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Less flirt, more defense. “But if you ever need a break from being holy…” — she stressed the word with a smirk — “…you know where to find me.”

I didn’t respond. Didn’t look up. I just turned back to my screen and exhaled slowly.

She walked away — heels clicking rhythmically across the tiled floor like punctuation. A few heads turned as she passed. She always drew attention without trying. She knew it. She used it.

But I didn’t turn. Didn’t follow. Didn’t regret.

I kept my eyes on the document in front of me, but I wasn’t reading it.

I was praying.

Quietly. Inwardly.

Lord, help me hold the line.

Because this wasn’t just a test of willpower. This was the beginning of a war — not loud, not dramatic, but relentless. The kind that shows up in open-plan offices and hallway glances. The kind that whispers, You haven’t really changed.

But I had.

Not completely. Not perfectly.

But enough to stay seated.

Enough to stay standing.


And yet, for the next ten minutes, I could feel the temptation scratching at the edge of my thoughts.

She was attractive. Sharp. Interested. The old me would’ve used this moment, maybe even chased it.

But not today.

Not anymore.

I minimized the draft I was working on and pulled out the devotional booklet from my bag — the one the church had given me.

I opened to the page for Monday. The first line stopped me:

“What you feed grows. What you starve dies.”

I stared at those words for a long time.

Yes. The fire within had been lit.

Now it was time to protect it — in the real world, not just the sanctuary.




The days blurred past in a rush of to-do lists, traffic fumes, and half-finished conversations. But through it all — even in the noise — my thoughts kept drifting back to Sunday.

Not just the sermon. Not just the peace I’d felt, like still water after a storm. But Helen.

Something about her wouldn’t let go of me.

It wasn’t physical, though I’d have been lying if I said she wasn’t beautiful — that quiet, understated kind of beauty that didn’t chase attention but attracted it anyway. But that wasn’t what stayed with me.

It was her consistency.

She didn’t just talk about God — she carried Him. Like a scent. Like a shield. Like something woven into her.

I didn’t fully understand what I was feeling. It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t fantasy. It was something steadier. Slower. Curiosity, maybe. Admiration, definitely. Whatever it was, it had weight — and that weight pulled me back to church on Wednesday evening.

I didn’t know if she’d be there. Part of me hoped. Part of me didn’t want to make it about her.

But I went anyway.

The building looked different at night. Softer. More human. Fewer cars in the lot, fewer voices in the air. Inside, the hall was lit gently, the lights low, the crowd sparse — maybe thirty people. No band, no formalities. Just folding chairs, Bibles, open hearts.

And there she was.

Helen. Second row. Hair tied back neatly, a small hardcover journal resting in her lap. She was already writing something when I walked in.

She looked up — and her face broke into a smile. Surprised, not shocked. Warm, not flirty. The kind of smile that says, I see you. I’m glad you’re here.

“You came?” she whispered as I slid into the row behind her.

“I said I was serious,” I murmured back, trying not to grin too much.

The Bible study was led by one of the younger pastors — not flashy, just thoughtful. The topic: Renewing the Mind.

I opened my notebook and actually took notes this time. Not just to look involved. But because I was. Something in me was hungry — not just for answers, but for truth. For clarity. For a different kind of living.

When the final prayer was said, people lingered, chatting in small clusters, offering hugs and handshakes, debating interpretations.

But Helen waited.

She stayed in her seat until I stood, and then we walked out together into the calm of the evening. The breeze was soft and cool, the kind that rarely survives Lagos traffic. But here, outside the church, it felt almost sacred.

“You’re really showing up,” she said, slipping her journal into her bag.

“I need this,” I said, my voice quieter now. “I think I’ve been running for a long time. From God. From responsibility. From... myself.”

She nodded. Slowly. Thoughtfully. She wasn’t quick to fill silence — and I was starting to appreciate that.

“It’s not always easy,” she said finally. “Sometimes it gets harder before it gets better.”

“I believe that,” I replied. “But I want better. Now. Not just for me.”

She turned slightly, her eyes narrowing a little. “What do you mean?”

I hesitated.

There was a version of me — the older version — that would’ve dodged the question. Laughed it off. Maybe flirted. But that version wasn’t welcome here anymore.

“I’ve hurt people,” I said. “Not always intentionally. But I’ve misled them. Played with emotions. Been careless with my influence. My words. My time. This time... I want to live in a way that leaves no confusion. About who I am. About what I stand for.”

She studied me — not in judgment, but with a kind of searching quietness. I didn’t flinch.

There was a pause. Then she spoke — softly.

The second reason was more personal, and perhaps less spoken of in our culture, but no less important.

I stayed because Dayo needed someone too.

He was a strong man, no doubt. Quiet, responsible, respectful. But grief has a way of wearing down even the strongest of men. I could see it—the shadows under his eyes, the unfinished meals, the way he would sit alone in silence, trying to hold himself together. In many homes, men are expected to "be strong," to carry the pain without showing it. But I knew better. I had nursed many men through illness, heartbreak, and old age. I knew what it looked like when someone was breaking inside.

Dayo needed a woman’s presence. Not just for cooking and cleaning, though I gladly did those. He needed the quiet reassurance of being cared for. Someone to remind him to eat, someone to gently open the curtains in the morning, someone to say “Good night, sleep well” and actually mean it.

These things, I was prepared to do—not out of obligation, but out of compassion.

Wumi may have been his wife, but she was also my daughter. And through him, her memory still breathed. He had become, in a way, a part of me too. I had lost a child. He had lost a partner. And little Dora had lost her mother. In that house, we were all wounded in different ways, and all healing together under the same roof.

It wasn’t always easy. There were days of tension, moments when grief made us impatient or short-tempered. But slowly, the house began to breathe again. Dora’s laughter became music that softened the silence. Dayo started coming out of his shell more, talking, even smiling now and then. I watched him cradle his daughter, and I knew that staying was the right choice.

We were not the family we once were. But we were still a family. Different, broken in places, but still whole in the ways that mattered.




***Dayo


One night in particular lingers in my memory like the lingering scent of rain on warm concrete—faint, but impossible to forget.

It was raining. Heavy Lagos rain. The kind that doesn’t just fall, but presses down from the heavens like judgment. It drowned out the rumble of okadas and the sharp bark of the neighborhood dogs. It made the whole world feel softer, muted—like the city itself was wrapped in thick cloth, breathing slower, almost asleep.

Dora had gone down early that night. She’d been running a fever the day before, and her teething had left her fussy and restless, clinging to any touch like a life raft. Momsie had stepped in when I was on the verge of breaking. She’d taken her from my arms without a word, her movements gentle but certain, and settled into the rocking chair in Dora’s room. For nearly an hour, I stood outside the door, listening to her quiet voice weaving comfort around my daughter like a spell.

“My girl, my baby, mummy’s here,” she whispered.

My chest ached at the sound. Not because it was untrue, but because it was. In that moment, I didn’t know if she was speaking as Wumi’s mother, or as something else—something I hadn’t dared name. Something I was afraid to.

When the storm softened and Dora’s soft breathing steadied into sleep, I emerged into the living room. I needed space. Air. Something that didn’t feel like grief pressing against the walls.

Momsie was already there. As though she’d known I would come. She sat where she always did—her place now, in a way—on the far side of the couch. She wore a simple wrapper and a cream blouse, loose but elegant. There was nothing ostentatious in her appearance, but it was deliberate. Her hair, usually tied back carelessly at home, was neatly pulled into a low bun. And on her lips, a soft sheen of color—barely noticeable, but it caught the light when she turned.

It is good to be married.

I have been happily married for years.

How long will he keep on tinkering with tariffs?

Finally, I said, “It’s not weird. Just… unexpected.”

We exchanged numbers. She gave a soft, almost shy smile. “It was really nice seeing you again, Mr. Dave.”

“Just Dave, now,” I said. “And yeah… it was.”

As I walked away, I couldn’t quite place how I felt.

Not threatened. Not guilty. Just… cautious.

Because life has a strange sense of timing. And while I had spent years trying to walk away from my past, here it was—grown, human, and smiling back at me.


---


Over the next few weeks, Jane and I exchanged messages regularly. What started as polite check-ins soon became longer conversations—about university life, literature, and the challenges young Nigerians face in education. Her messages were thoughtful, sometimes playful, but always genuine.

One evening, she sent me a voice note, her tone steady yet warm.

“Dave, I’ve been thinking… I’m serious about us. I mean, not just this casual ‘bumping-into-each-other’ thing. I know our past is complicated, but I’ve grown up a lot since then. I want to know the real you.”

I sat with that for a long time. The weight of her words, the honesty in her voice—it was impossible to dismiss.

She wasn’t just a girl I once taught. She was a woman carving out her own path, ready to walk beside me if I let her.

But I also knew the risks. The history with Madam Rose was a shadow neither of us could ignore. The whispers, the doubts, the scars—mine and hers.

Still, I found myself wanting to believe in this chance.

“I appreciate your honesty, Jane,” I replied carefully. “And I want to take things slow. I’m not sure I’m ready to rush into anything, but I do want to get to know you better.”

She responded almost immediately, a simple, “That’s all I ask.”

It was a beginning—tentative, fragile, but real.

For the first time in years, I allowed myself to hope that maybe, just maybe, the past wouldn’t define my future.



***


A few days after exchanging numbers, I suggested we meet in person—somewhere quiet but casual. I didn’t want anything too flashy or formal. An eatery tucked away in a corner of Wuse Market seemed just right.

When Jane arrived, she was as composed as ever—her smile easy but eyes curious, as if she wanted to read what I was really thinking.

We ordered food, and for a while, talked about ordinary things: how the traffic had gotten worse, the latest book she was reading, her hopes after university.

But eventually, the question I’d been avoiding surfaced.

I hesitated, then asked carefully, “What about your sister?”

Jane’s smile faltered for a moment. “Julie? She’s… protective, sure. But she’s not my mother.”

I swallowed and pushed on. “And your mum? What if she hears about you being in a relationship with me? I’m guessing she won’t be happy.”

Jane shrugged, her expression steady. “My mum’s old-fashioned, yes. She expects certain things from us. But I’m not a child anymore, Dave. I’m twenty-one. I can make my own decisions.”

Her voice had a quiet firmness that surprised me. It wasn’t rebellion, exactly—it was conviction.

“Nobody should be a stumbling block,” she added. “Not my mum. Not my sister. Especially not because of what happened in the past.”

Her words hit me in a way I hadn’t expected.

“Madam,” I said, struggling to keep my tone respectful, “can you please send me your account number? I’d like to return the money.”

There was a pause, then a laugh — dry and mocking.

“Come on, Femi. Stop thinking with your heart. Use your brain. You should be thanking me, not calling me with righteous indignation.”

I held the phone tighter. “I didn’t ask for that money.”

“No, but you need it,” she said sharply. “You’re jobless. You’re about to marry a woman who can’t help you climb. You think love is enough? Be smart. I gave you a way out. I gave you a chance to become something.”

“With all due respect, ma,” I said, my voice trembling from restraint, “what you gave me is an insult wrapped in generosity. I’ve already made my choice. My life is not for sale.”

She scoffed. “Keep living in your fantasy. You think loyalty feeds a family? You think it keeps a roof over your head? You’ll come back, Femi. They always do.”

She hung up.

I stood there, staring at my phone, her words echoing in my head like poison.

“You’ll come back.”

I could have let the money sit there. Could have justified it in my mind — told myself I didn’t ask for it, that using it wasn’t the same as agreeing to anything. But I knew the truth. Accepting that money would mean accepting her claim over my life.

And I wasn’t going to be anyone’s puppet.

That night, I sat in front of my small table, laptop open, searching for a way to reverse the transfer. When the bank said it couldn’t be done without her consent, I began composing a formal email — requesting her account number once more. If she ignored it, I would donate every kobo to charity.

Let her call it stupidity.

I called it peace.

Let her think I was weak.

I knew I was strong — because walking away from that kind of money, in my situation, was not weakness.

It was freedom.


Days turned into weeks. Still no job.

Each morning I woke up with determination, and each evening I went to bed feeling a little heavier. My CV was in more inboxes than I could count. I had done interviews — one even seemed promising, but they “went in another direction.”

There were a lot of expenses coming. The list for the traditional wedding was growing. Contributions from both families were coming in, but there were things I was expected to handle as the groom. And I had nothing. Not even a steady income.

The money Naomi sent sat untouched in my account — bright, shiny, poisonous.

Two million naira. Just sitting there like a whisper: What if...?

“Nope,” she replied. “Almost twice. Once before Ella, and once after. Both times I walked away.”

“Why?”

She exhaled. “Because both times, I felt myself shrinking. I’ve fought hard to build my own space. My daughter came as a surprise, but a beautiful one. I knew I’d raise her with or without help.”

She paused, then looked at me. “I’m not afraid of love, Henry. But I am afraid of losing myself in it.”

That hit me harder than I expected.

“You’re not alone in that,” I said.

She gave a small smile. “I know.”

Later that night, as we lay in bed—her back to me, my hand resting lightly on her waist—I realized something that startled me with its simplicity: I was sleeping better in Mandy’s bed than I had in my own home in over a year.

It wasn’t about sex. It wasn’t even about escape anymore.

It was peace.

And I was beginning to want it more than anything.


---

By the second week of regularly staying at Mandy’s, things started to shift.

My clothes had their corner in her wardrobe. My toothbrush sat in her bathroom. She began keeping more fruit in the fridge—“You prefer pawpaw to mango,” she said once, offhandedly. She noticed things. Remembered things. Small gestures that didn’t demand acknowledgement.

And though we never used words like relationship or future, we were undeniably in something. A rhythm. A bond.

One evening, as she massaged shea butter into her legs after a shower, she asked quietly, “Does Florence know?”

“Not everything,” I replied. “But I think she’s piecing it together.”

“Will you ever tell her?”

I hesitated.

“I might have to.”

Mandy nodded, then stood. She wasn’t pressing me. She just needed honesty—always that.

“Just don’t let this become a lie you carry for too long,” she said gently. “It’ll crush the joy out of it.”

And I realized in that moment—Mandy didn’t want to steal me.

She wanted truth. Even if it was uncomfortable.

Even if it meant letting go someday.


---


It was a Tuesday evening when it happened.

The sky had darkened earlier than usual, the kind of heavy Lagos dusk that warned of rain but never delivered. I had just finished a client meeting in Lekki and was driving home—not to Ojodu this time, but to Onipanu. Something in me had said, go home today. Call it guilt. Call it instinct. Call it timing.

When I opened the door, the silence was different.

Not tense.

Final.

The air felt stripped, light in a way that signaled absence. The living room was tidier than usual. The throw pillows on the couch were neatly arranged. No sign of Florence’s handbag or scarf. No wine glass on the center table. Just stillness.

I stepped into the bedroom.

Half the wardrobe was empty.

Her side.

Gone.

Drawers pulled open and shut again, neatly. Nothing messy or rushed. Just... done.

My breath caught for a moment. I opened the bedside drawer—hers. Empty.

On the bed was a folded envelope.

Just my name: Henry.

I opened it slowly. Her handwriting was steady.

> Henry,

I’m not doing this anymore. Not halfway. Not quietly. Not with one eye open every night waiting to see if my husband is still choosing this marriage.

We both know this fell apart long before Mandy. She just made it easier for you to admit it. So I’ll help you finish what you started.

I’ve moved to my cousin’s in Surulere. The papers are with my lawyer. I won’t fight you. I won’t drag your name through the mud. Just sign them when you’re ready.

We’re done, Henry. Be honest with yourself, if not for me.

—Florence



I stood there for a long while, the letter trembling slightly in my hand.

She hadn’t called. Hadn’t cried. No scene. No last fight.

Just... left.

That silence was answer enough.

She laughed bitterly, shaking her head. “All this time I thought we were just going through a rough patch. But you? You were out there building something else—something new. While I was still here holding on.”

I looked down, ashamed.

“You want to leave?” she asked quietly. “Is that what this is building up to?”

I looked up. “I don’t know yet. But I know staying like this—resentful, cold, dishonest—it’s not working.”

She turned away, holding the kitchen counter with both hands. “I hate that I still care.”

And I hated that I was the reason her voice trembled like that.

I didn’t have answers. Just a heart divided.


---

Back at work, I kept to myself more. The office moved on without the tension Gloria once brought, and business was steady. But emotionally, I was split between two realities—one with Florence, tied to vows and shared history; and one with Mandy, filled with new warmth and a strange sense of honesty.

Mandy didn’t press for declarations or promises. She let things breathe. But in the quiet moments we shared—over dinner, long conversations, or just her head resting on my chest—I could feel something growing. Not desperation. Not fantasy. Just a connection that had crept in unnoticed and refused to leave.

One evening, after reviewing some reports in her home office, she poured us each a drink and asked, almost casually, “Do you think you’ll leave her?”

I paused. “I think about it more than I ever thought I would.”

She nodded slowly. “I don’t want to be your escape, Henry.”

“You’re not,” I said, looking her in the eye. “You’re the first person I’ve been honest with in a long time.”

She smiled faintly, but there was a hint of sadness behind it. “Just promise me you’re not running. Because running always leads to regrets.”

I didn’t respond right away. Her words sat heavy in the air between us.

“I’m not running,” I said finally. “I’m waking up.”


---


It wasn’t planned, but it became routine.

A few nights a week turned into most. I’d pack an overnight bag under the pretense of work, meetings, or networking events, but in truth, I was heading to Mandy’s flat in Ojodu. That space—quiet, warm, filled with the scent of essential oils and well-cooked meals—became a kind of retreat. A quiet contrast to the growing tension I left behind in Onipanu.

Mandy didn’t ask questions when I came late or when I didn’t feel like talking. She had mastered the art of quiet companionship. Some nights, we sat together, each with a book in hand, feet brushing lightly. Other nights, we’d eat something she’d prepared—always from scratch—and sip wine while talking about everything except what was weighing us down.

She was comfortable in her solitude, and that made her presence magnetic. She didn’t rush. She didn’t pry. She wasn’t competing with Florence, nor trying to prove herself better. She simply was—present, steady, and rooted in her own peace.

The more I stayed, the more I began to see beneath her polished exterior.

She was a woman of careful rituals. Early mornings began with silence—no phones, no talking. She’d light a stick of lemongrass incense, make black tea, and stretch on the balcony while the sun crawled up behind the trees. She moved with an ease that came from knowing herself deeply.

And I—who was used to Florence’s rigid schedules, alarms, and soft-spoken martyrdom—found Mandy’s world intoxicating.

One Thursday evening, after she made a simple Egusi soup with pounded yam, we sat by the window with our bowls, the city’s low hum rising outside. I noticed the framed photo on the side table again: a girl—maybe twelve, maybe thirteen—with a smile wide enough to light a room.

“Your daughter?” I asked softly.

Mandy smiled, her expression softening. “Mm-hmm. That’s Ella.”

“She looks like you.”

“She has her father’s stubborn streak though,” she said, chuckling. “They live in Port Harcourt. I get her during holidays. She’ll be here next month.”

I watched her for a moment. “You said you were never married.”

“Nope,” she replied. “Almost twice. Once before Ella, and once after. Both times I walked away.”

“Why?”

That is unfortunate.

Public property should not be used as private property.

It is terribly erroneous.

Malami should defend himself in the court.

Saying this is witch-hunting is ethnic excuse.
Enough of that.

Even Dora had stopped asking when Momsie would be going back to Ipaja. To her, this was normal now—this quiet, gentle triangle of three people trying to rebuild around the jagged hole Wumi left behind.

But I knew normal wasn’t the same as simple.

Some nights, when the house had settled and Dora was asleep, Momsie and I would sit on the back porch, sipping tea in silence. The moonlight would catch the silver in her hair, and I’d find myself noticing things I shouldn’t: the graceful way she tucked her wrapper, the fine lines around her eyes, the way she carried her pain without letting it spill everywhere.

Once, I caught her looking at me—really looking—and I saw it. That same question mirrored in her gaze. Neither of us spoke. We just turned our eyes back to the night, letting the unspoken hang like the humid air between us.

Was it wrong to feel this way? I couldn’t tell. Nothing about grief had prepared me for the possibility that it might open unexpected doors. That love, or something like it, could quietly grow in the shadow of loss. That the lines between comfort and affection, memory and presence, could blur so gently I wouldn’t notice until it was too late.

And the truth?

A part of me didn’t want her to leave.

But another part feared what it would mean if she stayed—not as Wumi’s mother, not as Dora’s grandmother, but as something else. Something I hadn’t named yet.

I wasn’t sure I was ready to find out.


---


That tension—the one that gnaws quietly at the edges of every breath—had taken residence in our home like a silent, unyielding storm cloud. It was never loud, never a crashing thunderclap or a shattering downpour. No, it was far more insidious than that. It was the kind of pressure you feel in your chest before the sky finally breaks, a weight that presses down steadily, relentless but unseen. The air itself seemed to thicken with it, thickening the silence in the rooms, settling between the walls like dust.

It existed in the way the house held its breath each evening, just before the day bled into night. It was in the soft creak of the floorboards when someone moved, the barely perceptible shuffle of a slipper across the carpet, the muted ticking of the old clock in the passage marking time in slow, deliberate beats. It was woven into the fabric of the curtains, heavy and unmoving despite the faint breeze that sometimes stirred the windows.

Most days, I could wear the tension like armor. I would keep busy—tending to Dora, preparing meals, managing the endless little chores that made life feel normal, if only on the surface. But once she was asleep, once the house grew quiet except for the soft hum of the television playing reruns I’d watched a thousand times, the armor began to crack. I would find myself seated in the living room, not ready for bed, unwilling to surrender to the loneliness that threatened to consume me. The screen flickered dimly, a dull light in the dark, but I wasn’t watching. My eyes were distant, glazed, fixed on nothing in particular.

My mind, however, was far from idle. It spun and twisted, caught between fragments of memory and sharp, aching need. The memories were a double-edged sword: Wumi’s laughter echoing down the hall, the gentle way he held Dora in his arms, the warmth of his hand in mine. And then the grief—the hollow space he left behind, an absence so vast it felt like a chasm. I tried to push the thoughts away, tried to hold onto the steady rhythm of duty. But desire—the desperate, quiet longing to feel connection again—crept in, slow and undeniable.

It was during those moments, shrouded in the dim glow of the TV and the heavy silence of the night, that Momsie would appear. Always without warning, as though summoned by the invisible threads of tension that pulled at the edges of the house. She didn’t announce herself with a knock or a word. She simply emerged, a quiet presence materializing from the shadows.

She never intruded—not in a way that demanded attention or stirred the silence. No questions, no probing looks. She’d come and sit, sometimes across from me, other times beside me, as if the space between us was charged with unspoken understanding. Her movements were slow, deliberate. In her hands, she often carried a small bowl of fruit—soft, ripe, with the faint fragrance of something sweet and fleeting—or a steaming mug of tea, its warmth seeping into her palms.

And then she’d hum.

The sound was soft, almost absentminded, a thread of melody pulled from an old hymn that Wumi had loved. The tune was neither mournful nor joyful, but something in between—a lullaby woven from memory and faith, comfort and sorrow intertwined. The hum floated in the air, gentle but insistent, wrapping around me like a fragile shield. It was familiar enough to soothe, dangerous enough to unravel the fragile composure I’d so carefully maintained.

Each note carried weight—of promises, of unspoken regrets, of love lost and hope deferred. It filled the room, seeping into the cracks where the grief hid, stirring things best left buried. I could feel the pull beneath the surface, the silent dance between wanting and fearing, between holding on and letting go.

Sometimes, when the silence stretched long enough, I’d reach out, tempted to bridge the gap between us, to let her see the fissures in my armor. But the words never came. Instead, I’d just sit there, the hum lulling me into a dangerous half-dream, where the line between past and present blurred and the tension in the room thickened like the air before a storm.

And the storm was coming.


---


***Momsie


I chose to stay in Dayo's apartment for two reasons—both simple, yet deeply rooted in love and responsibility.

First, there was Dora. Sweet, innocent Dora. At barely five months old, she was still adjusting to the world, her mother’s scent probably still lingering faintly in her memory, though she could not understand where it had gone. I knew she needed more than just food and warmth. She needed presence—human touch, familiar voices, steady routines, and above all, the love of both her parents, even if one was now gone.

I was there to mother her, yes—but I also knew that Dayo, her father, was still an essential part of her world. If I took her back to Ipaja, away from him, she would grow up surrounded only by memories, not relationships. I didn’t want her to forget her father's arms, his voice, or his smell. No child should lose both parents—one physically, the other emotionally.

The second reason was more personal, and perhaps less spoken of in our culture, but no less important.

I stayed because Dayo needed someone too.

No, I did not.

The bed should be undefiled

Massive corruption.

It is so bogus.

How wonderful Nigeria will be without corruption.

I was handed a small welcome package — a pen, a notepad, and a devotional titled New Beginnings.

I held it in my hands like a gift I hadn’t realized I needed.

New Beginnings.

The words sat heavy in my palms. Not cheap. Not trite. Not a marketing slogan.

But a promise.

And this time, I believed it.


---


Monday Morning

The buzz of Lagos was back.

The danfo horns, the impatient bike riders, the hawkers already chanting their wares at 6:45 AM — the city never paused for anyone’s personal revelation. But something in me had changed, and I was determined not to leave it behind in yesterday’s pew.

At the office, the usual routine was in full swing — emails piling up, the smell of instant coffee hanging in the air, and the murmur of colleagues who were half-awake, half-annoyed it was Monday again.

Then came Chisom.

Fair-skinned, smartly dressed, and always carrying herself with a confidence that turned heads. She was a fellow copywriter in the creative department — witty, stylish, and always finding reasons to pop into my corner of the open-plan office.

We'd never really been close, but for months now, I’d noticed the way she looked at me — not in an obvious, desperate way, but in that deliberate, slow-burn style some women perfect. Her encouragements were always just a little too personal, her laughter at my jokes a bit too generous.

And today, she didn’t wait long.

By 10:15 AM, she was leaning on the edge of my desk, pretending to skim through a document but clearly waiting to be noticed.

“Happy Monday, Mr. Disappearing Act,” she said, flashing that practiced smile.

“Morning, Chisom,” I replied, eyes still on my laptop screen. “Hope your weekend was good.”

“Oh, it was fine,” she said, tilting her head slightly. “I didn’t see you at the creatives’ hangout on Saturday. You vanished again.”

“I had somewhere else to be,” I replied, keeping my tone polite but flat.

“Hmm…” she said, eyes narrowing with mock curiosity, her tone laced with just enough sarcasm to pass as charm. She tilted her head, playing the part. “Let me guess — family function? Secret girlfriend? Or…” she paused for effect, eyes twinkling, “…church?”

She let the word linger, like it was something absurd, maybe even a little forbidden — as if saying it too seriously would make her taste soap. Her smile stayed playful, but there was a trace of challenge behind it.

I looked up slowly from my keyboard, met her eyes, and smiled — not wide, not defensive. Just calm.

“Actually, yeah,” I said. “Church.”

For a split second — just a flicker — her eyebrows lifted. A crack in the façade. I’d thrown her off script.

“Oh?” she said, still smiling, but now recalibrating. “You’re religious now?”

Her voice danced on the edge between teasing and testing. Like she was poking at something, unsure if it was real or just part of the Monday act.

I kept my voice steady. “Let’s just say I’m getting serious about my life.”

That did it.

There was a shift — subtle, but undeniable. Like someone had turned the dimmer switch just a notch. Not darker. Just quieter. More aware.

She wasn’t used to this version of me.

To be honest, neither was I.

For a moment, we both sat in that space — her weighing the meaning behind my words, me wondering if I could keep walking this line without falling.

Finally, she spoke.

“Well,” she said, running her hand through her hair, letting it fall perfectly back into place. “There’s serious... and then there’s boring.”

She laughed softly, but it didn’t hit the same.

“Hope you don’t lose your sense of fun,” she added, the words shaped like a joke but aimed like a warning.

I nodded slowly, the smile still on my lips — but it didn’t reach my eyes. Not this time.

“I think I’m just learning a different kind of fun.”

That landed.

Something in her expression shifted again — not anger, not rejection. Just… disappointment wrapped in curiosity. Like she was watching someone walk past her without looking back.

She straightened, brushing invisible lint from her blazer, reasserting her composure like armor.

“Suit yourself,” she said, stepping away. Her voice was still light, but cooler now. Less flirt, more defense. “But if you ever need a break from being holy…” — she stressed the word with a smirk — “…you know where to find me.”

I nodded slowly, her words hitting deeper than I expected.

“I know exactly what you mean,” I said. “Florence and I... we started with all the right intentions. But it feels like we’ve built a quiet prison around ourselves. We go through the motions—shared space, shared bills, shared silence. But emotionally? We’re on opposite ends of the house.”

She watched me, unblinking. “Do you still love her?”

I hesitated. “I think I care. But love? I’m not sure anymore. I’m not sure she does either.”

Mandy sipped her wine. “Then maybe the most honest thing you can do is stop pretending.”

I didn’t reply immediately. The truth was already doing enough damage inside me.

The room was quiet for a while. The only sounds were the occasional clink of glass and the soft rustle of wind outside.

Then she stood up slowly, walked over, and sat beside me—close enough that I could feel the warmth of her skin. She didn’t touch me. She didn’t need to.

“You don’t have to keep performing here,” she said softly. “Not for me.”

And in that moment, the tension I had been carrying—weeks of walking on glass between two lives—began to slip from my shoulders.

I turned to face her. “Being here... feels like I can exhale.”

She leaned forward then, her hand brushing the side of my face with a tenderness that felt unhurried, uncalculated. I didn’t resist. I didn’t want to.

What followed wasn’t wild or impulsive. It was quiet. Slow. Two people letting down their guards in a world that constantly asked them to armor up.

That night, I stayed in her apartment.

We didn’t speak much after the lights went out. She lay beside me, back curved into my chest, her breathing steady and slow.

And for the first time in what felt like a long, aching stretch—I slept.

Not like a man escaping something.

But like a man who had found a pocket of peace he didn’t know he needed.


---


The morning after I stayed at Mandy’s flat, I woke up before she did. Her room was quiet, the curtain slightly swaying in the soft breeze. She slept peacefully, one arm curled under the pillow, her breathing deep and even. I sat at the edge of the bed for a moment, watching the early light crawl across the walls.

I should have felt guilt.

I should have.

But what I felt, more than anything, was clarity.

Something had shifted—quietly, decisively. I had crossed a line not just physically, but emotionally. The connection I had with Mandy had ceased to be an escape. It had grown into something with weight. Meaning. And I wasn’t just cheating on Florence anymore—I was slowly detaching from her.

I left Mandy’s flat around 7:30 a.m., and the drive back to Onipanu was quiet, the city still stretching itself awake. When I stepped into the apartment, Florence was in the kitchen, heating water. She didn’t look up when I entered. Didn’t ask where I’d been. She just moved about the space as though I didn’t exist.

I dropped my keys. “Morning,” I offered.

She responded without turning. “You didn’t come home.”

“I know.”

Another pause. The kettle clicked off.

She finally turned, arms folded. “You could at least pretend to care how that feels.”

I leaned against the wall, tired already. “Florence, I don’t think we’re fooling anyone anymore.”

That struck a chord. Her jaw clenched. “So this is it? You stay out all night, come home looking smug, and say ‘we’re not fooling anyone’? Really?”

I didn’t raise my voice. “I’m not proud of any of this. I just... I can’t keep living in this performance. It’s draining both of us.”

She stared at me, her expression hard but her voice cracking slightly. “You already moved on, didn’t you?”

I said nothing.

That silence was answer enough.

For a long moment, I just stood there on the sidewalk in stunned silence, while buses sped past and a street hawker shouted about roasted plantain. The world was moving, but my mind was stuck.

Why would she send that kind of money?

After all I said?

Did she think my silence since the last call meant weakness? Did she think the job loss had broken me?

Was this her final attempt to pull me away from Lola?

Part of me felt rage — pure, sharp. Another part felt sick. Because the truth was, even in my anger, my hands trembled. Two million naira could change everything. Rent. Food. Investment. Peace of mind. I’d never held even a tenth of that in my account.

But I knew what that money was. It wasn’t a gift.

It was bait.

I stood on that road for nearly ten minutes, staring into the traffic like I was looking for answers in the movement of cars. Then I turned around and began walking, fast, back toward the nearest bus stop.

I didn’t even think twice. I was heading to Naomi’s office.

The same sleek building near Falomo. Cool, glassy, and distant — just like her. I greeted the receptionist stiffly, told her I needed to speak to Mrs. Ajayi urgently.

“She’s not around,” the woman said with a polite smile. “Travelled this morning. Court case in Port Harcourt. She’ll be back at the end of the week.”

I nodded slowly, clenched my fists, then turned and walked out.

Outside, I stood under a mango tree and dialed her number. My heart was pounding, but I’d already decided: I would be polite. I would not shout. But I would not beg either.

She picked after two rings.

“Femi,” she said. Her voice was casual, too casual. “I take it you’ve seen the alert.”

“Yes, ma. I have. That’s why I’m calling.”

“Good. I told you I believe in your potential.”

“Madam,” I said, struggling to keep my tone respectful, “can you please send me your account number? I’d like to return the money.”

Now in Abuja, I kept writing. Kept showing up. Kept learning.

And for the first time in a long while, I wasn’t chasing redemption.

I was simply living with purpose.


---


The National Education Reform Summit at the University of Abuja was the kind of event I was now used to—ministers in agbadas, academics quoting UN whitepapers, and tired-looking media crews chasing soundbites in the sun.

I was there to cover a panel on digital education in public universities. After filing a quick dispatch for The Snippets’ midday update, I wandered into the exhibition tent, looking at tech startup booths and student projects. That’s when I heard a voice behind me.

“Mr. Dave?”

The voice had that mixture of surprise and familiarity I’d learned not to ignore. I turned slowly.

She was standing near one of the AI-assisted learning booths, dressed in a simple white blouse and jeans. She was taller now. Her face more defined. And yet, unmistakably her.

Jane.

One of the twins.

For a moment, the air caught in my throat. Not from fear—but from the sheer rush of memory. Years of buried moments. The hushed lessons. The old dining table. The scandal that had quietly ended it all.

But Jane? She looked... unaffected. Bright-eyed. Calm. Genuinely pleased to see me.

“Wow,” I said quietly. “Jane.”

She smiled, stepping closer. “You still remember me.”

“Of course I do,” I said, steadying myself. “How could I forget?”

We laughed—awkwardly at first, then lightly. She told me she was a third-year English major at UniAbuja, focusing on education and linguistics. I nodded with a kind of strange, cautious pride. She’d made something of herself. That mattered to me more than I could admit.

“I saw your name on the summit’s press list,” she said. “At first I thought it couldn’t be you. But here you are.”

“I work for The Snippets now,” I said. “Education correspondent. Abuja bureau.”

“That’s amazing,” she said. “I always thought you were more than just a teacher.”

I smiled faintly. “You might be the first person to say that out loud.”

There was a pause. She looked at me closely, but not in a way that made me uncomfortable.

“You look... well. Better.”

“Thank you. I’m doing better.”

We talked a little longer—about the summit, about UniAbuja, about how strange it was to meet again under such different circumstances. When it was time to go, she reached into her tote bag, pulled out her phone.

“Would it be weird if we exchanged numbers?”

I hesitated. Just a second. Long enough to weigh the memory of what once was against the reality of what now stood in front of me.

She noticed the pause but didn’t press.

Finally, I said, “It’s not weird. Just… unexpected.”

On the table sat a cake—homemade, rich with vanilla and butter, frosted simply, edged with delicate pink rosettes. On top rested a tiny gold crown, just big enough for a toddler’s imagination to reign.

“You did all this?” I asked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes, surprised.

She didn’t look up. Her focus was absolute as she added the last touches to the icing. “Of course,” she said softly, voice steady but gentle. “It’s her first birthday. Wumi would have done twice as much.”

I sat down quietly and watched her. The floral wrapper tied snugly around her waist was familiar, but it was her blouse that caught my attention—silky, well-fitted, and unusually bright compared to her usual muted tones. Her hair was neatly styled, nails subtly painted, and there was a faint trace of perfume—something floral and light—that I hadn’t noticed in months.

Maybe it was the occasion.
Or maybe, I was imagining things.

She moved around the kitchen with an ease that felt almost graceful, smiling more freely than I’d seen in a long time. She talked to Dora as though she were an old friend and not a toddler still struggling to form full words. Dora responded with pure joy—giggles erupting, limbs bouncing, arms stretching wide to be lifted. Momsie picked her up without hesitation, rocking her gently as if she were cradling a precious secret.

And in that moment, as I watched them, something shifted inside me. This house, once so full of loss, was slowly being filled again—not just with survival, but with life. With love, too, in a form I wasn’t sure I was ready to name yet.

“See your cake, my baby. We made this for you. Just like your mummy would have.”

There was pride in her voice. Love, certainly. But something else lingered—something I couldn’t name, a quiet weight beneath the tenderness.

That afternoon, a few neighbors dropped by. Just two or three families from the compound who had watched Dora grow, their faces a mix of curiosity and sympathy. Blessing moved gracefully among them, handing out small plates of jollof rice and soft drinks. The air hummed with laughter and song, neighbors joining in a gentle chorus of “Happy Birthday.” Dora, wide-eyed and innocent, clapped with delight, giggling every time her name was sung aloud. It was a sweet, fragile celebration—a brief bubble of joy punctuating the long stretch of grief.

I tried to shake the feeling, bury it the way I had buried so many other things these past months. But it lingered—quietly, like a note left hanging at the end of a song.

The way Momsie looked at me sometimes, when she thought I wasn’t watching… it wasn’t maternal, exactly. It wasn’t romantic either. It was something else—something born of shared grief, of long silences at the dining table, of folded laundry and lingering prayers. Something forged in the kind of closeness that loss demands.

She had stopped referring to her stay as "temporary." Her things had found permanent places around the house: a wrapper hung on the back of the kitchen door, her slippers by the bedside, her reading glasses on the passage shelf.

Even Dora had stopped asking when Momsie would be going back to Ipaja. To her, this was normal now—this quiet, gentle triangle of three people trying to rebuild around the jagged hole Wumi left behind.