₦airaland Forum

The popular saying is that money cannot buy love. Femi strongly believes this. He has love for Lola his childhood sweetheart.
When he meets the sultry, calculating and manipulative Ms. Naomi Ajayi, his principle is seriously tested. He stands firm, but not for too long.



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Money can buy ANYTHING!

Anything money cannot buy is NOT real.

Namaster:
Money can buy ANYTHING!

Anything money cannot buy is NOT real.

Death is real...
Money can't buy Death.

Namaster:
Money can buy ANYTHING!

Anything money cannot buy is NOT real.

Health is real also. Money can't buy it. (Eyesight, Dumbness, being imbecilic etc) It can only buy you an aid/helper but not good health🙄

In Nigeria, money will buy love and you will collect change.

Most of this women you see single today are single because, their preferred choice of man is yet to come with the bag. reason the enugu ritualist and his like keep having beautiful women at home despite this women knowing what the husband is into.

The following is the only thing money cannot buy

Death.
Health.
Peace of mind.

Has it not been buying it !!!

Money will only buy you Fake love
When it comes to fake love. A woman is the ultimate champion.
They can fake love to 3 different men. And convince each of them that she is their one and only love.

Real LOVE is called Agape love..
Agape love is the one money cannot buy
This type of love is rare in marriages and only exist amongst siblings or parents to children.

98% of marriages are built on fake love

Saturdays are the busiest days at the store. By noon, the aisles are packed, the air buzzes with voices, and the smell of fresh produce and cleaning agents lingers just enough to remind you that everything's been prepared for the crowd.

I’ve worked at TrolleyMart in Ikoyi for almost two years now—started as a floor assistant, moved up to assistant sales supervisor after some months of staying sharp and avoiding trouble. It’s a big store, shiny floors and all, with security guards at the door and customers who wear expensive perfume and drive big SUVs. You learn quickly to keep things professional. Polite. Precise.

I was restocking a shelf in the gourmet section that afternoon when I noticed her.

She walked in like she owned the place. Not with arrogance—but with the kind of calm confidence that makes people instinctively give way. She was dressed in a crisp white blouse, neatly tucked into navy blue high-waisted trousers. Not flashy, not loud—just clean, deliberate elegance. Her hair was pulled back into a low bun, gold stud earrings catching a bit of the store's lighting. I couldn’t have said why, but I stood a bit straighter when I saw her.

She moved with purpose, scanning the signs above each aisle, her heels clicking softly on the tile floor. She wasn’t just browsing—she knew what she came for.

I stepped forward, as we’re trained to do.

“Good afternoon, ma. Welcome to TrolleyMart. May I assist you?” I asked, my hands behind my back, my tone formal.

She turned to me, just slightly. Her eyes met mine—sharp, observant, but not unfriendly.

“Yes, actually,” she said. Her voice was low and measured. Confident. “Do you still have the De Cecco brand pasta? Tagliatelle, specifically. And the French olive oil—what’s the name… Clarette?”

“Clarette, yes ma. We keep both items in aisle 7. I can walk you there, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

As we walked, I noticed other staff discreetly looking in our direction. Maybe it was the way she held herself. Maybe it was the fact that people like her didn’t often ask for help. They expected it.

At the shelf, I pointed out the pasta options.

“This is the Tagliatelle, ma. Fresh stock. And here’s the Clarette olive oil. Imported batch—came in on Wednesday.”

She nodded slowly, inspecting the labels like someone who knew what to look for.

“Thank you, Mr…?”

“Femi, ma. Femi Johnson

CasNova:
Saturdays are the busiest days at the store. By noon, the aisles are packed, the air buzzes with voices, and the smell of fresh produce and cleaning agents lingers just enough to remind you that everything's been prepared for the crowd.

I’ve worked at TrolleyMart in Ikoyi for almost two years now—started as a floor assistant, moved up to assistant sales supervisor after some months of staying sharp and avoiding trouble. It’s a big store, shiny floors and all, with security guards at the door and customers who wear expensive perfume and drive big SUVs. You learn quickly to keep things professional. Polite. Precise.

I was restocking a shelf in the gourmet section that afternoon when I noticed her.

She walked in like she owned the place. Not with arrogance—but with the kind of calm confidence that makes people instinctively give way. She was dressed in a crisp white blouse, neatly tucked into navy blue high-waisted trousers. Not flashy, not loud—just clean, deliberate elegance. Her hair was pulled back into a low bun, gold stud earrings catching a bit of the store's lighting. I couldn’t have said why, but I stood a bit straighter when I saw her.

She moved with purpose, scanning the signs above each aisle, her heels clicking softly on the tile floor. She wasn’t just browsing—she knew what she came for.

I stepped forward, as we’re trained to do.

“Good afternoon, ma. Welcome to TrolleyMart. May I assist you?” I asked, my hands behind my back, my tone formal.

She turned to me, just slightly. Her eyes met mine—sharp, observant, but not unfriendly.

“Yes, actually,” she said. Her voice was low and measured. Confident. “Do you still have the De Cecco brand pasta? Tagliatelle, specifically. And the French olive oil—what’s the name… Clarette?”

“Clarette, yes ma. We keep both items in aisle 7. I can walk you there, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

As we walked, I noticed other staff discreetly looking in our direction. Maybe it was the way she held herself. Maybe it was the fact that people like her didn’t often ask for help. They expected it.

At the shelf, I pointed out the pasta options.

“This is the Tagliatelle, ma. Fresh stock. And here’s the Clarette olive oil. Imported batch—came in on Wednesday.”

She nodded slowly, inspecting the labels like someone who knew what to look for.

“Thank you, Mr…?”

“Femi, ma. Femi Johnson

mschewwwwww 2 mins of wasted time I will never get back.

You are 100 percent correct. I've tested it and it's proven. Money will buy you love anytime anyway any moment

2special:
Death is real...
Money can't buy Death.

Lol. Death is free na. Who wan buy death before?

Yorubastardz:
Money will only buy you Fake love
When it comes to fake love. A woman is the ultimate champion.
They can fake love to 3 different men. And convince each of them that she is their one and only love.

Real LOVE is called Agape love..
Agape love is the one money cannot buy
This type of love is rare in marriages and only exist amongst siblings or parents to children.

98% of marriages are built on fake love

You're wrong. Money will buy you the real deal. Ladies are elements of emotions, and that emotions are best triggered when incentives are involved.

My test was on this lady I've been asking out In forever. Never gave her money or so as I don't believe in wastage. Decided early this year to try out things from a different notion with her. I've been on her matter for like 2yrs plus though on and off.


I started by sending messages once in a while are just sending her lunch as she was in her finals. I had 4 different eateries contact because of her and this started making her look at my direction and even checking up once in a while. Her birthday was February and I decided to use that to my advantage though dude had a bf. They both finished uni same time. Called up aunty on her special day and asked her what are plans are for the day, she said nothing and that was all I needed. Drove down to her school and told her to let's go on a dinner. Something aunty would have refused before, she obliged and I took her to this fancy restaurant and I treated her nice afterwards we went to a minimart where I got her few stuffs for her birthday. To cut the long story short, aunty as been head over heels with me, sexual gratification back to back, Na she dey even disturb me with call this days.




Money might not buy you love directly, but it's a catalyst to been heard and loved.

..

Hmm....

She nodded slowly, inspecting the labels like someone who knew what to look for.

“Thank you, Mr…?”

“Femi, ma. Femi Johnson.”

“Hmm.” She looked at me again, this time more directly. “You seem quite knowledgeable. Have you worked here long?”

“Yes, ma. Going on two years now. I assist in supervising sales and floor operations.”

She gave a small, approving smile. “You carry yourself well. That’s good.”

“Thank you, ma,” I said, bowing my head slightly.

She moved on, picking a few more items with quiet efficiency—dried herbs, balsamic vinegar, a bottle of wine I wasn’t familiar with. I didn’t hover, just stayed a polite few steps behind in case she needed anything else. There was something about her presence—it demanded respect without saying a word.

At the checkout counter, she didn’t fumble with her purse like many do. Her card was out before the cashier could finish bagging. Then, just as she turned to leave, she paused and looked in my direction.

“You’re attentive, Femi. That’s rare.”

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I kept it formal. “Thank you very much, ma. It’s always a pleasure to assist.”

She reached into her handbag again—this time, not for her card. She pulled out a thin, ivory-colored business card and handed it to me.

“You may call me in case you need anything,” she said. Her tone was still calm, but there was something intentional in her words. Like she meant more than she was saying.

“Thank you, ma,” I replied, taking the card with both hands, as my father taught me. Always receive things with respect.

As she walked out, I looked down at the card.

Naomi Ajayi
Managing Partner, Ajayi & Cole Legal Consult
Direct Line: [a number I wasn’t going to call anytime soon]

The name didn’t ring a bell. But something about it—it felt like it should.

I slipped the card carefully into my wallet and finished my shift. At 9 p.m., after the store had quieted and the last register was closed, I boarded a bus to Surulere. The ride was long, the city still restless with weekend noise, but my mind kept circling back to the tall woman with the steady eyes and the crisp voice.

Naomi Ajayi.

I didn’t know what it meant yet—but I had a feeling this wasn’t the last I’d hear of her.

The ride was long, the city still restless with weekend noise, but my mind kept circling back to the tall woman with the steady eyes and the crisp voice.

Naomi Ajayi.

I didn’t know what it meant yet—but I had a feeling this wasn’t the last I’d hear of her.


---





In Surulere, everything slowed down. The noise was still there — the rattle of okadas on the street, children shouting during evening play, the distant rhythm of afrobeats floating from someone’s speaker. But inside our house, in my room, things felt still. Familiar. Predictable.

The fan creaked as it rotated, slicing warm air across my face. I had changed out of my work shirt and was now in a faded white singlet, lying on my bed, one leg crossed over the other. My phone sat face-down beside me. The light had dimmed outside — you could already hear a few generators starting up in the neighborhood, and that meant NEPA had done their usual.

I reached for my wallet, almost unconsciously. Slid it open. Took out the card again.

Naomi Ajayi. Managing Partner, Ajayi & Cole Legal Consult.

There was something bold about the card itself — not the usual flashy gold fonts or oversized logos. Just cream-colored stock, elegant black lettering, and weight. The kind of weight that says: this name matters.

But to me, it was just a name. A name that hadn’t rung any bell, but somehow still echoed.

What was it about her?

She didn’t flirt. She wasn’t even particularly warm. But there was a gravity in the way she looked at me, spoke to me — like she’d already decided I was capable of more than selling pasta and arranging olive oil on imported shelves. That was the part that stayed with me.

“You're in your head again.”

I didn’t hear the knock, but I knew the voice. Lola. The only person who could come in without making the air feel different.

She pushed the door open with her elbow, holding a nylon bag in one hand. Her voice was light, teasing, but she studied me carefully. She always did.

She pushed the door open with her elbow, holding a nylon bag in one hand. Her voice was light, teasing, but she studied me carefully. She always did.

“I knocked,” she added, stepping in. “Twice.”

“Sorry,” I said, quickly sliding the card under a book on the table. “I was just… thinking.”

“About what?” She dropped the nylon bag on the floor and joined me on the bed, adjusting her position until she was sitting comfortably, her legs folded beneath her.

“Work. Just work stuff,” I replied.

She gave me a look — not suspicious, not sharp — but the kind of look that says, I know you better than that. Still, she didn’t press.

Instead, she reached into the nylon bag and pulled out two bottles of malt and a roll of chin chin wrapped in newspaper.

“I stopped by Mama Ife’s place,” she said, handing one bottle to me. “She said you didn’t come by last Sunday. She was already forming sermon.”

I smiled. “I was working double shift.”

Lola popped the cap off her malt and took a sip. “That woman doesn’t care. To her, if you're breathing, you should be eating her food.”

I laughed. Then quiet fell again.

Lola had a way of filling a room — not by being loud, but by being solid. Constant. She was like rhythm. She was home. From the day I told her I loved her behind the school lab in SS2, nothing had ever really shaken us. Not distance. Not temptation. Not even time.

But tonight, something felt different.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly, watching me.

“I’m just tired,” I replied, rubbing my temple.

Lola reached over and gently held my hand. Her thumb brushed against my palm, slow and steady. She didn’t ask again. She didn’t have to. Her silence said enough.

“Remember when you used to call me every night after prep?” she said suddenly. “Even when the phone had only one bar and you were whispering under your pillow?”

“Even when the phone had only one bar and you were whispering under your pillow?”

I smiled, eyes closed. “I remember your mother threatening to seize the phone.”

“She did, once. I still texted you with the neighbor’s Nokia.”

We both laughed quietly, and the memory settled in the space between us like an old photograph — a reminder of the road we’d walked. A long road. A loyal road.

“I still mean everything I said back then, you know,” I said. “You’re the one I want. Always.”

She looked at me then — really looked at me. And nodded.

“I know, Femi.”

But even in that quiet moment, even in the warmth of her presence, I couldn’t ignore the unease sitting at the back of my chest.

It wasn’t attraction.

It wasn’t even temptation.

It was something I couldn’t name. A feeling like a door had quietly opened — one I hadn’t knocked on. And behind it stood a woman with calm eyes and a card that felt heavier than paper should.

Lola leaned her head on my shoulder, and I rested my cheek against her hair.

Outside, a generator sputtered to life. Somewhere far off, a mosque began the evening call to prayer. The night was settling in, and everything felt as it should.

But even as I held the woman I’d promised forever, my mind drifted — just for a moment — to Naomi Ajayi.

And the way she said, “You may call me in case you need anything.”


---



The rain had started just before 8 p.m. — soft at first, then heavier, drumming steadily on the zinc roof. I had already changed into my joggers and was sitting on the edge of the bed, listening to it. There’s something about rain that always brings silence with it. The good kind.

I didn’t hear Lola come in until she was standing in the doorway with that crooked smile of hers, hugging her shawl around her shoulders.

I didn’t hear Lola come in until she was standing in the doorway with that crooked smile of hers, hugging her shawl around her shoulders.

“Your people sent rain to delay me,” she said.

I stood up and took the shawl from her shoulders, folding it over a chair. “You still came.”

“I always come.”

That was true. Even on days when her mood was low or the traffic was unforgiving, she showed up. That was who Lola was — dependable like the turning of time.

I motioned for her to sit, and she curled her legs up beside me on the bed. I could smell her cocoa butter and something warm — maybe puff-puff oil from the road.

We were quiet for a while. Comfortable quiet. Her hand slipped into mine naturally, and I held it like I was holding something I didn’t ever want to lose.

“I missed you this week,” she said, her head resting lightly on my shoulder.

I hesitated.

“Me too,” I said. “More than I thought.”

She looked up at me. “You’ve been far lately. In your head, I mean. Like your body is here, but your mind is walking somewhere else.”

I looked away. Rain still fell, softer now. The kind of sound that makes you speak from the heart.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” I said. “About everything. Life. Us. The future.”

Her eyes stayed on me, patient and open.

“You know how long we’ve been doing this, Lola?”

She smiled. “Since JSS3. Since you tried to impress me with a Love Doctor poem during assembly.”

I laughed. “You remember that?”

“I remember everything.”

She always did.

I turned to her more fully. Held her hand tighter.

“You’re the one I prayed for before I even knew what prayer was. You’ve seen me at my worst, and you stayed. You’ve seen me dream stupid things and still called me your man. I’ve made mistakes, I’ve doubted myself, but you’ve never made me doubt us.”

“Femi—”

“Let me finish,” I said, gently.

“I don’t know what life will throw at us next. But I know this one thing: I love you. Not the kind of love that fades when things get hard or new faces show up. The kind that stays. I love you like you’re my home. And I’m not going.”

She was quiet, her eyes glassy now.

CasNova:
Saturdays are the busiest days at the store. By noon, the aisles are packed, the air buzzes with voices, and the smell of fresh produce and cleaning agents lingers just enough to remind you that everything's been prepared for the crowd.

I’ve worked at TrolleyMart in Ikoyi for almost two years now—started as a floor assistant, moved up to assistant sales supervisor after some months of staying sharp and avoiding trouble. It’s a big store, shiny floors and all, with security guards at the door and customers who wear expensive perfume and drive big SUVs. You learn quickly to keep things professional. Polite. Precise.

I was restocking a shelf in the gourmet section that afternoon when I noticed her.

She walked in like she owned the place. Not with arrogance—but with the kind of calm confidence that makes people instinctively give way. She was dressed in a crisp white blouse, neatly tucked into navy blue high-waisted trousers. Not flashy, not loud—just clean, deliberate elegance. Her hair was pulled back into a low bun, gold stud earrings catching a bit of the store's lighting. I couldn’t have said why, but I stood a bit straighter when I saw her.

She moved with purpose, scanning the signs above each aisle, her heels clicking softly on the tile floor. She wasn’t just browsing—she knew what she came for.

I stepped forward, as we’re trained to do.

“Good afternoon, ma. Welcome to TrolleyMart. May I assist you?” I asked, my hands behind my back, my tone formal.

She turned to me, just slightly. Her eyes met mine—sharp, observant, but not unfriendly.

“Yes, actually,” she said. Her voice was low and measured. Confident. “Do you still have the De Cecco brand pasta? Tagliatelle, specifically. And the French olive oil—what’s the name… Clarette?”

“Clarette, yes ma. We keep both items in aisle 7. I can walk you there, if you don’t mind.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

As we walked, I noticed other staff discreetly looking in our direction. Maybe it was the way she held herself. Maybe it was the fact that people like her didn’t often ask for help. They expected it.

At the shelf, I pointed out the pasta options.

“This is the Tagliatelle, ma. Fresh stock. And here’s the Clarette olive oil. Imported batch—came in on Wednesday.”

She nodded slowly, inspecting the labels like someone who knew what to look for.

“Thank you, Mr…?”

“Femi, ma. Femi Johnson

Nice story! Do more to finish it up. Interesting story line.

She was quiet, her eyes glassy now.

Then she leaned in and kissed me — soft, slow, deep with history.

We lay back on the bed, my arms around her, her fingers tracing circles on my chest. We kissed again, longer this time. Cuddled close, our legs tangled. I could feel the rhythm of her breathing. Warm, calm.

We stayed like that for a while, touching but not rushing. We both knew where the line was, and we respected it.

We had agreed years ago: no sex before marriage. Not out of fear, but out of faith — in something bigger than the moment.

As the rain slowed outside, and the lights flickered from NEPA playing games again, I looked at her in the dimness and felt sure — not just of the feeling, but of the choice.

This was my person.

Whatever storms would come, I already knew who I’d want beside me when they did.


--








It was a Sunday afternoon. Church had just ended, and the sun was high, but not cruel. We were sitting under the almond tree beside my house, where the breeze could find us. The compound was mostly quiet, just the distant sound of someone playing a gospel mix on a Bluetooth speaker across the street.

Lola was eating the last piece of puff-puff from the nylon bag we had bought by the gate. I watched her, half-smiling, wondering how someone could feel like a whole lifetime and still surprise you daily.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said, after a long pause.

She looked up. “Hmm?”

“About us. About what’s next.”

She raised her brows playfully. “What do you mean, Mr. Johnson? What’s next after ten years of your annoying jokes and overcooked noodles?”

I laughed. “You like the noodles.”

“I tolerate them because I love you.”

That word again — love. It always sounded truer when she said it.

I reached for her hand. She didn’t flinch. Her fingers wrapped around mine like they had a memory of doing it a thousand times before.

“I want to marry you, Lola,” I said plainly.

She didn’t laugh this time.

She was quiet, her eyes glassy now.

Then she leaned in and kissed me — soft, slow, deep with history.

We lay back on the bed, my arms around her, her fingers tracing circles on my chest. We kissed again, longer this time. Cuddled close, our legs tangled. I could feel the rhythm of her breathing. Warm, calm.

We stayed like that for a while, touching but not rushing. We both knew where the line was, and we respected it.

We had agreed years ago: no sex before marriage. Not out of fear, but out of faith — in something bigger than the moment.

As the rain slowed outside, and the lights flickered from NEPA playing games again, I looked at her in the dimness and felt sure — not just of the feeling, but of the choice.

This was my person.

Whatever storms would come, I already knew who I’d want beside me when they did.


--








It was a Sunday afternoon. Church had just ended, and the sun was high, but not cruel. We were sitting under the almond tree beside my house, where the breeze could find us. The compound was mostly quiet, just the distant sound of someone playing a gospel mix on a Bluetooth speaker across the street.

Lola was eating the last piece of puff-puff from the nylon bag we had bought by the gate. I watched her, half-smiling, wondering how someone could feel like a whole lifetime and still surprise you daily.

“I’ve been thinking,” I said, after a long pause.

She looked up. “Hmm?”

“About us. About what’s next.”

She raised her brows playfully. “What do you mean, Mr. Johnson? What’s next after ten years of your annoying jokes and overcooked noodles?”

I laughed. “You like the noodles.”

“I tolerate them because I love you.”

That word again — love. It always sounded truer when she said it.

I reached for her hand. She didn’t flinch. Her fingers wrapped around mine like they had a memory of doing it a thousand times before.

“I want to marry you, Lola,” I said plainly.

She didn’t laugh this time.

She looked at me, and something in her face changed — softer, steadier. Like the air itself had paused.

“I know,” she said. “I’ve always known.”

“I’m not saying it just to say it,” I went on. “I’ve been thinking seriously. About how to start preparing. I know I’m not where I want to be yet financially. I know we’re still building.”

“But you’re not starting from nothing,” she said. “You have something. You have plans. You have sense.”

“I have you,” I added.

She smiled.

“Femi… you don’t have to be rich to marry me. You just have to be ready. And honest. And intentional.”

“I am. I want to start saving properly — maybe open a separate account just for that. A wedding fund. Something that forces me to stay focused. And I’ve been thinking of going back to school part-time too, to boost my chances of promotion.”

She was quiet, nodding slowly.

“My mum has asked me twice this year,” she said after a while. “If we’re still ‘serious.’ You know how parents are. If you’re not posting engagement photos by 27, they start calling prayer meetings.”

We both chuckled. But the topic stayed serious.

“I’m not in a rush for ceremony,” Lola said. “We can do something simple. As long as the promise is real.”

“I don’t want to wait five years,” I said. “Maybe next year. Or the year after. Latest.”

“Two years is fair,” she said. “We’ll both be in a better place by then, God willing.”

Then we sat in silence, not because there was nothing to say, but because we’d already said the most important thing: We are doing this. Together.

Then we sat in silence, not because there was nothing to say, but because we’d already said the most important thing: We are doing this. Together.

She leaned her head on my shoulder, and I held her close. We watched the clouds roll by, naming the shapes like we used to in secondary school — one looked like a tortoise, another like a wedding cake.

Later, as she walked back home and waved at me from the corner, I felt it.

Not just love. Not just desire.

But direction.

For the first time in a long time, my future didn’t feel like an uncertain fog. It had a name.

Lola.

And I was ready to build a life with her — brick by brick, vow by vow.


---

It was a slow Tuesday morning at the supermarket — the kind where even the air felt lazy. Most of the customers at that hour were older women doing their midweek shopping, or drivers picking up things on behalf of their bosses. Nothing unusual.

I was by the household section, supervising the arrangement of air fresheners, when I felt the shift.

It wasn’t loud. No dramatic music. Just… presence.

I turned, and there she was.

Ms. Naomi Ajayi.

She walked in like she’d never left — poised, focused, carrying that same quiet confidence like it belonged to her bloodline. She wasn’t dressed to stand out, but she did anyway — a sleeveless cream top, high-waisted jeans, dark sunglasses she removed as she entered.

I blinked once. Twice.

Then I walked quickly over.

“Good day, ma’am,” I said, hands politely behind me. “Happy to see you again. Glad to be at your service.”

She looked at me, her eyes catching mine without hesitation.

She looked at me, her eyes catching mine without hesitation.

“Good day, Femi. How are you?”

That was the first surprise. My name — still in her mouth like it belonged there. Sharp and clear.

“I’m well, ma’am. At your service,” I replied, regaining my composure.

She smiled, faint but sure. “You didn’t call.”

The words struck like something soft and unexpected.

My mouth opened slightly. “Yes… but I still intend to do so.”

She didn’t say anything. Just kept walking. And I followed — like a shadow with a name tag.

She moved through the store quickly, scanning shelves like she knew what she needed. I offered help, and she accepted. A particular brand of green tea. Gluten-free crackers. Organic honey.

As I reached up to grab a jar from the top shelf for her, I noticed the way she studied everything — including me. Like she was filing away details she didn’t plan to forget.

At the checkout, she waited patiently, hands folded, no rush.

And just as she was about to step outside, she turned back to me.

She reached into her handbag, pulled out a few folded naira notes — crisp, the way people who don't touch small cash often handle it.

She pressed it gently into my hand.

“You can use that to buy a credit card,” she said with a smile that was somewhere between kindness and mischief.

“Ma?” I blinked, caught completely off guard.

“For when you finally call.”

I stared at the notes — not too much to embarrass me, but enough to make it feel personal. Intentional.

“Thank you, ma. God bless you,” I managed, suddenly feeling younger than I was.

She nodded and walked away — smooth, like nothing had happened.

I stood at the entrance, watching her car pull away, the notes still warm in my hand.

I’d served hundreds of customers before. Important people. Rude ones. Friendly ones. Generous ones.

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.

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.

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.

2special:
Death is real...
Money can't buy Death.

Money can buy death (assassin)...but can't buy life...(resurrection)

bullabong:
Money can buy death (assassin)...but can't buy life...(resurrection)

you know say if money can buy Death, Buhari no go paa

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.

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.

“Just tired,” I said. “Work’s been full.”

She studied and stared at my face. “You sure?”

I nodded. “Of course.” Then, to distract her: “Your aunt’s bringing small chops to the introduction, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “If she doesn’t, I’ll personally disown her.”

We both laughed, and the moment passed.

But Ii knew my quiet wasn’t just work.

I hadn’t seen Naomi in nearly three weeks — not at TrolleyMart, not in passing, not even a call or text. I hadn’t expected anything more from her after that strange, disarming moment in the baby aisle. But I couldn’t shake the way she said things, or how her words echoed in my head long after she was gone.

Be careful with what you feel guilty for. Sometimes, that’s just your heart asking better questions.

I told himself it was just a passing thought. That loyalty was a matter of choice, not feeling.

Still, one Thursday afternoon, as I was restocking canned goods, I asked the manager without thinking, “Has that woman — Mrs. Naomi Ajayi — been in lately?”

The manager looked up. “Who?”

“The tall one. Wears sunglasses. Always buys from aisle seven.”

“Oh. The lawyer-looking one. Haven’t seen her since early May. Maybe she travelled.”

I nodded slowly. “Maybe.”




That evening, as I walked home, I passed the spot where Naomi and I had first truly spoken — near the supermarket’s exit gate, just behind the security post, where the light flickered overhead and the dust from the street never quite settled.

It was there she had handed me that folded note.
My name written in clean cursive, deliberate and unhurried — Femi.
No greeting, no smile. Just that small, heavy offering of presence.

I hadn’t realized how much that gesture had shifted something in me.


---

By the time I got home, Lola had sent me a batch of designs for the engagement invitations — gold fonts, soft blush backgrounds, and our names elegantly paired as though we had already become a joint brand.

I stared at them longer than necessary.
Then typed:

Looks good. We’re almost there.

She replied with a heart emoji and a voice note — a worship song humming in the background, her voice warm as she said, “God is faithful, my love. We’re covered.”

And still, beneath it all, somewhere in the dim, unlit corners of my mind, a different silence stayed.

It didn’t interrupt.
It didn’t argue.
It just waited.


---

Two weeks to the introduction ceremony, the pressure moved like a fog across everything — thick, quiet, and slow-moving.

Work felt heavier. My own thoughts stopped responding the way they used to.

At TrolleyMart, I kept the shelves neat. I managed the staff without complaint. As assistant sales supervisor, I wasn’t changing the world, but I was building something — a name, a rhythm, a future.

I didn’t need to borrow clothes or perform for anyone. My plain shirt and trousers were enough.

And still, even that quiet confidence began to feel… borrowed.

That Thursday, just as I was locking up the office, my phone buzzed.

An unknown number. I almost let it ring out.
But something — a faint tug in the chest — made me swipe to answer.

“Femi, it’s Naomi,” her voice came through the line. Calm. Precise.

I froze.

Her name cracked the air like cold glass.

Naomi.
Older. Sharper. A woman with the kind of polish that wasn’t taught — only earned, or inherited.

She didn’t need to be loud to be felt. She didn’t need to repeat herself.

She was the kind of person who made space without ever asking for it.

“I need to see you,” she said. “It’s important.”

She didn’t need to be loud to be felt. She didn’t need to repeat herself.
She was the kind of person who made space without ever asking for it.

“I need to see you,” she said. “It’s important.”


---

The next day, I stood in front of a glass building near Falomo, Ikoyi.
Marble tiles, spotless revolving doors, a receptionist who didn’t look up unless she had to.

Inside, I felt both welcome and out of place — like a guest in a world I’d never quite be part of.

Naomi’s office was on the third floor. Wide windows. A long desk with no clutter. A single painting — abstract, intense — behind her chair.

She greeted me with a cool, unreadable smile.

“I know about your upcoming introduction and engagement to Lola,” she said, skipping past every polite formality.

I blinked. “How did you—”

She waved a hand. “I’m well connected.”

Her eyes didn’t move from mine. I couldn’t tell if she was testing me or already knew the answers to questions I hadn’t asked myself.

Then she said it — quiet, clean:

“I’m interested in you.”

I almost laughed. Thought she was joking.

Until she continued, calm as before:

“I want you to drop Lola.”

The air between us shifted. The office was suddenly too quiet. The hum of the air conditioning sounded like wind in a tunnel.

I frowned. “Naomi, Lola and I are the same age. We’ve built a future together.”

Naomi leaned forward slightly, her tone still even.

“Exactly. You’re young. With your whole life ahead of you. Lola is wonderful — dependable, safe. But I can offer you a different path. Bigger. Freer.”

She didn’t blink. She didn’t smile.

“I have the means. The reach. I’m willing to give you two million naira. Just to start. Walk away from this engagement, and I’ll help you build something new. No strings attached.”

Two million naira.

My ears didn’t mishear it.
It rang inside my chest like a bell I wasn’t ready to face.

That kind of money could clear my parents’ rent backlog. Pay off my brother’s school fees. Buy my father the medication he’d been rationing. Even restart that dream I buried — the food business plan still saved as a half-finished Word doc on my laptop.

And for a split second, I saw it all — the escape, the ease, the freedom.

But then, my heart clenched.
Not from fear.
But from the knowing.

“No,” I said quietly. “I’m committed to Lola. I’ve chosen her. That’s not something money can change.”

Naomi’s eyes narrowed, just slightly. Then relaxed.

She leaned back, thoughtful.

“I hoped you’d say that,” she said. “Loyalty is rare. But so is clarity. If the fog ever lifts and you see things differently… the offer stands.”

There was no anger in her voice. No bitterness.
Just something quieter. Like curiosity left unsatisfied.

I stood. Shook her hand — warm, confident — and walked out of the office with the scent of her perfume still clinging faintly to my skin.