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And the weekend I would attend that youth program… everything would shift — my faith, my past, and even the secrets I had buried for years.


---


Saturday Morning

I woke up later than usual — 7:04 AM. For a weekday, that would’ve been a disaster, but today wasn’t about work. There were no pitch deadlines, no meetings, no back-to-back client calls. Just a quiet Saturday… or so I thought.

The first thing that came to my mind wasn’t food or my to-do list. It was Helen — and the invitation.

Her words still lingered like perfume: “It’s for your good. Don’t pretend.”

I sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing sleep from my eyes. The Lagos morning buzz was already creeping in through the half-opened louvre windows — distant bus horns, street hawkers yelling, a generator coughing to life somewhere nearby. I stood, stretched, then headed to the bathroom.

After a short bath, I made a quick breakfast — bread, fried eggs, and milky tea. But I barely tasted it. My mind was elsewhere.

I reached for the pamphlet she gave me, still tucked between the pages of a notepad on my reading table. I unfolded it again, this time more carefully, as if the paper itself carried some deeper message I had missed the first time.

“Glorious Vision Church of God — Ajegunle Parish.”

Youth Encounter: ‘Awaken the Fire Within.’

Date: Saturday. Time: 10:00 AM. Venue: Living Water Chapel, Nathaniel Osagie Street, Ajegunle, Ikorodu Road.

I blinked.

Ajegunle?

I checked again. Yes — Nathaniel Osagie Street. Ajegunle, right along Ikorodu Road. Then it hit me — it wasn’t far from where I lived. Just a short bike or keke ride from my mini flat off Rahman Akolawole Street in Owode. A strange coincidence… or was it?

She looked at me, long and steady. A silence opened between us, not uncomfortable, but weighty — like a space being measured.

Then she nodded. “Good,” she said. “Now we’re even.”

Even for what? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t. And maybe she knew I wouldn’t.

I led her to the register. She handed me the pack, and I scanned it with both hands, fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment — electric, unacknowledged. I bagged the diapers, smoothed the plastic over the handles.

As she turned to leave, she paused at the door. Looked over her shoulder, sunglasses dangling from one hand now, eyes unshielded.

“By the way,” she said, her voice like something remembered, “be careful with what you feel guilty for. Sometimes, that’s just your heart asking better questions.”

And with that, she stepped out — back into the gray light of morning.

The bell chimed again, and the silence she left behind was a different kind of quiet.

A quieter kind of truth.


***



That night, I didn’t call her. I didn’t tell Lola either.

But I started paying more attention to the quiet questions inside me — the ones I used to ignore.


---



Lola and I had settled on a date: the second Saturday in August for the engagement. The planning had begun in earnest — families meeting, fabric colors chosen, venue scouted in Ijebu. My mother had even started collecting names of family elders who would speak on our behalf during the traditional rites.

Every weekend, I and Lola met to go over details. She would hold her notepad in one hand, her phone in the other, moving between voice notes, price lists, and prayer points. I mostly listened. Agreed. Nodded when needed.

She noticed.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” she said one evening as they sat on a plastic chair outside her aunt’s compound, the sounds of evening traffic rising around them.

I was more interested in things less public, more private—things like good wine, good food, and intriguing company.

I signaled to the waiter and ordered two bowls of spicy goat meat pepper soup and a bottle of red wine—my favorite. I enjoyed the ritual of it: the first taste of the steaming broth, the kick of pepper lighting up the tongue, followed by the soft, calming swirl of wine across the palate. It was the perfect contrast.

Gloria sat across from me, legs elegantly crossed, eyes shining with excitement as she chattered animatedly about her friend, Desire—who apparently had just ended yet another dramatic relationship. I nodded occasionally, sipping my wine and watching her lips move more than I listened to the actual words. I’ve never been much of a talker during meals. I prefer silence—or at least the type of conversation that doesn’t demand constant participation. Gloria didn’t seem to mind. She was used to talking, and I was used to letting women fill the silences.

Somewhere between mouthfuls of pepper soup and sips of wine, my mind drifted back to the office. The figures, the projections, the upcoming client presentations—all of it played like a muted film reel behind my eyes. That’s when Gloria’s voice snapped me out of my reverie.

“Oga Henry,” she said, her brow raised. “You’re not answering my question.”

I blinked and offered a faint grin. “Hmn? Sorry, what did you say?”

She chuckled, leaning in slightly. “What could possibly be going through your mind that you’re zoning out like that? Is everything alright?”

I set down my glass and offered her a warmer smile. “No, nothing’s wrong. Just something minor from work that distracted me. I apologize. What were you asking?”

“I asked if our shopping trip is still on this weekend. You did promise, remember?”

Ah. That was a surprise. I honestly couldn’t recall promising such a thing, but it didn’t seem like the right time to start splitting hairs. I nodded diplomatically.

“Of course, Gloria dear. It’s still on.”

Her face lit up. “Aww, you’re such a darling,” she gushed, reaching across the table to give me a playful peck on the cheek. I smiled again, noting how expressive she was. Women had a way of turning affection into theater, and I had grown accustomed to the performance.

“I thought you’d deny it,” she said, teasing.

I laughed—a brief, low sound. “What’s there to deny? I’m in a good mood. Tonight’s for enjoying life, remember?”

That wasn’t just sweet talk. I was genuinely in a celebratory mood. The contract win, the cozy ambiance, Gloria’s eager eyes—it all added to the moment. I had long since accepted that indulgence came with a price, and I was willing to pay it.

Gloria had potential beyond her physical charms. She was articulate, motivated, and surprisingly competent at her job. When I first noticed her, it wasn’t just about attraction—it was intrigue. I started by complimenting her in passing, simple lines about how sharp she looked, or how impressive her presentation had been. I wasn’t overt, but I was deliberate. And by the time I asked her out for dinner, she didn’t hesitate. There was no awkward pretense. She knew what I was offering, and perhaps what I wasn’t.

That was a few weeks ago, and since then, the connection had deepened—if not emotionally, then physically. She never asked about my recent marriage or other possible affairs, and I never volunteered explanations. It was an unspoken arrangement. If she had suspicions, they didn’t matter. Gloria was pragmatic, and maybe that’s what drew me to her even more.

“Another plate?” I asked as I noticed her eyeing the remnants of her bowl.

And it went on like that for the next few days. I became, for the first time in a long while, exactly what I was paid to be—a tutor. Just a tutor.

But temptation has a way of changing its disguise.

One Friday afternoon, as I was packing my books after another grammar-heavy session, Jane lingered behind. Julie had gone off to get something from the kitchen, leaving the two of us alone.

"Mr. Dave?" Jane said.

I didn’t look up. “Yes?”

“You… you’re different now.”

“I’m focusing on what matters,” I said, still placing papers into my folder. “You’re both preparing for your exams. That’s what we should focus on.”

She paused. Then said something that caught me completely off guard.

“Did my mum say something to you?”

I froze for just a moment. Then stood up straight. “Why do you ask?”

“She’s been... acting strange,” Jane said. “And you’ve changed. So I just thought... maybe something happened.”

I looked at her carefully. There was no trace of mischief in her eyes—just curiosity. But there was also something else. Caution. Like she was walking a tightrope.

“I think your mother is being protective. And rightly so,” I said finally. “My job is to teach. And that’s what I’m here to do.”

She nodded slowly, then gave me a look I couldn’t quite place—half grateful, half disappointed.

Julie returned, and the moment passed.

But the seed had been planted.

Later that evening, as I sat at home revising materials for the next lesson, a message popped up on my phone.

It was from an unknown number.

> “You’re not like the others. I thought you were, but you’re not.”



No name. No clue. But something in me knew.

It was Jane.

The tone wasn’t flirty. It wasn’t playful. It was almost... admiring.

I didn’t respond.

I didn’t need to.

That message told me everything: the girls had been testing me. Maybe not consciously at first—but they had. And now, seeing me choose integrity over impulse, something had shifted in them too.

But I also knew this wasn’t the end.

Because when you’ve played with fire—even just once—it keeps its eye on you, waiting for you to slip.

And in that house, fire wore many faces.

By the time the doctor gave us the green light to go home, I felt a fierce gratitude, tempered by a new respect for how fragile life really was.

Back in our apartment, the small victories—Wumi’s first smile in days, Enny’s soft coos during feeding—felt like miracles. We had survived the storm, but the memory of those long, fearful nights lingered.

Through it all, I saw a new side of Momsie—not just the fierce protector but the quiet healer, a woman who gave her strength without question, who held us together when we were falling apart.

And I knew, no matter what challenges lay ahead, our family was stronger for it. Because in that week of fear and hope, love had proven its fiercest power: to endure, to heal, and to carry us forward.


***

I slept in a plastic chair beside Wumi’s bed, every bone aching, but too restless to lie down. I watched her battle the infection with a courage I hadn’t thought humanly possible. Sometimes, she’d wake in the dead of night, clutching her abdomen, tears slipping down her cheeks as she cried softly, her breath shallow and ragged. I couldn’t do much except hold her hand, whisper words of comfort that felt hollow against the fierce pain I saw in her eyes.

There were moments when the fever spiked so high—her skin burning, delirium threatening—that I truly feared we might lose her. One night, overwhelmed by helplessness, I slipped into the cold hospital bathroom and wept like a child, the rawness of my prayers echoing off the sterile walls. “Please, God,” I whispered, choking on the words, “Let her come home. Let her live.”

Back at the apartment, Momsie was everything we weren’t able to be in those moments. She held the entire world together. She cooked nourishing meals, bathed Enny with hands steady from years of practice, sang lullabies in a voice that soothed more than just the baby, cleaned the house meticulously, and somehow made sure I ate when I came home to shower or catch a breath.

Not once did she complain.

She was the quiet force—the anchor—that steadied our battered ship in the middle of a merciless storm.

Looking back now, the gravity of how close we came to disaster settles over me like a weight. If we had delayed that hospital visit even by a few more days, Wumi might not have survived. Endometritis is no joke—silent, creeping, and if left untreated, deadly. The memory of those fragile days sharpens my gratitude and respect for the strength of the woman lying beside me, and the fierce love that held us all together.




***Momsie

I was deeply distressed when Dayo, my son-in-law, called me one humid afternoon at my home in Ipaja. His voice trembled slightly, and that alone made my heart skip a beat.

"Momsie, Wumi is sick… she's been admitted to the hospital," he said, the weight of worry heavy in his tone.

My heart dropped.

Wumi—my last daughter, the baby of the family—had always been the most vibrant of my children. Just three months ago, she had given birth to a beautiful baby girl, Dora. I remembered holding Dora in my arms for the first time, her tiny hands curling around my finger. Now, the thought of Wumi lying in a hospital bed while her baby needed round-the-clock care sent a sharp pang of urgency through me.

Without hesitation, I packed a small bag, locked up my apartment, and took the next available taxi to Dayo’s home. He lived on the other side of town, and the ride felt excruciatingly long. My thoughts ran wild with worry—what had happened to her? Was it an infection, postpartum complications, or something more serious?

When I arrived, Dayo looked exhausted. His shirt was rumpled, his eyes red from lack of sleep.

Helen reached into her purse and pulled out a colorful pamphlet. Then she uncapped a sleek silver pen and scribbled her number on the back.

“There’s a youth program this weekend,” she said, handing it to me. “You’re invited.”

I took the pamphlet gently, feeling like I’d just been handed something far more important than paper.

“Thanks,” I said, not sure what else to say.

She looked at me with eyes that were both kind and sharp — like she saw straight through me, past the charm, past the surface. Then she added, “It’s for your good, Charles. But please… don’t do it for me. Don’t pretend. It’s a real experience. It has to be for you.”

I nodded, holding the pamphlet a little tighter than I needed to. I didn’t have the words, so I just nodded again.


---

That night, I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun like time on fast-forward. Her words echoed in my mind, replaying with every turn of the blades: “Don’t pretend. It’s a real experience.”

There was something about Helen — something pure and fierce and unshakable. She wasn’t just another pretty face in an office full of ambition. She was conviction in heels, grace in motion.

But here was the real question: Could I go down that path?

Would I walk into church on Saturday just to impress a girl? Or was something deeper already stirring — something I didn’t yet understand?

The pamphlet lay beside my pillow. Her number was there, written in neat handwriting.

What I didn’t know then was that saying yes to that invitation wouldn’t just change my relationship status — it would shake the foundation of my entire life.

Because Helen wasn’t just a pastor’s daughter.

She was a catalyst.

And the weekend I would attend that youth program… everything would shift — my faith, my past, and even the secrets I had buried for years.

Big Mama, Big Trouble





Henry’s life takes a wild turn when he falls for Mandy—“Big Mama”—a captivating, powerful woman with secrets. What begins as passion soon unravels into a tangled web of deception, jealousy, and unexpected fatherhood involving Mandy’s young cousin, Jane.

Caught between love and betrayal, Henry must navigate the chaos, confront his mistakes, and find a way back to himself before the trouble Big Mama brings consumes him entirely.











After a grueling day of endless meetings, difficult clients, and back-to-back calls, I found myself yearning for something more than just the sterile satisfaction of work. There’s a rhythm to life, and surely, it can’t all be dictated by the ticking clock and the weight of expectations.

A man must exhale after inhaling stress, must cool the fire of ambition with something softer, lighter—even if fleeting. That’s what I told myself as I drove through the congested streets of Ikeja that Tuesday evening, watching the day bleed into night like spilled ink on paper.

It was 6:00 p.m. when I arrived at the Planetary Club, one of those upscale lounges nestled discreetly behind tall palm hedges and tinted glass walls. The place had a reputation for exclusivity, style, and quiet indulgence—a sanctuary for those who had earned their little escape. And on this evening, I felt especially deserving of mine. I had just landed a significant contract through my consultancy firm, a project that would not only bring in revenue but cement my name among the big players in the industry. A milestone like that, I figured, called for celebration.

And what’s a celebration without someone to share it with?

Seated beside me was Gloria, my most recent romantic entanglement—or companion, depending on how one chooses to define relationships these days.

She had joined my firm three months prior as a Project Officer, and it didn’t take long for her to stand out—not just with her work ethic but with her graceful confidence, the kind that commands attention without trying too hard. She had the type of beauty that made you pause, and the kind of intelligence that made you stay.

I had picked a cozy booth, not far from the large flat-screen mounted on the club’s wall, which was playing a rotation of vibrant, high-energy music videos. Half-clad dancers twisted and pulsed with abandon to bass-heavy beats, their glittering costumes catching the dim light.

But the music—overproduced and unnecessarily loud—felt more like background noise to me. I had never been one to truly enjoy modern music; the chaotic energy, the exaggerated sensuality—it all felt a bit much. I was more interested in things less public, more private—things like good wine, good food, and intriguing company.

I pray this is true.

Oh Lord, please make this come to pass.

The Gift Madam Kofo Gave






When Dayo loses his wife, his mother-in-law, Madam Kofo, fondly called Momsie, moves in to take care of the three months old baby Wumi leaves behind.
But Madam Kofo has another unusual gift for him.









At the time Wumi, my beloved wife, gave birth to our first child—a beautiful baby girl we named Enny—it felt like heaven had touched earth. I still remember the way she looked at me, exhausted but radiant, her arms wrapped around the tiny, crying miracle we had waited so long for. The months leading up to the birth had been a rollercoaster of emotions, hospital visits, mood swings, and late-night prayers. But when I first held Enny, with her soft skin and perfect little fingers curling around mine, it was like all the chaos had finally found its purpose.

That week unraveled like a dark storm—relentless, unpredictable, and exhausting. Wumi’s condition fluctuated with cruel caprice. Some mornings, her fever would dip just enough to give us hope; by evening, it would spike again, leaving her shivering and weak, pale as a ghost. The IV dripped steadily, a constant reminder of the infection battling inside her.

Momsie became our rock, moving through the hospital room with calm authority. She adjusted Enny’s feeding schedule, coaxed Wumi to eat little by little, and took on the endless errands between pharmacy and lab, all the while whispering reassurances to me when I felt swallowed by helplessness.

The hardest moments came in the deep silence of night. I would sit beside Wumi’s bed, holding her hand, tracing faint lines on her clammy skin, willing her to fight harder, to hold on. Enny’s soft cries from the nursery tugged at me, each one a bittersweet reminder of the life we were fighting to protect.

One night, Wumi’s eyes fluttered open, glassy but aware. She looked at me and murmured, “Dayo… promise me, no matter what, you’ll keep her safe.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded. “I promise, Wumi. We’ll get through this. Together.”

That week tested every ounce of strength, patience, and faith we had. But slowly, the fever broke. Wumi’s color returned, her grip on my hand steadied. By the time the doctor gave us the green light to go home, I felt a fierce gratitude, tempered by a new respect for how fragile life really was.

Kudos

Amazing
Nigerian politics is like the more you look, the less you see.

Because I still loved Lola.

But sometimes, life tests love quietly — with nothing more than a smile, a folded note, and a voice on the other end of the line.


The next morning, I got to work earlier than usual. I told myself it was because the delivery truck was due at seven, but really, I just needed the stillness — the few minutes before the store lights came on and the world started pulling at me from every side.

I swept the entrance, straightened the carts, restocked the tissue aisle. Routine work, the kind that didn’t require thought. But my mind kept wandering anyway.

You carry yourself like someone who sees more than he says.

I hadn’t heard anyone describe me like that before. Not even Lola. With her, everything had always been straightforward — we met, we clicked, we planned. We didn’t spend time trying to name things we already felt.

But Naomi — Naomi said things that made you stop. Things that echoed long after they were said.

At around 8:15, the shop was still quiet, wrapped in the soft stillness of early morning. The humming refrigerator units formed a low background drone, and I was halfway through aligning the bottled water on the front display — labels out, edges flush, a kind of ritual — when the door chimed.

She walked in like she owned the silence.

Slim-fitting navy dress. Simple flats that made no sound on the tile. Sunglasses, though the sun hadn’t properly emerged from behind the low-hanging clouds. She moved like someone who never needed to rush — but somehow, was never late either. There was a weight to her pace. Like she had time, but it wasn’t something she offered freely.

“Good morning, Femi,” she said, sliding her sunglasses down just enough for me to see her eyes — brown, clear, unreadable.

“Good morning, Naomi,” I replied, voice steadier than I expected, though my fingers paused their movement. Just for a second.

She smiled. A small curve of the mouth, like she wasn’t quite committed to it. “Better,” she said again — the same word she used last night. But this time, no trace of amusement. Just the word. Left there, like a key on a table.

“I’m picking up something for my sister,” she added, walking slowly toward the back. “New baby. Diapers. Something celebratory, I suppose.”

I nodded, setting down the last bottle. “We have a small baby section. Right this way.”

She followed without another word. I could feel her behind me — calm, deliberate. She didn’t pretend to browse, didn’t ask unnecessary questions. There was something about the way she moved through the store that made the shelves feel neater, like even the products stood straighter when she passed. I caught a glimpse of her reflection in the freezer glass — poised, self-contained, like a note played on the edge of a glass.

We reached the baby aisle. She crouched gracefully, scanned the shelves, and picked up a pack of diapers without hesitation. No dithering. No second choices. She turned, held the package lightly in one hand.

Then she said it.

“Tell me something honest, Femi.”

I blinked. “Sorry?”

“Something true. Not rehearsed.” Her voice was soft, but it wasn’t a request.

I frowned, caught off-guard. “Like what?”

“Anything,” she said. “Something you wouldn’t normally say out loud.”

I hesitated. The store felt too quiet all of a sudden. Outside, someone was dragging a bin across pavement. Inside, the hum of the fluorescent lights seemed louder. My throat was dry.

There were a thousand things I could say. Some sharp. Some soft. Some I hadn't let myself think for months.

But in that moment, only one felt honest.

“I think you make people nervous,” I said slowly. “Not in a bad way. Just… you see too much. And you don’t rush to explain yourself.”

She looked at me, long and steady. A silence opened between us, not uncomfortable, but weighty — like a space being measured.

Then she nodded. “Good,” she said. “Now we’re even.”

Even for what? I wanted to ask. But I didn’t. And maybe she knew I wouldn’t.

I took the money without looking at her, and in that moment, I felt exactly how a sex worker must feel—paid, dismissed, and discarded.

“I’ll go first,” she said, walking to the door. “Give it about five minutes, then you can leave.”

With that, she stepped out, her heels clicking on the tiles outside, the door closing quietly behind her.

I was alone again.

The air in the room was still warm with her scent, but it felt colder than before. I looked at the bed, the money in my hand, the faint smudge on the mirror where she’d touched her lips—and I felt more lost than I’d ever been.

Whatever line I thought I had crossed before—this, somehow, felt worse.


---



After that night at Zone X, something inside me shifted.

I didn’t sleep well for days. I kept replaying everything—Madam Rose’s voice, her strange demands, the video, the hotel room, the coldness in her eyes as she handed me money like I was a tool she had used and would likely use again.

But most of all, I couldn’t shake off the image of myself. What I had become. Or what I had allowed myself to become.

By the following week, when I returned to the house for the next lesson, my resolve had hardened. I was done entertaining foolishness. Whatever games had been going on, they would end—here and now. My reputation, my conscience, and quite possibly my future were on the line.

The lesson was held at the dining table, as usual. The twins, Jane and Julie, were already seated, their exercise books open, pens poised, but their eyes were on me.

Something had changed in them too. There was a flicker of disappointment—or perhaps curiosity—that I now ignored. Where before I might have returned a knowing glance or made a suggestive joke masked as banter, now I simply adjusted my seat and opened the English Language textbook.

"Today, we’re dealing with clauses," I said plainly. "Specifically, the difference between dependent and independent clauses."

And that was it.

I stuck to the lesson like glue to paper. Every explanation was crisp. Every example sharp. Every question professionally answered. When one of the girls tried to lean forward a little too far, I simply asked her to read the next sentence aloud. No eye contact. No flirtation. No games.

And it went on like that for the next few days. I became, for the first time in a long while, exactly what I was paid to be—a tutor. Just a tutor.

But temptation has a way of changing its disguise.

I agree.
Government spends billions of naira on government houses while majority of the people wallow in poverty.

Nice one.

As I walked in and sat alone, something inside me — something long dormant — began to wake up.

Helen had thrown me a challenge, but maybe it was more than that. Maybe it was a lifeline.

But little did I know… saying yes to faith would not only change my life — it would drag me into a mystery I never expected. A mystery that went far beyond church pews and romantic feelings.

Because Helen had secrets too.

And I was about to find out that some faith journeys begin with attraction — but end in a war between light and darkness.



***



About a week after our first encounter, I found Helen again in the cafeteria. Same window seat, same quiet grace, but this time she looked even more radiant — like she carried peace in her bones, the kind you couldn’t buy or fake. I hovered for a second, nervous again, then walked over.

"Hey," I said, trying to sound casual.

She looked up and smiled faintly. “Hi, Charles.”

“Can I… can I have your number?” I asked, my voice more hesitant than I’d planned.

Helen leaned back slightly, studying me with those deep, unreadable eyes. Then she asked, “Have you considered what I said?”

I scratched the back of my neck, chuckling awkwardly. “Well… let’s just say I’m on the path. I attended Sunday service two days ago.”

She smiled, but it was brief — the kind of smile that made you wonder if it was approval or just polite acknowledgment.

“Good,” she said softly. “But that’s not enough. You really need to give your life to Jesus — to accept Him as your personal Lord and Savior.”

Her words hit harder than they should have. Not because they were harsh, but because they were… unwavering. She wasn’t trying to impress me or convince me. She was just stating truth — her truth. And in that moment, I realized how rare it was to meet someone who wasn’t playing a role.

I sighed and nodded slowly.

“My dad is an Area Pastor at the Glorious Vision Church of God,” she said, her voice calm but serious. “I can’t afford to get close to someone who isn’t born again. I’ve seen too much, Charles. I know where compromise leads.”

That part stung a little. It felt like the door was closing before I even had the chance to prove who I was beyond my beliefs. But I nodded again, trying to look like I understood — even though I wasn’t sure I did.

Glorious Vision Church of God — GVCG. A big Pentecostal denomination, with branches all over Lagos. I’d attended wedding services there once or twice. The music was loud, the preaching fiery, the people passionate. But I had never really paid attention. And I definitely hadn’t imagined I’d ever be invited back — especially not like this.

Helen reached into her purse and pulled out a colorful pamphlet. Then she uncapped a sleek silver pen and scribbled her number on the back.

But this one? She had a way of walking into a room like a story waiting to happen.

And now, again, I was part of it.

That evening, as I sat on my narrow bed in Surulere, the lights dim and the ceiling fan spinning slow, I stared at the notes again.

I didn’t owe her anything.

But I would call.

Not because I wanted anything — but because I needed to understand why someone like Naomi Ajayi remembered someone like me.

And why her voice still echoed long after she was gone.



I waited until it was well past 8:30 p.m. to call. I didn’t want to seem too eager — or careless — and I definitely didn’t want to call too late. I had paced my room twice, rehearsed how to sound calm without sounding cold, polite without sounding too familiar.

When I finally dialed her number, I stood by the window, eyes on the dim glow of streetlights outside. The line rang twice before she picked.

“Hello?” she said, her voice as composed and clear as ever.

“Good evening, ma. This is Femi… Femi Johnson. From TrolleyMart.”

“Femi,” she said immediately, like she had been expecting me. “Good evening.”

I paused a second, just to take in the way she said my name. Light, but certain.

“Sorry to disturb you this evening. I just… I wanted to say thank you. For the cash you gave me earlier. I really appreciate it.”

A beat of silence.

Then she chuckled — soft, low. It wasn’t mocking. Just amused.

“Femi,” she said again. “You called just to thank me?”

“Yes, ma. I mean — yes. I thought it was kind of you. And I didn’t want to seem ungrateful.”

There was another pause. She didn’t fill it too quickly — like she wanted the silence to stretch a little, to see what else I might say.

Then: “How can I help you, Femi?”

The question landed like a pebble in a still pool.

I swallowed. “Oh — no, no. I didn’t call because I need anything. I just… called to thank you. That’s all.”

“Hmm,” she said, with a half-laugh in her voice. “You’re different.”

I didn’t know if that was a compliment or a quiet warning.

“I mean it,” I added, trying to steady myself. “It meant something to me. That you remembered my name. That you even offered anything at all. Most customers don’t even look at me twice.”

“I noticed that about you,” she said. “You carry yourself like someone who sees more than he says. That’s rare.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. So I didn’t say anything.

She broke the silence this time.

“Well. I appreciate the call. You’re polite. Consistent. I like that.”

“Thank you, ma.”

“I told you — Naomi.”

“Right. Thank you, Naomi.”

She laughed again, a little fuller this time. “Better.”

We talked for two more minutes — nothing deep. The weather. Work. Her travel plans next week. I listened more than I spoke, keeping the line between us firm, even if her voice kept blurring it.

When I hung up, I felt the strange weight of the call stay behind in the room. It wasn’t guilt exactly. But it wasn’t peace either.

I lay on the bed, my phone on my chest, and stared up at the ceiling.

I had done the polite thing.

I had made the call.

But a part of me knew that Naomi Ajayi had a way of turning even a thank-you into a conversation that stayed with you longer than it should.

And I wasn’t sure what that meant yet.

All I knew was that I had to be careful.

Because I still loved Lola.

But sometimes, life tests love quietly — with nothing more than a smile, a folded note, and a voice on the other end of the line.