman waves enthusiastically before she can even lower her window.

“Welcome, Aunty Enitan!” Rilwan calls out, his face splitting into a wide grin. “Good afternoon, Ma.”

“Good afternoon, Rilwan,” she replies, rolling the glass back up as she maneuvers into her usual parking space near the side hedge.

She switches off the ignition and sits in the brief stillness of the car cabin. Rilwan has been manning these gates since she was in secondary school, and he still uses that exact same deferential, high-pitched greeting every single time she visits. Some things truly never change.

She shoulders her laptop bag and finds the front door unlocked, stepping into the familiar scent of vanilla polish and lemongrass that has defined this house for over a decade.

“Mama P?”

Her voice has barely traveled down the hallway before Mrs. Peters emerges from the kitchen.

“Eniscosco!” The older woman’s face illuminates instantly with a vibrant smile. “My goodness. See this girl.”

Enitan bends slightly to greet her but the woman pulls her into her arms instead, sinking into a warm embrace. “You’ve become a scarce commodity these days,” Mrs. Peters notes as she pulls back.

“I was literally here barely three weeks ago.”

“And?” Mrs. Peters arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Is that supposed to be a long time?”

“Three weeks is short?” Enitan teases.

“Completely,” her mother’s friend replies, though the twinkle in her eyes betrays her. She holds Enitan by the shoulders, her objective radar scanning her features with that uncanny maternal precision. “You look drained, my dear.”

“I’m always drained, aunty. I blame capitalism.”

Mrs. Peters lets out a brief laugh, tapping her cheek gently. “I’ll blame your stubbornness instead. Come and sit down.”

“I actually came to—”

“Don’t worry, I know why you are here,” Mrs. Peters interrupts smoothly, her fingers sliding the strap of the laptop bag off Enitan’s shoulder. “Kitan mentioned that you both are working on a project together. Thank you for helping him with this his office work. For someone that fought his father to the last, I am surprised at how seriously he is taking the whole thing.”

Enitan offers a sheepish smile, walking beside her. “You know your son. He doesn’t know how to half-heartedly do things. I hope we are not disturbing you sha.”

“Disturb away, please,” Mrs Peters says, guiding her toward the second living room. They meander past it and settle in the dining room. “I’m actually happy that you’re here. Ever since your best friend got married and moved out, I barely see you again.”

“Work has been so intense, but I promise I’ll do better.”

“You must,” Mrs Peters insists, setting the laptop bag down. “Kitan stepped out to the terrace to take a call, but he’ll be back in a minute.”

She disappears briefly into the kitchen and returns balancing a small silver tray containing a bowl of chin-chin, a small dish of roasted groundnuts, and an insulated flask of herbal tea.

“Haba, Mama P...”

“I don’t want to hear pim,” Mrs Peters commands gently, pushing the plate closer. “I made this chin-chin myself this morning, so you cannot tell me no.”

Enitan laughs, yielding grudgingly as she pinches a handful of the crunchy pastry. “To be fair, you actually make the absolute best chin-chin.”

“Good. So you’ll be spending the night in Oyinda’s room.”

Enitan pauses mid-chew. “Ah, I’m not staying that late o. I can always drive back home.”

“You can,” Mrs. Peters nods matter-of-factly, smoothing the edge of the linen tablecloth with unhurried deliberation. “But you won’t. By the time you and Olakitan finish whatever serious calculations you are planning to do, night will have fallen. I will not feel at peace allowing you to navigate those bad roads alone. Lagos is not safe anymore.”

“Haba. I have driven home late from work uncountable times.”

“Yes,” Mrs Peters says softly, her gaze becoming affectionate as she looks up. “But just take it as an old woman who has missed you and wants to see this beautiful face for a while longer. Stay and have dinner with us. You can have breakfast tomorrow before you leave. If your church outfit is the issue, I can easily send the driver to pick something up from Luxenoir. You still wear a size 10, right?”

“Who is still a size 10?” Kitan’s deep voice booms from the archway.

Enitan turns instinctively. He is standing at the threshold, leaning his tall frame easily against the doorpost with his phone clutched in one hand. He is wearing a black V-neck t-shirt that molds perfectly to his broad shoulders, paired with loose grey lounge pants. Her eyes track the relaxed line of his collarbone for a fraction of a second before she quickly forces her gaze back up.

“I’m trying to convince Enitan to spend the night here,” his mother explains, gesturing toward the table.

Kitan slides his phone into his pocket, his expression unreadable as he walks over to pull out a chair. “Mummy, please free her. If she needs to go home, allow her to go in peace.”

“See this boy...” Mrs Peters grumbles.

“It’s okay. I will stay,” Enitan cuts in, offering a reassuring smile to defuse the friction. “But nobody is buying any new dress. I will just leave early in the morning and go home to change. I can’t promise to join in for breakfast, but I’ll be here this evening.”

“Awesome. That settles it then,” Mrs Peters says, her triumphant energy returning. “I changed the bedsheets in Oyinda’s room yesterday. You still love fried rice, right? I’ll make it myself for you.”

“No, please don’t stress yourself.” Enitan says quickly, gesturing toward the kitchen. “Kitan and I can just order something light later.”

“Nonsense. I insist. I’m making Ikokore for Oyinda anyway. These her pregnancy cravings have her wanting all sorts.”

Enitan chuckles, leaning her elbows on the table. “We spoke earlier. She is definitely going through it.”

“Her husband pampers her too much,” Mrs Peters notes, though a proud warmth softens her features.

“Just the way your own husband used to pamper you,” Enitan counters playfully. “I remember how you and Uncle Kola used to terrorize all of us with those your old-school public displays of affection in this exact living room.”

The vibrant energy fades from Mrs Peters’ face at the mention of her husband, the sudden shift in the room’s atmosphere dragging their minds right back to the looming surgery waiting for them next week. The reminder of his fragile condition saturates the room like an unuttered truth.

Enitan realizes her misstep instantly. She reaches across the table, covering Mrs. Peters’ hand with a supportive, grounding squeeze. “Everything will go well. Don’t worry.”

Mrs. Peters takes a slow, measured breath, nodding once as she forces a brave smile back into place. “I believe that too, my dear. God is in control.”

Then, as if consciously deciding she has hovered over her anxieties enough for one afternoon, she pats Enitan’s hand and straightens her posture as she stands up. “Let me leave the two of you to your serious project work.”

“Thank you, Ma,” Enitan says softly.

As Mrs. Peters turns and starts toward the kitchen, Kitan finally breaks his silence, his voice low and steady as he tracks his mother’s retreating frame. “Mummy, make sure you take a resting break too. Allow Margaret assist you.”

Mrs Peters pauses at the swinging door, glancing back over her shoulder with a small, grateful nod. “I’ve heard you, Doctor. Adjust your chairs and start your work.”

The door clicks shut behind her, leaving the dining room in a pressurized stillness. Kitan pulls his chair closer to the table, his analytical focus returning instantly as his eyes lock onto Enitan’s face.

“Did you bring the files?” he asks, his tone dropping into that exclusive register meant only for the two of them.

Enitan reaches for her bag, the levity of the afternoon completely vanishing. “They’re right here. Let’s get to the bottom of this.”

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********

Three hours later, the dining table is buried under a sprawling landscape of paperwork. Official documents overlap architectural project maps, and audited financial statements sit stacked beside valuation reports. Brightly coloured sticky notes have found their way onto almost every available surface, each carrying a hurried reminder in Enitan’s handwriting.

Kitan returns from his father’s upstairs study, balancing another massive stack of files against his chest.

“I think this is the last one,” he says, shifting his grip.

She glances up at the fresh pile. “You’ve said that three times already.”

“I mean it this time,” he insists, dropping them onto a clear corner.

“You also meant it the first two times,” she notes dryly.

“The previous files were just preliminary testing,” Kitan counters, pulling out his chair and settling into the soft knit fabric. “These are the actual master registries. I got them from my dad’s study. Pass me the acquisition ledger from the bottom of your tray.”

Enitan doesn’t move a muscle, keeping her eyes fixed on her laptop screen. “The blue folder?”

“Yeah, that one.”

“It’s not an acquisition ledger, it’s a vendor reconciliation summary,” she says levelly. “And it’s green, not blue.”

Kitan pauses, staring at the distinctly teal binder resting right beside her elbow. “Madam, that is very clearly blue.”

“It is actually turquoise, Kitan. If I say you are color blind now, you will say I have started but how is that even blue in your eye?”

“Do you need glasses?” Kitan deadpans, reaching across the table to snatch the file himself. “Because it is like the stress is getting to you.”

She scrunches her nose at him and a comfortable, focused stillness settles over the room as they plunge back into the documents individually. For twenty minutes, the only sound is the rustle of turning pages and the soft tap of Enitan’s pen against the wood.

Kitan suddenly halts, his eyes tracking a line of numbers on the first page of the ledger. He clears his throat softly. “You were right.”

She doesn’t look up from her spreadsheet. “About?”

“It’s a vendor reconciliation summary,” he mutters, his voice dropping into a low, reluctant register.

A small, genuine laugh escapes her before she can stop it. “I graciously accept your apology.”

“I didn’t actually apologize,” Kitan notes, a faint, amused glint in his eye. “I merely verified an empirical fact.”

“Same difference,” she murmurs, writing a quick note in the margin of a report before turning another page.

It takes another hour before either of them even thinks to check the time, so they barely notice when Mrs Peters appears in the dining room with the maid in tow, carrying a full tray.

“The two of you have not moved from this table in hours,” Mrs Peters notes, her voice instantly filling the room. “Don’t you people take breaks at all?”

Kitan reaches absentmindedly for his ceramic mug, his fingers tracking the handle before he realizes it is completely empty.

Mrs Peters sets the tray down with determination.

“Please, drop the pens and eat,” Mrs. Peters sets the tray down on the sideboard with absolute determination. The rich, savory aroma of the delicacy fills their nostrils. The platter consists of steaming fried rice as promised, golden fried plantains, peppered chicken, and a large glass jug of zobo.

“Food first.” she insists as she waves the maid off.

“Mummy—”

“No.” She points a stainless-steel serving spoon at both of them, leaving zero room for negotiation. “Your father used to do this exact same thing whenever he got obsessed with a new land bid. He would lock himself away and forget that human beings require sustenance.”

Kitan offers a helpless smile. “I know. But this one is entirely different, I promise.”

Mrs Peters begins dishing out generous portions before either of them can mount a proper protest. “You cannot solve all the company’s problems on an empty stomach.”

“We’re not trying to,” Kitan says, accepting his plate.

She raises an eyebrow, leaning against the sideboard. “It certainly looks like you are.”

For a little while, the treacherous files are completely forgotten. They devour the food as Mrs Peters settles into the chair at the head of the table, instantly launching into a hilarious chronicle from her week to keep their spirits up.

“You won’t believe what Mrs. Adebayo did on Thursday,” the older woman says, shaking her head. “She accidentally walked straight into the wrong wedding reception hall at the event center. She sat down, ate a full plate of jollof rice, finished a portion of small chops, and was halfway through her dessert before the bridal train finally marched in. It was only when she saw a completely strange bride and groom walking down the aisle that she realized she was supposed to be in Hall B, not Hall A.”

By the time she finishes the story, even Kitan is laughing loudly at her mannerisms.

Mrs Peters sips her herbal tea, her gaze drifting speculatively between the two of them before her maternal radar locks onto Enitan. “Anyway, Eni baby. Let’s leave Mrs Adebayo and her two plates of food. Tell me, are you seeing anybody at all? Any serious man in the picture?”

Kitan swallows his mouthful of zobo entirely wrong, hacking violently as he sets his glass down with a loud clatter.

Enitan narrows her eyes at him, coughing slightly into her napkin to hide her own fluster. “No, Ma. There’s nobody like that right now.”

“Ah-ahn, what are you waiting for?” Mrs Peters asks, throwing her hands up in genuine bewilderment. “A beautiful girl like you, with this your brilliant fire-brain? I am certain that they are rushing you out there. Abi, Kitan, am I lying? Tell your sister to open her eyes.”

Kitan suppresses a chuckle, wiping a stray drop of zobo from his lip as he glances at Enitan’s burning cheeks. “Mummy, you are not lying at all. They are truly rushing her.”

Enitan glares at him across the table, her foot making a blind, warning jab toward his shin beneath the wood.

“Also,” Kitan adds smoothly, shifting his legs out of her strike zone with an unbothered grin, “last I checked, I only have one sister. This big head sitting opposite me is definitely not my sister.”

His mother, entirely oblivious to the sudden, electric static that sparks across the table at his words, playfully waves a dismissive hand at her son. “Iwó lo mọ̀. Na you know. Sister or no sister, she is my own daughter, and you will be nice to her. Let me even go upstairs and speak to my husband.”

She gathers the empty plates a few minutes later, stacking them onto the silver tray with practised efficiency. She pauses at the dining room doorway, her expression turning soft and protective. “Please, lock the doors when you’re done. Sleep is a necessary requirement, Olakitan. Don’t make me come down here by 2:00 AM.”

“We’re wrapping up soon, Mum, don’t worry,” Kitan says levelly.

She gives her son a look that carries the extent of her disbelief. “You think I was born yesterday.” She turns and makes her way toward the stairs, her footsteps fading into the upper corridor.

Enitan is halfway through another complex set of financial schedules when Kitan pushes a single sheet of paper across the polished wood toward her.

“I don’t understand the logic here,” he says, his voice dropping back into that serious, calculated register.

Enitan pulls the sheet of paper closer, rotating the page until the printed columns sit directly under her view. “What don’t you understand?”

“This specific consultancy firm,” he says, his index finger tapping the black lettering. “It appears here on the Lekki land development overview.” He flips a page, pointing again. “And here in the infrastructure logistics budget.” He pulls a third file from the stack. “And right here on the commercial tower funding allocation.”

She nods, studying the entries. “So?”

“They are entirely unrelated projects across three different subsidiaries,” Kitan explains, his brows knitting together in deep concentration. “But this same consultancy keeps showing up on every single major disbursement list.”

Enitan frowns, her financial instincts prickling instantly. “No, it doesn’t.”

She reaches across the table, pulling two more vendor ledgers into the sprawling mess of paperwork. “Watch the data layout.”

One by one, she aligns the printed sheets side by side, her finger tracking the corporate entities. “The registered company names are completely different on these two projects.”

Kitan nods, leaning over the table. “Yeah, I can see that. They’re registered as separate limited liability entities.”

“Exactly,” she says, uncapping her pen with a swift motion. “But look right beneath the surface at the statutory documentation.”

With two swift, precise strokes of her pen, she circles the tiny, fine-print names listed under the schedule of directors. Then she flips to the next file and circles another set, then a third.

Kitan leans sharply forward, his chair scraping lightly against the tiled floor as he stares down at the marked pages. “They’re the exact same people.”

“Different shell companies. Same board of directors.”

Enitan reaches for yet another folder, sighing. “There are perfectly legitimate reasons why a major development group might operate through multiple companies—tax optimization, risk isolation, project financing limits, or general liability shielding. So this data point alone proves absolutely nothing.”

“But...”

“But,” she echoes, a grim focus hardening her voice, “...it officially earns another sticky note.”

She tears a fresh yellow square from the pad and writes carefully: Consultancy firms—same hidden directors?

She slaps the square onto the polished wood, joining the long, disciplined line of yellow paper already lining the edge of the table. Much later that night, that wall of yellow sticky notes becomes far more valuable than any single answer they have uncovered. Because every single note, every timeline, and every missing disbursement is pointing in the exact same direction.

KITAN

By the time the digital clock on the microwave flashes 9:30 PM, the dining table has completely vanished under a mountain load of corporate records. A yellow legal pad filled with Enitan’s neat handwriting sits balanced between them, dark arrows branching out in a dozen different directions until the entire page resembles a complex road map.

Kitan has long stopped asking where she wants each file. He simply slides them across the wood whenever she asks.

By 10:00 PM, the dining table is no longer enough. They migrate to the wall. Kitan unearths a roll of masking tape from somewhere in the kitchen drawer after twelve minutes of frantic searching and one swift phone call to his mother upstairs.

“You’ve lived here your whole life,” Enitan notes, a small grin tugging at her lips as she tears off a strip. “And you don’t know where a single thing is located.”

“Objection, I haven’t exactly been living here for the past sixteen years,” he retorts, leaning his tall frame against the plaster. “Just saying.”

She laughs softly, taking the roll from him. Soon, sheets of white paper begin climbing the wall in a sprawling grid. Enitan insists on arranging the files chronologically. Kitan keeps pulling them down, trying to cluster them according to specific real estate projects.

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They bicker for five minutes before a long exhale escapes her. “Fine.”

He smiles victoriously, stepping back. Three minutes later, the moment his back is turned, she swiftly swaps two pages back into her timeline.

He catches the motion immediately in the glass reflection of the window. “I saw that.”

“Don’t lie,” she squeaks, not looking around. “Doesn’t it look better this way?”

He studies the layout again, his analytical gaze mapping the sequence. Then, letting out a dry laugh, he reluctantly peels his own project page away. “...Continue.”

She turns and playfully flashes her tongue at him. “I thought so.”

The next hour feels painfully slow. Every apparent breakthrough evaporates almost as quickly as it forms. One suspicious, unvouched payment turns out to have perfectly valid supporting documents hidden in a rear appendix; another unusual zoning approval has a completely reasonable explanation buried deep inside an old email thread. Kitan’s initial theories are systematically dismantled by her objective financial radar, leaving them right back at square one.

“You don’t enjoy being right this much at the office, do you?” he asks, dropping his head against his hand.

She keeps her eyes locked on a spreadsheet. “I absolutely do.”

“I feel immense sorrow for your colleagues.”

“They’re not complaining,” she murmurs and he shakes his head in response.

It is close to midnight when Kitan notices the structural gap. He walks slowly toward the wall, his eyes moving from one taped page to the next.

“Eni.”

“Hm?”

“Come and look at this.”

She joins him at the wall, folding her arms as she studies the timeline. “What are you seeing?”

“I don’t know yet.” His index finger hovers over three prominent sections of the grid. “These three. They’re all flagship commercial projects.”

She tilts her head slightly, her gaze tracing his finger. Then, reaching up, she cleanly peels a single sheet of paper off the wall: Project Emerald.

“What are you doing?”

“Watch.”

She steps back, allowing him to view the adjusted space. Without that single anomaly, the remaining documents suddenly collapse into a flawless, terrifying sequence. The sudden regulatory interruptions, the late-night approvals, and the targeted land acquisitions are all tightly clustered around the exact same geographical corridor of developments.

Kitan stares at the wall, the fog clearing instantly. “I didn’t even notice that pattern.”

“You were looking for similarities across the assets.”

“And you?”

“I was following the money.” She hands him the removed sheet. “This one doesn’t quite fit the full picture. It’s a distraction.”

He turns the page over once, absorbing her logic, then lays it flat on the dining table instead. “You know...” He glances back at her, a newfound respect sharpening his voice. “...you might actually be terrifying.”

She grins, her dimples showing. “I’ve heard that before.”

“It is so true.”

They return to the table. Without looking up, she stretches out her left hand like a surgeon demanding an instrument. “The valuation report.”

He slides it across. She murmurs a distracted thanks, flipping immediately to the middle section instead of the beginning. Enitan almost never reads a file from page one; she moves with a disciplined, intuitive certainty, knowing exactly where she’s going before she even gets there.

A few minutes later, she draws a sharp circle around an authorisation line, and then she pulls a secondary ledger toward her view. “No...” she mutters to herself.

Kitan looks up from his notes. “What?”

She doesn’t answer immediately, her eyes scanning another page, then another, her concentration absolute. Finally, she lifts her head to meet his gaze. “Who approves external consultants at Peters Holdings?”

“It depends.”

“On?”

“The scale of the project.”

She nods once. “And the targeted land acquisitions?”

“Same answer.”

“What about the vendor onboarding process?”

“Finance handles that mostly.”

She writes a rapid line onto the pad. Kitan watches her for another minute before setting his own folder aside. “You’re clearly on to something. What is it?”

“I’ll tell you in a brief second. Hold on.” She swivels the yellow legal pad toward him, her pen tapping the center.

He studies her handwriting. She has mapped out three disciplined columns: Money. People. Timing.

“I don’t think this starts with the money,” she says, her voice dropping into a low tone. “I think it goes deeper than that.”

Kitan reaches for the nearest folder again, his competitive drive flaring. He wants to find a logical, structural variable that breaks her theory, refusing to believe the corruption is this deeply systemic.

Twenty minutes later, the confidence drains from his chest.

He traces the approval path of one stalled permit from the initial application to the final freeze. He tracks the exact same behavioural sequence on the Island development. He follows it again on the credit line delay. The same recurring footprint appears on every single bottleneck.

He pulls a separate internal routing file toward himself, checking the administrative logs. His chair rolls back slightly against the tiled floor.

“Eni.”

She hums, her eyes never leaving her laptop screen.

“Come and see something”

She moves around the table, stopping right beside his chair. Their shoulders almost touch as she bends over the open file, the subtle scent of her lingering perfume clearing the musty smell of old paper.

He points to the authorization box. “This initial regulatory clearance should have gone directly through Dantata’s Project Execution department.”

“It did,” she notes, skimming the text. “Or so it says on the cover sheet.”

“Look at the sub-routing log,” Kitan says, his finger tracing a tracking code. “The file was clearly pulled out of the system and signed off by a senior clearance director in an entirely different division. A director named K. F.“

She follows the paper trail with one finger, her brows knitting together. She reaches for a secondary folder, then another, comparing the routing metadata with practised speed, much quicker than he would ever manage.

“I think I’ve seen this before.” She returns to her seat, rifling through a stack of ledgers with an ease that suggests her brain has completely memorized the location of every anomaly.

Kitan watches the controlled chaos unfold across the table. Five heavy folders land on the wood with a dull thud. One opens, then another until she aligns the dates perfectly.

“There,” she says, her pen tip landing on the page. “Look at the authorization window for these two projects.”

Kitan leans forward. The approving departments change, the external project managers change, and even the listed sub-contractors change. One overarching managerial signature doesn’t.

His eyes settle on the formal, stamped name at the bottom of the clearing logs: Kunle Fajemirokun.

He sits back, his heart thudding against his ribs. “Could that just be standard operating procedure for his office? He is the CFO, after all.”

“It could be,” she says, her voice turning deeply analytical, though her expression remains entirely unconvinced. “So on paper, it isn’t strange.”

“Yeah. Not by itself.”

She picks up her pen again. “What bothers me isn’t that his office name appears on the clearance logs.” She draws a tight circle around one of the dates. “It’s the specific timing of when his division intervened.”

Kitan looks right where she’s pointing.

She continues, her logic razor-sharp. “Every single time the Finance department gets involved unusually early in the land procurement loop...” Her pen moves to the next ledger page. “...something fundamental changes in the project’s funding timeline immediately afterward.”

Kitan studies the data again. He isn’t ready to draw the ultimate conclusion, and neither is she. It is too early to know if the Chief Financial Officer is the true hand behind the curtain or simply a very convenient shield. But for the first time this evening, Kitan finally understands why she kept asking questions that had absolutely nothing to do with accounting numbers.

She hadn’t just been following the money. She had been tracing the blueprint.

He looks across the table at her. She has already moved on, her mind completely consumed by the next variable—another file, another handwritten sticky note, and another analytical question written into the margin.

The rest of the dining room seems to recede into a blurred background. He has known Enitan for years. He remembers the teenager who spent many hot afternoons loudly arguing with Oyinda over whose turn it was to wash the plates in the back kitchen. He remembers how she used to turn up at this exact house carrying textbooks that looked bigger than she was. He remembers teasing her ruthlessly about her meticulous, color-coded lecture notes.

Somewhere between then and now, she has become extraordinary. He isn’t quite sure when the shift happened. Only that he is seeing it now, brilliantly and undeniably without question. He catches himself and forces his gaze back to the paper in front of him just before she looks up.

What in God’s name is happening to him?

Author’s Note: Delusion don tie wrapper, who wants to answer Kitan? who will tell him?🤭🤣

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Catch up: Chapter one, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine (1), Chapter Nine (2), Chapter Ten, and Chapter Eleven.

See you next week Monday.🫶🏽

Say yes to the thing you have spent three weeks talking yourself out of. Make the questionable decision that will, at the very least, give you something interesting to talk about later.

Do it for the plot.

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There is something wonderfully liberating about it.

It is such an appealing philosophy because it gives us permission to be impulsive. To step outside the carefully constructed lives we have built for ourselves and do something just for the heck of it.

But permit me to analyze this from the lens of a writer.

When I am writing a story, I rarely have a scene that exists for no reason. Even the seemingly insignificant moments have a purpose. A conversation that appears casual might reveal something about a character. A seemingly inconsequential encounter might plant a detail that becomes important much later. A character might spend an entire chapter doing something that appears to have very little to do with the central conflict, only for that moment to fundamentally change the way they understand themselves.

Nothing exists in isolation. Every scene is written in service of the larger story.

And lately, I have been wondering if maybe we should think about our own lives in the same way.

We treat this one life we have like it is elastic. As though it will stretch indefinitely around every bad decision and ill-advised detour without consequence.

We love to treat time and energy as infinite variables, telling ourselves that any mistake can be edited out in post-production, or that every bad chapter is just set-up for a dramatic comeback. And to an extent, it is a solid perspective because human resilience is remarkable. We heal, we regroup, we go again.

Yet, we find overtime that the choices we make leave residue. When every decision is justified purely for the novelty of “the plot,” we run the risk of becoming passive actors in our own lives and letting sensational impulses drive the narrative rather than intentional choices.

So while I’m not here to kill the magic of a spontaneous adventure, I wonder if we’re missing the point completely.

Instead of using “the plot” as a blanket excuse for chaos, perhaps the more pertinent questions are: In what way is this scene actually contributing to the overall plot of my life? Is it advancing me forward, or is it setting me back? Is this experience expanding my understanding of myself or merely distracting me from something I already know?

And most importantly, when this moment becomes a memory, will I be proud of the version of myself that will emerge on the other side of it?

This is not a call to live a rigid or meticulously over-analyzed life. Far from it. When I think of doing things for the plot, I do not think of reckless spontaneity. I think of side quests.

Hear me out.

This life is far too vast, too breathtakingly unpredictable, to treat it with suffocating seriousness and no room for whimsy.

The spontaneous road trip. The class you have no practical reason to take. The book you buy because you like the cover. The ridiculous outfit you absolutely love. The city you visit simply because you have always wondered what it looks like. The hobby you will probably abandon in six months.

These things are like desserts to the main course and ultimately make our lives so much fuller.

The distinction lies in intent. A true side quest isn’t aimless destruction disguised as fun, it is an exploration. It’s allowing yourself to step off the main path to discover a hidden corner of your world, knowing that when you return to the main storyline, you carry new insight, broader perspective, or a lighter heart.

And perhaps that is the balance I am looking for.

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I don’t want to live so recklessly that I am constantly cleaning up after the person I was yesterday. But I also don’t want to become so obsessed with making the right choices that I squeeze all the spontaneity out of being alive.

I want to make choices that move me towards the person I want to become, while still leaving enough room to be surprised by who I become along the way.

Because perhaps a good life, like a good novel, needs both.

So yes, take the trip. Wear the dress. Submit the manuscript. Learn the language. Go to dinner by yourself. Say yes to something that scares you for the right reasons. Try the strange restaurant. Dance badly. Fall in love. Fall out of love. Start again.

But every once in a while, pause before you leap and ask yourself:

What does this add to the story?

Because this is your real life and unlike a novel, you cannot edit the first draft once you reach the final page.

Which means we should all be a little more intentional about the chapters we are writing, while still leaving enough blank space for the unexpected.

Enough room for spontaneous coincidence. Enough room for wonder.

I want to take my life seriously enough to care what happens to me, but lightly enough to still be surprised by it.

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All my love,

Oreva.

The transition from the structured predictability of London to the aggressive, default chaos of Lagos is an assault on Kitan’s nervous system.

Mondays are usually land meetings. Wednesdays drag endlessly for no reason. Fridays are unpredictable because half the executives mentally check out before noon, while the other half suddenly remember urgent problems that apparently cannot survive a weekend. Thursdays however, occupy a lawless middle ground, leaving him unsure of what to expect today.

Kitan is still learning names. Still learning who talks too much in meetings and who only speaks when something important is wrong. Still learning how business in Lagos operates almost entirely through conversations that happen outside official conversations. But increasingly, he is also learning when things do not make sense.

For the past three days, he has sat at the end of the long conference table, surrounded by executives, legal advisors, and project managers.

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Today, as with the other days, they slide folders across the table, speak in a rapid dialect of corporate jargon, and present colorful slide decks about the company’s real estate portfolio. To the business team, the current bottlenecks are just the unfortunate cost of doing business in Nigeria.

But as the hours drag on, Kitan stops listening to their explanations and starts looking at the obvious symptoms.

The turning point comes during the forty-minute afternoon meeting about a mixed-use development in Ajah that has suddenly become “legally complicated”. Nobody explains it clearly. Instead, Mr. Kunle Fajemirokun, the Chief Financial Officer, talks around it entirely, sweating slightly through his monogrammed shirt as he shuffles through his notes.

Kitan says nothing throughout most of the session. He just listens. Observing the nervous energy in his posture until he feels compelled to interject.

“Who bought the surrounding parcels?” Kitan asks.

The room goes briefly still. Mr Kunle stops shuffling his papers, his gaze darting rapidly toward the head of the table before settling back on Kitan.

“A smaller consortium” He answers, his voice a little too sharp.

“Smaller how?”

“A group operating through different holding companies,” Kunle mutters, adjusting his cuffs. “It’s standard market competition. Nothing to be alarmed about.”

“Do we know who’s behind them?”

Mr Kunle’s gaze lingers on him, tight and unreadable, before he answers. “Not officially”.

Something about the vagueness of the response and his immediate defensiveness bothers him.

His clinical training, entirely against his will, begins to kick in. As he stares at the charts left behind after the last meeting of the day, Kitan begins spotting patterns the seasoned executives apparently missed.

It starts with the delays. The regulatory permits for their premium commercial development in Agege are suddenly stalled in an endless loop of administrative red tape.

Simultaneously, the contractor for their luxury residential tower on the Island has abruptly halted construction, citing an unexpected supply chain blockage. At the same time, two of their primary funding banks have grown cold, delaying routine credit line renewals with unusually passive-aggressive clauses.

Later that evening, long after the rest of the staff have left for the day, Kitan pulls the project files himself. By 7:18pm, the printed documents are spread halfway across his office desk.

The more he studies the records, the more uncomfortable he becomes. Staring at the data points, he realizes the parcels being acquired are not random. They surround Peters Holdings’ largest upcoming development almost too conveniently.

His assumption solidifies when he reviews the land acquisition logs for the parcels directly adjacent to their flagship Lekki project.

Over the last six weeks, a rival development consortium has been aggressively buying up every single surrounding plot. They are also making unsolicited, lowball offers to buy out Peters properties in that exact sector.

Kitan leans over the architectural maps spread across the table, tracing the boundaries with his finger. If this rival consortium secures those adjacent plots, they can effectively block Peters Holdings’ access roads, trap them in a massive legal stranglehold, and completely devalue their flagship project.

It is a deliberate attempt to cut off the blood supply to their most lucrative asset and permanently weaken their influence in Lagos real estate.

The realization brings a sudden, strange rush of adrenaline. For the first time since he began working here, the smothering fog of uncertainty lifts. He might actually be good at this.

The door clicks open, and Mr. Lawson walks into the room holding a fresh cup of black coffee. He looks surprised to find Kitan still hovering over the layouts.

“Kitan,” Lawson says, setting his mug down with a warm, paternal smile. “You’re still here? I thought you left with the others.”

“I was looking at the timeline for the Lekki permits,” Kitan says, not looking up from the maps. “Uncle Lawson, look at this. The zoning delays aren’t random.”

Lawson lets out a tired, dismissive sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. “My boy, this is Lagos. Everything is random. The ministry changes directors, someone somewhere wants a bribe, the paperwork gets lost under a desk. It’s normal.”

“No, it’s a cluster,” Kitan counters, his voice dropping into a low register. “Look at the data points. The permit delays happen the exact same week the bank stalls our credit line. And in that same window, this rival consortium closes on the three plots surrounding our site. Someone is intentionally choking our operational cash flow so we can’t build, while simultaneously cutting off our physical access to the land.”

Lawson frowns, stepping closer to the table. He adjusts his reading glasses, his eyes scanning the highlighted sections Kitan has marked out. The dismissive fatigue on the older man’s face slowly replaces itself with a tense focus.

“Wait. If they block that western corridor...” Lawson murmurs, his brow furrowing deeply.

Lawson looks up from the map, staring at his dear friend’s son with a mixture of surprise and newfound respect. He places a steadying, reassuring hand on Kitan’s shoulder. “How did you see this? You’ve been in these meetings for barely a month. Your father would be incredibly proud of you right now, Kitan. You have his eyes.”

Kitan swallows past the sudden lump in his throat, a small flicker of confidence settling in his chest. “It’s just a differential diagnosis. But it means I can’t leave for London next weekend as planned. We need to dig into who is financing this rival consortium.”

Lawson nods slowly, a huge sigh escaping him as his eyes drift back to the map. “If you stay, we’ll need the legal team to pull every deed from the registry. It’s going to be a long week, my boy”

“I’m already here,” Kitan replies.

*******

By the time he finally leaves the building, Kachi is waiting for him downstairs. Kitan finds him sitting on the bonnet of his car, eating suya from a sheet of aluminum foil.

Since Kachi works at a private law firm nearby and is on the brink of making partner, his days are just as grueling but he had promised to visit, so here he is.

“You look troubled,” Kachi says by way of greeting, handing a bottle of cold Sprite to Kitan.

“Guy, I might be accidentally becoming a business person.”

Kachi stares at him, cracking open his own bottle. “Not you saying that like it’s a bad thing. What is going on? Fire on the mountain?”

Kitan explains the situation of things. Kachi listens more carefully than he jokes, which is usually how Kachi listens when something actually matters.

“So what are you saying?” Kachi asks eventually, as Kitan takes a seat on the bonnet beside him. “That somebody is trying to squeeze Peters Holdings out?”

“I don’t know yet,” Kitan says, picking a piece of suya absentmindedly. “But with the way things are looking... the odds are not in our favour at all.”

Kachi hums thoughtfully. “You know this means you’re trapped here longer now.”

Kitan exhales through his nose. He has been trying not to think about the reality of his findings, especially with his father’s impending surgery.

Besides, the city is already leaving its mark on him. He now instinctively checks traffic before leaving anywhere. He keeps emergency cash in different places. He knows which routes flood fastest after rainfall.

Just yesterday, he argued with a PHCN official for twenty minutes over a fraudulent utility bill and won. That change, more than anything else, concerns him deeply.

“Wait, this one your face is serious like this. Don’t tell me you are actually considering moving back,” Kachi says, a grin tugging at his mouth. “As per reverse japa?”

“No. Not that,” Kitan mumbles, watching the distant headlights blur. “I don’t know, man. I don’t know yet.”

Kachi laughs loudly, the sound bouncing off the concrete pavement. “Omo. I could never have seen this coming. Kitan Peters considering staying in this Lagos.”

Before Kitan can respond, his phone vibrates against the bonnet beside him. The bright screen cuts through the dark. It is a message from Enitan.

Enitan:

Kitan... I found something.

KITAN

Kitan waits until he gets home before responding to Enitan. He goes over the text again on the edge of his bed as the saxophone playing in his head gets louder. He decides to call her instead.

The phone rings twice before she picks up. “Hello?”

Something in the hollow, guarded tone of her voice makes him straighten instinctively. “What did you find?”

“I don’t think I should explain this over the phone,” she says.

Whatever remaining smile lingered on his face disappears completely. He leans forward, rubbing a tense hand across his face. “It’s that bad?”

“Yeah. Sorry. Are you home?”

“Just got in.” He closes his eyes, fatigue dragging at his eyelids. “What are you doing tomorrow evening after work?”

“I can make myself available.”

The absolute readiness in her response coaxes a slight, involuntary lift to the corner of his mouth despite everything. “Or better still, let’s do Saturday. I just remembered I have a conflicting strategy session with Uncle Lawson tomorrow and an otherwise full day.”

“Yeah. Saturday works. You sound really tired. Get some sleep,” she says, her voice softening into a gentler register.

“You too.”

Neither of them sounds particularly convinced.

The line ends with a sharp click and Kitan drops the phone onto the mattress beside him. He stares at the wall, his mind immediately questioning how on earth he is supposed to wait that long to hear whatever it is that she found.

ENITAN

By noon the next day, Enitan has read the same email three times.

The problem is not the email. The problem is that every time she opens her laptop, her mind drifts relentlessly back to her findings and what it might mean for Peters Holdings.

“Miss Enitan?”

She looks up. Tolu, a junior analyst from her team, is standing beside her desk.

“Sorry?”

“I asked if we should include the revised valuation schedule in the presentation.”

Enitan blinks, forcing her brain to catch up. “Yeah, sure.” She stops herself, pinching the bridge of her nose as she shuts her eyes briefly. “Sorry. Start again. Walk me through the entire presentation from the top.”

By the time Tolu finally leaves, a dull ache is ringing behind her eyes in varying decibels. Her meticulous attention to detail is half the reason she is indispensable at her job but keeping her focus locked today is a losing battle.

A Teams notification flashes on her screen; she sweeps her trackpad and closes it without even reading it.

A few seconds later, Odion materializes beside her desk carrying a cold bottle of water. He places it gently beside her keyboard.

“You forgot this in the conference room.”

“Thank you.”

He doesn’t leave immediately, leaning his hip against the edge of the partition instead. “What’s going on? You’ve been off today.”

“Nothing,” she says, keeping her expression neutral. “I’m just having one of those days.”

Odion folds his arms, looking down at her with a perceptive glare. “Should I be concerned?”

“I’m fine, for real.”

“Mhmm. Is that why you gave Tolu approval to print the Greenfield report before we even ran the tax adjustments?”

Enitan freezes, her fingers halting over her keyboard. “Did I?”

“You did,” Odion says, a light, teasing warmth breaking through his voice. “Don’t worry, I caught him at the printer. I told him you were just testing his critical thinking skills.”

A small, genuine smile finally breaks through her exhaustion.

“There she is,” Odion cooes.

“There who is?”

“The Enitan I know.”

He reaches into the brown paper bag he is carrying, removes a takeaway container, and places the warm food right on her desk. “Please eat so you don’t faint on my watch. You are still my most valuable team member.”

“Not you assuming I haven’t eaten today.”

“We both know you haven’t,” he replies smoothly, tapping the plastic lid once. “There’s no need to front here.”

He turns and disappears down the corridor before she can fully gather her thoughts to say thank you.

Enitan stares at the container as her stomach right on cue grumbles to remind her of the hollow ache in her ribs. Unfortunately, he is entirely right. She is indeed famished.

KITAN

The surgical consultant has excellent handwriting. That is the one specific detail that registers as Kitan flips through the latest clinical updates at the foot of his father’s bed.

He reviews the charts while the older man explains the final pre-operative roadmap. Thanks to the brutal, unyielding workload over at Peters Holdings, his hours here have been drastically cut short.

But right now, the only thought circling his mind is in the form of a recurring question: should he tell his father what he has been uncovering within the company files?

He decides against it. A massive corporate betrayal is the absolute last thing the man needs to process a week before his surgery. Besides, he has no idea what Enitan actually found in the financial records yet.

The only logical path forward is to wait, hear what she has to say and get a complete bird’s-eye view of the entire situation first. He checks his watch with a quick flick of his wrist; he has barely twenty minutes left to wrap up here before he needs to head back to the office.

As his eyes scan the medical charts, a few technical anomalies stand out. He rattles off three precise, rapid-fire clinical questions regarding the post-op fluid management and arterial pressures. The consultant answers without a single moment of hesitation, his respect for the younger doctor’s sharpness evident in his tone.

For ten minutes, the conversation moves into risk factors, recovery timelines, and meticulous post-operative monitoring protocols. These are variables Kitan understands instinctively.

When the consultant finally finishes his brief and exits the room, Chief Peters leans his head back against the white hospital pillows and smiles faintly. “You look happier”.

Kitan glances up, closing the folder. “Medicine is my happy place. You, however, look like you are in a sad place. You should be sleeping, Dad.”

“That’s practically all I do these days. How are things at the office?”

Kitan swallows a non-existent lump in his throat, forcing his features to remain perfectly neutral. “It’s going okay. Uncle Lawson is doing a brilliant job of managing the chaos.”

His father lets out a genuine, low chuckle. “He tells me you’re catching on remarkably fast. You have always given the best of yourself to things that pique your interest.”

“Yeah. I guess. I need to get back to the office,” Kitan says, reaching for his keys to break the sudden emotional proximity. “I have spoken at length with the consultant. Please, in the meantime, I am ordering you to be a compliant patient. No secret phone calls to the managers, no office files hidden under your blanket, and absolutely no stress. Rest, eat the bland hospital food, and follow the nurses’ instructions to the letter. I’ll be back this weekend to check on you properly.”

His father’s smile broadens. “This is the most I have seen you in years,” he says, his voice thick with a poignant resonance. “I am so happy you are here, Kitan bobo. My heart is completely full.”

The raw vulnerability in the words hits Kitan directly in the chest, a sudden heat gathering behind his eyes. Panic flares inside him; he does not know how to survive the emotions currently rising in his throat, so he retreats into his default defense mechanism.

“Wow. Who is cutting onions?” Kitan deflects with a frantic, breathless laugh, already moving toward the exit.

“Save the speech for after the surgery. I’m leaving before Uncle Lawson reports me for being AWOL.” He steps out and rushes through the doors before the dam in his chest can completely fracture.

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********

Time crawls at an agonizing pace when you are in mind-numbing suspense.

Back at the office, every single meeting feels like it is lasting twice as long as necessary. Twice during the operations review, Lawson stops mid-sentence, looks across the table, and asks if he is alright. Twice, Kitan forces a relaxed smile and says yes.

By five-thirty, he is sitting alone in his office, staring at the exact same row on an operational report for the third separate time without absorbing a single syllable. At five forty-five, the frustration peaks, and he gives up completely. He grabs his phone and texts Enitan.

Kitan:

I don’t think I can wait until tomorrow. Can we meet after work today?

Enitan:

Phew. Thank God. The suspense was absolutely killing me.

Kitan:

Lmao. Twins. I’m rounding up here. I’ll just come directly from the office to your place.

Enitan:

No wahala. See you soon.

*******

Fifteen minutes later, his phone rings through the car’s Bluetooth speakers as he navigates the sluggish evening exodus out of Ikoyi. He picks without looking at the phone screen.

“Please tell me you’re not still working,” Kachi greets him over the line.

“On the contrary, I am currently trapped in brutal traffic,” Kitan mutters, shifting his foot on the brake pedal.

“So yes.”

“Technically, no.”

“Same difference.”

Kitan lets out a low laugh, his tight shoulders loosening slightly. The bumper-to-bumper gridlock finally lurches forward a few pathetic metres before stopping dead once more.

“How’s Uncle Kola?” Kachi asks, his tone dropping its teasing edge.

They talk for several minutes about the upcoming Whipple surgery, the grueling realities of work-life balance, and a high-net-worth client Kachi is currently convinced was raised by a pack of wolves.

“You sound distracted, bro.” Kachi says after a brief pause.

Kitan hesitates, watching the red brake lights ahead blur in the fading light. “Enitan found something in the group accounts.”

“What kind of something?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“And this is bothering you because...?”

“Because I think whatever it is might be connected to some of the things I’ve been noticing,” Kitan confesses, his voice dropping into a tense whisper.

The traffic moves again, and this time, the car actually rolls smoothly for almost ten whole seconds.

“Okay, look, there is no point driving yourself mad with theories,” Kachi says levelly after a beat. “Find out exactly what she uncovered first, then you can plan your next move.”

“Yeah” Kitan sighs, switching on his indicator. “I’m actually driving over to her place right now.”

“Her house ke?” Kachi’s voice cracks with an immediate, mischievous chuckle over the speakers. “Like... just the two of you? At night?”

Kitan frowns aggressively at the dashboard. “First of all, it’s not exactly night. And I have told you one million times that this is not that kind of situation. She’s as good as family. This visit is purely professional.”

“I didn’t say anything o! You’re the one defending yourself so quickly,” Kachi guffaws, his loud laughter filling the cabin. “But seriously, get the facts first. Don’t jump to conclusion before you even see the data.”

“Yeah. The suspense is just actively flogging me. Gosh. What if the books are really bad?”

“You will cross that bridge when you get there. But it’s this professional visit part that is sweeting me”

“Ugh. Release me”

By the time the call ends a few minutes later, Kitan is smiling despite himself, the heavy dread in his chest momentarily lightened by his friend’s standard banter.

His phone screen lights up briefly on the passenger seat, a fresh notification dropping down.

Enitan: I’m running a little late from the office. So sorry!

Kitan slides the device into the console. Up ahead, the bottleneck at the intersection finally fractures, and the gridlock clears out into a wide, beautifully smooth stretch of free road. He presses his foot firmly down on the accelerator, the engine roaring to life as the car surges forward.

*********

At 7:08PM, Kitan is already seated in his idling car in her compound, the smooth thrum of the engine the only sound breaking the relative stillness of the courtyard as he waits for her to arrive.

Her sedan pulls through the gates seven minutes later. She steps out of the car wearing a structured charcoal blazer over a crisp white button-down shirt that looks slightly rumpled from hours at her desk, and her laptop bag hangs heavily from one shoulder.

Her movements are slow, a profound physical exhaustion weighting her limbs, and the bright security lights overhead catch the distinct, stubborn dark circles smudging the skin beneath her eyes.

Kitan jumps out of his car immediately, crossing the gravel to meet her side and sliding the heavy laptop bag off her shoulder before she can even object.

“You haven’t been sleeping well,” he says softly, his brows knitting together as he looks down at her face.

Enitan stops near the stairs, looking up at him incredulously. “Neither have you, apparently.”

They walk up the lone flight of stairs to her apartment in a comfortable, tired silence. Enitan unlocks the door, and they make their way directly to her dining table. Kitan tracks her movements as he drops her bags onto the polished wood, his chest tightening with concern at how utterly spent she looks.

“Do you want to change first?”

She drops heavily into the chair opposite him, leaning her head back for a brief second. “No need. I’m fine.” With a tired sigh, she reaches up, uncuffs her sleeves, and untucks her shirt from her trousers. Then, reaching back, she slips off her sleek bob wig and massages her temples with a long breath.

Kitan swiftly looks down, actively ignoring the sudden skip his pulse makes watching her go through the motions of these mundane actions. It is an entirely unshielded view of her that ignites his protective instincts while simultaneously making his heart race, but there is a massive elephant in the room demanding their focus. He forces his floundering brain to lock into position instead.

“So,” he prompts, leaning over the table. “What did you find?”

Enitan pulls herself straight, the exhaustion in her eyes instantly sharpening into data-driven focus. She leans across the table, reaches into her bag, and removes a thick manila folder from underneath. Then another, then a third.

Kitan watches the documents slide across the wood. “Should I be worried?”

“Yes.”

She places the printouts right between them. For the next ten minutes, her voice drops into a calm, terrifyingly precise register as she walks him through her findings. She tracks the movement of funds, points out the consistently inflated vendor payments, and maps the exact camouflage where identical expenditures appear in one subsidiary ledger only to disappear and reappear elsewhere under a completely different name.

Kitan’s expression grows steadily more serious, the gravity of the implication hardening his features. By the time she finally traces the last fraudulent transaction back to the consolidated trial balance, he is completely stupefied.

“Gosh”

She sits back, crossing her arms tightly. “I know. I went over it multiple times. I kept hoping I was wrong.”

Instead of answering, Kitan reaches down for the structured leather bag resting beside his chair. “My turn.” He pulls out a heavy folder of his own and slides several documents across the table.

Enitan frowns, pulling the files closer. “What am I looking at?”

“At first, I thought it was just a coincidence,” Kitan states.

“Never a reassuring way to start a sentence.”

His finger taps the first architectural map. “This particular project was stalled for six weeks over a sudden zoning permit delay.” Then he slides his finger to the next sheet. “And for this commercial tower on the Island, the main contractor abruptly pulls out of negotiations at the final hour.” Then a third. “And here, the bank unexpectedly goes ice-cold and rewrites the funding terms.”

Enitan studies the papers more carefully, her eyebrows knitting together as she reviews the timelines. This is way out of her field of expertise, but her analytical brain effortlessly follows the picture he is painting for her.

“So you are saying these operational hits happened one after another,” she says, her gaze lifting to meet his. “And all three of these projects were highly strategic for the group’s expansion.”

Kitan nods once.

Enitan leans further forward, her hands flat on the table. “What happened after the projects stalled?”

“The surrounding parcels of land started getting acquired.” Kitan says, his voice falling into a grim whisper.

A deep frown pulls at her forehead. “By who?”

“That is the problem. I’m not sure.” Kitan pushes the land registry logs toward her. “The available data says it’s different companies, but my instinct tells me it might be the same person behind all of them.”

She scans the names, her mind whirring. None are familiar.

For several minutes, the immediate exhaustion is entirely abandoned as they dive headfirst into the documents together—comparing dates, cross-referencing ledger entries, testing hypotheses, and ruthlessly discarding theories that do not fit the criteria.

The dining table slowly disappears beneath a sprawling landscape of paperwork, their shared fatigue completely forgotten in this newfound search for the truth.

Eventually, Enitan sits back in exasperation. “You don’t think your project delays are random. And I don’t think my missing eight-figure disbursements are random either and the way it is looking, these two things might be interconnected.”

“Yeah,” Kitan mutters, staring down at the mess of files. “I’m officially terrified.”

Enitan’s fingers freeze halfway down one of the land acquisition logs. She gasps, “Wait”.

Kitan looks up immediately, tracking the sudden stillness in her posture.

Without saying a word, she grabs a vendor ledger from her side of the table, flipping through the pages with frantic precision until she finds what she is looking for. She places both documents side by side, her finger pressing firmly against the paper.

For a long, suffocating moment, neither of them speaks.

The exact same consultancy firm appears in both places. On her side, they are the intermediary entity receiving the unvouched “vendor advances” from the parent account. On his side, they are listed as the primary financial advisors facilitating the rival consortium’s land acquisitions. Different projects, different subsidiary lines, entirely different contexts but the exact same name.

Kitan’s eyes narrow into a dangerous, razor-sharp focus. “That’s strange.”

“Very”.

“Could still be an incredibly convenient coincidence,” Kitan tries to rationalize, though his voice lacks any real conviction.

“Maybe.”

Neither of them sounds remotely convinced. Enitan traces the black lettering of the company name again with her index finger, replaying the available information in her head, connecting the internal finance lines to the external land bids.

“How many people know about Peters’ land acquisitions before the deeds are actually finalised?”

Kitan answers immediately, without a shadow of doubt. “Not many.”

“How many is not many?”

He thinks for a second, mapping the executive floor. “Executive leadership. Legal. A small loop in finance depending on the funding structure. The development leads.”

Enitan holds his gaze across the table. She watches the realization hit him in real time—the subtle tightening of his jaw, the slight widening of his pupils as the pieces click together into a cohesive, horrifying picture.

“If somebody knew exactly where Peters Holdings was moving before the market did...” she says, her voice barely a whisper.

“They could position their own entities first, choke our project, and bleed the parent company from the inside,” Kitan finishes the sentence, his tone cold as iron.

Neither speaks for several seconds. The air in the dining room suddenly feels thick, the physical space between them shrinking under the massive weight of what they are looking at. This isn’t just a case of simple corporate embezzlement or aggressive competition; it is a meticulously coordinated inside execution.

Eventually, Kitan exhales through his nose, leaning back into his chair as he tries to steady his mind. “You realize the sheer madness of what we are implying, right? We are probably entirely wrong.”

“But if we’re right—”

“Yes”.

Neither finishes the sentence; there is absolutely no need to. Enitan glances down at the overlapping documents one last time, then looks back up at him. “What do we do?”

Kitan looks away as the wheels churn relentlessly behind his eyes. When his gaze snaps back to hers, the emotional evasion is gone, replaced by absolute certainty.

“We don’t tell a single soul yet,” he says.

Enitan nods slowly in agreement.

“Not until we have ironclad proof of who holds the strings. Please, Enitan. I’m sorry I am asking this of you but not even Oyinda. Especially not her. Not in her condition. We can loop her in upper week after the surgery.”

“No problem,” Enitan replies.

Kitan leans forward, his eyes locking onto hers with an intense, exclusive gravity that seals the pact between them. “Between you and I, Eni. We keep this completely contained. We find the leak, and we clear out the nest together.”

Author’s Note: Agent Eni and Agent Kit Kat are in full operation mode, who is ready?🙃

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Catch up: Chapter one, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine (1), Chapter Nine (2), and Chapter Ten.

See you next week Monday.🫶🏽

She said “You are more than just your shell.”

The conversation moved on, as conversations often do. We laughed about something else. We spoke about other things. But that sentence echoed in my mind in the form of a recurring thought.

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Body dysmorphia acts like a distorted lens, convincing you that your physical form is your entire identity—and a defective one at that. It traps your attention in a relentless loop of checking, hiding, and obsessing over the exterior.

You see this God given body as a catalogue of endless flaws. You refuse to post your picture because of that one singular flaw that you have magnified in your mind which others might never even notice.

It is exhausting work, trying to gaslight yourself into reshaping the way you see yourself.

But my friend’s reminder forced me to step back and look at the bigger picture.

When our time here is up, none of that will matter. When someone dies, no one gathers to recount the precise circumference of their waist or marvel at how perfectly their skin sat across their bones.

We remember the way they laughed until everyone else laughed too. We remember the meals they cooked, the songs they loved, the phone calls they never forgot to make.

We remember how they made rooms feel lighter, how they listened, the stories they told, how they forgave, what they meant to us. When we die, people ultimately remember the way we made them feel.

And even if someone were to critique our bodies after we are gone, we will be far too long gone to care. Realizing this has become my compass. I am learning to figure out what is truly deserving of my attention and what is simply noise.

Attention is a finite currency. Every hour spent scrutinizing perceived imperfections is an hour unavailable for becoming more curious, more compassionate, more courageous. Every ounce of energy poured into perfecting the wrapping is energy withheld from the gift itself.

In thinking of what she said, my mind strayed to boiled groundnut.

You crack open the rough, brown shell with your fingers, almost absentmindedly. The shell has done its job. It has protected what matters. It has carried the main thing safely to your hands so you discard it without ceremony because the shell was never the point.

The same is true of cartons stacked neatly on supermarket shelves, ribbons tied around presents, beautifully designed packaging that catches your eye before you know what is inside.

Packaging matters because it invites curiosity. But eventually, if it has done its job well, you put it aside.

No one buys a book to frame its dust jacket while leaving the pages unread. No one treasures a gift by preserving only the wrapping paper.

The purpose of every shell is to lead you inward.

Our bodies are the ultimate packaging. They are the earthly vehicles carrying our consciousness, our capacity for love, our creativity, and our memories.

And yes, this does sound like mumbo jumbo, aspire to perspire kind of advice but it is true.

Our bodies deserve care. They deserve nourishment, movement, rest, gentleness. They carry us through the world with astonishing loyalty.

But somewhere along the way, many of us began treating them as though they were the destination rather than the vehicle. We became curators of appearances while neglecting the actual nitty gritty that make a person unforgettable.

There are stories still untold, friendships still waiting to be formed, acts of generosity no one will ever applaud, questions that have not yet found their answers, and dreams insisting on another chance.

There is imagination. Humour. Wisdom earned through suffering. There is tenderness that has hopefully outlived heartbreak. There are entire galaxies of thought and feeling that no mirror has the capacity to reflect.

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How tragic it would be to spend a lifetime obsessing over things beyond your control without reflecting on what it is that makes you who you are.

By all means, take care of this body that God has given you. Eat right, exercise, shower this temple with as much love as you are capable of but the unique distinct features that you came to this world with are not a disability.

And there is a conversation to be had about how the value of what is inside determines the effort given to the packaging. You would not just put gold in a random open cupboard but I digress and this is not the point of today’s rambling. We will revisit this another time.

There is a peculiar kind of loneliness that comes from living in a body you do not particularly like.

I am trying, these days, to become a better steward of my attention. To ask, with greater honesty, what deserves it and what merely demands it.

I am learning to focus on the parts of my body I like instead of dwelling on the parts I wish I could change. Some days this comes easily.

Other days, I forget.

It is far too easy to forget the wild, expansive universe bustling inside us when all we are confronted with is our physical reflection.

So, on the days when the noise gets too loud, and on the days when I am tempted to forget who I truly am, I stand in front of the mirror. I look past the skin, past the shape, past the packaging, and I say the words that have become a mantra.

I say it aloud until I believe it again.

Until it reaches the parts of me that have forgotten.

Until beauty returns to the eyes of the beholder.

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All my love,

Oreva.

Kitan slips his phone back into his pocket, but the ghost of their back and forth still lingers on his face. He looks across the table, watching Enitan pick up her fork and say something to Oyinda that makes his sister burst into a wide, bright smile.

The warmth that spreads in his chest is almost tangible.

BZZZ.

The vibration against his thigh is longer this time. He pulls the device back out, expecting another sharp retort from Enitan.

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Instead, a completely different name flashes on the locked screen.

Amelia:

The department is an absolute zoo tonight. Barry mistakenly ordered a chest CT for a sprained ankle, and I had to physically block the doors to stop him. We are missing our anchor over here. How are you holding up, Peters?

The contrast hits him like a sudden drop in temperature.

Kitan stares at the glowing text, his thumbs hovering over the virtual keyboard as the chaotic reality of St. Thomas’ Hospital rushes back into his mind. He can practically smell the chemical tang of the antiseptic and hear the relentless ping of the cardiac monitors in the resuscitation bays. That is his world. The life he built from scratch, hour by grueling hour, five thousand kilometers away.

He looks up from the screen, his eyes automatically finding Enitan again. She is laughing at a joke Kamil just made, the amber light of the ballroom catching the delicate gold edge of her earring.

The transition is jarring. A month ago, his life was measured in shift rotations, trauma alerts, and drinks with Amelia after a brutal twenty-four-hour run. Now, he is sitting in a bespoke tuxedo in a Lagos ballroom, holding the unyielding expectations of his father’s legacy in one hand and an entirely unrecognizable, hyper-awareness of his sister’s best friend in the other.

He looks back down, typing out a speedy, tightly managed reply.

Kitan:

Tell Barry I am revoking his clinical privileges from here. I’m hanging in there. Give the team my best. I miss you guys.

He locks the phone and sets it face-down on the table, the levity from moments ago completely evaporated. He can feel the distant pull of London calling him back to who he used to be, even as the gravity of everything happening in this room anchors him firmly to the spot.

KITAN

Kitan cannot believe he is still in the office at 9:30 PM, but this is where the current of his day has somehow carried him.

He leans back slowly in the ergonomic leather chair and pinches the bridge of his nose. The office still does not feel like his. Even after six weeks, the space carries the heavy shadow of the executive director who occupied it before him. Lawson had quietly suggested it would make more sense for Kitan to operate from this specific floor if he intended to “understand the flow of things properly.” Now, a temporary wooden nameplate plaque sits on the edge of the wooden desk, a daily reminder of his provisional status.

They keep insisting this arrangement is temporary, but nothing about the reality feels that way.

The truth is tucked inside his inbox. Three weeks ago, he officially requested an emergency extension on his statutory leave of absence. The formal email from the hospital’s HR department still sits unanswered, a blinking cursor demanding a response. Please confirm your expected return date. He has reread it four times since he opened it.

As a consultant in emergency medicine, he had used a combination of accumulated annual leave and an exceptional compassionate extension due to a “critical family medical emergency” to buy this time. But the hospital is bleeding staff, they cannot hold his rotation slot indefinitely.

Yet, he has no answer to give them because his father is running out of time.

The tumor is locally advanced, dangerously close to major abdominal vasculature, and the upcoming Whipple procedure is a massive, high-stakes surgery. They have spent the last six weeks aggressively prepping him - managing his biliary drainage, optimizing his nutrition, and praying his hepatic panels remain stable enough for the surgeon to operate next week.

Kitan has secretly given himself a strict deadline: he will not even think about a flight back to London until his father is wheeled out of that post-op intensive care unit.

Because of this mental tightrope, his days are entirely fractured. Some afternoons, he catches his hand automatically reaching for a stethoscope that hasn’t been around his neck in a month and a half.

Other days he wakes up genuinely disoriented in his childhood bedroom, forgetting for several seconds that he is in Lagos, not his penthouse flat in waterloo.

The transition hasn’t been entirely blind, though. Six weeks pass quickly when you are forced to adapt. Kitan learned faces first, then names, then the unspoken power dynamics of the boardroom.

The corporate world is slowly beginning to make sense in fragments. Meetings have stopped sounding like a foreign language. He is no stranger to grueling hours or digesting dense, multi-page case files under pressure, medical school had trained him well for that.

Armed with that academic stamina and guided by Lawson, who acts as an exceptionally patient, sharp-witted mentor, Kitan is starting to find his footing. He can now recognize which executives talk merely to fill the silence and which ones hold the room when they speak. It is an exhausting venture but discovering he can actually navigate this terrain is unexpectedly rewarding.

Beside his laptop, his phone screen illuminates with a notification. It’s a WhatsApp message from Amelia.

Amelia:

Your locum replacement nearly contaminated a sterile field today. Okay, fine, she didn’t, but she’s definitely not you. The A&E is in shambles. I’ve barely slept this week so I’m probably seeing double. Our favourite coffee machine is broken. Also, you owe me a phone call.

Despite the exhaustion pressing on his eyelids, a faint smile touches his lips as his thumbs move over the keyboard.

Kitan:

Tell the clinical lead I am officially blacklisting you from taking extra shifts until I get back. You need to sleep, Amelia. An exhausted registrar is a liability.

Amelia:

Tell that to the double shifts logged on my rota. I’m practically covering your tracking list and my own patients. When are you coming back? It’s brutal out here without you.

Kitan stares at the glowing screen, the smile fading. He locks the phone without replying and sets it face-down on the desk.

He shifts his attention back toward the massive spreadsheet glowing across his laptop screen. Rows upon rows of data stare back at him - acquisition costs, project disbursements, subsidiary accounts, and loan schedules.

Earlier that afternoon, wanting to test his own progress, he had asked the group’s chief accountant to send him a comprehensive breakdown of the holdings’ current financial structures. The man had looked distinctly impressed by the request.

By evening, Kitan understood why. The files are monumental.

In medicine, tiny inconsistencies are everything. One abnormal lab result, one symptom slightly out of sequence, one detail that refuses to fit the diagnostic criteria, that is usually where the truth hides.

Right now, looking at the Q2 disbursement tabs, his diagnostic instincts are prickling in that exact same way. Something feels mathematically misaligned.

The problem is, his medical degree hasn’t given him the vocabulary to articulate why it looks wrong.

He stares at the glowing ledger for another thirty seconds before conceding defeat. He picks up his phone and calls Enitan. She answers on the third ring.

“Prodigal son,” she greets him immediately, her voice vibrant through the speaker. “Don’t tell me you are still at the office at this time?”

Usually, he would fire back with a sarcastic comment about her own work hours, but tonight his energy is spent. “Eni,” he says softly, rubbing a hand over his temple. “I need your help.”

The teasing tone drops instantly, replaced by a protective alertness. “Ah. You sound completely drained. What’s wrong?”

“I asked the finance team for a breakdown of the group’s project accounts,” he says, exhaling a labored breath. “I’m looking at the sheets right now, but it may as well be written in Greek.”

An understanding chuckle comes through the line. “Welcome to financial forensics. What exactly did they dump on you?”

“Everything from the past two quarters. Could you help me look through it?”

“Of course. Forward the files to my email.”

Kitan glances back at the endless columns of data. “I should probably warn you that the file looks like a digital endless scroll. I gave up after the twentieth tab.”

“Please,” she scoffs playfully. “That’s light work. I analyze multinational energy portfolios for breakfast. Your supposed one million tabs doesn’t scare me.”

The effortless confidence in her voice coaxes a soft laugh from him, the tight knot of frustration in his shoulders loosening slightly. “I’m sorry to dump this on you, Eni. I know you already have a crazy workload.”

“Haba, Kitan,” her voice softens, “It’s family. Don’t even mention it.”

“Thank you,” he says.

“Don’t thank me yet. Let me make sure I can actually make sense of your project codes first before you celebrate.”

“Fair point. I don’t think I have your email address, though.”

“I’ll text it to you right now.” There is a brief pause punctuated by the sound of shifting papers on her end. “And Kitan? Close the laptop and go home. You’ve done more than enough for one day.”

He glances around the dimly lit executive floor, his eyes landing back on the temporary nameplate on his desk. “Yes, ma.”

She lets out a knowing hum, clearly unconvinced that he will actually obey. “Goodnight, Kitan.”

The call ends. Kitan lowers the phone slowly, staring at the screen for a moment before sliding it into his pocket. He looks back at the spreadsheet, hesitates, and then deliberately shuts the laptop lid down, honoring her instruction.

His head is pounding with the onset of a tension headache but as he gathers his keys and drags his tired feet out into the hallway, the day feels a little less insurmountable.

ENITAN

By midnight, her dining table has disappeared beneath a landscape of printed financial statements, handwritten notes, and her laptop, all flanked by two empty mugs she forgot to clear away hours ago.

Enitan pushes her glasses higher up her nose and stares at the screen. Then back at the printed statement in front of her. Then back at the screen.

No way.

Her fingers move quickly across the trackpad. Different quarter. Different subsidiary. Same anomaly.

A slow exhale leaves her mouth. It has been roughly three hours since Kitan forwarded the files and well past her bedtime. At first, she genuinely thought she was overthinking it. She blamed fatigue, her own unfamiliarity with Peters Holdings’ internal maze, or perhaps an overeager tendency to find patterns where none existed.

But the deeper she digs, the more calculated the pattern becomes.

The red flag first appeared when she stopped looking at the polished quarterly financial summaries and began cross-referencing the group’s consolidated Trial Balance directly against the raw Subsidiary Ledgers for Project Atlas.

That is where the holes started to show. A massive eight-figure disbursement for “initial site procurement” is listed as fully cleared on the main corporate balance sheet, but when she pulls up the actual bank reconciliation ledgers for that subsidiary, the corresponding cash outflow simply isn’t there.

The money leaves the parent company’s accounts, but it vanishes before hitting the project’s actual ledger. When she digs further into the previous quarter, she finds the exact same anomaly: large round-sum payments categorized as “vendor advances” that completely lack supporting journal entries or invoice matching.

Individually, every single transaction sits just beneath the threshold that would trigger an automated internal audit or flag an external reviewer. It is a brilliant camouflage because it’s easy to write these off as standard timing differences or backlogged paperwork waiting to be cleared by a lazy accountant.

But as she stacks the statements side by side, the gaps are too consistent, the omissions too clean. It isn’t a definitive proof of fraud yet, nor does she know where the money is actually landing, but the books are fundamentally failing to balance.

The scaffolding is completely out of alignment, and Enitan knows with absolute certainty that this isn’t a clerical error. Something is very wrong.

She leans back slowly in her chair, her eyes burning as another reconciliation refuses to balance.

A biting headache has started building behind her eyes. Absentmindedly, her right hand moves to her left wrist, her thumb finding her pulse point before sliding down to trace the small, raised scar just below it. It is a faint, puckered remnant from a childhood fall.

An unconscious habit that she only ever retreats to when her mind is spinning out of control. She traces the ridge of skin once, twice, pressing down until the dull ache matches the throb in her temples.

No matter how she turns the figures over in her head, the conclusion remains the same. Somebody is cooking these books.

Enitan closes the laptop halfway, staring down at the scattered papers across the table as the numbers replay relentlessly behind her eyes: Project Atlas, the land acquisition schedules, the subsidiary transfers, and those inflated consultancy disbursements that somehow kept circling back through intermediary accounts.

Her mind immediately goes to Uncle Kola. He gave his life for the integrity of this company. Then she thinks of Kitan and what this news will do to a family already balancing on emotionally shaky ground. His father’s surgery is only a week away. If this explodes now, it will tear them apart before the man even makes it to the operating theater.

She traces the scar on her wrist again, harder this time.

Maybe I should wait, she thinks. Maybe I need more confirmation first. More evidence. Because if I say something and I’m wrong—

But the thought cuts off instantly. She isn’t wrong. She knows beyond a doubt that she is right.

Enitan shuts the laptop fully. The sharp snap of the lid echoes too loudly in the apartment, swallowed immediately by the low, continuous hum of the refrigerator. For several seconds, she simply sits in the stillness, a cold unease settling at the base of her spine.

The terrifying part isn’t just the fraud; it’s that Kitan is sitting in that office trusting the people around him completely, entirely unaware that he is surrounded by a den of vipers.

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Her phone lights up suddenly, a bright flash between the scattered documents.

Kitan:

You alive?

Despite the tightness in her chest, a small, sad smile tugs briefly at her mouth. Before she can type, a second message follows. Why is he still awake?

Kitan:

Gosh. Please tell me I didn’t bury you under too much work. Haven’t heard from you since I sent the email and I know you. Ignore if you’re actually asleep and see this in the morning.

Enitan looks from the glowing screen to the closed laptop. The timing feels almost cruel. She understands with painful clarity that whatever she says next could permanently alter the trajectory of his life, his family, and the company.

Her fingers hover briefly above the glass before she finally types back.

Enitan:

Alive. Barely.

The three blinking dots appear immediately.

Kitan:

That bad?

Enitan looks back toward the closed laptop, her thumb rubbing against the scar on her wrist one last time as she makes her decision. She cannot dump this on him tonight. Not with his father’s life hanging in the balance next week.

Enitan:

It’s nothing I can’t handle, don’t worry.

Kitan:

Kai. Please take things easy. Also, food is not a suggestion. Please eat.

She stares at the message for another moment, letting the comfort from his protective instinct wash over her before locking the phone and placing it face-down on the table.

Drawing a slow, steadying breath, Enitan reaches out, lifts the laptop lid, and opens the spreadsheets back up. There is still a long way to go before morning.

ENITAN

The evening traffic from the island to the mainland is always a test of patience, but the moment Enitan steps into her mother’s sitting room, the stress of the drive evaporates.

Her mother, Mrs. Abiodun—a woman whose posture remains as straight and unyielding as it was during her thirty years as a secondary school teacher—is already coming out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel.

“Enitanoluwa,” her mother greets her, her face lighting up with a brilliant, wide smile. Only she uses the full, sacred extension of Enitan’s name, a lingering habit from the years when it was just the two of them against the world. “You are finally here. Come and sit down. Let me look at you.”

Enitan smiles, pulling her mother into a lingering embrace. “Good afternoon, Mummy.”

“God bless you, my daughter.” Mrs. Abiodun steps back, holding Enitan by the shoulders and scanning her face with an educator’s critical eye. She spots the faint shadows under her eyes instantly, her smile faltering into a frown as she reaches up to cup her cheek. “Look at these dark circles. Enitanoluwa, are you sleeping at all? You cannot kill yourself because of work, o.”

“I’m fine, Mummy, just a lot on my plate this week,” Enitan says, letting out an affectionate groan as she kicks off her flats.

Her mother sighs, dropping her hands but keeping her eyes fixed on her. “Abi is it the stress of everything happening with Chief Peters? I have been lifting that man up in my prayers every single night since you told me about the operation. May God do what only he can do.”

“Amen, Mummy.”

“I just keep praying for his full recovery,” Mrs. Abiodun says, her gaze turning reflective as she turns back toward the kitchen. “Every day, I bless God for what your life has become because of his kindness. It’s only my God that can help me repay him. He and his beautiful wife. Such a lovely woman. Do you know that she still sends me foodstuff every Christmas? Bags of rice, oil, yam. My store is always full because she insists on this act of kindness even when I assure her that I am okay. Such a wonderful family. They don’t deserve this at all.”

“I know, Mummy. I know,” Enitan says softly, following her into the kitchen. She watches as her mother begins dishing out a generous portion of pounded yam and rich, steaming Efo riro into a ceramic bowl.

“So how is retirement treating you this week? Hope you aren’t overworking yourself at the church?”

Mrs. Abiodun scoffs, though there is a twinkle in her eye. “Overwork? In the Lord’s vineyard? Please. We are organizing the annual women’s convention, and these younger women don’t know how to schedule anything. If I don’t supervise the catering committee, people will eat stone-filled rice. You should even see the aso-ebi fabric we selected for the uniform. The material is one in town. I will show it to you later.”

Enitan laughs. “Mummy, please don’t let the catering committee hear you. And don’t worry about the uniform, just let me know how much it costs so I can transfer the money to you. Do you need anything else for the convention? Any way I can help?”

“Ah, please save your money. I’m okay,” her mother replies, waving a dismissive but deeply touched hand. “I don’t need a single thing. You have already done more than enough for me in this house. I am very, very content.”

“I’m happy to hear that,” Enitan says, a genuine sense of pride swelling in her chest. It had taken years of grueling work, but being able to comfortably maintain this house and ensure her mother never has to count pennies again or want for anything is her greatest achievement.

“But you,” her mother says, shifting her gaze back to Enitan as she hands over the tray of food. “You are the one who looks like you are carrying the problems of the whole world on your back. Only God knows if they tied you to that your office. You better slow down.”

“I’m trying my best,” Enitan mutters evasively, carrying the tray to the small dining table.

Her mother sits across from her, resting her chin on her hands. The soft expression on her face shifts, sharpening into a look that Enitan knows all too well. It is the tactical pivot every Nigerian mother makes when they are about to strike.

“Speaking of slowing down, during my conversation with Mrs Peters last week she was with your best friend,” Mrs. Abiodun begins, her tone suspiciously too casual. “Oyindamola is carrying this pregnancy thing so well. I don’t know why you are not letting her influence rub off on you. Ordinary boyfriend sef, I never see.”

Enitan stops her spoon mid-air. She closes her eyes for a brief second. “Mummy, please abeg, don’t start.”

“Start what? Abi am I lying?” her mother asks, her voice rising in defensive amusement. “You turn 30 next year and I am not even trying to pressure you. You know how marriage was for me so I am the last one to talk. I am just concerned because you do not even seem interested. You are beautiful, intelligent and you are doing very well for yourself so what exactly is the issue? Do you not have any plans of settling down?”

“Mummy please, I am focusing on my life. When the time comes, it will happen.”

“’When the time comes, when the time comes,” her mother mimics gently, shaking her head. “You lock yourself in that apartment with your laptop. Is the husband supposed to land on your doorstep? Or do you people think he will just fall from ceiling, Gboa. You have to try to socialize more. Asides Oyinda and that your office, what else do you do in your free time? What am I even saying, you don’t have free time”

Enitan chuckles softly. “Haba”

“I’m not saying rush,” her mother adds, her voice softening. “I just want you to be happy.”

“But I’m happy, Mummy. Very happy. So don’t worry.”

“Okay o. I have heard you” her mother sighs, placing a gentle hand on the table. “I know you are happy but you can be happier. Anyway, how is Olakitan? I hear he is helping out at his father’s company. His mother says you people are the same. Work, work, work”

“He’s fine.”

Her mother launches into another line of conversation but Enitan is barely listening. She looks down at her food, her appetite suddenly wavering. The mention of Kitan pulls her right back to the spreadsheets from the previous night, the missing eight-figure disbursements, and the terrifying financial quicksand Peters Holdings is currently standing on.

She sets her spoon down, her hand instinctively moving to her left wrist. Her thumb finds the small, uneven childhood scar, pressing into the ridged skin.

“Mummy, I have a question to ask you.”

Mrs. Abiodun pauses, her maternal radar instantly picking up on the sudden drop in her daughter’s energy. “Ah. Hope nothing? What is happening?”

Enitan hesitates, tracing the scar once more before resting her hands flat on the table. “Hypothetically... what if you have information that you know will hurt the people you care about? Deeply. Like, it could completely upend their life and their family, especially at a time when they are already going through a crisis. Would you still share it?”

Her mother stares at her, the playful chatter completely fading from her eyes.

“Is this about work, Enitan?” her mother asks.

“I can’t really give details. Just... think of it as a dilemma. If the truth will cause immense pain and chaos, is it better to hold onto it or protect them by keeping quiet?”

Mrs. Abiodun leans forward, her voice dropping into a low, grounded register that commands absolute attention.

“Look at me,” her mother commands gently. Enitan meets her eyes. “When your father left us, he didn’t just walk away. He tried to secretively clear out the small savings account I had built for your school fees. A woman at the bank bank-branch, a distant cousin of his, saw what he was doing. She knew that if she told me, it would destroy whatever little dignity was left in my marriage. It would cause a massive, ugly storm.”

Her mother pauses, a faint, distant shadow passing over her face before her gaze hardens with clarity.

“But she told me anyway. And because she told me, I was able to stop him before we became entirely destitute. Enitan, a painful truth is a shield. A beautiful lie is just a blanket that hides the fire until the whole house burns down over your head.”

Mrs. Abiodun reaches across the table, covering Enitan’s hand with her own warm, calloused palm.

“If this information is something that can protect the people you love from a danger they cannot see, then keeping it from them is not protection, it is a betrayal. You are robbing them of their right to fight back. Whatever it is, if it is the truth, you must speak it. Let the storm come. It is better to face a storm together than to let them be crushed by a collapsing roof while they are sleeping. The truth is bitter but it is the bitter pills that bring the most healing.”

The words hit Enitan with the force of a physical blow. The suffocating pressure of her hesitation suddenly begins to clear. Her mother somehow always knows the right thing to say.

“Thank you, Mummy,” she whispers.

Mrs. Abiodun squeezes her hand tightly, her eyes filled with a fierce, protective love. “My baby girl. You are my greatest joy and I raised you to be a woman of integrity. Whatever it is that is eating you up like this, I trust that you will make the right choice.”

Enitan nods, looking down at the bowl of soup in front of her. For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, the fog in her mind is completely gone. She knows exactly what she has to do. As soon as she leaves the mainland, she is going to call Kitan, and she is going to tell him everything.

Author’s Note: Fire on the mountain 🤧🤧 What do you think Kitan’s reaction would be?

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Catch up: Chapter one, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine (1), and Chapter Nine (2).

See you next week Monday.🫶🏽

The distinction is easy to miss because technology has collapsed the distance between the private and the public with such breathtaking efficiency that it now feels almost unnatural to keep anything to ourselves.

A disagreement with a spouse becomes a thread before the argument has ended. A medical diagnosis arrives hand in hand with an Instagram carousel. Friendships dissolve in real time before an audience that neither knows the people involved nor possesses enough context to judge them fairly.

We have become chronic narrators of lives we have scarcely had the opportunity to live.

It wasn’t always like this.

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We are drowning in a sea of unnecessary revelation. In an era that rightfully celebrates self-expression and individual liberation, we have unwittingly traded away one of humanity’s most vital sanctuaries: privacy. We are talking too much, oversharing more than is needed, and broadcasting the intimate parts of our lives to a crowd of strangers who were never meant to see them.

Freedom was supposed to unburden us, but its unforeseen tax has been the total erasure of healthy shame and with it, the much needed dignity of discretion.

We rightly challenged generations of silence that demanded people hide abuse, mental illness, infertility, addiction and other deeply human experiences behind respectability. That cultural shift was necessary. Countless people found language for their suffering because someone else was brave enough to speak first.

Yet, every correction carries within it the possibility of over-correction, and ours has been to assume that because shame is unhealthy, discretion must also be in turn, unhealthy.

But these two things are not one and the same.

Discretion has little to do with embarrassment and everything to do with discernment. It is not asking, “Can this be said?” but rather What becomes of it once it is?

The answer matters because speech has always possessed an uncanny penchant for irreversibility.

We treat the internet like a fleeting conversation in a crowded room, forgetting that every tap of the publish button leaves an indelible digital footprint. What feels cathartic to share at twenty-five becomes an immovable anchor at thirty-five.

People might forget the thing you said but one day, when it somehow manages to matter again, they will remember.

We are all inadvertently writing a version of an auto biography, one upload at a time.

This is perhaps the question we should ask ourselves more often: What do I actually want the world to know about me, and why do I need them to know it?

Every day, the internet is flooded with confessions, heartbreaks, and internal dilemmas spilled across screen feeds for the high-friction currency of cheap clout. We perform our most vulnerable moments for an audience that is, by design, largely indifferent. It is a harsh truth to confront, but it is necessary to know.

People simply do not care about your life as deeply as the algorithm leads you to believe. To the casual scroller, your rawest trauma or deepest relationship dynamic is merely “gist” at best and a passing trend at worst.

Everyone is already encumbered by their own personal battles and private anxieties. The illusion that a million strangers are holding space for your confession is just that—an illusion.

Most people are not thinking about us nearly as much as we imagine. They encounter our confessions while waiting for a train, lying awake at two in the morning, avoiding work or absent-mindedly scrolling through a lunch break.

Our deepest vulnerabilities occupy the same screen as holiday photographs, recipes and football highlights. By tomorrow, another stranger’s heartbreak will have replaced ours.

Before you offer your private life up for public consumption, test it in more personal spaces first. Say it to yourself. Drop it in your private group chat with the people who actually know your character, your history, and your heart.

Build a sanctuary with a few trusted souls who will hold your burdens with the sanctity that it deserves.

The internet is not a safe space, nor was it ever designed to be one.

There is an important difference between the friend who sits beside you in silence after devastating news and the stranger who leaves a heart emoji beneath your post before moving on to the next one.

The internet has convinced us that these gestures belong to the same emotional universe. They do not.

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Perhaps this explains why public vulnerability can leave people feeling unexpectedly lonely. Exposure creates visibility but visibility is a poor substitute for intimacy. To be deeply known has never required thousands of observers. It requires a handful of people who remember your stories without needing to be reminded of them.

The impulse to tell everyone everything often disguises a far older human longing: to be understood. Yet understanding has always demanded conditions that public platforms cannot reliably provide. It requires patience, context, affection and trust—all qualities cultivated over time and almost impossible to mass-produce.

An audience may validate you, argue with you or applaud you, but it cannot shoulder the obligations that accompany genuine friendship.

Perhaps we have forgotten that intimacy has an economy of its own. It is built on earned access. Information has become so abundant that we rarely stop to ask whether familiarity is the same thing as closeness.

There are people who know your birthday, your political opinions and the chronology of your last relationship yet would struggle to know the core complexity of who you really are. That is a peculiar kind of knowing.

The older I grow, the more convinced I become that a well-kept private life is not evidence of fear but of freedom. It allows certain relationships to exist outside the relentless pressure of performance. It grants mistakes the dignity of remaining temporary. It gives ideas room to mature before they are handed over to the tribunal of public opinion.

Above all, it preserves the possibility that some parts of a life can remain sacred simply because they belong to the people living them.

So before pressing ‘post’, perhaps the most worthwhile question is not whether something is authentic or whether it will resonate, but whether the internet is, in fact, the place where this particular piece of your life ought to reside.

Every story asks something of its listener, and not every listener has earned the right to receive it.

I hope with all of this, I have been able to convince and not confuse you to bring back secrets.

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All my love,

Oreva.

By the time Kachi arrives at the hotel ballroom, Kitan is already adjusting the collar of his tuxedo for what feels like the twentieth time.

“Ahn ahn. Sharp Guy. You look terrific,” Kachi says by way of greeting, stepping up beside him with a grin.

Kitan exhales, letting his hands drop to his sides. “We have my mother to thank for that. Even though the designer of this bow tie clearly thinks breathing is an optional human function.”

Kachi laughs, adjusting the cufflinks on his own dark suit as they move further into the venue. “Well, the fuss was worth it. The place looks amazing. Your mum really pulled this off.”

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Kitan looks around, and a genuine sense of pride takes over the irritation of the tight collar. Muted amber lighting bathes the venue, casting an elegant haze over the guests. Round tables dressed in ivory linen fill the space beneath cascading floral arrangements and suspended lantern installations glowing faintly overhead. Along one wall, framed photographs document fifteen years of The Lantern Initiative.

Young girls in graduation gowns. Vocational trainees. University scholarship recipients. Smiling faces frozen across different years. Different lives.

At the centre of it all hangs a simple line in gold lettering: Fifteen Years of Lighting the Way Forward.

“She worked herself into the ground for this,” Kitan says softly, his eyes tracking across the display. “She won’t admit it, but this milestone means everything to her.”

“And to the family business too apparently,” Kachi notes, scanning the crowd. “I see the Peters Holdings board members are already hovering near the bar. How are you handling them at the office?”

Kitan groans lightly. “Don’t remind me. Learning the ropes from my dad’s old school directors is a completely different kind of stress. In the ER, if there’s a crisis, you take quick action. In a corporation, if there’s a crisis, you hold three separate meetings to discuss the wording of an email. It’s entirely out of my comfort zone.”

“Welcome to the real world, Doctor,” Kachi teases, nudging his shoulder. “At least you’re actually talking to your team now. The last time we had lunch, you looked like you wanted to catch the next flight back to London.”

“It’s getting better,” Kitan admits, slipping his hands into his pockets. “We’ve been making progress on the new project tracking system. But enough about my work situation. How are things with the firm? Did you finally wrap up those chaotic hearings in Abuja?”

Kachi rolls his eyes, though a proud smile touches his mouth. “Man, the arbitration panel finally adjourned on Tuesday. We submitted the final briefs, so the oil company is officially off my neck for now. The senior partners are already talking about the Q3 review, so the partnership track is looking very real.”

“Look at you,” Kitan murmurs, laughing under his breath.

Over the past few weeks, this has become strangely normal again. The calls. The random check-ins. Kachi randomly showing up at Peters Holdings with takeaway containers because, according to him, “Gist is always sweetest when food is involved.” Easy conversation has slipped naturally back into place, like the years in between never fully happened.

“I had to hustle to get back to Lagos just for this event,” Kachi says, looking around the venue. “I couldn’t miss your mum’s big night.”

“I’m glad you’re here, bro,” Kitan murmurs.

As Kachi starts to reply, Kitan’s attention suddenly snaps away. His sentence cuts off mid-breath. His eyes lock onto the main entrance of the ballroom, tracking a single figure moving through the doors.

Everything else in the room instantly fades into the background. His gaze is intense, completely fixed, his posture straightening unconsciously as he watches her.

Kachi stops talking. He looks at Kitan, then follows the exact line of his friend’s sightline across the room. A slow, knowing smirk spreads across Kachi’s face.

“Guy,” Kachi says, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. “Is that not your sister’s best friend? What’s that her name again?”

Kitan doesn’t even blink. “Enitan.”

“Ahn-ahn. See the way you called the name,” Kachi teases, chuckling softly. “You should have seen your face just now when she walked in. You were literally burning a hole through the side of her head.”

Kitan tears his eyes away, frowning defensively at his friend. “What are you talking about? I am just observing. She’s practically family, the babe is like a sister to me.”

“Hmm,” Kachi hums gently. “No be small observing. Whatever helps you sleep at night but the eyes don’t lie, bro.”

Kitan ignores him, mostly because Enitan has spotted them and is already navigating her way through the crowd.

Tonight, she looks entirely different from the stressed professional he saw earlier in the week. She is wearing a simple, elegant black dress that draws attention without exaggeratedly asking for it.

Her sleek hair falls softly around her shoulders, and gold earrings catch the light whenever she turns her head. She moves through the room with a natural, grounded confidence, greeting a few foundation volunteers before reaching their corner.

“Wow,” Enitan says, a brilliant smile breaking across her face as she stops in front of them. “Look at you. You actually clean up well.”

Kitan feigns offense, though his heart does a slight, familiar flip. “Actually?”

“I believe in managing expectations,” she retorts, her eyes sparkling with mischief. She turns to Kachi, her expression softening into surprise. “Kachi Madu! Oh my god, I haven’t seen you in years.”

“Enitan of life,” Kachi says warmly, stepping forward to give her a brief, friendly hug. “The last time I saw you, you and Oyinda were practically attached at the hip.”

“And we still are,” a new voice chimes in.

Oyinda walks up to the group looking radiant in an A-line emerald velvet midi dress that loosely brushes past her frame, her hands holding a small, metallic clutch. Kamil follows closely behind her, looking sharp in his Black tux, offering Kachi a firm handshake and Kitan a supportive nod.

“We just finished greeting the board members,” Kamil says, standing beside his wife. “The turnout tonight is incredible, Kitan. Your mum outdid herself.”

“She really did,” Kitan agrees, but his eyes automatically drift past Kamil’s shoulder.

Across the room, a tall, impeccably tailored man in a bespoke navy suit has just walked into the ballroom. Enitan’s posture shifts instantly as she recognizes him immediately and takes a half-step forward.

Kitan watches as the man glides into the room with an air of effortless authority. Before Kitan can even process the sudden, hot spike of irritation tightening in his jaw, Oyinda leans closer to him, her eyes following his gaze.

“Ah,” Oyinda says right on time, nodding toward the entrance. “Enitan’s boss is here. Odion.”

Kitan’s brows knit together. His eyes trail the man’s movements with an intense, unreadable scrutiny. “That’s Odion?”

“Yes,” Oyinda replies, entirely unaware of the sudden stiffness in her brother’s shoulders. “He’s apparently part of the team that manages the foundation’s financials.”

Kitan watches as Odion spots Enitan and begins walking toward her with a warm, exclusive smile. A strange, sharp wave of jealousy hits Kitan right in the chest. It is a feeling that he doesn’t understand and can’t completely justify. Why is he looking at her like that?

Before he can dwell on it any further, Mrs. Peters appears beside their group, looking elegant in gold-colored silk. The exhaustion of the past few weeks is completely gone from her face, replaced by a vibrant, triumphant energy.

“There you all are,” Mrs. Peters says, her voice carrying its usual commanding warmth. She smiles beautifully at Kamil and Kachi, giving Kachi a brief touch on the arm. “Kachi, it is so good to see you. Kamil, thank you for making sure Oyinda arrived safely.”

“Of course, Ma,” Kamil says respectfully.

Then, Mrs. Peters turns her gaze directly onto Kitan. The soft expression vanishes, replaced by her standard operational efficiency. “Kitan. Have you greeted the managing directors from Zenith properly?”

Kitan sighs, the weight of family duty crashing right back over him. “Not yet. I will find them later”

“Later bawo? No o. You should go now,” she says, pointing a manicured finger toward the far side of the VIP tables. “They are major sponsors for the vocational program. Go and introduce yourself as the new executive director. Now. The opening remarks are about to start.”

Kitan looks at his sister for help, but Oyinda just offers a sympathetic, suppressed giggle.

“Yes, Ma,” Kitan mutters, completely defeated.

As he starts reluctantly toward the far side of the ballroom to face the corporate executives, Kachi leans in close toward Oyinda, watching his departure.

“He still can’t say no to her,” Kachi whispers.

Oyinda watches Kitan’s retreating form with a fond, knowing smile. “Yup. He’s not as hard as he likes to think.”

“Good to know nothing has changed,” Kachi chuckles.

ENITAN

The tuxedo should not look this good on him.

That is the first thought that enters Enitan’s head when she spots Kitan across the ballroom again. Honestly, it feels deeply unfair. She distinctly remembers standing inside that showroom just days ago while he complained through three separate fittings, accusing both her and Mrs. Peters of conspiring against him.

Now, he moves through the crowd looking like the exact sort of man expensive suits are designed for. Tall, sharp-shouldered with the dark fabric fitted perfectly against his frame. Even the bow tie she insisted on changing sits neatly against his throat.

She blinks once, pulling her gaze away quickly before her thoughts become embarrassing.

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Beside her, Oyinda chirps excitedly. “Omo. See my brother.”

Enitan takes a measured sip of her drink, trying to look entirely detached. “Hm.”

“All these babes here are in trouble,” Oyinda murmurs with a low chuckle.

The comment almost makes Enitan choke on her mocktail. “Oyinda, please.”

“What? You people finished work. See how delicious he’s looking. I’m sure my mother is the happiest. She is hoping he finds a wife in Nigeria.”

Enitan laughs softly, shaking her head, but her eyes drift back toward Kitan anyway. It is an unfortunate habit tonight, because even while Odion stands beside her, talking through some revised metrics for the upcoming portfolio reviews, she remains hyper-aware of Kitan’s position across the room.

He is listening to one of the foundation’s platinum sponsors speak, nodding politely, entirely oblivious to the magnetic pull he is exerting on her attention.

“Enitan,” Odion says, his voice pulling her back to the immediate circle.

She snaps her focus back to her team lead. “Sorry?”

“I said you must be very proud,” Odion repeats, offering a warm smile. “The way Mrs. Peters speaks about you... you can tell she holds you in really high regard.”

Before she can answer, a chime sounds over the speakers, and the overhead chandeliers begin to dim gradually across the ballroom.

“That’s my cue to go and sit down,” Odion says smoothly, gesturing toward the corporate VIP tables near the front left of the stage. “I’ll see you after the presentations.”

“Alright. Enjoy the event,” she replies, watching him walk away before she turns to join the family table.

By the time the guests find their respective seats, the surrounding noise fades, drawing the room’s collective focus toward the stage. Enitan settles into her chair at the main family table, flanked by Oyinda and Kamil, while Kitan slips into the empty seat directly opposite her.

A collective wave of applause sweeps across the room as Mrs. Peters rises and makes her way toward the stage. Behind her, the projector screen flickers to life, casting a montage of photographs over the room.

Images of young women clutching vocational certificates. University graduates in their academic gowns. A much younger Mrs. Peters standing beneath a weathered classroom chalkboard, smiling fiercely alongside teenagers in oversized secondary school uniforms.

Mrs. Peters adjusts the microphone, her presence commanding the room effortlessly. “When I first retired from teaching,” she begins, her voice carrying beautifully over the speakers, “I told my husband I was finally going to rest.”

A ripple of knowing laughter passes through the tables.

“It turns out God had entirely different plans.” She pauses, her expression softening. “I spent over thirty years in the classroom. I taught children who were brilliant, children who were stubborn...” Her gaze shifts deliberately toward the family table, landing right on her son. “...and a few who were fiercely determined to shorten my lifespan.”

More laughter erupts across the ballroom. Across the table, Kitan just shakes his head, a helpless, affectionate grin breaking across his face.

Mrs. Peters waits for the amusement to die down, her posture straightening as she continues. “But one thing I noticed very early in my career was how easily the harsh realities of life can interrupt a child’s potential. We see it every day in this city. A brilliant mind is forced out of the classroom simply because an exam registration fee is missing. A young girl looks at the big gates of a university and assumes that kind of future belongs only to other people because her reality demands she hawks on the streets just to keep her siblings fed. Potential is everywhere, but opportunity is a luxury.”

The room hushes almost completely as people nod in agreement, captivated by the honesty of her words.

“And sometimes,” Mrs. Peters continues, her voice steady but thick with emotion, “all somebody truly needs to survive their hopeless circumstance is just one person. One person willing to stand in the gap long enough for them to find their footing.”

Without warning, a passing wave of emotion hits Enitan directly in the chest.

She looks down at her lap, her throat tightening as her mind instantly drags her back to the past. She thinks of her mother sitting under the dim glow of a rechargeable lamp late into the night, correcting endless piles of secondary school scripts because extra marking meant a few extra naira for groceries. She remembers the suffocating humiliation of pretending not to hear the headmistress calling out names when school fees were overdue.

Her mother had fought a brutal, lonely war to keep their lives moving after her father walked out. And then, the Peters family had stepped into the vacuum. They hadn’t just offered financial help, they had folded her into their lives so effortlessly that the line between their family and hers completely dissolved.

And over time, she simply forgot she hadn’t always belonged there. She hadn’t just found a best friend in Oyinda. Looking across the table, she realized she was surrounded by the people who had given her life its truest sense of stability.

Mrs. Peters smiles softly from the podium. “When we started The Lantern Initiative, we only had two students. Two.” She lets out a brief laugh. “We had no formal structure. We had zero sustainable funding. There were years where I sat in my living room completely unsure of how we would survive the next quarter. But we kept going.”

The room breaks into a spontaneous round of applause.

“And during every difficult year, every fundraising struggle, every single moment I questioned whether any of this was making a big enough difference...” Her smile becomes wistful as her eyes subconsciously scan the front row. “...my husband would look at me and say, “Abisola, changing one life at a time is still changing the world.’”

A cold wave of reality cuts through the warmth of the room. Because Uncle Kola should have been seated right there in the front row tonight. He should have been the one clapping the loudest, watching his wife shine. Instead, he is lying behind the sterile glass of a hospital suite while everyone who loves him moves through the evening pretending not to fear the unspoken reality of his diagnosis.

Enitan swallows hard, fighting back the sting in her eyes. She lifts her gaze, and across the table, she catches Kitan watching his mother. The usual guarded, emotionally evasive look is completely gone from his face. His expression is filled with a profound, unshielded pride that catches her flat-footed.

Mrs. Peters takes a slow, grounding breath. “Tonight marks fifteen years. And by God’s grace, we have now supported over three hundred young Nigerians through secondary school, university, and vocational training.”

This time, the applause rises like a wave, deafening and prolonged. Near the front tables, a young woman (clearly one of the past beneficiaries) is crying openly, wiping her face with a napkin.

“There is no success in this room that exists without the generous support of our beneficiaries,” Mrs. Peters says, her final words dropping into the stillness as the applause tapers. “At every point in time, someone carried us somewhere along the way. A parent. A teacher. A friend. A stranger who simply chose kindness.”

Emotion presses heavily against the back of Enitan’s throat because she knows exactly what it means to be carried.

Across the table, Kitan finally tears his eyes away from the stage. As the final, thunderous round of applause erupts and Mrs. Peters steps away from the microphone, his eyes land directly on Enitan.

Their gazes lock in a frozen dance. It is a brief, suspended second where everything they are both holding back – the fear for his father, the gratitude for the family, the strange new static between them – seems to hang in the air.

Then, Kitan looks down, his fingers tapping against his phone.

A second later, Enitan’s phone vibrates against the wood of the table. She blinks, breaking the spell, and slides the device into her palm.

Kitan:

My mother was right about not needing to worry about your outfit. You look exceptional.

A sudden, intense warmth flushes rapidly across her cheeks. She stares at the screen for a few seconds, a helpless smile tugging at her mouth. She looks up, catching him watching her with a tiny, relaxed tilt to his lips, waiting for her response.

Her thumbs fly across the glass.

Enitan:

Focus, big head.

Not long later she adds, “Thanks, Kit Kat. We made the right choice with your tux. You look great.”

Kitan reads the text, and Enitan watches as he lets out a breathless laugh, tucking his phone back into his jacket pocket. The emotional resonance of the speech is replaced instantly by the comfortable camaraderie that always holds them together.

Author’s Note: Do we think this is just camaraderie, or is there something more? 🙃

Catch up: Chapter one, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, and Chapter Nine (1).

See you next week Monday.🫶🏽

By half past six, the frenzied energy of the standard workday has completely evaporated. One by one, the fluorescent panels overhead blink out as people log off. The junior analysts cleared out twenty minutes ago, rushing to beat the worst of the evening traffic, and the audit team abandoned their corner shortly after.

Even the cleaning crew has started making slow, methodical laps around the perimeter of the building, the faint rustle of trash bags echoing in the background.

Enitan is still staring at the exact same spreadsheet.

A familiar, dull ache has settled firmly between her eyes, and her laptop screen glows back at her like an accusation. Three browser tabs remain open: two conflicting valuation reports and an email from one high-net-worth client who clearly views project deadlines as a suggestion.

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Her phone vibrates against the desk. She ignores it, tracking a row of formula errors. A minute later, it vibrates again.

This time she glances down, her eyes catching the name on the lock screen. A soft smile touches her lips before she can think to stop it.

Kitan:

What time do you people actually close?

She frowns slightly, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Enitan:

I don’t get. We as how?

Kitan:

What time do you close from work?

Enitan:

Why?

The response arrives almost before she can lock the device.

Kitan:

Because I have been downstairs for thirty minutes and literally everybody else appears interested in going home except you.

Enitan sits up straight, her chair creaking in the quiet office.

Enitan:

Downstairs where?

Kitan:

Where else? Your office.

She stares blankly at the screen. She types out a response, deletes it, and types again.

Enitan:

I have so many questions. Why are you here? Why didn’t you call to tell me you had gotten here?

Kitan:

One, I promised you dinner. And for your other questions, I didn’t want to disturb you in case you were busy.

She shakes her head, a helpless grin taking over her face.

Enitan:

Give me five minutes.

Kitan:

I’ve already given you thirty.

Enitan:

Five more, please.

Kitan:

Fine. You’re lucky I’m in a good mood.

Enitan:

Or what? Lmao. Anyway, thank you.

Kitan:

Don’t thank me yet. Just do fast and come.

***********

Ten minutes later, Enitan is strutting through the semi-empty building lobby. Only the security desk remains occupied, the guard offering a familiar nod as she walks past.

She spots Kitan almost immediately. His car is parked beneath the bright glow of one of the overhead compound lights.

He is leaning against the driver’s door, looking down at his phone. Sleeves rolled up. Tie gone. The top button of his shirt undone. For a man who had spent most of the afternoon being tortured by tuxedo fittings, he looked surprisingly relaxed.

He looks up as she approaches. “There she is.”

“Sorry for keeping you waiting,” she says.

“It’s fine. A promise is a promise.” He stretches over to open the passenger door for her.

Only after she settles into the cool leather seat does she notice the brown takeaway bags resting in the back. “Wait. You actually bought food?”

His hand flies dramatically to his chest. “What do you take me for? Considering the day you’ve most likely had, I figured this was a better choice than dragging you to sit at a restaurant.” He reaches back and passes one of the containers over.

The rich, savory aroma of an assortment of grilled proteins and spices is enough to make her stomach betray her with a loud rumble. It is slightly embarrassing, mostly because she suddenly realizes she hasn’t had a proper meal since noon.

Kitan frowns, turning his head to look directly at her. “When last did you eat, madam?”

She carefully pops the lid of the container. “I don’t think you will like the answer that question, boss”

“Is your health a joke to you? One of these days, you will actually pass out.”

Enitan just laughs, too happy about the food to argue.

“So, you have two options,” Kitan says, turning the key in the ignition. “Option one: we sit here in the parking lot, eat, and gist, after which you drive home. Option two: I drive behind you to your place, hand over the food, and let you change into something comfortable so you can eat in peace.”

Enitan doesn’t even hesitate. “Option two. Definitely option two. I need to get out of these clothes. Plus, these shoes,” she points down at the stilettos on her feet, “are killing me.”

“I thought babes always carry slippers in their bags to change into?”

“I have slippers in my car, to be fair. But I try not to ever need them.”

“Mama the mama,” he hails her, a grin breaking across his face.

As she reaches for the door handle, Kitan stops her. “Wait. Where are you parked?”

“Just over by the annex side,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the darker edge of the compound. “It’s not that far.”

Kitan shifts the car into gear. “Slide back in. I’ll drive you to your car.”

“Kitan, it’s literally a two-minute walk,” she says, laughing.

“And you are not stressing yourself on my watch. Sit down, abeg.”

She pulls the door shut with an amused roll of her eyes as he navigates the short distance across the lot. He pulls up right alongside her sedan, his headlights illuminating her driver’s side.

Enitan pops her door open and steps out, but before she makes a move toward her own car, she turns back and leans against his open window with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Or should we race to the house? Last person to get there is a goat.”

Kitan looks at her, his expression instantly shifting into comical mortification. “Do you have a death wish? Because if you do, you can confide in me o. You want us to race where? On Lagos roads? At night?” He shakes his head, completely baffled. “No sense of self-preservation at all. Is this how you casually play with your life?”

Enitan bursts out laughing. “Oya, no vex. I’ll see you at the house.”

“Drive safely,” he grumbles, though a small smile threatens the corner of his lips.

He doesn’t put his car in drive or move an inch. He just waits, keeping his headlights trained on her until she unlocks her door, settles inside, and starts her ignition. Only when her taillights flare to life does he shift into gear to follow her out of the gate.

*********

Twenty-five minutes later, Kitan pulls up right behind her car in the driveway of her apartment block. He kills his engine, grabs the food bags, and meets her at the entrance.

As she unlocks the front door, the stress of the day finally settles into her limbs. She turns around to take the containers from him, but as he hands them over, he clears his throat lightly.

“Thank you, Eni,” he says softly.

She looks up, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. “For what?”

“For today. I really don’t want to imagine what it would have been like if you didn’t show up to rescue me.”

Enitan lets out a soft laugh. “Anytime, Kit Kat. But I’m sure you would have survived.”

What she doesn’t say is that she would have dropped everything to come, even if he hadn’t begged.

She looks at the brown bags in her hand, then at him standing under the porch light, looking equally exhausted. It feels wrong to just send him back empty-handed.

“You know... there’s too much food here for one person anyway. And I’m almost sure you haven’t eaten either. Come in, let’s just eat it together.”

Kitan hesitates for a fraction of a second before a grateful smile touches his face. “Yeah? Alright. Thanks.”

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

While Kitan sets the food on the dining table, Enitan disappears into her bedroom to change. When she returns, she has switched into an oversized vintage t-shirt and sweatpants. Her bone straight wig is off, leaving her hair in neat, simple cornrows, her face completely wiped clean of makeup.

They eat straight out of the containers, a random sitcom playing softly in the background that neither of them is actually watching. They talk about everything and nothing, slipping back into the effortless sync they’ve shared for years.

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Eventually, Kitan pushes his container aside and checks his watch. He lets out a slow breath and stands up. “Let me not keep you up any longer. You’ve had a crazy long day.”

Enitan rises with him, walking him toward the front door. “Yeah. Tomorrow is going to be another battle with the Greenfield board.”

“You’ll crush it,” he says, turning around at the threshold.

They stand in the small entryway, the space suddenly feeling a little smaller than it did a moment ago.

Kitan looks down at her, taking in the soft line of her jaw and the casual, undone look of her hair in the dim porch light. Enitan catches him watching her, her breath hitching slightly as the easy banter evaporates, leaving a strange, charged static between them.

Kitan clears his throat, breaking the spell, though his eyes linger for a beat longer. “Goodnight, Eni.”

“Goodnight, Kit,” she murmurs, offering a soft smile. “Drive safely.”

He nods and steps out, and she closes the door, leaning her back against the wood for a few seconds, wondering why her heart is suddenly beating a little faster.

She is in the kitchen rinsing out the dining plates when her phone buzzes on the counter. She picks it up.

Kitan:

Check your front door.

Enitan frowns in confusion. She walks back to the entrance, turns the lock, and pulls the door open.

Sitting right on her welcome mat is a brown cardboard box, topped with a smaller, distinctively deep purple carton.

She gasps, recognizing the Ribena packaging instantly as she drops to her knees to inspect it. Inside the box is a bulk pack of the classic, old-school Cheeseballs, the exact ones from secondary school that had long been replaced by the newer ones in circulation.

A massive, breathless laugh escapes her. She grabs the stash, locks the door, and rapidly begins typing a text before realizing he’s probably driving. Abandoning the message, she hits his name and presses the phone to her ear.

Kitan answers on the first ring.

“You actually found them!” Enitan squeals, her voice full of pure, unadulterated glee as she cradles the Cheeseballs in her arm. “Oh my gosh, where did you even find the old ones? I can’t believe this!”

Even without seeing him, she can practically hear the triumphant grin stretching across his face over the line.

“I told you,” Kitan says, his deep voice laced with amusement. “A promise is a promise. I had to pull a few favors at a wholesale store in Surulere.”

“You are actually insane,” she laughs.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says softly. “Now, go to bed, please. You’ve had a long day.”

“Thank you, Kit Kat. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

The line goes dead, and Enitan stands in her living room, looking down at the red and yellow packaging with a smile that she knows isn’t going to fade anytime soon.

Author’s Note: What was your favourite part from this chapter? It was so sweet to write.🥹

Leave a comment

Catch up: Chapter one, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, and Chapter Eight.

See you next week Monday.🫶🏽

By half past eleven on the following Wednesday, the entire Transaction Advisory floor is running on pure adrenaline, but Enitan barely registers the pandemonium.

She is seated cross-legged in one of the smaller war rooms with her laptop open, two competing valuation reports spread across the table, and her glasses slipping gradually down the bridge of her nose the longer she stares at the spreadsheets. A half-empty cup of coffee sits cold and forgotten beside her elbow.

“Please tell me you’re not still reviewing Greenfield.”

Odion’s voice drifts into the room a second before he does. Enitan glances up, adjusting her frames. He walks in balancing his laptop beneath one arm, his shirt sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms and his tie missing entirely, despite the fact that it is barely noon yet.

She tracks the open collar of his shirt for a fraction of a second before an amused smile touches her lips. “At this point, why do you even bother wearing a tie to the office?”

Odion pauses, looking down at his unbuttoned collar before looking back at her, his eyes glinting with mischief. “Because some of us have to look like responsible executives at the start of day. Besides, I think the undone look works for me. Don’t you?”

Enitan scoffs playfully, rolling her eyes as she taps her pen against the laptop trackpad. “On the contrary, it looks like a severe case of mid-morning burnout, Odion.”

“Ouch,” he laughs, dropping into the mesh chair opposite her and scanning the financial models scattered across the table. “Anyway, back to Greenfield. What are your favourite clients saying now?”

“They changed their assumptions yet again.” she says, leaning back.

“Omo.”

“Exactly. They suddenly are of the opinion that their occupancy rates will jump by fifteen percent within eighteen months of acquisition.”

“That’s highly optimistic.”

“Nope. That’s delusion. It doesn’t even make logical sense.”

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Odion lets out an amused chuckle. For the next twenty minutes, they dive into the revisions together. The conversation flows with the practiced ease of two people used to the same flow slipping seamlessly between EBITDA calculations, client politics, and exhausted commentary about wealthy executives making terrible choices with immense confidence.

Enitan reaches absentmindedly into her bag, searching for something to mark a discrepancy on the hard copy. Her fingers wrap around a familiar shape, and she pulls out a black lacquer fountain pen with a gold trim that has worn slightly dull around the clip from years of constant handling.

Odion pauses mid-sentence, his gaze tracking the movement of her hand. A knowing look crosses his face. “Wait, isn’t that your special pen?”

Enitan glances up, caught off guard. “Mm?”

“The one you said you only pull out for major closings and signing ceremonies.” He points a finger at it, his eyes twinkling. “Don’t tell me we’ve secretly reached financial close on Greenfield and you didn’t inform your Team lead.”

“I wish,” Enitan says with a dry laugh, carefully uncapping the pen. “I can’t seem to find my regular biro, and I am too tired to search for it. So this would have to do”

“Hmm.” Odion leans back slightly in his chair, folding his arms as a small, observant smile plays on his lips. “So you just always kind of have the pen with you at all times?”

“Yes, because as you can see, the ink flow is flawless.” She signs the margin of a marked document to demonstrate.

“Yeah, but that’s clearly not why you carry it everywhere, Eni.”

The casual use of her nickname makes her look up properly, her eyes meeting his. He is watching her with perceptive amusement.

“That pen has sentimental value written all over it,” he adds.

“Best in perception goes to you.”

“It’s my superpower.”

“It’s giving amebo,” she counters.

She twirls the pen between her fingers unconsciously before speaking again. “My best friend’s dad gave it to me when I got my university admission.”

Odion’s posture shifts, his interest shifting from playful to genuinely curious. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” A smile touches briefly at the corner of her mouth now, softer this time. “I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned it but he basically supported me through Uni. I was sleeping over at their house the evening my admission list came out, completely terrified about how I was going to afford it. Uncle Kola asked what I wanted to study. When I told him accounting, he disappeared upstairs and came back with this.” She traces the worn gold clip. “Then he looked me in the eye and said, ‘Serious people write with serious pens.’”

Odion smiles warmly, a respectful nod accompanying the expression. “He sounds like an incredible man. And he was right. Look at you now, keeping billionaires on their toes.”

He pauses, his tone dropping into a gentler, more intuitive register. “He must mean a great deal to you.”

Enitan nods once, the light banter fading into a poignant reality. “He does. And with him being in the hospital right now and all... I find myself reaching for it more often. Just to feel grounded, I guess.”

“I get it,” he says gently, his voice dropping. “It’s a good anchor to have. And for what it’s worth... I’m sure he’s incredibly proud of where that pen has taken you.”

Enitan looks up, caught off guard by the sincerity in his eyes, a small, grateful smile touching her lips.

Before she can reply, her phone, sitting face-up on the table between them, vibrates violently against the wood. The screen lights up with Kitan’s name. She glances down, reaches over to press the volume button to silence it, and slides it back.

Odion holds her gaze for a beat longer before he lets out a quick breath. “Right. Let’s get through this Greenfield model so you can actually get out of here at a decent hour today. Before the board changes their minds again and decides they want to build Atlantis in Iyana-Ipaja.”

Enitan lets out a soft laugh. “I’ll add that to my worst-nightmare list.”

As she pulls up the spreadsheet, the phone on the table goes off again. Before the screen can even go dark from the missed call, it begins to vibrate a third time.

Enitan stalls, her fingers freezing over her trackpad. Kitan rarely calls repeatedly like this unless there is an emergency.

Odion tracks her gaze down to the vibrating device, noting the immediate, tense change in her posture.

“Go ahead,” he says intuitively, closing his laptop halfway to give her privacy. “You can take your call. We can pause for a few minutes.”

“Are you sure?” She clears her throat, her thumb already hovering over the green answer icon. “His dad is still in the hospital, so I just want to be certain everything is fine.”

An expression of understanding settles across Odion’s face. “Absolutely. Go ahead.”

Enitan offers a grateful nod, scooping up the device and stepping out into the carpeted hallway. She presses the phone to her ear as she walks toward the nearest nook by the corner.

Kitan’s voice filters through the line. “Hello?”

“You called?”

“Yeah.” He sounds distracted. Tired too. “Sorry. I hope I’m not disturbing you. I’m realising that you were probably really busy.”

“Is everything okay? What’s going on?”

A brief pause stretches over the line. Then, Kitan lets out a deeply frustrated sigh. “My mother just bullied me into agreeing to attend a foundation fundraising gala this Friday.”

Enitan stares blankly ahead for two full seconds. Then, she bursts into muffled laughter.

“Olakitan.”

“Don’t laugh. This is serious.”

“You called me three times because of a fundraiser gala?”

“You don’t understand. These people are terrifying.”

Her laughter softens into a wide grin she can’t quite suppress. “Sorry o. Thoughts and prayers during this incredibly difficult time.”

“You’re wicked.” She can hear the reluctant smile breaking through his voice now too. “We both know it’s a high-society political ambush,” Kitan says, his voice dropping into a frantic whisper. “And that’s not why I was calling you. I’m currently sitting in my car outside a supposedly wonderful boutique because she dragged me out to get a tuxedo, and you know how shopping with my mum can get. I’m a shirt and jeans kind of guy, this whole thing is stressing me out.

“I don’t get. Why is this a problem? Don’t you have suits?”

“I didn’t exactly come packing serious outfits. You saw my small box. Plus, my mother says my current options make me look emotionally unavailable.”

Enitan leans her shoulder against the hallway wall, a wide, helpless grin spreading across her face. “Okay, so what exactly is my role in this emergency, bro?”

“I need you to meet me there,” Kitan says immediately, his tone becoming completely unashamed and pleading. “Please. You work a corporate job so I would assume you know your way around suits and all. I know you’re busy, and I would normally drag Oyinda into this, but you know her condition right now. She’s too exhausted to leave the couch, so honestly, you’re all I have. My mom actually listens to you guys. Just come as a second pair of eyes so she doesn’t insist on buying me a velvet suit.”

“Kitan, you know you can just say no right? Tell her you’ll sort the outfit out yourself in your own time. You’re 30+ this guy.”

“Too late. I’m already here. Plus, you know telling my mother no on these kind of things is a waste of time. It’s also harder saying no to her given the current situation of things right now. Anything to make her happy abeg.”

“I am literally in the middle of a transaction valuation review, I don’t know how I can help you” she chuckles, though the absolute desperation in his voice is already melting her resolve.

“I already slipped your name to her,” he confesses quickly, sounding completely unrepentant. “I told her you were around the area and offered to help me look. She was thrilled. She literally said, ‘Oh, thank God, Enitan actually has taste.’ So you see? You can’t let her down now. I’ll buy you dinner. I’ll buy you those ridiculous cheeseballs and three cartons of Ribena. I’ll pay for your fuel. Just please, rescue me.”

“You are so dramatic,” she murmurs, tapping her pen against her thumb. “Fine. Text me the address. I’ll review one more model with Odion and head over.”

“You are the best! An actual lifesaver. See you in a bit.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go back inside and tell Aunty I’m on my way before she selects something in your absence.”

Kitan groans over the line. “Gosh. God abeg.”

The line clicks shut, leaving Enitan staring at her screen with a lingering, affectionate smile she doesn’t even realize she’s wearing. She takes a brief, steadying breath, tucks her special pen into her pocket, and walks back into the war room.

Odion is waiting, his laptop still halfway closed, his eyes tracking her face the moment she steps through the door. He notices the completely relaxed expression she hasn’t managed to wipe off her face yet.

“Everything fine?” Odion asks.

“Yes, perfectly fine,” Enitan says, dropping back into her chair with a renewed, lighter energy. “Just a family emergency. Shall we finish up this model?”

Odion studies her for a fraction of a second, noting the distinct brightness in her eyes that wasn’t there ten minutes ago, before he offers a gentle, supportive smile. “Let’s do it.”

KITAN

The atelier is bright, spacious, and lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Owned by Topaz, a celebrated designer and a close friend of the family, the showroom is usually packed with prominent names, but today the staff are entirely focused on the podium in the center of the room.

Kitan already regrets being here.

The head tailor circles him for what feels like the tenth time, tugging lightly at the structural shoulders of a charcoal-colored tuxedo jacket while his mother studies him with the unrelenting intensity of a diamond merchant inspecting a flawed stone.

“Hm.”

That single syllable is enough to make Kitan’s posture stiffen automatically. “What does hm mean, Ma?”

Mrs. Peters folds her arms, her diamond bracelets clicking together. “It means I am currently not fully convinced.”

“Please, just let it be fine. I am begging you.”

The tailor wisely steps back, holding his chalk and measuring tape like a shield.

“The fabric is exquisite,” his mother concedes, tapping a manicured finger against her chin. “But the cut of the trousers is making you look like a retired civil servant, Olakitan. We cannot present you to the board of trustees looking like you borrowed your grandfather’s trousers.”

Kitan closes his eyes, letting out a slow, suffering breath. “Mummy, it is a black-tie charity gala, not a fashion parade. I promise you, it is not this deep.”

“See how you are complaining as if I’m punishing you. How will God bless you with this kind of beautiful face and you want to waste it on ordinary jeans all the time. Can’t you see how sharp you are looking in this tux? Please go and try the second option. The midnight blue one with the satin lapels.”

“Lord help me,” Kitan mutters, dragging his feet toward the plush changing room.

By the time he emerges ten minutes later in the dark blue wool, adjusting a stiff white dress shirt that feels dangerously restrictive around his neck, he is fully prepared to call a taxi and flee back to the airport.

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“Well?” Kitan asks, standing on the small circular podium.

His mother opens her mouth to deliver another critique, but the soft chime of the entrance door cuts her off. Kitan looks up, his eyes automatically tracking the reflection in the glass panels across the room.

For a reason he doesn’t care to analyze, an immediate wave of pure, unadulterated relief floods his chest as Enitan saunters into the showroom. She is dressed in a crisp, high-waisted tailored trouser set, a structured cream blouse, with her bag slung over one shoulder, and her office ID lanyard still clutched in her hand alongside her phone. She looks slightly breathless from the heat outside but completely in her element.

She freezes three steps into the showroom, her eyes landing squarely on Kitan standing stiffly on the circular wooden podium. A sudden, telltale twitch pulls at the corner of her mouth. She presses her lips together, her shoulders trembling slightly as she tries and spectacularly fails to swallow a laugh.

Kitan’s eyes narrow in the mirror. “What is funny?”

“Nothing,” she squeaks, coughing into her fist to clear her throat.

“Wow. Continue o”

“I’m sorry,” she says, finally letting a wide, dimpled grin break through as she walks closer. “It’s giving prince of Zamunda. Like you’re about to address your peasant subjects.”

“Eni baby!” Mrs. Peters coos, her posture instantly melting into pure joy.

“Aunty Bisola,” Enitan says, a bright, genuine smile lighting up her face as she steps forward. She bends slightly, sinking into a familiar embrace as she greets his mum.

“Anyway, thank God you’re here,” Kitan says from his podium, his shoulders visibly dropping. “Please tell this woman to release me.”

Enitan detaches herself from his mother and finally turns her gaze toward him. She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, her eyes travel over the midnight blue tuxedo.

Standing beneath the bright gallery spotlights while her eyes trace the contour of his shoulders and the fit of the jacket makes him feel exposed. It is a deeply uncomfortable sensation that prickles his skin and leaves him uncharacteristically self-conscious.

“Well?” he prompts again, his voice dropping a fraction.

Enitan mimics his mother, letting out a contemplative hum.

His heart sinks. “Great. So you don’t like it either.”

“No, the suit itself is actually beautiful,” Enitan says, walking a slow circle around the podium. She pauses, tilting her head as she inspects the fit. “But the styling is a bit over the top. Aunty, why are they trying to dress him like a funky politician?”

The head tailor looks mildly offended, clearing his throat. “Madam, this is a bespoke Italian cut—”

“No offense to your cut, sir,” Enitan says with an easy, disarming laugh that defuses the tension instantly. “But he’s thirty-two, not fifty-five. The standard wide bow tie is burying his collarbone, and the trousers need to look less boxy at the bottom. He needs a slim satin self-tie bow, and the jacket needs to be nipped in slightly at the waist so he doesn’t look like he’s drowning in fabric. Also, this colour is not working at all”

Mrs. Peters’ eyes light up, pointing a triumphant finger at her son. “You see? What did I tell you? This is exactly why I said we needed a second pair of eyes. You are the best person for this job. At least, he will listen to you.”

“I am standing right here,” Kitan grumbles, though he can’t quite stop his eyes from tracking Enitan as she casually drops her bag onto a velvet sofa and steps closer to the podium.

For the next fifteen minutes, Enitan completely takes charge of the floor, executing her rescue mission with the same precise efficiency she uses to tear through financial models. She rejects three different dress shirts, coordinates with the tailor on a sharper trouser length, and personally selects a pair of sleek patent leather oxfords that actually fit his style.

Kitan just stands there, letting the tailor pin the fabric, completely fascinated by how effortlessly she navigates his mother’s strong personality. There is an easy, deep-rooted affection in the way they bicker over pocket squares and suit options. It is a shared history that feels completely natural, yet entirely separate from him.

By the time they finally settle into the plush leather waiting area while the final alterations are being logged by the staff, Kitan is mentally spent, but his chest feels lighter than it has all day.

Mrs. Peters is scrolling through her tablet, checking off event details, before she looks up. “Enitan, my dear.”

“Yes, Aunty?” Enitan asks, looking up from her phone where she had been quickly replying to an email.

“You are coming on Friday, abi? You know The Lantern Initiative is my baby, and celebrating fifteen years of impact is a major milestone. I’m not accepting any excuses from you. You’ll sit with us at the family table.”

Enitan offers a warm smile. “Yes, ma. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Oyinda already gave me the full briefing.”

“Good. I know I don’t even need to worry about your outfit. You always look spectacular.” Mrs. Peters brightens, sliding closer to her on the sofa. “Actually, come let me show you the floral arrangements the decorator sent over this morning. Tell me if the orchids are too dramatic.”

Kitan watches them lean over the tablet screen, their heads close together as Enitan weighs in on color palettes. He watches the relaxed curve of Enitan’s mouth when she laughs at something his mother says. A strange warmth settles in his throat, a sudden realization of how deeply woven she is into the fabric of his family. She is not just his sister’s best friend, she belongs in their life. Completely.

Enitan glances at the digital clock on her phone screen and suddenly winces, her eyes widening in panic. “Oh my goodness.”

“What is it?” Kitan asks.

“I need to fly back to the office immediately.” She rises quickly, pulling her bag strap back over her shoulder.

“Already?” Mrs. Peters asks, looking disappointed. “But you just got here.”

“Aunty, I’ve been here for almost forty minutes,” Enitan says with an apologetic, sheepish grin. “By the time I factor in the trip back to the office, I’m looking at over an hour of unauthorized absence. My director is nice, but he isn’t that nice.”

Kitan stands up, shaking his head with a small smirk. “Na wa o.”

“Is that how they say thank you in your village?” she shoots back playfully, eyeing him with an effortless roll of her eyes. She bends down to press a quick kiss to Mrs. Peters’ cheek. “I’ll see you on Friday evening, ma.”

“Thank you so much for coming to save us, my dear. Drive safely, o.”

“I will, ma.” Enitan adjusts her bag, gives Kitan a final, lingering up and down look with a small nod of approval. “You look great in the burgundy option, Kit. Don’t let them change it.”

Before he can even formulate a response, she turns and glides out through the glass doors, her heels clicking purposefully against the pavement outside until she disappears into her waiting ride.

The boutique floor falls into a startling stillness. Kitan stands there for a beat, his eyes still fixed on the empty doorway with a faint, lingering smile tracing his lips.

An exaggerated clearing of the throat pulls him from his thoughts.

He blinks, turning around to find his mother watching him. She has set her tablet down on her lap, her arms folded tightly across her chest, and her sharp eyes are fixed on his face with an expression of intense, knowing amusement.

Kitan clears his throat, his posture instantly going defensive. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Nothing, my dear,” she says, her voice dripping with a very maternal, dangerous smugness as she signals the tailor to bring the final invoice. “Absolutely nothing at all. I am just glad to see that your taste in ‘second opinions’ has improved so beautifully.”

Author’s Note: What do we think about this chapter? Do we think there is hope for kit and his kat?🤭

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Catch up: Chapter one, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, and Chapter Seven.

See you next week Monday.🫶🏽

The other day, I was mindlessly scrolling on Instagram when I came across a video where the person was doing a hair, face and body care routine and I remember thinking to myself “At what point does it feel like enough?”

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Because on most days, it feels like your body is a never-ending project. Every few months, there is a new standard to aspire to and, conveniently, a new product, procedure, treatment or workout promising to help you get there.

There is a relentless machinery at work in our culture, and its primary product is not makeup, skincare, or cosmetic procedures. Its primary product is doubt. We live in a time where beauty standards continue to expand, stretching their borders so wide that they begin to colonize parts of our bodies we never used to think twice about.

An insecurity has become one of the easiest products to manufacture. You simply convince people that something natural is undesirable, and suddenly they are paying to fix something they never questioned in the first place.

Like clockwork, we are told we must fix the natural shadow of our dark armpits or inner thighs. Dissolve the fat under your chin. Get fuller lips. Get a smaller nose. Build a bigger bum. Shrink your waist until it is impossibly slim. Lengthen your lashes. Perfect your side profile. Reduce your pores.

Isn’t it exhausting?

The more I think about it, the more I come to the conclusion that beauty standards are not just changing the way we look. They are changing the way we see ourselves.

In this desperate rush to optimize, we are slowly, systematically erasing our unique quirks. I would go a step further to argue that these quirks are our individuality and every ‘flaw’ does not need a correction.

We are a beautiful, complicated combination of all our unique physical traits, and it is precisely these minor differences that make us who we are.

When you look at the world that God created, we see that the genius of creation lies in its endless variety. A mango does not look like an orange, an apple, or an avocado.

Each of them is distinctly different, and that difference is exactly where their beauty lies. Even the trees, which are similar in their design of stems, roots and branches are not homogenous.

It is by these unique differences that we can tell them apart. It is what makes them memorable. Human beings seem to be the only part of creation trying desperately to become indistinguishable from one another.

When we sacrifice our distinct features on the altar of a singular, generalized beauty standard, we lose our very own standout quality.

The smile that leans slightly to one side. The gap between your teeth. The freckles scattered across your nose. The broad shoulders. The narrow hips. The laugh that comes out louder than you intended. The skin that tells the story of your ancestry. The features you inherited from a grandmother you never met.

These are the things that make you, YOU.

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We are rapidly moving toward a monoculture of appearance. Everyone wants to dress the same, pose the same, and present themselves in the exact same way. We see this play out in subconscious ways where people who mock those who get plastic surgery will turn around, go into the gym, and spend hours attempting to sculpt the exact same “ideal” body.

We have collectively bought into the lie that there is an apex body type, a single peak of physical worth. Because of this, the timeline for self-optimization has accelerated to a frightening degree. We now have young people barely in their twenties, still growing into their adult faces, already reaching for preventative botox and lip fillers.

But I think presentation should be an external mirror of who you are inside. Yes, we should dress how we want to be addressed, but more importantly, we must dress in a way that is true to ourselves.

The next time you reach for a trendy outfit, a viral accessory, or a new cosmetic treatment, stop and ask yourself: Why do I want this? Do I genuinely like this, or is it simply because it looks good on everyone else? Is this true to my personality?

When you stand before the mirror and find your eyes drifting toward the things you wish you could alter, ask yourself where that desire is truly coming from.

This is not a crusade against reinvention, nor is it a rejection of wanting to look and feel nice. Anyone who knows me well knows that I love the ritual of it. I wear makeup every once in a while, I fix my nails, and I happily participate in the whole song and dance of getting dressed up. My crux is primarily centered on the motive.

Do you actually like the person you are without all these additions?

Why are we doing the things we do? The world will always find a new part of your body to critique; there will always be something that allegedly needs fixing. But you are, first and foremost, the handiwork of an intentional Creator. And He does not make mistakes.

There are endless layers to this conversation, and so much more could be said about the psychological grip of these trends.

But when you strip all of it away, my deepest hope is simply this: I hope that you learn to love every single part of your body. Love the parts you consider perfect, the aching parts, the parts that are changing with age, and even the parts that sometimes make you want to hide away.

All of it is worthy of love. All of it is by design. All of it is deserving of praise.

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All my love,

Oreva.

Monday morning finds Kitan trapped in the back seat of his father’s Mercedes, wearing a navy blue shirt he does not particularly like and a dark grey suit that feels unsuitable for the Nigerian climate. His mother had stood outside his bedroom door earlier, refusing to let him leave until he changed, insisting the stiff fabric of the shirt made him “look responsible.” Which, in Kitan’s opinion, is exactly the problem.

The driver navigates the final turn, and the corporate headquarters of Peters Holdings comes into view, commanding a prime piece of real estate along the main commercial strip of Alfred Rewane Road.

The structure rises cleanly above the neighbouring complexes, a massive, ten-storey monument of reflective dark glass and dark granite stone, its long vertical windows catching the morning light.

Outside, the property is a hive of activity. Well-dressed employees stream steadily through the security turnstiles, colour-coded electronic ID lanyards swinging from their necks and phones pressed to their ears, their conversations already fast-paced before the official workday has even begun.

The Mercedes pulls up smoothly beneath the wide, concrete front canopy of the drop-off zone.

“Oga, we’ve arrived.”

Kitan nods absently, clears his throat, and steps out into the humid air.

The contrast is instant the moment he pushes through the heavy glass revolving doors; a blast of aggressive, ice-cold air conditioning hits him, smelling faintly of expensive lemon-scented cleaning polish.

The white marble floors gleam beneath recessed LED lighting, polished to such a high mirror finish that the click-clack of heels across the expanse sounds sharper, echoing off the high ceilings.

To the right of the main reception desk, a massive, illuminated scale model stretches beneath a pristine glass casing. It is a sprawling architectural layout of tiny paved roads, towering luxury apartment blocks, manicured green lawns, and miniature streetlights.

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Kitan slows his pace, pausing instinctively beside the display.

“Eko Crest Residences.”

He looks up to see Mr. Lawson walking toward him from across the lobby, a sleek tablet tucked securely beneath one arm. To the rest of the employees at Peters Holdings, the grey-haired man approaching is the formidable Chief Operating Officer, his father’s brilliant close friend and right-hand man.

But to Kitan, he is simply Uncle Lawson. He was the man who had sat at their family dining table many Sunday afternoons for twenty-five years, debating politics with his father over plates of food.

He had paid for Kitan’s first stethoscope when he got into medical school and had been a steady anchor through every major family celebration and crisis alike. If his father built the spine of Peters Holdings, Uncle Lawson was the one who kept the heart beating.

“Uncle Lawson.”

“Kitan.” The older man’s face lights up with a warm, genuine smile as he extends a hand.

“Good to see you, my boy. Glad to finally have you here.”

“I’m just here to observe, Uncle. Don’t let me disrupt anything.”

“That means you’re settling in properly already. Deflecting responsibility on day one.”

Kitan lets out a breathless, low laugh.

Lawson glances down at the miniature towers beside them, his eyes softening. “Your father was entirely obsessed with this project for almost two years. He drew the initial concept on a napkin during a flight from London.”

“It looks incredibly expensive.”

“It was expensive,” Lawson agrees, his tone dry. “Nearly bankrupted our liquidity in Q1, but your father refused to back down.”

“To be fair, looking at the scale of it, I’m sure it was worth the headache.”

Lawson chuckles, nodding in agreement as he gestures with his tablet toward the restricted executive elevators. “Come, let’s get you upstairs before the morning briefing starts.”

As they cross the high-ceilinged lobby, the atmosphere shifts around Lawson. Security guards straighten their postures, and passing staff members offer respectful nods, their greetings cutting through the air in rapid successions.

“Morning, sir.”

“Good morning, Mr. Lawson.”

“Sir, Legal just sent the revised joint-venture documents upstairs to your desk.”

Lawson acknowledges each of them with an easy, practised wave of his hand, navigating the crowd without once breaking his stride. Kitan watches him, deeply aware of the invisible current of authority his uncle carries. It is a profound, earnest respect built over decades of loyalty to the company.

The executive elevator chimes, swallowing them whole and shooting upward in a stomach-dropping rush. When the doors slide open on the top floor, the chaotic energy of the lower lobby completely evaporates.

Here, the air is thick with the scent of rich leather and old money. Deep plush charcoal carpeting swallows the sound of their shoes entirely, creating an almost reverent silence. The hallway stretches out ahead of them, lined on one side by floor-to-ceiling glass panels that reveal sleek, minimalist offices where senior partners sit behind dark mahogany desks.

On the other side, the entire length of the corridor opens up to a breathtaking panorama, punctuated by cranes and half-finished high-rises, stretching all the way down to the murky blue waters of the lagoon gleaming in the morning sun.

Lawson guides him forward at a deliberate pace, letting him absorb the tempo of the floor.

“Your father started with basic residential development,” Lawson says, his voice carrying the easy cadence of an old historian. “Middle-income housing, mostly. Then we transitioned into commercial properties. By the time the federal infrastructure contracts started rolling in, the enterprise had already expanded far beyond his initial blueprints.”

Kitan’s gaze drifts through the clear glass pane of a conference room as they pass.

Architectural renderings and topographic blueprints cover an entire wall inside. A junior architect stands by a whiteboard, gesturing sharply toward what looks like storm-drainage layouts, while three senior executives argue over projected timelines with crossed arms.

“How many staff do you have?”

“Across all operational branches? A little over four hundred.”

Kitan lets out a low whistle.

Lawson’s lips twitch with amusement at the reaction. “We have fully staffed regional offices in Abuja and Port Harcourt as well. Most of the project management teams are highly mobile, shifting across the country depending on active construction sites.”

As they continue down the corridor, Lawson introduces him to the passing members of executive management, anchoring each face with a title.

Mrs. Adebayo, the Head of Legal, handles his handshake with a grip that could crush granite. She studies his face for a beat before a knowing smile breaks through her severe expression. “Ah. So you’re the son who escaped to London.”

Kitan blinks, caught off guard, before a genuine laugh escapes him. “Is it that obvious?”

“My dear, your father complained about your strong mind for years.”

“Wonderful to know my reputation precedes me.”

She offers a quick, reassuring pat on his arm before disappearing into a nearby meeting room.

Farther down the hallway, Lawson pauses beside a tall, impeccably tailored man speaking sharply into a phone, his northern accent clipped and precise.

“—I don’t care what Procurement promised the sub-contractors. We are absolutely not approving revised variation figures without signed site logs. Hold the invoice.”

The man ends the call with a curt flick of his thumb, taking a brief breath to smooth down his features before turning to face them.

“Ibrahim,” Lawson says, stepping in. “Kitan, this is Ibrahim Dantata. Our Head of Project Execution.”

Dantata’s tense posture relaxes slightly as he extends a hand. He looks Kitan over with a sharp, calculating gaze. “The doctor, I presume.”

“The one and only.”

“It’s unusual for this environment.” Dantata glances toward Lawson briefly before looking back at Kitan. “Real estate isn’t exactly a part-time hobby.”

“Don’t intimidate the boy on his first morning, Ibrahim,” Lawson interjects mildly.

“I’m just being honest” Dantata’s mouth curves into a faint, dry grin as he nods at Kitan.

“You’ll survive, don’t worry. Welcome on board.” He excuses himself with a brief nod, heading toward the elevators with quick steps.

Kitan watches him go, noting the tight set of the man’s shoulders. “Is he always that uptight? He seems stressed.”

“He usually is,” Lawson replies, his tone perfectly even as they reach the double doors of the boardroom. “Project execution is where all our theoretical plans meet reality. It’s where most of the fires start.”

The quarterly board briefing commences precisely at ten o’clock.

For the first twenty minutes, Kitan sits near the edge of the long mahogany table, trying to decode language that sounds vaguely like English but is somehow still incomprehensible.

Land banking. Equity exposure. Site acquisition timelines. Regulatory bottlenecks.

A massive, high-resolution satellite map of the Federal Capital Territory is projected onto the central screen. Executives debate infrastructure corridors and commercial viability projections with the intense, aggressive gravity of military generals arguing over national security.

Kitan remains entirely silent, retreating into the background to watch the room. He treats the table like a clinical round, listening to the symptoms without offering a premature diagnosis.

Lawson occasionally leans in close to explain terms under his breath without making a spectacle of it.

“SPV, what’s that?” Kitan murmurs under his breath, leaning slightly toward his uncle.

“Special Purpose Vehicle,” Lawson whispers back, not breaking his gaze from the slide presentation. “A clean subsidiary company set up exclusively for a single project to isolate financial risk.”

Kitan nods slowly, logging it away.

Ten minutes later, during a slide on projected cash flows, Kitan leans in again. “Yield seems to be a recurring phrase today.”

The observation catches Lawson off guard, nearly causing him to choke on his morning coffee. He clears his throat into a napkin, suppressing a chuckle.

By midday, a dull, throbbing headache has begun to take root right behind Kitan’s temples.

Yet, beneath the dense layers of corporate vocabulary and complex financial modeling, certain anomalies begin to stand out to him.

It isn’t any specific data point that catches his attention, but rather a distinct shift in behavior.

Every single time the discussion veers toward a particular luxury estate project in Abuja, the vibe around the table alters almost imperceptibly. He notices the tiny, unnatural hesitations.

He hears the sudden, careful curation of words. At one point, a rapid, loaded glance is exchanged between two senior asset managers before another executive quickly steps in to steer the conversation back to safer ground.

Midway through a heated discussion on construction reconciliation timelines, Kunle Fajemirokun, the Chief Financial Officer, smoothly cuts off the presenter.

“We can revisit those specific audit numbers during the closed-door session later this month,” Kunle says, his voice a polished, unhurried drawl as he clicks to the next slide. “The immediate priority for the board today is our current liquidity positioning.”

The room moves on to the new topic without a single murmur of protest, but Kitan catches the omission immediately. Nobody actually answered the original question about the missing site receipts.

He registers the smaller reactions too. He tracks the way Dantata’s fingers rhythmically drum against the polished wood before the man goes completely silent, withdrawing from the discussion entirely. He notes the way one of the project directors suddenly avoids eye contact, staring intently at his tablet.

Medical residency trains a mind to observe the patient’s subtle physical tells long before looking at the lab results. Patterns first. Symptoms second. Diagnosis last.

By the time the heavy leather chairs slide back and the meeting finally adjourns, Kitan has only understood about thirty percent of the technical strategy. But as he stands up to stretch his back, he understands enough to know one thing for certain.

Something deep inside his father’s empire is under immense, fracturing strain.

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*********

By the time Kitan walks through the front door of his parent’s home that evening, his head is pounding with a vicious, dull ache. An entire day of unfamiliar terminology, endless slide decks, and high-stakes conversations where everybody else around the table seemed to instinctively grasp the subtext ten seconds before he even processed the words.

He tosses his car keys onto the dresser inside his bedroom, pulling his tie loose with a sharp, irritated tug before collapsing backward onto the mattress fully clothed. For a long time, he simply stares at the ceiling plaster, letting the quiet room slowly siphon off the day’s stress.

His phone buzzes against his thigh. He pulls it out.

Enitan:

Kit Kat. How was day one of corporate capture?

A small, genuine smile breaks through his fatigue, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Kitan:

Cheeseballs, it was fine.

The typing bubble appears instantly.

Enitan:

Cheeseballs???

Kitan:

Yes naw. Since we’re resurrecting embarrassing nicknames.

Enitan:

Omg. Please, that was a lifetime ago. I am a big girl now.

Kitan grins, his thumbs flying across the screen.

Kitan:

Do you even still eat cheeseballs?

The three dots appear. Disappear. Then return.

Enitan:

Unfortunately, yes.

And Ribena.

He lets out a breathless laugh, the tension in his shoulders loosening.

Kitan:

Some things never change.

Enitan:

Please abeg, I do not identify with that version of myself anymore. Like I said, big girl now.

Kitan:

Na you sabi. Have you eaten?

There is a noticeable pause before her next bubble drops into the chat.

Enitan:

You think you’re sleek. Answer my own question first.

Enitan:

How was your first day of work, Kitan? Genuinely.

He stares at the glowing screen for a moment, the humor fading as the reality of the day he had settles back over him. He types a single word.

Kitan:

Hard.

Then, before he can second-guess the impulse, he types:

Kitan:

Can I call you?

Kitan:

Or are you talking to one of your boyfriends?

Her reply is nearly instantaneous.

Enitan:

Which boyfriend? Call me jare.

He presses the dial icon before she can change her mind. She picks up on the second ring.

“Hello?”

There’s rustling in the background punctuated by the steady hum of a microwave.

“What are you doing?” he asks, resting the phone against his ear.

“Trying to eat before I pass out.” Her voice sounds laden with her own workday exhaustion, but there is a lighter, softer cadence to it now that she’s speaking to him. “How bad was it?”.

Kitan exhales deeply, dragging his forearm across his eyes. “Why do you always wait until you’re on the verge of starvation before you remember to eat?”

“Uhm, that is not what I asked you o. Please stay on topic.”

“Omo.” He sits up, shifting until his back is resting flat against the headboard. “I spent six hours in different meetings understanding absolutely nothing. It was incredible.”

Enitan laughs softly, the sound traveling warmly through the speaker. “It couldn’t have been that bad.”

“It was terrible. I am serious.” He rubs a tired hand over his jaw, his fingers catching on the stubble. “Everybody kept throwing around terms like equity exposure and asset optimization with so much confidence, and I was just sitting there fighting for my life. I felt entirely stupid half the time.”

On the other end of the line, the microwave delivers a soft, electronic beep.

Enitan’s tone gentles, losing its teasing edge completely. “You are not stupid, Kitan.”

“I know that logically,” he says, looking down at his free hand. “But at my actual job, I know exactly who I am and what I’m doing. I walk into A&E and I know the room belongs to me. I know how to make split-second decisions under immense pressure. That’s my playground.”

He exhales a long, frustrated breath. “Today, I felt like an imposter. It’s a very strange, uncomfortable thing to start from absolute scratch when you’re used to being a sought-after expert in your own field.”

“You’ve only been there for one day, Kit.”

“I know.”

“Did you honestly expect to wake up and inherit over twenty years of corporate real estate strategy overnight?”

He snorts softly. “Maybe a little bit.”

“Abeg.” He hears the clink of a ceramic plate against the counter as she moves. “You are literally one of the smartest people I know. It’s actually quite annoying how easily things usually click for you.”

“Why does this sound like a backhanded compliment?”

“Because it is.”

Kitan laughs under his breath, the heavy knot in his chest dissolving a little further.

“But you’re also being too hard on yourself.” Enitan continues, her voice growing thoughtful as she walks toward her dining table. “You’ve spent your entire adult life building excellence at what you do. Of course pivoting into a completely different world is going to feel jarring. It’s supposed to. Plus, I doubt all those people there gained all that knowledge in one day. You have to give it time.”

“Hmm.”

“And for what it’s worth, most people would’ve run away after today.”

“Oh, the thought crossed my mind at least five times.”

“See? But you stayed. That’s resilience.”

“Says the person who is just eating at 10pm”

“Mind your business”

“What are you even eating?”

“Fried rice.”

“Did you actually cook?”

“...It is professionally prepared restaurant rice.”

Kitan bursts into a proper, loud laugh. “I for say! I was wondering when you suddenly developed culinary skills.”

“Please, leave me alone.” He can practically hear the dramatic roll of her eyes through the line. She settles into her dining chair, taking a bite before speaking again. “You know what’s funny? I can almost bet that every single person in that office probably thinks that you adapted perfectly.”

Kitan frowns slightly. “Haba…”

“I’m serious. Including your mum.” She says it with absolute certainty. “You have one of those faces that makes people assume you’re completely in control, even when you’re mentally fighting for your life.”

He lets out a defeated chuckle because annoyingly enough, she’s right.

The conversation drifts after that. They talk about mundane things. Work, general life,
Oyinda’s latest pregnancy complaint. Easy things. Familiar things.

By the time the call ends nearly forty minutes later, Kitan realizes he feels entirely different than he did an hour ago. The crushing weight of his frustration has receded, smoothed out by the easy familiarity of her voice.

He hadn’t realized how desperately he needed a safe harbor, someone with whom he rarely had to try to be anything else but himself, until she provided it without him even having to ask.

The terrifying part is the sudden, pulling urge to hit redial and do it all over again.

He catches the impulse almost immediately, his jaw tightening as he reins himself in. He stares at the ceiling, firmly reminding his own brain that she is his younger sister’s best friend. Off-limits. A line he has no business crossing.

“Odeshi,” he whispers into the dark room, invoking the slang like a protective charm against his own thoughts before closing his eyes to sleep.

Author’s Note: Are you team slow burn or team Odeshi? 🤭

Odeshi (A Nigerian Slang): I’m unaffected or it won’t work on me.

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Catch up: Chapter one, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, and Chapter Six.

See you next week Monday.🫶🏽

Doing the same exercises every week with only the slightest improvements. Adding one more rep. Walking a little farther. Lifting a little heavier. Showing up on days when the mirror seems unchanged and the scale refuses to cooperate.

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Eating the same foods prepared in a hundred different ways because healthy nutrition is far less glamorous than we like to pretend it is.

The truth is that transformation is often remarkably boring while it is happening.

We are always more inclined to chase the breakthrough, the overnight success story, the sudden epiphany that reshapes our entire lives. We find that we want the transformation, but we are deeply, inherently allergic to the monotony required to get there.

It is the willingness to look at a mundane routine and choose it again. And again. And again. It is the realization that ultimate impact is not a sudden explosion, but the slow, compounding weight of little drops of water filling an ocean.

When you embark on a fitness journey for example, the initial rush of adrenaline eventually fades into a predictable sequence. You lift the same iron, sometimes incrementally and sometimes, on the same weight. You perform the same movements. On a daily level, it can feel like you’re in standstill. You look in the mirror after a month of discipline, and you somehow look precisely the same.

This is the valley of fatigue, where the effort feels mismatched to the visible reward. It is easy to quit here.

But beneath the surface, tenacity is being built. This is the principle of hypertrophy.

Think of it like this: when you push a muscle past its usual limit, you actually create tiny, microscopic tears in the tissue. It sounds bad but it’s exactly what needs to happen. When you rest, your body doesn’t just patch those tiny tears up; it reinforces them. It weaves the fibers back together thicker, denser, and stronger than they were before so they can handle that same stress next time.

The body does not grow because it was surprised by a random, chaotic workout; it grows because it was subjected to a predictable stressor so frequently that it had no choice but to adapt to survive.

The magic isn’t in a brand new routine. It is in the repetition of the old one. Muscles strengthen because they are challenged over and over again. The key phrase being over and over again.

This is not a rule confined to the gym. The anatomy of discipline is identical across every human endeavor.

I talk often about how in 2018, I wrote every single day for an entire year.

On some days, the words spilled out like a broken dam. On many other occasions, I stared at my blinking cursor with absolutely nothing to say. Try as I might on those days, the words refused to come and on many days, the writing was average.

On some days, it was downright terrible (by my standards) But I had made a decision to write and so I forced the output. I leaned into what I now call the squeezing effect - the act of twisting the mind again and again, even in seasons of total drought, until something comes out.

It was a conscious decision to stretch myself to the point of discomfort.

At the time, it was simply an exercise in discipline. A challenge I gave myself to see how far I could stretch. Looking back now, I realize that it was more than that, I was building muscle and developing staying power. The words themselves mattered less than the habit they were creating.

The muscle built during that grueling year, and the years of consistent practice that followed, is what carries me today. It is the reason I can confidently say that writer’s block is a myth.

Writer’s block is simply what happens when we refuse to write poorly but I digress.

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When you have trained your brain to produce output regardless of your existing constraints, you realize that inspiration is a luxury but stamina is a choice.

You develop the capacity to create from the drought because you have built the muscle memory to do so. Mastery requires staying power, and staying power demands that we redefine our relationship with the mundane.

We love stories of dramatic breakthroughs and instant transformations, but what we are actually witnessing is accumulated consistency. We see the end result but we rarely see the years of repetition behind it. The countless mornings they showed up when nobody was watching. The ordinary, uneventful days that looked exactly like the day before.

Perhaps that is what staying power really is: the willingness to keep showing up when the results are still invisible. To trust that every small act is casting a vote for the person you are becoming. To understand that greatness is rarely born in grand moments. It is forged in ordinary moments, repeated with extraordinary consistency.

In the end, hypertrophy is not merely about muscle. It is about becoming the kind of person who can withstand the tension required to expand. The kind of person who stays long enough to change.

The things that transform us are rarely spectacular. They are boring. They are repetitive. They are unremarkable. They are the things we do again and again and again, until one day we look back and realize that metamorphosis has occurred.

If you abandon the task the moment the novelty wears off, you will remain perpetually at the starting line of a dozen different lives.

To achieve true elasticity, you must embrace the monotony until it becomes secondary nature.

Once the repetitive act becomes muscle memory, you progressively overload. In weightlifting, you cannot grow by lifting the same five-pound dumbbell forever. In order to see progress, you have to incrementally add weight or increase reps.

This to me, is the law of growth. Do the thing until it is effortless, then intentionally make it hard again. Push it to the point of elasticity. You stretch a little further. Carry a little more. Demand a little more of yourself than you did yesterday.

This is how the expansion happens. You take the baseline of your consistency and you dial up the intensity. You take the boring, repetitive thing and you execute it with a higher degree of precision.

This is the beauty of consistency. It strips away the vanity of performance and replaces it with the dignity of practice. It reminds us that the grand results we envy in others are simply the visible tips of massive, underwater icebergs built from years of invisible, tedious choices.

So this is an earnest plea to stop ignoring the boring things.

The next time you face the same bland meal, the same familiar weight, or the same blank screen, do not view it as a stagnant prison.

Trust the squeeze. Lean into the monotony. Let hypertrophy do its work.

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All my love,

Oreva.

Much later that evening, long after he has finally peeled off the damp clothes he wore to the hospital and abandoned the untouched cup of tea his mother left outside his door, Kitan’s phone lights up on the bedside table.

Oyinda:

Hey, big head. We are overdue for a catch-up. Find time to see me, let’s talk.

He stares at the message for a beat, the bright screen illuminating the dark room, before typing back.

Kitan:

That sounds ominous.

The three typing dots appear almost immediately.

Oyinda:

Don’t worry. It’s nothing serious. Come over after work tomorrow, okay?

Despite the heavy exhaustion weighing him down, a faint, familiar amusement punctures the gloom, and he snorts softly.

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********

By the following evening, Lagos traffic has shaved almost an extra hour off his schedule, and Kitan is already completely spent by the time he finally turns into Oyinda’s compound.

The gateman recognizes his car immediately, swinging the heavy black gates open with a familiar nod.

The first thing Kitan notices when Oyinda opens the front door is that pregnancy suits her beautifully. Her hair is wrapped loosely beneath a silk scarf, one of Kamil’s oversized t-shirts hanging over her leggings, and there is an unmistakable lethargy beneath her eyes that no amount of glowing can completely disguise.

Yet somehow, she still looks genuinely at peace.

“Wow,” he says slowly, stepping into the foyer. “Look at you.”

Oyinda narrows her eyes immediately. “If the next words out of your mouth are anything related to size, shape, swelling, or resemblance to livestock, you can turn right back around and leave my house.”

Kitan bursts into laughter, the tension from the previous night finally fracturing as he drops his keys onto the console table near the entrance. “I was actually going to say you look nice.”

“Liar.”

“I’m serious. You look really good.”

“Hmm. Okay o. Thank you.”

Kitan laughs under his breath, leaning down to hug her carefully, mindful of the new space she occupies.

As she turns to lead him into the living room, Kitan takes in the space as the sudden realization of her new reality settles over him.

On the console, there is a small ceramic tray holding a jumble of Kamil’s car keys and Oyinda’s lip balms. In the corner, a framed portrait from their wedding hangs under a soft spotlight, with both of them laughing into the camera.

Looking at her navigate the living room with that new, cautious weight to her step, it hits him how far they are from the past. This is not the sixteen-year-old Oyinda he had dropped off at university years ago with strict threats to beat up any boy who so much as stressed her. This is a woman who has completely crossed over into her own autonomy. This is somebody’s wife. Somebody’s mother.

The evidence of this new chapter is scattered everywhere. A neatly folded, pastel-colored baby blanket rests over the arm of the sofa. A bottle of prenatal vitamins sits on the coffee table beside a half-finished mug of ginger tea, and one of Kamil’s hoodies is draped carelessly across the accent chair.

Kitan flops into the couch while Oyinda lowers herself with deliberate care beside him, exhaling a long, dramatic sigh.

“Please tell me pregnancy eventually becomes enjoyable,” she says tiredly, leaning her head against the back of the sofa. “Because this current experience feels like an elaborate form of prolonged suffering.”

Kitan snorts. “You know lying is against my medical code of conduct.”

“No, because please explain to me why I spent thirty minutes crying yesterday because Kamil bought the wrong bread.”

“What kind of bread?”

“He bought sliced bread instead of the whole, unsliced loaf.”

Kitan stares at her, amused. “I don’t get. I thought you were going to say he bought wheat instead of brioche. You cried over sliced bread?”

“Yes o,” she says emphatically, throwing her hands up. “Actual, deep-chested tears. Then I got sad because he looked so distraught. All the supermarkets were already closed, and you should have seen his face. He looked like he failed a major life exam. Which, of course, just made me cry even more.”

“That doesn’t even surprise me,” Kitan says, a genuine smile reaching his eyes. “You have cried for way worse. All the best to my in-law for real.”

“But Kamil has truly entered his overprotective era. He’s doing too much to be honest,” she complains, though a tiny smile betrays her. “He won’t let me carry anything heavier than a remote control.”

“That just sounds like a responsible man.”

“Kitan, he followed me into the kitchen yesterday like a trained bodyguard just because I wanted to boil ordinary water for tea.”

“I still don’t see the problem here.”

Oyinda folds her arms stubbornly across her chest, sinking deeper into the cushions. “You people are behaving like I’m made of glass.”

“You are fragile right now, that’s the whole point.” Kitan’s tone softens, an unhurried warmth bleeding into his voice. “Just farabale and allow us take care of you, please.”

He rubs at his eyes, the residual exhaustion of the drive finally catching up to him. “I’m surprised Kamil isn’t back yet, though.”

“He has one emergency meeting that apparently could not survive without him.” She rolls her eyes with deep affection. “He has called me ten times today already.”

“That sounds about right.”

Oyinda shifts slightly against the cushion, adjusting her weight and resting one hand beneath the swell of her stomach absentmindedly.

“How are you feeling, though?” Kitan asks, slipping into his natural role as her older brother.

“Tired,” she exhales slowly. “Hungry every forty minutes. Cranky for no damn reason. Emotional for even less reason.” She pauses, her expression settling into something serene. “But happy. Really happy.”

Kitan watches her for a moment, taking in the peace radiating from her, before nodding once. “I’m so happy for you.”

Her expression softens completely. “Thank you.”

A brief, comfortable silence follows before she suddenly brightens, her eyes lighting up. “Oh! I forgot to tell you. I got an offer.”

Kitan blinks. “For work?”

She nods eagerly. “PR and communications strategy. It’s with a media consulting firm. Verge Media. You might have heard of them.”

“Ouu, fancy. I actually know the name. What happened to the break you claimed you wanted?”

“Honestly, after everything that happened last year, I think I associated my old job with that entire yama yama period of my life. I didn’t realize how much of my decision to quit was tied to Ovie until much later.”

Very few of Oyinda’s exes incited the kind of visceral annoyance that Kitan harbored for Ovie. The guy’s betrayal had wrecked her so completely for a while that even hearing his name used to instantly scatter her mood. Good riddance, to be honest.

She continues, her voice more thoughtful now. “Then Dara started preparing for her interviews, and I was helping her with case prep, media simulations, and all those things. It just reminded me of everything I used to love about the industry.” She shrugs lightly. “I realized how much I missed it.”

“Fair. You’re exceptionally good at it.”

“I know,” she says immediately, making him laugh softly.

“That confidence was very quick

“Please. If I don’t hype myself, who will?”

Kitan shakes his head fondly. “What does Kamil think about all this?”

“You know him naw. My number one cheerleader. Best in support.” A small smile touches her lips. “He said he kind of always knew I would arrive back at this point.”

Kitan studies her carefully, noting the absence of the old shadows that used to linger around her.

“I think I finally feel like myself again,” she says softly.

“I love that for you. Truly. So, when do you start?”

Oyinda groans dramatically, burying her face in her hands. “That’s the annoying part. I got the offer and found out I was pregnant literally the next week.”

“Omo.”

“Exactly. Thankfully, Kamil started making calls and pulling strings behind the scenes. So they agreed to defer my resumption until after the baby comes and the maternity period is over.”

Kitan shakes his head, laughing. “Oyinscosco, see connections. Regular people are out here fighting for entry-level positions and you’re getting deferred executive roles.”

“Please. Let me enjoy nepotism in peace.”

“How about the acting?” he asks, leaning forward.

“I’m considering pivoting.”

“How so?”

She reaches for her mug of ginger tea, cradling it between both palms for warmth before answering. “I still love film. I always will. But I realized something while all of this was happening.” Her fingers trace the ceramic rim of the mug absentmindedly. “What I truly love is the storytelling itself.”

Kitan nods slowly, following her train of thought.

“I don’t think acting is the only way for me to do that anymore.”

“Aww. And I heard you were really good at it o.”

“I was. But then again, I’m good at a lot of things. If we wholeheartedly pursue everything that we are supposedly good at, how will we ever truly achieve mastery in our very specific assignment per time? Plus I know now that my driving force was flawed at the time. I dove head in because I was desperate to be anyone else, it was escapism for the most part. But now that I’m in a much better place, I have no use for that anymore. It’s giving evolving.”

“Hmmm. Look at you, all grown up. So, what are you thinking?”

“Scriptwriting, mostly.” A faint, electric excitement enters her voice now. “Maybe creative development eventually. Producing later on. I don’t know the full roadmap yet, but I know I want to tell compelling stories.

Kitan smiles despite himself, recognizing the fierce spark that had always defined her. “That actually sounds very you.”

“I’m currently writing a feature film for one of my former directors,” she drops casually.

His eyebrows shoot upward immediately. “Does Oga Kamil know this?”

“I haven’t exactly told him yet.”

Kitan bursts into loud laughter. “Oyindamola!”

“I will tell him!”

“When?”

She avoids his eyes entirely, taking a sudden, very deliberate sip of her tea. “Soon.”

“Please, I am not among o. You better tell your husband before he finds the script layout on your laptop.”

She groans dramatically, letting her head fall back against the cushions. “You don’t understand. Kitan, I am profoundly bored. This man does not want to hear anything like labor or work during this pregnancy. If I bring it up, he will just tell me to squash the thought until next year. But I have all this free time right now, and it only makes sense to dabble into this feature film considering there’s an existing opportunity to test my skills. Plus, it’s not as if it’s a physically stressful endeavor. It’s mostly brainwork.”

Kitan shakes his head, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Please, leave me out of it. I am not putting my mouth in husband and wife matters.”

Oyinda shifts, turning her torso toward him fully now, the humor evaporating from her face. “So… I heard you and Daddy got into an argument.”

Kitan leans back against the couch slowly, the comfortable ease draining from his shoulders almost instantly. His posture goes rigid. “Gist travels fast in this family.”

“Mummy called me. She sounded so worried,” Oyinda says gently “Apparently, Daddy spoke to her after you stormed out.”

Kitan exhales a sharp breath through his nose. “And she sent you to convince me.”

“She didn’t send me. She just asked me to talk to you.”

He looks away briefly, his gaze drifting toward the empty dining area. “You, of all people, know how hard I worked to build my life in London. You know what it took.”

“I know.”

“I actually love what I do.”

“I know that too.”

“I don’t know the first thing about corporate business.” The frustration from the previous night creeps back into his tone. “I’m not even interested in it. Why does everybody suddenly sound like I’m supposed to abandon my entire life just because Daddy is sick?”

Oyinda listens attentively, letting him vent without interrupting.

“He has protégés,” Kitan continues, gesturing with his hands. “Senior executives. Board members. People who have spent so many years understanding that specific world.”

“But they are not his children, Kitan.”

Kitan rubs a hand across his jaw, a profound weariness settling over him. “Oyinda, abeg.”

“No, hear me out first.”

He falls silent reluctantly, crossing his arms. Oyinda shifts slightly closer, resting her hand on his knee.

“My sweet brother, nobody is asking you to suddenly become Managing Director overnight.” Her voice remains calm. “Daddy just wants someone he trusts entirely looking over things while he recovers. He’s asking you because he trusts you.”

Kitan says nothing, his eyes locked on the carpet.

“And honestly?” she continues carefully. “You’re actually very suited to that kind of role, whether you realize it or not.”

He scoffs faintly, looking away.

“I’m serious,” she insists, nudging him. “You’re highly analytical. You notice patterns. You ask the uncomfortable questions that other people miss, and you don’t intimidate easily. You have his temperament.”

“That doesn’t mean I should run a company.”

“I didn’t say run it”, Oyinda’s tone softens further, becoming a plea. “Just help steady the ship for now.”

Kitan looks entirely unconvinced.

She sighs gently, her hand dropping from his knee. “If I wasn’t pregnant and grounded, I would probably be sitting in those meetings myself. But I can’t. You and I are all they have, Kitan. We are the safety net.” She pauses, letting the weight of that settle before adding, “Uncle Lawson is still there. Most of the senior management team too. Nobody expects you to suddenly know everything on day one. Daddy’s people will guide you through the basics.”

He stares down at his empty hands. “I just…” He exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging. “I don’t want to disappear into that world, Yinds. If I let it swallow me, I don’t know how I get back to my own life.”

Oyinda looks at him with considerable compassion. As someone who once felt like she was making a decision against her will, she understands the exact nature of his fear.

“You won’t disappear,” she says reassuringly.

He gives her a doubtful, weary look.

“You’re still Kitan,” she continues, her eyes shining with absolute certainty. “That doesn’t stop just because life is getting complicated. Plus, we all know you will still go back to your UK life eventually. Just for now, please. We don’t know how long…” Her breath catches slightly on the words, the unspoken reality of their father’s diagnosis hanging between them.

Kitan leans back fully into the depth of the couch, closing his eyes as he drags both hands heavily across his face. The silence stretches for a long time, punctuated only by the hum of the air conditioner.

“I’ll think about it,” he says finally.

Oyinda watches him carefully, parsing his expression. “That’s all?”

“I said I’ll think about it,” he clarifies, cracking one eye open to look at her. “Not that I’m agreeing.”

A victorious grin spreads slowly across her face anyway. “That is progress. I’ll take it.”

Before he can respond, the front door opens. “Please tell me there is actual food in this house before I faint.”

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Enitan’s voice reaches them first. Kitan turns instinctively toward the hallway just as she steps into view. She is a walking portrait of a brutal workday - her sleek, sharp-cut bob wig is still perfectly in place, but her eyes are telling of the day she’s had.

She is wearing a tailored cream blouse and deep brown, high-waisted palazzo trousers that pool slightly around her ankles.

In one hand, she clutches a structured, oxblood Polène handbag alongside a brown paper takeaway bag that smells faintly of grilled chicken; in the other, her high heels dangle by their thin straps, her bare feet enjoying their first taste of freedom.

She stops short upon seeing him, her steps halting on the polished tiles. It is the first time they are looking at each other since their intense, unfinished conversation outside the hospital room yesterday.

For a fraction of a second, something completely unreadable flickers across her face before she quickly collects herself, pulling her usual poised composure back into place.

“This is what happens when you stay all day without eating properly.” Kitan says dryly, his voice falling into their familiar, easy rhythm.

Enitan glides past him, dropping her keys onto the console. “Good evening to you too.”

Her gaze lingers on his face for a beat too long, checking the temperature of his mood, scanning for remnants of yesterday’s panic before she looks away toward Oyinda instead.

“Why are you sitting like that again? Is this not bad for the baby?”

Oyinda gasps dramatically, throwing her hands in the air. “Can all of you please stop policing me?”

“No,” Enitan says flatly, completely unbothered by the theatrics.

She drops her bags onto a dining chair and walks fully into the living area. Up close, the toll of the day is more evident. Faint shadows smudge the skin beneath her eyes, stubborn dark circles that her morning makeup has surrendered to by 7:00 PM.

Yet, as she moves through the room, Kitan finds himself thinking that she still looks annoyingly, effortlessly beautiful.

Oyinda brightens immediately, her eyes scanning her friend’s outfit. “Eni baby! This your corporate baffs is giving o. Those your office people should be paying a premium viewing fee just to see all this beauty for free.”

Enitan finally lets go of her heels, stepping onto the cool living room rug with a sigh of relief. “Abeg, let me hear word. My feet are numb.”

“Na wa o. Is thank you no longer in vogue?”

Enitan laughs softly, the sharp lines of her face relaxing. She bends down to hug Oyinda carefully, mindful of her stomach, before finally turning her full attention back to Kitan. She crosses her arms across her chest, studying him.

“You look considerably less miserable than you did yesterday,” she notes, her voice dropping to a lower, softer register meant just for him.

Kitan raises an eyebrow. “Thank you?”

“It’s an observation, not a compliment.”

He points an accusing finger at her, turning to his sister. “Oyinda, you see how your friend speaks to me?”

“Our friend,” Oyinda corrects immediately, a mischievous glint in her eye. “And she’s right. I’ve seen your upset, post-fight face. This is definitely better than that.”

Enitan rolls her eyes, but a small, reassured smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

Kitan rises from the couch slowly, stretching his tall frame before reaching for his car keys on the coffee table. “Alright. Let me run away before you two start discussing things my ears are not supposed to hear.”

“Since when? That has never stopped you before.” Enitan shoots back, leaning against the back of the armchair.

“It’s called growth,” he replies solemnly, adjusting his collar. “I am a changed man.”

Oyinda chuckles loudly into a throw pillow.

As he heads toward the main entrance, his sister’s voice pulls him back. “Kitan bobo.”

He turns around, his hand resting on the doorknob.

Oyinda isn’t smiling anymore. Her expression is steady, holding his gaze with total earnestness. “I meant what I said. Think about it.”

A fleeting, heavy solemnity passes across Kitan’s face then, the gravity of her plea anchoring him to the spot for a brief second. He looks from Oyinda to Enitan, who is watching him quietly, understanding the unspoken weight of the moment perfectly.

“I know,” he says softly.

Then, he opens the door and steps out into the cool night.

ENITAN

The front door clicks shut behind Kitan, and almost immediately, Oyinda shifts sideways on the couch, stretching her legs across Enitan’s lap.

“God,” she groans dramatically, burying her face in a cushion. “My pelvis is on fire.”

Enitan snorts softly, catching Oyinda’s ankles and adjusting a throw pillow beneath her head. “I’m sorry, my darling. It’s part of the package. Should I help you massage your waist?”

“No, don’t worry.” Oyinda pats her own thigh. “Just leave me like this.”

Enitan reaches for the bowl of sliced fruit on the coffee table, pushing it within her friend’s reach. “You didn’t eat enough.”

“Na wa o, Food Prefect.”

Enitan shakes her head fondly, but the lightness in her expression doesn’t last. Her fingers trace the edge of the fruit bowl as she asks, “Is he okay?”

Oyinda glances up. “Kitan?”

Enitan nods. “I don’t think I have ever seen him that way. Outside the hospital room yesterday... he was practically vibrating.”

The memory flashes vividly across her mind again. The tightness in his face. The way his hands would not stay still. The pain beneath all that anger.

“I was actually worried,” she admits, her voice dropping.

Oyinda’s expression softens, her eyes widening slightly. “Wait. You were there?”

“Yes naw. I came towards the end of their conversation sha so I didn’t really witness whatever went down.” Enitan exhales softly. “Part of why I even came over tonight was to talk to you about it. I was going to ask you to check on him.”

“Omo.” Oyinda shakes her head lightly. “My mother called me immediately after”

“I can imagine.”

“She was panicking small.”

Enitan leans back against the sofa, letting the plush fabric absorb the tension in her shoulders. “He looked… completely overwhelmed.”

“That’s because he is,” Oyinda says gently. She looks down, her fingers tracing absentminded circles over the swell of her stomach. “Kitan doesn’t really know how to be half-invested in anything. Once something gets under his skin, he carries it with his whole heart.”

Enitan nods slowly. “That tracks.”

“And this entire situation with Daddy…” Oyinda sighs, her hand going still. “It’s messing with him badly.”

“He loves medicine, Oyinda. He loves being a doctor.”

“Exactly.” There’s no defensiveness in Oyinda’s voice, only a deep, protective understanding. “You know how hard he fought for that life. I think part of him hears anything related to the family business and immediately assumes everybody is trying to drag him away from himself.”

A semblance of pride touches Oyinda’s face. “He’ll be fine, though. Kitan is one of the strongest people I know.” She lets out a soft, self-aware laugh. “And maybe I’m biased because he’s my brother.”

“No,” Enitan says immediately, her tone firm. “You’re right.”

Oyinda glances sideways at her. “That boy has survived things most people don’t even talk about properly. Moving countries that young. Starting over from scratch. Med school, the brutal shifts, the loneliness. All of it. Remember how he used to stubbornly chest cane that year? Even when he was not the one at fault. Or when he would get injured playing football, how he would just squeeze his face and pretend it wasn’t paining him? He makes things look much easier than they actually are,” Oyinda says.

He makes things look easier than they are. The phrase echoes in Enitan’s head. Oyinda has a point; Kitan is a grown man, entirely capable of handling his own life. She tells herself she has no logical reason to be this anxious.

But even as she tries to rationalize it away, her mind wages an internal war. If he had responded to her text yesterday, she was convinced that she would have found him wherever he was and kept him company.

Oyinda snaps her fingers, breaking the spell as she sits up slightly. “Anyway, enough about my brother before his big head starts swelling somewhere.”

Enitan laughs, the tight knot in her chest loosening just a fraction.

“How’s work?” Oyinda asks.

“Stressful,” Enitan says immediately.

“That’s every time.”

“No, genuinely. We’re structuring an acquisition right now that is giving everybody on the team hypertension.”

“English, please.”

Enitan groans dramatically, letting her head drop back against the cushion. “Basically, a multinational is buying out a local logistics firm, but the target company’s books look like a creative writing project. We are working eighty hours a week trying to make the valuation make sense before the board sees it.”

Oyinda bursts into laughter. “There she is. My finance babe”

“I’m serious o. One wrong assumption inside the financial model and the entire valuation collapses. If we miscalculate the EBITDA, the whole transaction starts looking fraudulent.”

“That sounds terrifying.”

“It is.”

“Meanwhile,” Oyinda says, a sly grin spreading across her face, “is your team lead still on your case?”

Enitan turns sharply toward her. “As how?”

“Ask me again.”

“Wait, wait. He is not on my case at all o. Odion is literally just my boss.”

“Who buys you coffee?”

“That was once. And please, I deserved it.”

“Who also remembers your deadlines and makes sure you meet them.”

“That is quite literally his job as a director, Madam.”

“Who texted to make sure you got home safely after that late client dinner last week. Or does he text every single analyst in the unit that way? I have not even mentioned the other exceptions he makes for you.”

Enitan narrows her eyes suspiciously. “Abeg, abeg. Odion is just a nice guy. That’s how he is”

“If you insist. You better open your eyes and see road.”

Enitan scoffs, rolling her eyes. “My eyes are wide open, thank you very much.”

“You are blind.” Oyinda points an accusing finger at her. “That man clearly likes you.”

Enitan groans, grabbing a throw pillow and burying her own face in it to muffle her frustration. “Please leave me alone.”

Oyinda laughs loudly, watching her friend hide behind the cushion. “I’m serious!”

“And I’m serious too.” Enitan lowers the pillow, folding her arms tightly across her chest. “Nothing is happening there. It’s strictly professional.”

“Do you want something to happen?”

Enitan opens her mouth to deliver a swift, sharp refusal, but the words trap themselves in her throat. Her eyes drift to the ceiling for a split second. “He does have very nice hands. And he wears this specific Tom Ford cologne that makes it very difficult to focus during portfolio reviews.”

She blinks, suddenly realizing she said that out loud, and snaps her posture straight. “But he is a VP and also my team lead! Hello? HR compliance would have an absolute field day, and I am not risking my Q2 performance bonus for a man who uses the word synergy in casual conversation.”

Oyinda collapses into helpless laughter at the sheer, flustered panic in her voice.

Author’s Note: Kitan too is already falling because why is he staring at Enitan much longer, this people don go oo.💀

Anyways, let’s wish Kitan the best as he starts working at his father’s company.🥳

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Catch up: Chapter one, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, and Chapter Five.

See you next week Monday.🫶🏽

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This memory came to me because my right hand cramped up for a split second so I had to momentarily switch to my left for some relief and nothing about that was easy.

Even for a moment, it felt unnatural, uncomfortable, slightly disorienting. And yet, he had practiced it. Repeatedly. Intentionally. Just to make me feel safe, seen and comfortable.

Thinking about that led me to think of another friend I had in primary school, who would always sit by my side at lunch, waiting for me to almost finish my food before starting hers. I was a painfully slow eater but she never rushed me. Never left my side for the entire duration of the break time. She would sit there, her food untouched, only beginning to eat when I was almost done. Nobody knew that she wasn’t a slow eater like me, just us.

I felt less awkward because I wasn’t alone.

This thought naturally took me down a rabbit hole of different times in my life when love was so freely poured in my direction.

People learning instruments because it made me smile, the person who made me a whole playlist to cheer me up, the ones who sat with me as I cried ugly tears without judgement, the ones who wore my pain on their chests and made it their mission to make me smile.

I have known great love in this my lifetime and I count it as a great blessing.

It is a strange thing, the way love reveals itself in small, deliberate inconveniences people are willing to endure for you and in how willing you are to do the same for them.

We are often taught to recognize love in its loudest forms, the sweeping, hard-to-fight kind we see in books and films. The kind that feels overwhelming, uncontrollable, almost violent in its intensity. It is the gripping version that takes hold of you and refuses to let go. This love is depicted as beyond your control and try as you might, you find that you cannot shake it off.

They tell you that it is this huge, gallant thing that has overpowered you against your will and leaves you breathless in your pursuit of it.

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But while love can be consuming I have learned that it is not necessarily overpowering. True love often lives in the microscopic details.

It is the “I saw this and thought of you” text; it’s the involuntary, “stupid” smile that hits you while walking down a crowded street because a memory flashed in your mind. It is found in the equilibrium of shared giggles and shared tears.

Love at its core is a choice. Knowing that even if the feelings were to ever completely vanish, this person has chosen to stay and they are committed to doing just that.

Above all, it is a safe space. There is no fear here. No pretense to be anything other than yourself because you are aware that it is not hinged on your performance.

This love is not always romantic. It can be platonic and beautiful too.

I really hope that you find a version of wonderful love this week.

If while reading this essay, you had someone in mind, reach out to them and tell them something sweet okay?

Be willing to give as much love as you hope to receive too. Give your loved ones their flowers while they are still here to receive them.

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All my love,

Oreva.

By the third week, his father’s transfer to the Executive Oncology Wing at Crest view Specialist Hospital has already stripped the illness of its initial shock, replacing it with an unsettling familiarity.

Tucked away on the top floor of the premium Victoria Island facility, the wing is designed to mask the grim reality of its purpose.

It features muted cream walls, polished mahogany paneling, and plush leather armchairs meant to evoke the atmosphere of a five-star boutique hotel rather than a cancer ward. The heavy, customized doors effectively seal out the frantic energy of the lower floors, replacing it with a hushed, climate-controlled stillness.

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Yet, to Kitan’s trained eyes, the luxury is just a thin veneer. He still smells the faint, chemical undertone of medical-grade disinfectant beneath the automated lavender air fresheners.

He still recognizes the sharp, distinct hum of the chemotherapy infusion pumps hidden behind the bedside cabinetry, and he knows that the rear service elevator moves twice as fast during peak visiting hours.

The specialized unit has imposed a rigid, sterile pattern of habits that his body has begun memorizing entirely against his will.

People should not get used to places like this. Yet somehow, they always do.

When he steps into the private suite this afternoon, the television is muted, and a pair of reading glasses is perched low on his father’s nose as he flips through a document resting atop the hospital tray table.

Kitan stops near the door, his eyes narrowing. His father is wearing a proper light blue button-down shirt instead of the standard-issue hospital gown, though the collar is noticeably wrinkled.

“Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”

His father glances up over the rims of his glasses, completely unbothered. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

Kitan drops into the armchair beside the bed with a heavy sigh. “Dad, please.”

“What is it?”

“You’re supposed to be recovering.”

“And what is the issue? Is it the documents?”

“You should not be working in this state.”

His father adjusts the file calmly. “I’m not doing anything strenuous. I’m just putting things in order, that’s all.”

Kitan shakes his head, though the sheer predictability of the stubbornness makes him fight back a smile.

Recovery is moving in slow, agonizing increments, but the small victories are starting to show. They are currently halfway through his first round of chemotherapy to shrink the tumor, and the terrifying, violent sickness of those first few days has finally begun to level off.

The severe drop in blood counts that had left his father looking entirely translucent last week is lifting, the bone marrow finally doing its quiet job of rebuilding.

As a doctor, Kitan knows how to read the body’s braille, tracing the subtle shifts that a regular visitor might miss. The haunting, hollow look beneath his father’s cheekbones has softened just a fraction, and the constant, frustrating tremor in his hands appear less pronounced today.

Total exhaustion still shadows his every movement, but the sickly, yellowish tint to his skin has finally faded, allowing a hint of natural color to creep back into his face.

His appetite is improving too, though he still complains about the bland, low-sodium hospital diet with enough consistency to reassure everyone that his personality remains fundamentally intact.

Kitan clings to these details privately. The complaints. The sarcasm. The unyielding stubbornness. He values them more than any lab report or clear scan.

Turning away from the paperwork, Kitan reaches for the insulated flask on the side table instead. “Mummy sent food for you. It’s yam porridge with soft vegetables. It should help with the digestion.”

His father watches him ladle a portion into a small bowl before speaking again, his voice dropping into a softer register. “Your mother is the happiest to have you around.”

Kitan focuses entirely on the bowl, carefully wiping a stray drop of porridge from the rim. “You should eat before this gets cold.”

His father studies him for a moment longer, tracking the guarded posture, before accepting the bowl. He takes a single, dutiful spoonful before setting it down on the tray table.

“I’ll try again later,” his father announces.

“That’s fine,” Kitan says, reaching over to gently but firmly slide the corporate folder out of his father’s reach. “But absolutely no working in this state.”

His father grudgingly turns his attention to Kitan as he studies him with unhurried deliberation.

“How much longer do we have you around for?”

Kitan leans back into the depth of the armchair. “All things being equal, I’m supposed to head back next week.”

“Supposed to?”

“I’ve already extended my leave once. Twice if we are counting my impromptu departure. I don’t want to push my luck.”

His father nods slowly. “You will have to return eventually.”

Kitan rubs absentmindedly at the textured edge of his watch strap, the leather cool against his thumb. “I’m trying to finalize things with Dr. Afolayan regarding your ongoing treatment plan before I fly out.”

“Kitan Bobo,” his father says gently “While you are here... what do you think about showing up at the office? I want you to start picking up a few things about the business. You don’t need to grasp everything at once. Just enough to see how the wheels turn. Mr. Lawson can guide you through the basics.”

Kitan stiffens slightly. “Daddy, I have a job.”

“And what does that have to do with anything? Have I asked you to quit your job?” His father’s tone sharpens just a fraction, the familiar executive authority bleeding through his physical weakness.

“All I am saying is that while you are here in Lagos, just visit the office. Get familiar with the terrain. Know what is what. This one that you are frowning as if we are fighting, have I said something offensive?”

“No, I genuinely just want to understand.” Kitan leans forward, his forearms resting against his knees as he tries to pierce through his father’s guarded expression.

“You’re recovering. The chemotherapy is doing its job. The consultants are incredibly optimistic. So what is all this about? Why are you sounding like you have given up?”

Beside the bed, the infusion pump continues its measured, mechanical hum, serving as background soundtrack for the uncomfortable silence that engulfs the room.

His father reaches for the glass of water, his fingers steadying against the glass with a slow, deliberate effort before he speaks.

“When did I say that? Or do you think I don’t want to survive this?”

Kitan shakes his head immediately, his hands cutting through the air. “Then survive. Survive first, and let’s deal with all of this later. Plus, God forbid, even if anything were to happen to you, we both know I am not the sensible choice for this. What do I know about corporate business?”

“That is exactly why I want you to learn.”

“I HAVE A JOB.”

The words rip through the stillness of the room. Kitan exhales hard through his nose, tearing his gaze away to look out the window. Outside, the sky has begun to bruise, darkening with the threat of rain.

“This is actually madness,” he says, his voice dropping into a bitter undertone.

“Kitan—”

“No, please, let me talk.” He turns back, the frustration spilling over. “Mummy is praying every single day as if the world will collapse if she mistakenly stops for one second. Oyinda looks at you like she’s trying not to burst into tears every time you so much as cough.” His voice tightens, a sudden, unwanted fracture appearing in his tone. “And now you’re sitting here asking me to learn the business like—”

He stops. The rest of the sentence refuses to leave his mouth, hanging like smoke in the space between them.

His father watches him, entirely unmovable. He removes his reading glasses slowly, placing them carefully on the folder beside him. “I’m not dying, Kitan. But I would be a foolish man not to prepare my family properly in case this recovery becomes more complicated than we hoped.”

“You don’t get to do that,” Kitan grits through his teeth.

His father looks up. “Do what?”

“You don’t get to sit here talking like you’re preparing us for your funeral while everybody else is exhausting themselves trying to believe you’ll be fine.”

The emotion arrives fully now, rougher and heavier than he intended, stripping away the composed, clinical detachment he had tried so hard to maintain since landing in Nigeria.

“When I was your age,” his father says, his voice dropping into a resonant, memory-laden register, “my own father died overnight. He left before I had the chance to ask half the questions I needed answered.”

Kitan’s chest tightens, a sharp ache flaring behind his ribs. “This isn’t the same thing.”

“No,” his father agrees softly. “It isn’t. Because I am still sitting here.”

“Great. If being stuck in this room makes you think about death and drives you into drafting a succession plan, then by all means, carry on. But you will not die. Not on my watch. Also, find somebody else to replace you at the company. I am not the one.”

His father’s expression gentles, the hard-nosed executive fading to leave just a parent looking at his child. “I am not asking you to abandon medicine, Kitan.”

“So what exactly are you asking of me? Because you are speaking in riddles. What is the point of learning the ropes if you have no intention of cornering me into taking over the company?”

His father’s gaze sharpens, the old, formidable clarity returning to his eyes. “Is it a sin to want my only son to understand my life’s work?”

“With all due respect to your life’s work, Dad,” Kitan says, standing up to break the suffocating proximity of the bedside, “I am telling you that I have my own life. And I want no part in any of this.”

“You speak as though everything I built exists to trap you.” His father’s breathing changes, growing shallower beneath the weight of the strain creeping into the space between them. “Do you think I wanted less for you than this?”

“I never said that.”

“You don’t have to commit to anything today,” his father says, his voice tightening. “I am simply saying it is time you understood what I built.”

Kitan lets out a sharp, fractured breath, caught between disbelief and mounting frustration. “I spent years building my own life. My own career for God’s sake. You know exactly how hard I worked to get where I am.”

“And I am proud of you.”

“Then why does this conversation feel like you’re asking me to become somebody else?”

“Because you are my only son and this work is my legacy”

Something twists painfully inside Kitan’s chest. He hates the direction the words are moving, and he hates the massive implication beneath them even more.

“Olakitan. I am your father. I will always want the best for you.”

The room suddenly begins to close in around him. His breath hitches in his throat, making it increasingly difficult to swallow.

If he didn’t know his own biology, he would have suspected a panic attack, but the sensation pulsing through him in shocking waves is actually a muted, concentrated form of anger. His whole body vibrates with words he doesn’t dare utter aloud.

“I am trying,” his father continues slowly, the words measured and deliberate, “to make peace with the possibility that my life may look very different after this.”

Kitan’s throat tightens into a painful knot.

“And I am trying to understand,” his father adds, looking directly at him, “why the thought of standing beside me feels like a punishment to you.”

“Because I already have a life of my own!” Kitan turns on him, the volume of his voice breaking the carefully cultivated stillness of the VIP floor. “Why must honoring you mean stripping myself of my own desires? Does my own personal ambition not matter at all?”

When his father speaks again, his voice is in a much lower, exhausted register. “I am asking you to stand beside me while I am still strong enough to teach you myself.”

Kitan grabs his phone blindly from the armchair. “I can’t do this right now.”

“Kitan...”

“I said I can’t.”

He turns toward the door, his steps too fast, too urgent.

Behind him, the bedsheets rustle violently as his father tries to push himself upright too suddenly against the mattress, one hand gripping the metal bedside rail for support.

The physiological stress registers instantly on the equipment, and the infusion monitor erupts into a series of louder, rapid, high-pitched beeps.

“Olakitan!”

The raw strain in his father’s voice nearly anchors him to the floor, but Kitan forces his feet to keep moving.

He knows with absolute certainty that if he turns back now, the anger holding him together will collapse into a terrifying, unmanageable grief and he does not yet know how to survive that version of himself.

ENITAN

Enitan is halfway through typing a reply to an email when the sound of raised voices cuts through the heavy wood of the hospital door.

They are not speaking loudly enough for her to catch every syllable, but the sharp, jagged cadence of the tension is unmistakable. She pauses in the hallway, her fingers instinctively tightening around the cardboard coffee tray she is carrying.

Inside the suite, Mr. Peters is speaking in a rough, strained register that sounds entirely unnatural given his usual executive composure. It is quickly followed by Kitan’s sharp reply, thick with an edge that makes her freeze.

In all the years she has known him, Kitan has been many things - stubborn, teasing, and fiercely protective, yet emotionally evasive whenever he is cornered. But he is rarely ever harsh with his parents. Especially not his father.

Before she can decide whether to retreat down the corridor to give them privacy, the heavy door swings open with an abrupt force.

Kitan storms out, the momentum of his exit nearly sending him colliding directly into her. He cuts himself short, his boots clicking sharply against the polished floor. Enitan freezes in place.

For a long beat, neither of them says a word.

His expression betrays him completely. His jaw is clenched so tight the muscle pinches, and one hand is still gripping his phone with white-knuckled intensity. He drags his other hand restlessly through his short cropped hair before letting it drop heavily to his side.

And his eyes. Gosh. There is a raw, vibrating fragility in them that she has never seen before. It is the look of someone on the absolute brink of shattering, carrying all the crushing weight of tears without a single drop actually falling.

“Kitan?” she calls softly.

He blinks, the focus slowly returning to his eyes as if he is only just remembering that an entire world exists outside the storm in his head.

“When did you get here?” he asks, his voice rough.

“Just now.”

A lie. A small, mercifully offered white lie.

His breathing still comes out ragged, the shallow rise and fall of his chest betraying the havoc within. Behind him, the urgent, frantic beeping from the infusion pump gradually slows, returning to its regular cadence through the half-open door.

Enitan’s gaze flickers briefly past his shoulder into the suite, where Mr. Peters is leaning back against the pillows with his eyes closed. A nurse has already appeared by the bedside, her movements practiced and efficient as she adjusts the monitors and checks the line.

Something cold and uneasy slips into the pit of Enitan’s stomach.

“Kitan,” she says again, softer this time. “What happened?”

“Nothing.”

The answer arrives entirely too fast. She studies the sharp lines of his face for another moment, refusing to let him retreat into his usual emotional evasion.

“You’re visibly shaking.”

Only then does he seem to notice the faint, vibrating tremor running through his fingers. He curls his hand into a tight fist immediately, hiding it by his side.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not.”

A muscle shifts aggressively in his jaw, but he doesn’t argue. Around them, the upscale oncology wing moves on with indifferent efficiency. Nurses glide past with charts.

Well-dressed relatives speak loiter near the waiting lounge. A porter wheels a piece of equipment farther down the corridor. Yet, the immediate radius around the two of them feels strangely suspended, insulated from the rest of the world.

Enitan lowers her voice further, stepping closer. “Did Dr. Afolayan say something? Did they find something else?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

For a long beat, he says nothing. She can see the restraint happening in real time. The words rising to the surface, retreating, and reorganizing themselves behind his teeth as he fights to maintain his composure.

“He wants me to take over the company,” Kitan says, the admission sounding like it was dragged out of him.

Enitan momentarily stutters, caught off guard. “Oh.”

“He’s already planning contingency structures.” He lets out a short laugh that comes out thin and entirely frayed around the edges. “Apparently, we’re discussing succession now.”

“Kitan…”

“He keeps talking like—”

He stops abruptly. The rest of the thought remains suspended between them, a hefty, unuttered truth that he cannot bear to hear fully formed in the open air.

Enitan looks toward the room again briefly before returning her gaze to him. “Maybe he’s just trying to put things in order.”

“He’s alive!” Kitan’s voice cracks, the volume cutting sharply through the hushed corridor. “He is still alive.”

Several heads turn faintly down the hall before looking away just as quickly, respecting the unspoken boundaries of the floor.

Kitan exhales sharply through his nose and drags a hand over his face, as if trying to wipe away the sheer exhaustion. “He’s responding to the chemo. The consultants are optimistic. Everybody keeps saying that.” His voice drops into a desperate whisper. “So why does it suddenly feel like he’s preparing us for something else?”

His voice breaks entirely near the end.

Enitan takes a step closer. “Kitan.”

He looks away immediately, his eyes darting toward the floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end of the corridor, watching the rain wash over the city below. He looks toward anything except her face.

“I shouldn’t have shouted at him.”

Her chest tightens painfully at the raw guilt in his tone. “What did you say?”

He lets out a hollow laugh beneath his breath. “I don’t even fully remember.” His throat moves roughly as he swallows. “I just—”

Words fail him entirely.

Enitan reaches out, her fingers closing gently around his wrist before she can think too hard about the boundary she is crossing. The skin beneath her palm is burning hot, his pulse racing.

“You’re terrified, Kitan, and that is completely okay,” she says softly, her voice steady enough for both of them.

His eyes snap back to hers then. For one suspended, breathless moment, she thinks the dam might finally break. She thinks he might actually put words to the grief and terror coursing through him.

Instead, a familiar guard drops behind his eyes. He pulls in a slow, calculated breath and steps backward, gently but firmly slipping his wrist out of her hold.

“I need air.”

“Kitan—”

“I can’t stay here right now.”

She watches him rake both hands through his hair before turning on his heel. He walks down the corridor too quickly, his broad shoulders rigid beneath the weight of a realization he is still running from.

Halfway toward the elevators, he stops briefly. He doesn’t turn around to face her, his back remaining a stiff, unyielding wall.

“Don’t tell my mother we argued.”

Then the elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and he walks away.

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Enitan remains standing outside the heavy mahogany door for several seconds after the elevator numbers begin their descent.

Through the glass panel of the suite, the monitor continues its steady, indifferent clockwork, while the rain taps softly against the windowpanes.

And somewhere beneath the ache gathering in her chest, a thought unsettles her with frightening clarity: Kitan wasn’t just running from his father’s succession plan. He was running because he knew that if he stepped into that office, if he learned how the wheels turned, he would be admitting that a world without his father was a world that could actually exist.

A world that none of them was ready for.

She swallows hard, forcing down the sudden, hot knot gathering in her throat, and leans back against the cool wall of the corridor just to stay upright.

KITAN

By the time Kitan gets downstairs, the rain has arrived in heavy, deafening torrents.

Near the entrance, the security guards are busy dragging their plastic chairs farther beneath the deep concrete awning, while visitors scurry toward the parking lot with handbags, folders, and umbrellas clutched protectively over their heads.

Kitan barely notices any of it. He walks straight out into the downpour, the cold water soaking through his shirt in seconds before he reaches his car.

He climbs inside, pulls the door shut against the deluge, and grips the steering wheel with both hands without starting the engine.

His father’s voice keeps replaying itself in fragmented loops.

While you’re here, I want you to start picking up a few things about the business.

It was such a simple sentence. Yet it hangs in the air like miasma, suffocating and impossible to clear out.

Kitan rests his forehead against the cool leather of the steering wheel and shuts his eyes. The real problem is that he knows his father too well. He knows the way the man operates.

The executive detachment that allows him to plan six steps ahead even while everyone else is still drowning in the emotional aftermath of step one.

The conversation hadn’t been an impulsive thought. His father had been sitting in that VIP suite, watching the chemo drip into his veins, and calculating this for weeks.

And the absolute worst part is that the request isn’t even unreasonable. A part of Kitan understands the cold logic of it completely, but understanding a terrifying thing does nothing to stop it from paralyzing you.

It does nothing to ease the sudden, tight panic seizing his chest as he tries to measure the sheer scale of the ripple effect. Accepting that folder meant letting go of the life he had fought so hard to build for himself.

A sharp knock lands against the driver’s side window.

Kitan flinches, his eyes snapping open. Through the rain-streaked glass, the family driver is standing there, holding a massive black umbrella and gesturing uncertainly.

“Oga?”

Kitan lowers the glass halfway, a gust of wet air blowing into the cabin. “I’m fine, Monday. Go back inside.”

“Sir? Mummy said I should—”

“I’ll drive myself,” Kitan cuts him off, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Just go home.”

The driver hesitates, looking at Kitan’s soaked shirt, before nodding reluctantly and stepping back into the rain.

As the window rolls back up, his phone buzzes against the centre console. The screen lights up with a picture of his mother. Kitan just stares at it, watching her name flash until the ringing finally stops and the car plunges back into darkness.

He presses the engine start button. The dashboard comes alive, and he shifts into drive, pulling out into the blinding sheets of water without any destination in mind.

He navigates out through the hospital gates and hits the main road, past Falomo, bleeding into the slow, agonizing crawl of early evening traffic. Rainwater pools across the asphalt, reflecting the fractured yellow glare of the streetlights, while yellow danfo buses force their rusted noses recklessly into the slightest gaps between lanes.

Driving in Lagos is always an inconvenient madness, but tonight, the chaos feels strangely grounding. It demands enough of his immediate attention to keep him from completely falling apart.

On the passenger seat, his phone vibrates twice more. He keeps his eyes locked on the brake lights ahead and ignores it.

A danfo bus cuts abruptly in front of his bumper near an intersection, and Kitan slams on the brakes, his tyres catching wet asphalt with a dull screech.

“Olori gbeske”, he swears, the raw Yoruba insult ripping out of him as he swerves into the next lane.

He regrets the outburst the instant it leaves his lips, his grip tightening around the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He isn’t angry at the driver. It is the suffocating weight of the conversation that has scraped against an old, deeply buried wound inside him.

He drives without a destination for another forty minutes, the windshield wipers slapping a steady, hypnotic rhythm against the glass, before he realizes he has circled the exact same grid of area twice.

He has spent over the last decade building a life that belongs entirely to him. He remembers arriving in London at sixteen with two oversized suitcases, a fierce sense of pride, and absolutely no idea how profoundly lonely a foreign country could be.

Everything he has now, he built by hand, deliberately. The grueling eighty-hour weeks as an intern. The brutal post-graduate exams. The exhausting years of proving his competence over and over again in rooms where people often underestimated him first.

He earned his autonomy. And now, his father is speaking as though returning home to inherit a corporate empire should be an obvious, painless choice. As though wanting to keep the life he built for himself somehow means he is somehow rejecting his own blood.

The profound unfairness of it drains the remaining energy from his limbs.

A sharp, impatient horn blares behind him. Kitan blinks, realizing the traffic light has turned green. He moves through the intersection and finally pulls over into the gravel setback of a quiet side street, cutting the headlights.

On the centre console, his phone buzzes once more. He glances at it warily.

Enitan.

An instinctive, involuntary wave of relief moves through him before he even touches the device. He picks it up, the device cool against his palm.

Enitan:

Did you get home safely?

Kitan stares at the text for a long moment, the cursor blinking like a tiny pulse in the dark.

Kitan:

Not yet. Just driving around.

The three typing dots appear almost immediately. They dance for a second, disappear, then return.

Enitan:

You want company?

His throat tightens unexpectedly at the simple offer.

Outside, the heavy torrents have finally tapered off into a soft, steady drizzle, leaving rainwater to gather in transparent, glowing trails along the pavement.

And for the first time all evening, the exhausting urge to stop running from his thoughts presses harder than the instinct to keep moving.

Author’s Note: This Emotional support Enitan is offering, e don pass “we are family o.🌚” Someone is falling and that person is Enitan.🙃

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Catch up: Chapter one, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, and Chapter Four.

See you next week Monday.🫶🏽

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We treat righteousness as a transaction, an insurance policy signed with the divine, guaranteeing a life free of friction. We think of ourselves as ultimately good, deserving of only the best of situations.

But I have come to realise that this question carries an underlying arrogance. It assumes that you are the author of the narrative, that the universe revolves around your comfort, and that any disruption to your peace is an error.

To understand suffering, we have to dismantle that assumption entirely, beginning with a harsh but liberating truth: You are not the main character.

We have internalized a modern gospel of self-actualization that places the individual at the center of the universe. In this view, life is a movie structured around our personal growth, our triumphs, and our ultimate happiness.

When we live with this mindset, God is reduced to a supporting actor whose primary role is to clear our path, validate our choices, and ensure our story ends in a predictable, triumphant climax.

But it is not your story; it is God’s story. Plus, when you truly think about it, even the main character in most movies encounter a certain degree of obstruction before their eventual triumph.

When you shift your perspective from the micro-narrative of your own life to the bird’s eye view of a sovereign Creator, the perspective of suffering changes. The universe does not owe us an explanation because the universe was not built to serve our immediate comfort.

In fact, the Bible is almost painfully consistent about this truth: good people suffer all the time.

Job was righteous and still lost everything.
Joseph was faithful and still imprisoned.
David was chosen and still hunted.
Naomi loved God and still buried her family.

John the Baptist, the herald of the Messiah, ended his days rotting in a prison cell before being executed on the whim of a tyrant.
The disciples followed Jesus and still died brutal deaths.

Even Jesus Himself - perfect, sinless Jesus - was betrayed, humiliated, abandoned, tortured and crucified.

If Jesus Christ, the definition of “good” was not spared from agonizing grief, by what logic do we expect our own goodness to exempt us from pain? If suffering were a sign of divine displeasure or a consequence of poor character, the central figures of faith would look entirely different.

Christ Himself leveled with us in the Gospel of John, offering a promise that we frequently try to edit out of our theology: “In this world you shall have tribulation; but be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.” He did not say if you encounter trouble, but when. The tribulation is a baseline reality of a fractured world.

We often operate under the assumption that if God loves us, He will preserve our happiness at all costs. But human happiness is fleeting, fragile, and deeply tied to our circumstances.

God’s ambition for our lives is much higher than our temporary comfort; He is invested in our holiness, our depth, and our eternal capacity to reflect Him. To reach that depth, the illusion of control must be shattered.

There is a profound, agonizing mercy in what happens when you don’t get what you want, or worse, when you get exactly what you dread. It is in the space of unmet needs and unanswered prayers that the true nature of our faith is exposed.

If God is only faithful when He meets your needs, then you do not worship God; you worship your own desires, and God is merely the vending machine you use to acquire them.

Somewhere along the way, modern faith became entangled with comfort. We began to measure God’s faithfulness by outcomes. If doors opened, God was good. If life worked out, God was near. If prayers were answered exactly the way we hoped, then God was trustworthy.

But what happens when you do not get what you wanted?

What happens when the prayer remains unanswered?
When healing does not come?
When the opportunity disappears?
When life becomes unbearably unfair?

Does God stop being faithful because your circumstances stopped being favourable?

That is the uncomfortable question suffering exposes.

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True faithfulness is not measured by the absence of trouble, but by the presence of God within the trouble.

It is the realization that God is just as holy, just as good, and just as sovereign when the diagnosis is bad, when the relationship ends, or when the business fails as He is when the cup overflows.

How do we reconcile this with the famous promise of Romans 8:28 - that all things work together for good to them that love God? In thinking about this verse, we look for the silver lining, the beautiful resolution at the end of the chapter that makes the pain worth it.

But the “good” God is working toward is sometimes internal. The verse that immediately follows reveals the true objective: “to be conformed to the image of His Son.” The “good” is that you become like Christ. And how was Christ formed? Through obedience, through endurance, and through suffering.

When you accept that you are part of a grander, more complex story than you can possibly comprehend, the sting of “Why me?” begins to fade. It is replaced by a deeper, dare I say more important question: How can this chapter serve the greater narrative?

Pain is not evidence that God has abandoned you.
Sometimes pain is simply evidence that you are alive in a broken world.

A world where disease exists.
Where people misuse free will.
Where even the most faithful people sometimes weep until they cannot breathe.

And perhaps the deeper miracle is not that God prevents every heartbreak but that he is with you in the middle of the storm.

So, why do bad things happen to good people? Because goodness was never a contract guaranteeing immunity from being human.

We live in a fractured world with people who have free will.

The hope is that suffering is not meaningless.

That even here, God is present.
Even here, He is working.
Even here, He remains faithful.

Especially here.

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All my love,

Oreva.