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Dear Readers,

Congratulations to us. We have a new story starting this week Monday and it's thanks to a Nairalander.

'YOU $ I ... To be continued' is the title, and the idea was specially requested by a dedicated Nairaland reader who commissioned and paid for it in advance. Yay!


Here's the synopsis.

A love story born in the halls of the elite Bucknor-Coker Academy, 'YOU & I ... To be continued' follows Jorel, a brilliant orphan on scholarship, and Ona, the rebellious daughter of a powerful business tycoon. Despite their different worlds, their connection is undeniable.

But their young love is a powder keg. Ona’s father opposes the relationship, and his disapproval, combined with betrayal, jealousy, and lies, shatters their romance and their hearts.

Years later, Jorel returns to Lagos a force to be reckoned with—a banking magnate with a fortune that rivals her father’s. He’s back for one thing: to torment Ona. At least, that's what it seems. When he offers to buy her struggling film company, she refuses, determined not to let him take the one thing she'd built on her own—not after he'd already broken her heart into shreds.

Yet, as they clash in the boardroom, old feelings resurface. Is Jorel truly a vengeful villain, or is there more to his story? And can Ona fight off the man she loves, the same man she suspects is sabotaging her company?

In a high-stakes game of love, revenge, and ambition, two broken hearts must confront their past to secure their future.

repogirl:
Check in here tomorrow (Sunday) evening (8pm) for details.

Looking forward to your usual splendid delivery

8pm
Kosi problem..... Let me quickly charge my phone before then.

The first chapter will be posted tomorrow evening, Monday 8 pm.

PROLOGUE



“Hey, you! Stop right there! I’m talking to you… you! Pauper. Are you deaf, or just ignoring me?”

Cruel laughter rang out, bouncing off the marble walls of Bucknor-Coker Academy. The sound followed Jorel everywhere in this school of wealth and privilege. It was sharp, mocking, and as familiar as the beat of his heart. He kept his eyes on the ground, watching the elegant patterns on the floor while his worn shoes scraped against the polished stone as he hurriedly walked away from the bullies.

Hugging a pile of secondhand textbooks to his chest, he held them close as if they could shield him from the ridicule.

Three boys stepped into his way. They looked every inch the children of money and power. Their blazers were crisp and tailored, their shoes shone like black glass under the lights, and their voices carried the smug confidence of people who knew their families’ influence could protect them from anything.

“Are you deaf, pauper boy?” Akinola, the leader, drawled. His words oozed disdain, and his smile was like that of a predator circling prey. “Didn’t you hear us calling you? Or have you forgotten your place as the pauper of this school?”

Jorel tried to slip past, but the boys moved together, forming a wall that blocked his path. Charles, another of the trio, flicked the ragged end of Jorel’s faded tie.

“Wow, this tie looks like it survived the Biafran War. Did your gatekeeper finally get tired of it and pass it down to you?”

The third boy, Tayo, snickered, the sound slicing through the hallway and deepening Jorel’s humiliation. Heat rose to his neck, burning and heavy. He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. Stay silent, he told himself. Silence is my only defense. Silence keeps me safe.

Then, breaking through the cruel tension, came a new voice. It was steady, clear, and commanding, like the strike of a bell.

“Leave him alone.”

The busy hallway suddenly fell silent. All eyes turned as Onaedo Adeyemi stood a few steps away, tall and composed against the backdrop of whispering students. While other students wore wrinkled shirts and loose ties, her uniform was spotless. The pleats of her navy skirt were sharp, her white blouse gleamed as though it had only just been pressed, and her dark hair was woven neatly into a braid that crowned her head. The style framed her graceful neck and gave her an air of quiet power.

She wasn’t just any student. She was Onaedo Adeyemi, daughter of Chief Adeyemi, whose business empire touched almost every corner of the nation. In a school obsessed with status, she stood apart. Her presence alone carried weight, and usually, that was enough to keep her above the petty troubles of school life.

But not today.

Today, her steady gaze wasn’t on Jorel, the boy being mocked. It was locked on his bullies. Cold and unflinching, her gaze filled the hallway with a chill that made even the walls seem to tighten.

Akinola, caught off guard, tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out strained. “Ona! We were only joking, no harm done,” he said, though his voice cracked with nerves.

“No.” Her reply was calm but firm, each word ringing with certainty. She stepped forward, her shoes barely making a sound on the polished floor. She didn’t stand in front of Jorel but at his side, steady like a shield.

“This isn’t fun. You’re trying to make yourselves feel big by tearing someone else down. You think your parents’ money gives you that right, but it doesn’t. It only makes you noisemakers. Now, move.”

Her words hung in the air, sharp and final. For a moment, the hallway froze. Then, under the weight of her presence, the boys mumbled weak excuses and shuffled away, their earlier confidence crumbling into shame.

When they were gone, silence filled the wide corridor. Slowly, Jorel raised his eyes to hers, bracing himself for the pity he so often saw in others, a look that felt more wounding than the insults.

But Onaedo’s gaze was different. Her warm, dark brown eyes held no trace of pity. Instead, they carried respect, as if she truly saw him. As if she saw his dignity, his worth.

“Those three olodos are so annoying,” she said with a sigh, her voice softening. “But you know what they say about empty barrels and loud noises. I’ll never understand how they think so highly of themselves.”

Jorel surprised himself by chuckling. The sound startled him, but Onaedo’s smile encouraged it, and soon their laughter mingled, lightening the air between them. For a brief moment, the heavy hallway felt brighter, as though it belonged to them alone.

“Thank you,” Jorel whispered, his voice rough with nerves. The low sound wavered, cracking just slightly, betraying both his vulnerability and the boyish edge of his youth.

Ona’s gaze softened, just a touch, as though the sharpness in her eyes had melted into warmth meant only for him. A faint smile curved her lips. It was so small it might have gone unnoticed by anyone else, yet to Jorel, it felt like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. She wasn't looking at him with pity. It was something deeper, something that saw him, not as less, but as worthy.

“Don’t thank me,” she murmured, her voice low, quiet, as if they were sharing a secret in the middle of the crowded corridor. “Just keep your head high. Prove to them that money doesn’t equal intelligence… or sense.”

Her words wrapped around him like a quiet challenge, and in that instant, something inside Jorel shifted. This wasn’t about her rescuing him, it was about her recognizing him. She spoke to him as if he could stand on the same ground as her, as if she believed he was more than the insults thrown at him.

And in that belief, something fragile but strong began to take root. Not just gratitude, but connection. Not charity, but respect.

The silence between them stretched, filled with an energy that neither could name but both could feel. For Jorel, it was like standing on the edge of a discovery. Being this close to her, the warmth of her eyes, the gentle curve of her smile, all stirred something new and unsteady in him.

For Ona, it was the quiet intrigue of seeing a strength in him that others had overlooked.

Something unspoken lingered in the air, delicate yet undeniable, like the very first spark of a flame waiting to catch.
*******

PART I



Chapter 01

The afternoon sun blazed down mercilessly, its rays striking Jorel's neck as he struggled to maneuver Ona's enormous suitcase down the bustling university walkway. The handle dug uncomfortably into his palm, and with every jolt from the uneven pavement, the suitcase's wheels thudded against the cracks, sending unpleasant vibrations straight up his arms. He couldn't shake the feeling that this heavy bag, bulging with who-knows-what, was conspiring against him.

“Ona, this your box will break my back oh,” he groaned, casting a sideways glance at Ona, who strutted effortlessly beside him with a carefree demeanor. “Like, seriously, did you pack a whole set of bricks? Or did you fap some gold bars from your father’s vault?”

Ona burst into laughter, the sound bright and light, ringing out above the chatter of students and parents meandering nearby. She carried her tiny handbag with graceful ease, as if it contained nothing more than a few feathers, while her eyes glimmered with a playful spark.

“You know you're being overly dramatic right now, Jojo?” she responded with a teasing tone in her voice.

“Dramatic? Me!” Jorel paused, letting the suitcase thump heavily onto the ground. He exaggeratedly wiped imaginary sweat off his brow, collapsing into an exaggerated sigh. “Honestly, I give it five more steps. After that, you’ll be visiting me at the campus health center. Just tell my professors I went down as a hero.”

Before he could regain his breath and adjust his stance, Ona playfully jumped onto his back. She wrapped her arms snugly around his shoulders, her legs clamping around his waist, nearly toppling them both in the process.

“Ona!” he exclaimed, stumbling as he fought to maintain his footing.

Her laughter washed over him like a warm wave, filling him with an unexpected joy that made him forget the ache in his muscles. Leaning in closer, she whispered into his ear, “If anything’s going to break your back, it’s definitely me, not my luggage.”

Jorel couldn’t help it. He started laughing too, caught up in the bright sound of her joy. The chaos of move-in day, the car horns, shouted goodbyes, the constant buzz of new students, all blurred into background noise until Ona was the only thing that felt real. Her braid brushed his cheek, smelling faintly of shea butter. She leaned closer, her voice dropping so only he could hear.

“Besides,” she whispered, warm against his ear, “you’d survive anything for me.”

For a second Jorel forgot how to breathe. His heart hammered like it wanted to escape his chest. He tightened his grip around her legs, hoisting her higher on his back, and forced a goofy smile, trying to hide how wild his pulse had gone.

“Fine,” he said, voice a little rough. “But if I end up in a wheelchair, I’m telling everyone it was your fault.”

“Good,” Ona teased, resting her chin between his neck and shoulder. “Then they’ll all know you’re mine.”

She wasn’t wrong.

He took a few more wobbling steps. The suitcase still thumped along behind them, but it didn’t matter, having Ona on his back felt like a gift. Her weight was familiar and steady. He could feel her heartbeat against his shoulder, slow and calm, and somehow it steadied him too. He focused only on the next few feet of pavement, and on keeping her from falling off his back.

“You know,” Jorel panted, pretending to gasp for air, “for a thank you this is low. Most people just say ‘thanks.’ But e reach your turn, you want a piggy back ride like a kindergarten baby.’

Ona smiled, tightening her arms around his shoulders, a quick, warm squeeze. “But this is a much better thank you,” she said, voice bright and sure. “And you know you love it, so stop complaining. Besides, am I not your baby, eh?”

He couldn’t argue, she was right. So he smiled and said, “fair enough.”

They reached the bottom of a long, wide staircase. The old hostel towered above them, its concrete steps worn smooth by years of feet.

Jorel let out a real, tired sigh. “Okay, now you’re just cruel. You want me to carry you up this mountain?”

Ona slid down and landed lightly on her feet. Her hand stayed on his back for a heartbeat, just a fingertip pressing, but it felt electric. She looked up at him and smiled.

“Let’s make a deal,” she said, trying to sound serious but failing because her she couldn't stop smiling. “You get this giant bag up the stairs, and I’ll carry… this.”
She plucked a thin duffel bag from the suitcase handle and held it out. It was his. The little bag was nearly empty. One extra pair of pants, maybe three tshirts, a couple of notebooks, and an old, loved book.

The split was so unfair it was almost funny. Her suitcase was a beast; his bag was a feather. He saw the move for what it was. She was letting him be the strong one. She was feeding his pride like it was something she wanted to keep safe. There was a softness in her eyes that said she understood him, more than anyone usually did.

A wide, genuine smile finally broke across Jorel’s face. “You’re a tough negotiator, Miss Adeyemi.”

“I know,” she said with a playful tilt of her chin. She was already stepping backwards up the first few stairs, holding his light bag in the air like a trophy. “Now hurry up.”

He straightened, rolling his shoulders as if bracing for battle. “Fine,” he said, trying to sound tough. “But you owe me a proper thank you later, and I only take kisses.”

“Deal,” she said, giggling girlishly as she climbed up, ahead of him.

Suddenly, the suitcase wasn’t just heavy luggage, it was a mission. He gripped the handle tight, braced his legs, and began to haul it up, step by step. The weight was still brutal, but with every pull he felt stronger, like he was proving something that mattered.

At the top of the stairs, Ona leaned casually against the big wooden door of the hostel. She waited for him, her arms folded, watching with a mix of amusement and pride that made his chest swell.

Finally, with one last heave, Jorel dragged the suitcase to the landing and let it crash to the floor with a loud thud. He leaned against it dramatically, clutching his chest. “Made it. Still alive, but barely.”

Ona pushed off the door and came closer. She didn’t laugh or tease him this time. Instead, she reached up and gently brushed away a bead of sweat from his forehead. Her fingertips were cool and soft, lingering for just a second too long.

“See?” she whispered, her voice low enough that only he could hear. “I told you you could handle it.”

Standing there at the doorway to their new chapter, he realized it wasn’t just about carrying a suitcase or surviving the heat. It was about her. About the way she looked at him like she already knew what he was capable of. About how her belief in him made him believe in himself.

He straightened, meeting her gaze, and nodded, “it's amazing how you have so much belief in my abilities,” he said, his voice rough with a feeling he no longer wanted to hide. “And now, it's time for you to pay up.”

Ona looked uncertainly at the crowded corridor and knew there was no way she'd be kissing Jorel in the presence of everyone there.

"Erm, do you take IOU's? I promise to pay with interest." She said with a cute, mischievous smile.

The absurdity of the request had Jorel laughing, "sure! For you, I'll make an exception but trust me, my interest rates are quite substantial."
*******

Ona pushed open the door to her new hostel room, her heart thudding with a mix of nerves and excitement. The room was small but bright, the sunlight spilling through a narrow window and casting soft squares of light across the tiled floor.

Her father had paid for a single room in the newest, more expensive residence hall, but being a sharp girl, she’d swapped rooms with another student. The girl had paid her the difference, a tidy sum that she’d tucked away for a rainy day.

Her room smelled faintly of fresh paint and disinfectant, the kind of scent that came with new beginnings. Two narrow beds sat on opposite sides of the room, neatly made with plain white sheets and stiff pillows. A pair of wardrobes stood like tall soldiers in the corners, waiting to be filled with clothes, secrets, and stories.

One side of the room was already half-claimed. A girl in a bright yellow top was unpacking, humming under her breath as she arranged clothes on her shelf. She looked up as the door swung open, and her smile lit up the space instantly.

“Hi … you must be Ona!” she exclaimed, springing to her feet with an excitement that was contagious. “I’m Layo, your roommate. Finally, you’re here. Titi told me you were on your way. I'm so happy to meet you.”

Titi was the student she'd swapped rooms with. Ona had met her through her cousin, Anu, who was friends with Titi’s elder sister. She was a final year student and needed her own space while Ona needed some extra money on the side.

“Likewise. What department are you?” Ona asked.

“Theatre arts, you?”

Layo’s friendliness was effortless, and Ona felt her nerves melt away. She smiled back, already relieved. “Film studies. This is Jorel.”

Layo’s gaze flicked to Jorel as he stepped in, balancing the last of Ona’s luggage. Mischief sparked in her eyes as she grinned. “Ah, your friend or your … boyfriend?”

Heat rushed to Ona’s cheeks before she could stop it. But Jorel, calm as ever, just nodded and set the suitcase down with a thud. “Something like that,” he said with his easy half-smile, the one Ona secretly adored because it made his eyes crinkle.

“Ahh, okay oh,” Layo said, with a knowing glance at the two of them. “Lucky you. Wish I had someone to be carrying my bags up the stairs too.”

Ona laughed, shaking her head, while Jorel rolled his eyes with exaggerated misery as he responded.

“It's like I missed the memo that said I signed up to be your load carrier when I got admission into this University.”

Layo only winked at him, clearly delighted by the playful energy between them.

“So Ona, that's your corner over there. You should start unpacking before ….”

“Erm, I'll do it later this evening. First we need to get to the boys hostel and see JoJo's room.” Ona told her.

“Alright then. You know that curfew is by eight p.m, abi? You'll need to leave the boys hostel by then." Layo informed them.

Ona nodded her thanks for the information as she grabbed Jorel’s hand. His fingers closed around hers without hesitation. They were warm, steady, and familiar. Together, they stepped back into the noisy corridor.

As they walked down to the boys hostel building, the campus buzzed with life. Students lugged boxes and bags, parents offering last-minute advice with teary eyes, vendors at the gate calling out about chilled drinks and snacks.

But for Ona, all of it blurred into the background. The honking horns, the chatter, the footsteps, was just noise. What felt real, what felt solid, was the way Jorel’s hand fit perfectly into hers, grounding her in the middle of all the chaos.

She squeezed his fingers, and when he glanced down at her, that small, crooked smile returned, the one that told her he didn’t mind the noise either, not as long as she was right there with him.

She was finally at the same university as the love of her life, and the thrill of it lit her from the inside out. Nothing could dim that joy: not her father’s quiet disapproval, not the family eyes that tracked her every move, and not the endless rules that had always boxed her in.

Her father thought she’d come to study law. He didn’t know she’d already switched departments. Film Studies. Cameras, lights, scripts, and the small, strange magic that turned ordinary moments into stories, that was what made her blood quicken. The thought of lectures about editing, late nights in the studio, and the smell of popcorn at student screenings felt like home.

She rested her head for a moment against Jorel’s arm, smiling as his laugh rolled through her. His path, Banking and Finance, was steady, practical, and everything her restless heart needed to balance it out. He was serious, driven and somehow, perfectly hers.

They had four years. Four years of late study nights, shared meals, stolen kisses between classes, and tiny traditions they’d invent together before the world outside tried to pull them apart. She wasn’t going to waste a single minute.

Her grip tightened on his hand, no longer just playful, but fierce and protective. She would fight for this: for him, for her dreams, for whatever they became together. Not her father. Not the rules. Not even the small doubts that sometimes whispered in Jorel’s ear.

For the first time, Ona Adeyemi felt utterly, clearly where she belonged.

***

Next post next Monday

sal1974:
Looking forward to your usual splendid delivery

🙏🏽🙏🏽🙂. Thank you.

Uthman51:
8pm
Kosi problem..... Let me quickly charge my phone before then.

Chapter 02



Ona sat on the edge of Jorel's narrow dorm bed, the cheap mattress creaking under her. She watched the scene with a fondness that ached. Jorel's new roommates, loud Brume and quiet, witty Tobe, were already in a loud, friendly argument about who had the better playlist. The small, shabby room felt warm and easy, like it was filled with old friends, not people who had just met. Jorel was at the center of it all, his deep, real laugh rising above the noise. He leaned against the desk, his body relaxed, his smile open and reaching his eyes, a look she usually only saw when they were alone.

She was struck by how naturally he belonged. He didn't have to force his charm or try to impress anyone. He was just being his funny, smart, and slightly competitive self, and it was all it took for the group to accept him. This was a complete change from secondary school, where he was surrounded by snobbish rich children and never fit in.

The sheer, uncomplicated joy in the room pressed against her chest like a physical weight, both beautiful and painful. For a moment, she allowed herself to soak it in, to pretend this was their entire world. But the illusion was fragile. The reality was her phone, feeling heavy in the pocket of her designer jeans. It was like an anchor, pulling her back down. It reminded her she needed to call her father. The smile left her lips, and a soft, bitter sigh escaped before she could hold it back

Jorel caught the sound instantly. His gaze, warm from laughter, found hers across the room. A quiet question filled his eyes, a subtle tilt of his brow that asked, ‘Everything okay?’

She gave him a small, tired smile, the kind that didn't reach her eyes, and mouthed two words: ‘I need to call my father.’

Understanding dawned in his expression, dimming the light there. He glanced at the boisterous boys, then back at her. Though he looked like he wanted to cross the room, to say something, he gave only the slightest, almost imperceptible nod. It was a gesture of profound understanding. He was releasing her, acknowledging that this was a battle she had to face alone, in whatever privacy she could find.

Ona stood up smoothly from the bed. The movement was graceful, even though she felt turmoil churning inside. "I'll be right back," she said. Her voice sounded light and casual, a perfect performance. Brume and Tobe, now deeply engrossed in a debate about the greatest Nigerian striker of all time, barely registered her exit. She slipped into the hallway, the solid click of the door closing behind her a sound that separated two worlds.

Suddenly, it was just the sterile, echoing silence of the residence hall. The muffled bass of someone’s music, the distant shout of a name, the scuff of shoes on linoleum. She leaned her back against the cool wall, taking a moment to gather the energy she would need. Pulling out her phone, its sleek surface felt cold and hostile in her hand. She took a deep breath, the air smelling of industrial cleaner and faintly of dust, and dialed.

The call connected almost immediately, as if he’d been waiting, phone in hand.

“Ona.” Her father’s voice cut through the line, sharp and precise as a scalpel. It carried the dry, cool air of a Zurich boardroom. “Where in the world are you? I’ve been calling all afternoon but your line has been switched off.”

She closed her eyes, gathering the shreds of her composure. “Hello to you too, Dad. I’m fine, thank you for asking. The campus is beautiful.” She could hear the faint tremor in her own voice and hated it.

“Do not toy with me,” he snapped, his tone dropping, becoming dangerously quiet. “I had a car, a driver, and two of the house staff scheduled to assist you. They waited for over an hour. You vanished. What the hell happened?”

“I handled it dad. I knew I could get myself to school, and didn’t need the staff,” she explained.

“What is wrong with you? Do you have any idea how reckless that was?”

Her grip on the phone tightened until her knuckles ached. “It wasn’t reckless. I managed perfectly well on my own. I took a bus. I carried my own things. And I’m fine.” She could picture the look of horror on his face, the way he would dismiss a bus as a form of transport befitting only the masses.

“A bus?” His voice was a controlled explosion through the receiver. “My daughter, my only daughter, crammed in with market women and… and touts? Have you lost your mind completely? You risked your safety, you risked your dignity—”

“My dignity?” she cut in, her own voice trembling now with a rage that overpowered her fear. She glanced toward a large window at the end of the hall, where golden afternoon light illuminated students and their families hugging, laughing, and taking pictures. A girl her age was clinging to her father, his arm a protective, loving circle around her shoulders. The sight was a needle to Ona’s heart. “What about my freedom? What about the simple dignity of walking into school on my own two feet, like everyone else? If you cared so much about who carried my bags, you would be here. In Lagos. Like them. Not calling me from Switzerland as if I’m a problem on your daily checklist.”

There was a beat of heavy, stunned silence. She had crossed a line. When he spoke again, his voice was low, each word dripping with icy fury. “You dare to speak to me this way? You are forgetting who you are. You are Onaedo Adeyemi. You cannot behave like some… some common girl.”

"I'm not forgetting who I am," she shot back, her throat tight but her voice firm. "I'm finally finding out who I am. I'm not just 'your daughter.' I'm my own person, and you don't get to control my every move. I'm not in secondary school anymore. I'm eighteen, and that means I have the right to make my own choices."

“You are under my roof, under my name, under my protection—” he began, his voice rising.

“I’m in university now!” she interrupted, her own voice rising to match his. “This is my life, and my choices. I will not let you control me like one of your business acquisitions. Not anymore.”

The silence that followed was thick and suffocating, a void filled with his towering anger. She could perfectly imagine him in his high rise, sterile, minimalist office, with his jaw clenched.

When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet and deliberate, more threatening than a shout. "You don't get to make a decision like you did today without talking to me first, Ona. I'll let this go for now, but remember: I am still your father. You will treat me with respect. Do not test me."

Her heart pounded in her ears, a frantic rhythm of fear and adrenaline. But she refused to give in. "Then stop testing me."

Before she could lose her nerve, and before he could issue a final command, she pulled the phone from her ear and ended the call. The screen went black, showing her own wide-eyed, angry reflection. She pressed the cold phone hard against her chest, as if to keep her heart from pounding right out of her body. She was trembling all over.

For a long moment, she just stood there, forehead resting against the cool, unyielding wall, shutting her eyes against the hot sting of unshed tears. The sounds of the happy families outside the window felt like a mockery. The girl was now waving goodbye to her father, a bright, uncomplicated smile on her face.

The sight twisted something deep and painful inside Ona, a profound sense of loss for a relationship she would never have. But she pushed it down, locking it away in the same place she stored all her other disappointments. Straightening her spine, she drew in one long, shaky breath, then another, smoother one. She fixed her expression into one of calm composure, a mask of unflappable ease. Then, she turned and reached for the doorknob. Back to the laughter. Back to Jorel. Back to the life she was determined to build for herself, one defiant step at a time.

Before she could reach for the doorknob, the door opened. Jorel stood there. His happy expression was gone, replaced by a look of quiet understanding. He had been waiting for her, sensing something was wrong even before she arrived. He saw her clenched jaw and the unshed tears of frustration in her eyes. She didn't have to speak, he could see the whole story of her struggle written on her face.

Without a question or a greeting, he simply opened his arms. Ona stepped into them without hesitation, letting her forehead rest against his chest as he folded her into a tight, secure hug. His embrace was a sanctuary, a place where she could let her guard down. He didn’t ask what happened, he knew the source of the storm, the relentless expectations and criticisms that seemed to accompany her every move. He just held her, one hand cradling the back of her head, his chin resting on her braids, offering silent solidarity.

“Let’s get out of here,” he murmured into her hair, his voice a low rumble she could feel rather than hear. “Let’s go for a walk. Find some street food. I saw a place that might have suya.”

She nodded against his shirt, taking one more deep breath that smelled of laundry soap and him. “Yeah,” she said, her voice muffled by the comfort of his presence. “That sounds perfect.”

As they walked down the dorm stairs, side-by-side but not touching, Jorel thought back to the first and only time he had met Chief Adeyemi. It was at Ona's birthday party the year before. It had been a huge, elegant event at the mansion in Ikoyi. Jorel had felt like an outsider entering a different universe. He was surrounded by a glittering world of luxury cars and conversations about things he only knew from newspapers. The incredible wealth was overwhelming, and it was a sharp contrast to his own life of modest means and simple dreams.

He’d found a moment of peace with Ona by the pool, treading water in the deep end. Her laughter had echoed off the water, a melody that drowned out the party’s clamor, and he’d dared to loop an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. In that moment, with her smiling up at him, he hadn't felt out of place. He’d felt like the luckiest guy alive, as if he belonged in this world because of her.

Then the sun had been blocked out. Chief Adeyemi stood at the pool’s edge, a tall, imposing silhouette in a perfectly tailored agbada. His expression was not one of curiosity, but of cold inspection, a parental figure whose approval seemed as distant as the stars.

“Ona,” he’d said, his voice cutting through the party’s din without needing to be raised. His eyes never left Jorel. “And who is this?”

Jorel, trying to show respect, had straightened up in the water. “Jorel Igho, sir. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He hoped his voice didn’t betray the nerves twisting in his stomach.

The Chief’s eyes had done a slow, dismissive sweep, from Jorel’s face, down to his simple board shorts, and back up. The disdain was not even hidden, it was a calculated tool. He didn’t acknowledge the introduction. He simply looked back at his daughter, gave a slight, disapproving shake of his head, and walked away as if Jorel had ceased to exist, leaving behind a chill that lingered in the air.

Jorel had tried to avoid the man ever since. He knew the truth that everyone saw. That Ona was in a different league. She belonged to a world of private jets and family money, while he was just a scholarship student with big dreams and empty pockets. The gap between them was huge and seemed impossible to close.

But he loved her. He loved her intelligence, her fire, the way she saw the person he was trying to become, not just the place he came from. He’d told himself, maybe naively, that with time, her father would see it too. That he would come around, recognizing Jorel’s worth beyond material wealth.

Men like Chief Adeyemi, Jorel knew, believed the world operated on a simple currency. They thought a boy like him only saw a dollar sign when he looked at Ona, that dating her was a shortcut to a life he could never earn on his own. It was a narrow perspective, one Jorel was determined to prove wrong.

They stepped out of the dorm into the evening sun, and Jorel looked at Ona. She was trying to shake off her father's influence, and a small, determined smile appeared on her lips as she pointed toward the suya stand. Her strength was a guiding light, leading them through the complicated situation ahead.

If her father thought he had designs on Ona, then he was dead wrong. Jorel’s plans for himself were his own. They were plans built in lecture halls and libraries, on late-night study sessions and ideas scribbled in the margins of notebooks. His future was a thing he was building with his own two hands, and it was big enough to stand on its own. It didn’t include the Chief’s money. It only included his daughter’s heart. And for Jorel, that was the only treasure that mattered. His love for Ona was his compass, steering him through the challenges of a world that often valued the wrong things. Together, they walked hand in hand, a testament to the power of love and determination.

They found a cool spot under a large jacaranda tree. Its branches formed a green canopy against the evening sky. The light under the tree was soft and dappled with shifting shadows.

The spicy smell of grilling meat from the suya stand mixed with the sweet, sad scent of the purple blossoms covering the grass at their feet.

Ona ate her suya without really tasting it. She chewed the spicy beef mechanically. Her cold plastic coke bottle sat beside her, sweating a dark circle onto the knee of her jeans, completely untouched.

She tried to keep her voice light, a casual recounting of the day’s frustration, but the bitterness seeped through like a stain. “He’s just… impossible,” she began, staring at a point somewhere in the middle distance. “Every single choice has to fit perfectly into his grand design. Law. Politics. Power. Anything else .. anything that I actually want, is just… static to him. Unimportant noise. Sometimes I feel like I’m not even a person to him. Just an extension of the Adeyemi name. A walking, talking part of his reputation.”

Her eyes grew distant, losing focus on the students milling about in the courtyard. The present moment blurred, replaced by the ghost of a memory she barely owned. “If my mum were still here…” Her voice cracked, the longing raw and undisguised. It was a vulnerable admission she rarely allowed herself. “Maybe she’d have fought for me. Maybe she would have looked at me and seen me, not just a successor. Maybe she would have understood.”

Jorel’s chest tightened. He didn’t offer empty platitudes or try to fix it with words. Instead, he reached out, his calloused fingers gentle as he tucked a stray braid behind her ear. His thumb brushed the soft skin of her cheekbone, lingering for a moment, a silent, grounding touch that said, I’m here. I see you.

"Ona," he said, his voice a low, steady anchor in the tumult of her emotions. "You're not invisible. Not to me." He waited until her glistening eyes met his. "Never to me."

She looked back at him, not surprised by his fierce certainty, but profoundly grateful for it. He was her rock, solid and dependable. And in that moment, his unwavering presence was enough to send a flicker of genuine warmth through her, beginning to thaw the cold knot in her stomach.

He saw the shift and smiled, a slow, crooked grin that was both playful and deeply sincere. “You know, if your father thinks you’re just noise, then I’m glad. Because I happen to love the sound.” He leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Especially when you laugh. That sound ..” he tapped the tip of her nose gently, teasingly, “is my favorite kind of music in the whole world.”

Despite herself, despite the weight of the day, Ona laughed. It started as a soft, reluctant chuckle that caught in her throat and then blossomed into a real, full-bodied sound that made her shoulders shake. “You’re ridiculous,” she murmured, shaking her head, but the smile remained, touching her eyes.

“And yet, highly effective,” Jorel replied, triumph sparkling in his eyes. He leaned back against the rough bark of the tree trunk, watching her with a softness that made her heart stumble over a beat. “See? I got you to smile. Mission officially accomplished.”

Her laughter faded, but the glow of it lingered, settling comfortably on her features. She felt the tension in her neck and shoulders begin to ease. Letting out a soft sigh, she leaned her head against his shoulder, the solid muscle a welcome support. Finally, she picked up her Coke and took a long sip.

Jorel’s arm came around her, his hand finding her hair. He stroked it absentmindedly, his fingers moving in slow, soothing rhythms. “Listen,” he said after a comfortable silence, his voice rumbling through his chest and into her. “We’re both here writing new chapters, okay? Whatever battles you have to fight with him, you don’t have to fight them alone. Not ever. You’ve got me. Always.”

Her eyes fluttered closed at his words. The simple, unwavering promise was a balm, a shield against the world. In this space, under this tree, she could almost believe it.

But then his tone changed, becoming more careful and measured. "Still... I think you should tell him. About switching your course. You can't hide Film Studies forever, Ona."

Immediately, the peaceful moment shattered. Ona stiffened, lifting her head from his shoulder. The walls shot back up. “No,” she said, her voice firm, her mouth setting into a stubborn line she’d perfected in arguments with her father. “Not yet. It’s not the right time. He won’t even listen. He’ll just see it as another rebellion, not a real passion.”

Jorel studied her face, the flicker of fear in her eyes warring with the defiance. He wanted to push, to tell her that the right time might never come, but he knew that look. It was the same look she’d had when facing down any opposition back at their secondary school, a fortress of will. He gave a slow, reluctant nod. “Okay,” he conceded softly. “Not yet.”

Choosing connection over conflict, he cupped her cheek with his hand, turning her face gently toward his. “But when you do decide to tell him… I’ll be right there beside you, if you need me to be there. However it goes.”

The sheer sincerity in his eyes, the unflinching loyalty, left her breathless. Her defenses crumbled again, replaced by a wave of overwhelming affection. She smiled, softer and more vulnerable this time. “What would I do without you, Jorel Igho?”

He chuckled, the sound warm and rich, his thumb gently brushing once more across the curve of her cheekbone.

"You would," he said, his voice low and fond. "finish every last piece of that suya and leave me with nothing but the empty sticks."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his expression settling into a mask of mock seriousness. "And eating all that spicy, perfectly seasoned meat by yourself?" He shook his head slowly, a smile finally touching his eyes. "That's a lonely, tragic fate that I won't let you suffer."

Ona burst into laughter again, this time loud and unrestrained, a sound that drew a few curious glances from a passing group of students. Embarrassed but happy, she buried her face in the soft cotton of his shirt to muffle the sound. His arms wrapped around her fully then, holding her tight, his hand smoothing over her hair, anchoring her firmly in a world that, for this perfect moment under the jacaranda tree, felt completely and utterly her own.
*************

Chapter 03

The intimate quiet under the jacaranda tree was suddenly shattered at the sound of footsteps approaching and a voice, sharp with false bravado.

“Evening. We don’t mean to interrupt.”

Ona looked up. Four young guys approached, their strides a slow, deliberate saunter that spoke of careless arrogance. The kind that always accompanied trouble. Their clothes were simple. Well-worn jeans, branded polos, sneakers scuffing the pavement, but worn with a confidence that claimed the space as theirs.

The leader, tall and lean with a clean fade, stopped just short of their table. A polished watch glinted on his wrist, a flash of cold metal in the fading light. His gaze landed on her, lingering far too long, assessing in a way that made her skin crawl.

He was still looking at Ona when he spoke, his words dripping a false, conversational ease. "That suya smells good." His smile was a thin, challenging line. "Looks like you got plenty to share."

The mood shifted in an instant. The warmth was gone, replaced by a tense and watchful silence.

“Just wanted to welcome the new student properly,” he said, his lips curling into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes. “A jambite as fine as you shouldn’t be hiding under a tree. We could show you a better time.”

The words hung in the air, ugly and presumptuous. Ona felt a hot flush of anger, but before she could even open her mouth to speak, Jorel was moving.

He was on his feet, placing his body between her and the group. The gentle man from moments before was gone, replaced by a wall of solid, unyielding stillness. The easy warmth had vanished from his face, leaving a quiet intensity that felt more dangerous than any shouted threat.

His voice was low and calm, almost too calm, as he addressed the leader. It cut through the tension like a blade.

“She’s not interested.”

The four young men seemed to shift as one, their casual arrogance tightening into something more focused. The leader’s smirk finally faded, his eyes narrowing as he measured the new obstacle in front of him. He took a slow, deliberate step forward.

It was the leader who broke it. He took a slow, deliberate step closer, his polished sneaker crushing a fallen jacaranda bloom. The false friendliness was gone from his voice, replaced by a low, challenging tone.

"Is that so?" he said, his eyes narrowing as he measured Jorel. "And who are you to speak for her?"

Jorel didn't flinch. He didn't even look at Ona. His entire attention was a laser focused on the threat, his posture making his position clear. He was not moving.

"Her answer is no," Jorel said, the finality in his tone leaving no room for argument. "The welcome is over. You can leave now."

A muscle twitched in the leader's jaw. The three others shifted, their casual slouches straightening into readiness. The one on the right cracked his knuckles. The stillness was now fragile, like a pane of glass about to shatter.

The leader's smirk returned, but it was thinner, more dangerous. "This is our campus. We leave when we want." His eyes flicked to Ona, a predatory gleam in them. "And we talk to who we want."

He took another step, this time not toward Jorel, but angled toward Ona, testing the boundary, trying to flank him. It was a deliberate provocation.

And in that charged silence, the scrape of a chair was as loud as a gunshot. Ona stood up. Her movement was calm, but her eyes burned with a fire that matched Jorel's. She didn't retreat behind him; she stepped to his side, her shoulder brushing his arm in a show of solidarity.

"I've decided," she said, her voice clear and steady, cutting through the tension. "He speaks for me. Now, for the last time, we are fine. Please, leave us alone."

The directness of her words, the united front, seemed to throw the leader off balance for a heartbeat. His confidence wavered, his gaze darting between Jorel's unyielding stance and Ona's defiant glare. The dynamic had shifted. This wasn't a lone girl to be intimidated; this was a pair.

The sharp, waiting stillness stretched, now filled with a new question: would they back down, or would they push harder?

The leader chuckled, a low, humorless sound as he glanced back at his friends. They began to spread out, their steps casual but deliberate, closing the space around the table.

“See? The pretty ones always have the most loyal guard dogs.” His smile vanished, his eyes snapping back to Jorel, cold and razor-sharp. “But even a loyal dog knows when to step aside.”

Jorel didn’t move a muscle. His posture was rigid, his own voice dropping to a low, dangerous register that was more a vibration in the air than a sound.

“Walk away,” Jorel warned. “Now.”

The words were hard. They were final. They left no room for negotiation. For a long moment, no one moved. The only sound was the distant hum of campus life, a world away from the silent standoff under the jacaranda tree.

The tall student’s expression hardened, the lazy indifference replaced by simmering anger. His jaw clenched as he stepped closer, close enough that Jorel could smell the mix of mint gum and sweat. “Or what? You’re one guy.” He reached out slowly, fingers stretching toward Ona’s arm.

It was a mistake.

Jorel moved without hesitation, knocking the reaching arm aside firmly but not violently, a clear line drawn in the sand. His voice was steady.

“I said don’t touch her.”

The leader jerked back as if scalded, fury igniting in his eyes. His composure cracked, the cool mask slipping to reveal raw anger beneath. “You put your hands on me?” he snarled, and with sudden aggression, he shoved Jorel hard in the chest.

The impact forced Jorel back a single step. His shoes scraped against the ground, his muscles coiling to keep him steady. The three others tensed, their playful demeanour hardening into a readiness for conflict. The air thickened, and they watched each other keenly, waiting for who would strike first.

Ona’s heart raced. “Jorel, don’t! Let’s just go!” she urged, her voice firm. But she could see in his eyes, the gathering storm, the tension of four against one. He wasn't about to back down.

“I’ve got this, Ona. Just stay over there, this will be over soon.” Jorel told her, his eyes never leaving the four miscreants. Ona obeyed without any argument and moved back to where Jorel pointed,

The leader cracked his knuckles, his grin returning, sharp and predatory. The others closed in, encircling them. Nearby students slowed, whispers spreading as they observed from a safe distance. The tension built like a dry fire, ready to ignite.

Jorel shifted his stance subtly, his shoulders squaring and his weight rolling onto the balls of his feet. His dark eyes remained locked on the leader, a predator's focus that finally seemed to give the other boy a moment of pause.

And then ..

The first boy lunged.....

The chapter will conclude on Friday evening.

Nice to have you back Repogirl

FAMILY247:
Nice to have you back Repogirl

Thank you . Feels good to be back.

It wasn't the leader, but one of his friends from the side, a clumsy, telegraphed grab for Jorel's arm.

Jorel didn't block it. He moved with it. He caught the boy's wrist, used his forward momentum, and spun him hard, sending him stumbling into the path of another oncoming student. The two collided in a tangle of limbs and grunts, crashing against a nearby table.

The crowd that had gathered gasped in unison, sharp intakes of breath at the sight of a fresher daring to strike back.

The leader's eyes darted toward the growing crowd, uncertainty flashing across his face for the first time. The dynamic had shifted. His pack was momentarily unbalanced, and the audience was no longer passive. The cost of this fight was suddenly, visibly, rising.

The leader’s eyes widened at the takedown, but his anger quickly overrode his surprise. With a raw shout, “bastard!” He charged, swinging a wild, powerful fist aimed at Jorel’s head.

This was the brawling style forged in the cramped, dusty streets of Ajegunle. It was efficient, brutal, and using an opponent's weight against them. Jorel didn't meet force with force. He dropped low, the fist whistling harmlessly over his shoulder. Pivoting on the ball of his foot, he drove his own shoulder into the leader’s exposed midsection, not like a tackler, but like a piston, forcing the air from his lungs in a sharp gasp, knocking all the air out of him. Then, in one strong motion, he wrapped his arms around the leader’s legs, lifted him, and slammed him onto the pavement. The impact was a sickening thud that silenced the gasps of the onlookers, and the leader remained on the ground, gasping for breath.


But the fight wasn't over. The third and fourth men, enraged, came at him together. Jorel stepped forward, inside the swing. He smashed his forearm against the boy’s wrist, and the bottle fell and broke on the ground. Before the boy could react, Jorel headbutted him hard in the face. There was a sickening crunch. The boy cried out and stumbled back, blood pouring from his nose.

The last one froze, his courage evaporating at the violent efficiency of it all. He stared at Jorel, who now stood panting, his knuckles bleeding, his expression, cold and dangerous. His leader was still writhing on the ground, trying to get his breath back.

The scent of the spilled suya mixed with the coppery tang of blood. The fight had lasted less than twenty seconds.

Jorel’s gaze found the one still standing. "You’d better carry yourself and your friends and get out of my sight except you want to join them on the floor?”

He took a single step forward. The boy scrambled backward so fast he almost fell. "That's what I thought," Jorel said, his tone flat.
Then a voice, deep and commanding, cut through the chaos like a blade.

“What’s going on here?”

The crowd fell silent. Students shuffled quickly to the sides, creating a path. A tall, broad-shouldered young man stepped into the center of the circle. He was older, dressed in neat trousers and a clean polo shirt. Whispers flew through the air like sparks. "That's Benson..." "He's the Vice President of the Student Union..."

His presence changed everything. He didn’t look at the crowd. His stern eyes scanned the scene, taking in the overturned table, the broken bottle, and the two boys still groaning on the ground.

“Kunle. Nedu.” He said their names like a disappointed parent. “You are final year students. You should be setting an example, not acting like thugs on the courtyard.”

The leader, Kunle, tried to sit up, wincing as he held his ribs. “Benson, we were just… playing with them. It was a misunderstanding.”

“Playing?” Benson’s voice was hard. He pointed at the blood on the ground and Jorel’s split knuckles. “Does that look like play to you? If you have so much energy, use it in the gym. If I hear of you bothering students again, you will answer to me directly.”

The finality in his voice was unmistakable. Humbled and defeated, Kunle and his friends struggled to their feet. Without another word, they limped away, supported by their one unharmed friend. The crowd, seeing the drama was over, began to drift away, their excited chatter fading.

Jorel stood his ground, watching Benson closely. His chest was still rising and falling from the fight, and he moved slightly to stand more squarely between Ona and the newcomer.

Only then did Benson turn to them. His stern expression softened, but his gaze was intense. His eyes moved past Jorel and landed on Ona. He looked at her. Like, really looked, taking in her face, her wide eyes, the way she stood close to Jorel for safety. For a moment, too long, longer than necessary, his gaze lingered. Not on her worried frown or her trembling hands, but on her. Entirely on her.

“You’re new,” he said, the steel in his tone softening into something smooth, almost warm. “A jambite, right? I am sorry your welcome to this school started like this. What department?”

Ona nodded cautiously. “Yes .. uh .. Film Studies.”

At that, Benson’s mouth curved into a slow, knowing smile. “Then we’re colleagues. I'm in my third year, in the same department.” He extended a hand, the gesture casual but with an undercurrent of interest that made Jorel’s gut tighten. “Benson.”

She hesitated, then took it politely. “Ona, this is Jorel.”

Jorel watched the exchange, his body still humming with adrenaline. He saw the spark of interest in Benson’s eyes, the way the older student’s gaze dropped to Ona’s lips for a split second. A hot, possessive feeling coiled tight in Jorel’s stomach. He didn't like the way this guy was looking at her, as if the fight had just been a minor interruption to his introduction.

He stepped forward, his movement deliberate. He slid subtly between them, his shoulder breaking their line of sight. The back of his arm brushed protectively against Ona’s, a silent claim on the space beside her.

“We appreciate your help,” Jorel said, his voice calm but with a clear, hard edge underneath. “But she’s had enough of a welcome for one evening.”

Benson’s eyes flicked to him, sharp and analytical. For a long moment, the two young men stood in a silent appraisal. The air between them grew thick with an unspoken challenge, a primal sizing-up.

Then, Benson’s smile returned, but it was a different smile now. It was cooler, and not quite reaching his eyes. “You take care of her, then. Jorel, isn’t it?” He said the name as if he’d just recalled a minor detail. “The campus can be… unpredictable for a newcomer.” His gaze drifted past Jorel back to Ona, deliberately softening. “We’ll be seeing each other in class, I’m sure.”

Jorel didn’t offer a reply. He simply turned, placing his body as a shield between Ona and Benson. He guided her away with a firm, gentle hand at the small of her back. She went with him, but her brow was furrowed in thought, her mind clearly racing, caught between the shock of the fight and the intensity of Benson’s lingering attention.

Behind them, Benson stood perfectly still, his hands in his pockets. He watched them go, his eyes fixed on Ona’s retreating figure. And he didn’t look away until the evening shadows of the campus swallowed them whole.
*******

They walked in silence at first, the campus night buzzing faintly with crickets and distant chatter. The sharp edge of the fight still clung to Ona, her pulse skipping every time she replayed the moment Jorel had squared off against four older boys. She tightened her grip on his arm as though to reassure herself he was still beside her.

“You’re really okay?” she asked softly, peering up at him.

“I’m fine,” Jorel said, brushing it off with a small smile. “I’ve taken worse.”

Her frown deepened. “I just don’t get it. Why would they attack you like that? You didn’t even provoke them.”

Jorel’s jaw flexed, his eyes on the path ahead. “I know their type,” he said quietly. “Guys who think they own the place. They don’t like anyone standing in their way, especially when it comes to someone like you.” He turned his head, his gaze lingering on her. “But you don’t need to worry. I can take care of myself… and you.”

Something warm swelled in her chest at the certainty in his tone. Ona stopped walking, tugging him closer before sliding her arms around his waist. She pressed her cheek against his shoulder, smiling into his shirt. “My knight in rusted armor,” she murmured.

Jorel chuckled, the sound low and rich, vibrating against her. “Rusted, huh? That’s the best you’ve got?”

“Yes,” she said with a playful grin, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “Shiny armor is overrated. Rusted armor means you’ve seen battles, and you survived them.”

That made him laugh, a real laugh that loosened the tightness still wound in his chest. He bent slightly, brushing his hand along her braids with such gentle affection it made her stomach flip. “Then I’ll take rusted. As long as I’m still your knight.”

“You are,” Ona said, her voice soft but sure. “Always.”

They resumed their walk, the tension of the night fading into something steadier, sweeter. Side by side, Ona felt safe again, as though the world might still throw storms at her, but Jorel would always be her shelter.

They walked slowly through the winding paths of campus, the laughter of other students trailing faintly behind them. A few groups lingered under trees or sprawled across benches, the air alive with the hum of first-night excitement. But for Jorel, the world had narrowed down to Ona’s hand in his.

He was quiet, more than usual. Ona noticed, but she didn’t press. She simply leaned into him, her head brushing his shoulder as though to remind him she was still there.

Jorel’s thoughts churned. Was this what it was going to be like, always having to fend off guys who looked at her like she was some prize to be won? Onaedo was beautiful, stunning and very attractive. He’d known that from the moment he first saw her. She turned heads without trying. But until tonight, it had never struck him that other boys would be bold enough, careless enough, to challenge him for her.

The fight replayed in his mind, not the fists or shoves, but the way those boys had looked at her, like he was invisible, like she was theirs for the taking. It unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. He tightened his grip on her hand, almost without realizing it.

“You’re really quiet,” Ona said softly, tilting her face up at him as they neared the girls’ hostel. Warm light spilled from the common room windows, voices drifting out into the night.

Jorel blinked, forcing a smile. “Just… thinking.”

“About what?”

He hesitated, then shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You should get some rest. Big first day tomorrow.”

She stopped at the hostel entrance, turning fully to face him. Her eyes searched his, that perceptive gaze that always seemed to cut through his defenses. She smiled then, a soft, teasing curve of her lips. “You’ll always be my knight in rusted armor, you know. I don’t need anyone else. Just you.”

She said as if reading his mind and dispelling his doubts about who truly claimed her heart.

He laughed under his breath, shaking his head as he reached up to smooth back a stray braid that had fallen across her cheek. “I love you, Onaedo Adeyemi, and I always will.”

“I love you too, Jorel Odafenkhoa Igho,” Ona said, her voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The bustle of students faded into background noise. It was just the two of them, suspended in that fragile space between the end of one day and the beginning of another.

Jorel finally exhaled, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “Goodnight, Ona. Sleep well. And… don’t forget, you can always count on me. For anything.”

She smiled, her eyes soft, and squeezed his hand one last time before stepping back toward the hostel door. But when she let go, Jorel’s fingers lingered, reluctant, as if they hadn’t yet received the message that the moment was over.

“Goodnight, my knight,” she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear before disappearing inside.

Jorel stood there a long while, staring at the door that had swallowed her. The night air was warm, but he felt the cold press of reality settling in. This was only the first night, and already men had come for her. He knew then that he’d have to be ready, not just for books and exams, but for battles of a different kind. Battles for her.

And he wasn’t sure if that thought thrilled him… or terrified him.

*****************


Next post on Monday

Where can I buy your books online?

Yipee
Another one let's go...

Chapter 04

The afternoon sun was warm as Jorel walked with his elder sister, Fejiro, across the bustling campus. As they walked, Jorel reflected on the first semester of their 100-level and their fast approaching exams. Despite being in different departments, him in Banking and Finance, her in Film Studies, they had carved out a rhythm that held their world together.

They met for lunch a few times a week, sometimes in his shared hostel room, sometimes in hers, sharing the food he had cooked. On weekday evenings when he wasn't working his shift at the hotel, they took long walks around campus, talking about everything and nothing. Their study sessions in the library were his favorite; they would find a quiet corner, and under the desk, away from prying eyes, they would hold hands while reading their textbooks, a simple touch that made all the day's stress melt away.

Fejiro had arrived an hour earlier, the Keke Napep she arrived in stocked with food items. She’d brought some rice, beans, garri, onions, and tubers of yam and sweet potatoes from her farm, a care package that would keep his food costs low for weeks.

“Thanks so much for this, Fejiro,” Jorel said, his voice sincere. “For always helping with the food. It means a lot.”

Fejiro waved a hand, brushing off his thanks. “It’s the least I can do. This way, the money from your night and evening jobs can go to your textbooks and decent clothes. A Banking and Finance student needs to look the part, you know.”

He smiled in agreement. Fejiro was just about five years older than he was but she’d always cared for him like a mother would, right from when they’d lost their parents and been forced to live with a relative. Instead of being a regular teenager, Fejiro had become his protector. Where some siblings quarreled, Jorel simply took her advice without a comeback because he respected her deeply.

“I’m just happy you still find the time to cook your own meals,” she said, her tone a mix of pride and concern. “It can’t be easy, considering everything you have on your plate, no pun intended.”

Jorel laughed. Although the pun wasn’t intended, Fejiro often made him laugh without even trying.

“I have to,” Jorel replied. “It’s cheaper, and I know what I’m eating. I make the meals and store them in Ona’s fridge. She warms it up for me later.”

Fejiro looked at him with surprise. "So you and Ona have become codependent like that?" She didn't say it in a bad way, but Jorel knew Fejiro had her reservations about his relationship with Ona, even if she didn't say much.

“We… we work well together,” he said.

They walked in comfortable silence for a moment before Fejiro spoke again, her voice softer now. “I recently saw the admission letters from the colleges in Canada and the US. I’m still hoping you’ll change your mind, you know. You got in on full rides but chose to be here instead. You know you can always re-apply.”

Jorel kept his eyes forward. “This university is one of the best in the country for Banking and Finance, Sis. Fejiro. The program is strong here.”

“It is,” Fejiro agreed gently. “But the opportunities there… Jorel, you could do so much better.” She glanced at him sideways. “You like it here because of Ona, don’t you?”

A small smile touched Jorel’s lips despite himself. “She’s part of it,” he admitted. “But not all of it.”

“A big part,” Fejiro pressed, though not unkindly. “You’ve always been so focused. But now…”

“Now I’m where I want to be,” Jorel finished, his voice firm but calm. “The education is good here. And yes, Ona is here. I’m not going to apologize for wanting both.”

Fejiro sighed, but there was understanding in her eyes. “Just don’t limit yourself, little brother. You have too much potential to settle.”

“I’m not settling,” Jorel said as they approached the Film Studies building. He’d asked Fejiro to stop by and say hi to Ona before leaving. It was only fair since Ona always asked after her. He’d left out the part where he was almost running late for a class so they could make the detour.

He scanned the courtyard, his eyes already searching for one particular face in the crowd. He’d called her earlier and she’d told him she would be waiting there.

And then he spotted her near the arts block fountain, her laugh ringing out as she chatted with a small group. His steps slowed, his focus narrowing on the man standing a little too close to her. Benson.

A familiar tension coiled in Jorel's stomach. What was it with this guy? Ever since that first, chaotic night on campus, Benson seemed to have a permanent orbit around Ona. He wasn't in her year, yet Jorel constantly saw him nearby, lingering after her lectures, showing up at the same campus events, always finding a reason to be near.

Benson was a known figure. With his immaculate wardrobe, sleek Lexus SUV, and his position as a third-year Student Union VP, he moved through campus with an easy, polished charm that drew people in. He could have his pick of anyone, yet he consistently invested his time in Ona. The question of why nagged at Jorel constantly.

The memory from last week surfaced, sharp and unwelcome: the two of them strolling across the main lawn, their heads bent together in deep conversation. Ona had explained it easily later, that he was just helping with a playscript for her project. But the image, the easy intimacy of it, had left a bitter taste that still hadn't fully faded.

Fejiro, walking beside him, followed his gaze. "There she is," she said, a knowing smile in her voice.

Ona looked up then, as if sensing him. Her face brightened when she saw them both. She quickly excused herself and walked over, her smile widening as she opened her arms to Fejiro.

"Sister Fejiro! It's so good to see you," she said, pulling her into a warm hug. "How have you been?"

"I've been well, my dear. It's been too long," Fejiro replied, returning the hug warmly.

"Fejiro brought another care package," Jorel said, his voice softening as he looked at Ona. "Enough foodstuff to last a while."

"Oh, thank you so much!" Ona said, her gratitude directed at Fejiro. "You really don't know how much this helps us."

"It's nothing," Fejiro waved off the thanks gently. "I just want to make sure he eats properly." She glanced at her watch. "I'm afraid I have to get back to the shop now. It was lovely to see you again, Ona. Take care of each other."

She gave Jorel a quick, meaningful look and a hug, then turned and walked away, leaving the two of them standing together.

The warmth of Fejiro's departure faded quickly, replaced by a familiar, low-grade tension as Jorel watched Benson laugh with Ona's group. He turned to her, keeping his voice casual. "So, what’s happening over there that’s got you laughing?" he asked, nodding toward the circle where Benson stood, one hand casually tucked in his pocket, the very picture of easy belonging.

Ona smiled, probably recalling the moment. "We were breaking down the script for the stage play," she explained. "Our supervisor just gave us a bunch of new notes, and it's a bit of a mess. Honestly, Benson's been a lifesaver, he's got a real eye for structure."

“Yeah, I bet he does,” Jorel muttered under his breath, too low for Ona to catch.

She smiled up at him, her fingers gently brushing his forearm. "You should join us for a bit? I've been meaning to properly introduce you to the rest of the drama group."

The invitation was sincere, and it made the refusal taste more bitter. "I wish I could," Jorel said, his voice thick with genuine regret as he glanced at his old wristwatch. "But I've got a Corporate Finance class in a few minutes, and then I have to head straight to my evening job." He could already feel the long night ahead, the clinking glasses, the loud music, the demanding patrons where he worked as a bar tender and mixologist.

Ona's face, so bright a moment before, clouded over with disappointment. She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a hopeful whisper. "Oh... I was really looking forward to seeing you tonight. We haven't had any real time together in days. Can't you please call in sick? Just for once?"

Her plea tugged at him, but it also highlighted the vast, unbridgeable gap in their realities. A weary, self-deprecating smile crossed his face. The words were out before he could filter them, laced with a fatigue he usually kept hidden. "I wish it were that simple, Ona. I really do. You know today is Friday, my busiest day at the hotel. I wish my parents or grandparents had been around to set up a nice, comfortable trust fund for me like yours did, so I could get a monthly stipend without a worry. Then, trust me, I'd be calling in sick with you right now."

He meant it as a joke about his own orphaned status and constant financial strain, but it landed with the force of a physical blow. Ona recoiled, her hand snapping back from his arm as if burned. The hurt in her eyes was immediate and profound.

"That's a low blow, Jorel," she whispered, her voice trembling.

Panic flared in his chest. "Ona, no .. wait. That came out all wrong," he stammered, reaching for her hand, but she took a sharp step back. "I was just making a stupid joke about my own situation, not yours. I just.. I meant that I also wish I could spend the time with you instead of going to work."

"Some joke," she shot back, her voice cracking as tears welled in her eyes. "You can be really annoying sometimes, you know that?"

And before he could find the right words to mend the fracture, she spun on her heel and walked quickly away, back toward the group .. back toward Benson, who was watching the entire exchange with a carefully neutral expression. Jorel stood rooted to the spot, the weight of his textbooks, his impending shift, and his own careless words pressing down on him, making the bustling campus feel utterly isolating.

He knew he needed to settle this before leaving for class. He couldn’t leave things like this. Pulling out his phone, he dialed her number, his eyes fixed on her as she rejoined her group.

For a long moment, Ona just held the buzzing phone, her expression a fortress of hurt. She glanced from the screen back to him, her eyes narrowed. Then, with a sigh that was part surrender, part frustration, she swiped the screen and brought the phone to her ear.

“What?” Her voice was a flat, cold syllable.

Jorel’s grip on his phone tightened. “I’m such an idiot sometimes,” he said, his voice low and thick with regret, his eyes pleading with her across the distance. “A complete and utter one. And I’m sorry. I blame it on tiredness and stress from working almost all week that I forgot how much you hate those jokes. It was stupid and unfair.”

He saw her posture shift. The rigid line of her shoulders dropped just a little. She wrapped her free arm around herself, listening. A soft sigh traveled through the receiver. “I know you didn’t mean it like that,” she conceded, her voice losing its icy edge. “It just… it makes me feel awful, Jorel. Like I have to apologize for my life.”

“You don’t. Ever,” he insisted, his heart aching. “Let me make it up to you. Tomorrow evening. I’ll take you for suya. As much as you can eat. I’m talking about the good stuff from Malam Rilwan’s spot, fresh off the grill, with extra yaji and lots of onions.” he said, deciding to blow tonight's tips and splurge on her the next evening.


He saw the change immediately. A reluctant, small smile broke through her defenses, and she finally turned her body fully to face him, the phone still pressed to her ear. He knew she was an absolute sucker for Malam Rilwan’s perfectly spiced, smoky suya, and he was not above using that knowledge as a strategic peace offering.

Ona laughed then, a soft, warm sound that finally dissolved the last of the tension. “You are so incredibly annoying,” she said, the affection flooding back into her voice. “You know that’s my weakness. Fine. But you’re also paying for extra masa, and yogurt.”

“Deal. Anything,” he said, a profound wave of relief washing over him so strongly his heart felt lightly.

“I love you, you know,” she added, her tone now soft and intimate, meant only for him. “Even when you’re a monumental ass.”

His own heart felt full to bursting. “I love you too, Ona. So much.”

He watched as she ended the call, her smile now genuine and bright. She gave him a final, lingering look, and a cute wave before turning to walk away, her step light and easy. As she passed Benson’s group, she gave them a casual wave also, not noticing the intensity of his gaze as he watched her go.

Jorel finally lowered his phone, the weight on his chest completely gone. He was definitely, undoubtedly late for class, but as he hurried toward the lecture hall, a new energy in his step, he found he didn’t care at all. The only thing that mattered was the promise of suya and the sound of her laugh.
--------


Later that night, the buzz of the hotel bar finally faded behind him. Jorel’s feet ached and the scent of liquor clung to his clothes, but all he could think about was the text from Ona waiting on his phone: "Can't wait for tomorrow. Malam Rilwan’s suya better be ready for me. ❤️"

Instead of heading to his hostel, he found himself outside Ona’s hall. He called her. "Come to your window."

A moment later, her curious face appeared in the third-floor window, illuminated by the soft glow of her room's light. She smiled down at him.
**************

Ona was already in her nightclothes, idly scrolling through her phone, when it lit up with Jorel’s name. A little jolt of surprise and worry went through her. It was late, and he should be exhausted after his shift.

She answered. "Jorel? Is everything okay?"

"Come to your window," his voice was soft, a little rough from the long day.

Her curiosity piqued, she padded over to the window and pushed the curtain aside. There he was, standing right under her window on the third floor, looking up, his face illuminated by the courtyard lights. Her heart did a little flip.

"I know it's not suya," he said, his voice carrying clearly in the quiet night. "But I wanted to say goodnight properly."

A wide, involuntary smile spread across her face. All the residual tension from their earlier argument completely vanished. "You're ridiculous," she said, her voice dripping with affection.

"I know," he replied, a hint of a smile in his voice. "I'm sorry about today. Really."

Looking down at him, at the earnestness on his face even from this distance, her heart swelled. "I know you are," she whispered. "Now go get some sleep. You've earned it."

She watched him for a moment longer, this strong, proud, hardworking man who had crossed campus just to stand beneath her window. Finally, with a small, happy sigh, she pulled her head back in and closed the window.

As she turned around, she found her roommate, Layo, leaning against the wall with the widest, most knowing grin.

"‘Goodnight properly’?" Layo mimicked, pressing a hand to her heart dramatically. "Oh, sweet heavens. My teeth are aching from the sweetness! After the day he’s had, he still came to stand in the dirt beneath your window. That’s not just love, that's dedication."

Ona felt a blush creep up her neck, but she couldn't stop smiling. "Layo, shush," she said, swatting playfully at her friend.

"Okay, but seriously," Layo said, her curiosity taking over as she plopped onto her bed. "How did you two even start? I mean, you're you, and he's... well, he's Jorel. He's not exactly the most approachable guy. Who made the first move?"

Ona sat on the edge of her own bed, a soft, nostalgic smile gracing her lips. This was a story she rarely told. "I did," she confessed. "Back in secondary school, in our penultimate year. He'd just transferred in after winning this really competitive scholarship."

Layo's eyes widened. "No way! So you knew a good thing when you saw it, even then?"

"I did," Ona admitted, the memory vivid. "He was this tall, quiet, handsome boy who was so... grounded. So different from all the other boys in our school who were just showing off their parents' money. I was completely besotted. Our first meeting was when I stood up for him when some boys were being silly and harassing him. After that, we said hi a few times but he mostly kept to himself. It took me time for me to summon the courage, but I finally started having my lunch where he sat alone and we just started talking, then we became really good friends."

"And who asked who out?" Layo pressed, leaning forward eagerly.

Ona's blush deepened. "That was me too. I knew he liked me, but I could tell he was hesitating. He was always so aware of our different backgrounds, even then. So I decided to be intentional. I didn't want him to talk himself out of being with me because he felt he wasn't good enough. So I asked him out and even kissed him first."

Layo let out a low, impressed whistle. "Ona! You little strategist! I had no idea you were the fearless pursuer. So all that 'strong, silent' vibe Jorel has... you saw right through it from day one."

"I saw him," Ona corrected gently, her smile tender. "I just had to make sure he saw me, too, and didn't let his manly pride get in the way."


As she finally climbed into bed and turned off her lamp, the room was filled with a comfortable silence. Lying in the dark, Ona replayed the image of Jorel standing faithfully below her window. She hugged the secret of their beginning close, a story of her own bravery.

But in the quiet, the ghost of their afternoon argument resurfaced. Jorel's cruel joke about the trust fund. The words, "I wish my parents or grandparents had been around to set up a nice, comfortable trust fund for me like yours did,"still stung, but now the sting was mixed with a painful understanding.

He saw it as a simple privilege, a monthly stipend that made life easy. He didn't see the whole picture. He didn't see the legal fortress her grandparents had built, with her Aunt Kora, her mother’s younger sister, as the sole gatekeeper until Ona turned thirty. On her thirtieth birthday, the entire fortune would be hers, but until then, she lived on the allowance. It was generous, but a fraction of what was to come.

Most importantly, Jorel didn't understand that this trust fund was her anchor and her shield. It was the one thing that fuelled her rebellion against her father's controlling nature. He could threaten to cut her off, disapprove of her course, disapprove of Jorel, but it was an empty threat. The trust ensured she was catered for, whether he cared to fund her or not. It was her freedom.

And that was the very heart of why his joke hurt. He had thrown the source of her independence in her face as a mark of her easy life, not seeing it as the armor it was. He saw the comfort, not the cage it helped her escape from.

With a deep sigh, she turned onto her side, watching the moonlight filter through the curtains. She loved him, fiercely. But a small, cold part of her wondered if he would ever truly understand the different kinds of weight they each carried. The semester was nearly over, but this, she knew, was a test that would last much longer.
*********

Dear Readers,

Enjoy! Next post, Next Monday .... except I feel led by your comments to post earlier.

Mhizdebs:
Yipee
Another one let's go...

Welcome aboard!

User5076:
Where can I buy your books online?

Links to two of my books are on my signature.

Chapter 05


End-of-semester exams were due to start the following week, and across campus, regular academic activities were slowly winding down. The air itself carried a tired but expectant feeling. It was the quiet before the storm, where half the student body would soon be buried in textbooks and notes, while the other half tried hard to pretend they weren't panicking.

For Ona, however, the coming week held a significance that went far beyond final exams. Right at the start of the semester, her advanced drama group had been assigned a major, four-credit project. Their task was to write, direct, and perform an original stage play. It had been a mountain of work from the very first day. There were endless rehearsals that stretched late into the night, strong differences in creative opinions, and many times where she managed only a few hours of sleep. But after weeks of rewriting scenes, debating over props and set designs, and tirelessly perfecting their lines, the play was finally complete. They were ready.

The campus theater was small and perpetually dim, its aging lights flickering and casting long, restless shadows that danced across the uneven surface of the walls. The air inside was thick with the chalky scent of undisturbed dust, mixed sharply with the smell of fresh paint—a clear reminder of the frantic, last-minute renovations that had only just been completed in time for this performance. Rows of old wooden seats creaked and groaned as the audience of students settled in, the soft rustling of their programs sounding like whispers before a storm.

Jorel sat somewhere in the middle of the theater, surrounded by the soft hum of the crowd's anticipation. Yet, his own focus was razor-sharp, his gaze locked intently on the dimly lit stage. His heart pounded a steady, heavy rhythm against his ribs, a physical echo of the nervous energy that crackled in the air.

Ona sat in the seat beside him. She was a mixture of nerves and excitement, but beneath it all was a solid confidence in the work they had done and how the performance would turn out.

The title of the play was printed on the program held tightly in Jorel's hand: Gilded Cages. Even the name felt significant to him, layered with a meaning that resonated with a personal ache, almost like a quiet confession.

The house lights dimmed completely, and the noise of conversation faded into silence. The heavy stage curtain shook for a moment, then began to rise, revealing a single, bright pool of golden light shining down on an empty stage.

There he was, Tunde, a proud, talented boy from a poor neighborhood, stepping nervously into that glow. The slightly oversized blazer he wore hung awkwardly on his shoulders but carried a sense of dignity, representing his hopes for the future and the weight of the expectations he felt.

And then came Amara.

The daughter of a billionaire, her entrance changed the whole atmosphere in the room. She moved with the practiced grace of someone who was born into wealth, yet her eyes sparkled with a spirit of rebellion. Even without saying a word, she exuded defiance, like a trapped bird struggling against golden bars.

Jorel leaned forward, holding his breath, caught between admiration and unease as the story unfolded.

Every line was intentional, each word cutting through the still air like truth pretending to be fiction. The arguments, the tenderness, the first shy kiss under imagined starlight—all of it shone with something painfully real.

And then it hit him. Hard.

Tunde’s quiet embarrassment when Amara’s friends teased him about his old phone. The half-hearted smile he wore to hide the hurt. The way he stood a little apart, unsure of where he belonged, acting like he didn’t see the gap between them.

It was like looking into a mirror.

Jorel felt his jaw tighten. He could see his own insecurities reflected back from the stage. The distance he sometimes pretended didn’t exist between his world and Ona’s. The longing to fit in, even when part of him knew he never fully could.

When the curtain fell for intermission, the audience clapped politely. Jorel didn’t move. His palms were sweaty, and the folded program felt damp between his fingers.

“So?” Ona’s voice brought him back to reality. She leaned closer, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed with excitement. “What do you think so far?”

He couldn’t look directly at her. His throat felt tight, and his thoughts were jumbled. “It’s… really good,” he finally said, his voice rougher than he intended. “You’re a great writer.”

Her face lit up instantly, her smile wide and sincere. “You really think so? Just wait for the second act; it gets even better!”

He nodded, forcing a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The lights dimmed once more.

The second act felt heavier, like a slow tightening around the heart. Amara's family, with their polished power, began to confine her. Their wealth was a quiet weapon. It was subtle, cruel, and effective. Tunde’s pride, once his shield, started to wane under the constant humiliation of being reminded that he would never be enough.

With each scene, the distance between them grew wider until there was no bridge left to cross.

In the final moment, Amara stood before him, tears streaming down her face. Her voice trembled but remained strong. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” she said softly, her words breaking, “it’s that love isn’t enough. Not in this world. Not ours.”

The silence that followed was complete.

Then came the heartbreak, when Amara turned away to walk into the arms of a family friend waiting in the shadows. His smooth smile was everything Tunde was not: effortless, wealthy, accepted.

The curtain fell slowly, almost sadly.

The applause erupted like thunder, but Jorel felt frozen. He sat still, his heart torn between pride for Ona’s talent and the painful realization that the story on stage mirrored their own lives in many ways.

The applause echoed through the small theater, and Ona stood center stage, shining brilliantly under the bright lights. Her fellow castmates pulled her forward, chanting her name, their cheers blending with the crowd's excitement. She bowed once, then again, laughing, her eyes glistening with tears. Her joy was pure and unrestrained, a reward for the countless sleepless nights and relentless rehearsals that had finally paid off.

Jorel finally rose to his feet, clapping along with everyone else, but each clap felt forced and empty. He smiled when her gaze briefly met his, but that smile didn’t reach his eyes. The pounding in his chest had not eased since the play began, and now it beat with something sharp and confusing. Yes, he felt pride, but also a deep ache he couldn’t name. Watching her shine in a world that adored her, he felt both close to her and incredibly far away.

After the show, the celebration went on into the night. The cast and crew went to a small, lively bar just off campus, a favorite spot for students wanting to relax. The music was low, the air thick with the smells of grilled meat and beer, and the room was filled with laughter and conversation. Ona, glowing from all the positive reviews, looked beautiful even in the dim light. She was surrounded by her castmates, her laughter bright, her hand movements animated.

Jorel stood a few paces behind her, nursing a bottle of malt, trying to match her energy. He told himself to relax, to feel proud, and to be happy for her. But each time she laughed and turned to someone else, each time she shared that bright, open smile, it twisted something inside him.

Then he saw Benson.

Tall, confident, with that easy charm that people were drawn to, Benson, one of the co-writers of Gilded Cages, had been one of Ona’s creative partners for weeks. Jorel had always tried to convince himself it was harmless. Professional. But tonight, the way Benson approached her made his chest tighten.

He slipped easily into her group, one arm resting casually around her shoulders, leaning in close to say something that made her laugh again. He was too close to Ona for Jorel’s liking. His fingers brushed against her neck, lingered there before sliding lower to her waist, a small, possessive squeeze that might’ve seemed friendly if Jorel hadn’t seen the flicker of satisfaction in Benson’s eyes.

A dull roar filled Jorel’s ears.

It wasn’t just jealousy; it was a reminder of the play, of Tunde standing helpless as the world mocked him next to Amara. It was the same pain, and the same anger.

Before he knew what he was doing, Jorel crossed the crowded room in three long strides. He reached them, his hand closing around Benson’s wrist in one swift, firm motion, tight enough to make Benson’s smirk falter.

“You’ve been holding my girlfriend long enough,” Jorel said quietly, his tone low but strong enough to cut through the noise. “Find someone else to grope.”

Conversations stopped mid-sentence. The music still played, but softer now, as if the bar itself were holding its breath.

Benson blinked, then let out a dry chuckle, forcing a nonchalant grin. “Whoa. Easy, man. It’s just a hug. No harm done.” He raised both hands in a fake sign of surrender, but his tone had that same patronizing note, the kind men used when they thought they had already won.

Ona’s eyes widened, clearly embarrassed. “Jorel!” she hissed, stepping between them. “What the hell was that? Chill out! He was just congratulating me. What’s the big deal?”

“What’s the big deal? Just congratulating you?” Jorel repeated, his voice low and bitter. “You didn’t see his hand on you?”

Her brows knitted in frustration. “He’s my friend, Jorel! My colleague. Is there anything wrong if he touches me? Why are you making a fuss out of nothing at all?"

The words hit him harder than he expected. He took a slow breath, jaw tightening. Around them, people were staring. Whispering. The bar’s atmosphere of joy had curdled into tension.

Jorel swallowed hard, then turned abruptly, shoving past a few stunned onlookers toward the door.

“Jorel! Wait!”

Her voice chased him down the pavement, and then her hand caught his arm, forcing him to stop. He turned, eyes dark, the emotions he’d been holding in all night threatening to spill over.

“What is wrong with you tonight?” she demanded, breathless. “Why would you do that? You embarrassed me!”

He stared at her, chest heaving, searching for words that didn’t sound small or desperate. He wanted to tell her what he’d seen in that play, how much it had cut into him. He wanted to say that watching her tonight on that stage, and in that bar, made him realize how easily he could lose her to the world she belonged to. But all that came out was a rough whisper.

“I don’t like when people touch what’s mine.”

Ona flinched slightly, taken aback by the possessiveness in his tone. “I’m not something you own, Jorel,” she said softly but firmly. “and … I didn't think I needed to tell you this, but you need to start trusting me.”

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. “I do,” he said, but even as the words left his mouth, he wasn’t sure they were true. “And while I don’t own you like you said, you are my girlfriend and you can’t expect me to just stand by and let another guy paw your body any way he wants, right in front of me. Right in front of me, Ona.”

For a long moment, they just stood there in the dim streetlight, her eyes staring at him with concern, his gaze shadowed with something unreadable.

Then, from the bar behind them, laughter erupted again, and when Jorel turned, he saw Benson at the doorway, watching them. His smile was faint, knowing.

Ona didn’t notice. But Jorel did.

And as they stood in the glow of the streetlight, Jorel realized that this, whatever it was, was only the beginning of a much bigger fight.

“Why did you write that play?”

The question erupted from him, sharp and trembling.

Ona blinked, startled. “What?” She frowned, confused. “Jorel… what are you talking about?”

“That play … Your play, Ona.” His voice was low, ragged. “Gilded Cages. That was us.”

Her confusion deepened. “Us? Jorel, come on. It’s a story—”

“No, it’s not just a story!” His voice rose, startling a few people still lingering near the bar. “It’s our story! Every damn scene. You didn’t even try to hide it. The poor boy, the rich girl, the fights, the pressure, the stares .. everything! Who knows, you probably even gave him my name at first before you changed it to Tunde!”

Her lips parted in shock. “I -what? You think I -Jorel, that’s crazy! It wasn't, I didn't mean it to be like that!”

He laughed bitterly, shaking his head. “Didn’t mean it like that? You took our lives and put them under a spotlight for everyone to judge. And then … then you ended it like that. You had her walk away. You made her give up on him because love wasn’t realistic enough!” His voice cracked. “Was that supposed to be art, Ona? Or was that your way of telling me how this ends? How we end?”

Ona took a step closer, her voice trembling. “You’re twisting this. It’s not about us, it’s not! It’s about people like us … about how the world treats them. You think I’d write something to humiliate you?”

“You didn’t have to humiliate me,” he said softly, the anger fading into something quieter, deeper. “You just had to tell the world that people like me don’t belong with people like you.”

“That’s not what it meant!” she cried. “You think I wanted her to leave him? I didn’t! I fought Benson, I fought the entire group over that ending! But they said …”

He cut her off, his jaw tightening. “They said what?”

“They said it wasn’t believable,” she whispered. “They said no girl from that kind of family would actually stay with someone like him. That people would laugh at it. That it wasn’t truthful, and it was fantasy.”

He stared at her. “And you agreed.”

“I didn’t agree!” Her voice broke. “I just… I didn’t want to fail the course, Jorel. It’s a four-credit project. You think I didn’t die a little changing that ending? I did, it wasn’t what I wanted!”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?” he asked quietly. His voice had gone flat now, emptied of its earlier fury. “Why didn’t you say anything before tonight? You knew I’d see it. You knew how I would feel.”

Ona’s shoulders sagged. “Because I didn’t think you’d take it this way,” she said in a small voice. “I thought you’d understand. You always said you believed in my writing, that you wanted me to be brave with my stories.”

“I do,” he said, eyes glinting. “But not when the story you’re telling makes what we have sound like a lie.”

Her tears spilled over. “It isn’t a lie. We -are not a lie. What we feel for each other isn't a lie, Jorel. You know this.”

He took a slow breath, staring at her as though searching for something, maybe proof, maybe conviction. “If you knew this, why did you make it one?”

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

For a moment, they just stood there, the air between them charged with everything they couldn’t say. The laughter from the bar drifted faintly through the night, cruelly out of place.

Finally, Jorel spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “You wrote the ending you believed was true, Ona. Maybe that’s the difference between us. I still believe in ours.”

“Jorel …I didn't.”

He turned away. If she wasn't ready to be honest with herself and with him, then there was no point discussing this further.

“Jorel, please,” she called after him, her voice cracking with desperation. “Don’t walk away like this. Please, I didn’t mean ..”

But he didn’t stop. His steps were steady, deliberate, echoing down the quiet street.

“Jorel!” she cried again, but the night swallowed her voice.

He didn’t look back.

Ona stood there in the warm, heavy silence, her tears streaking down her cheeks, realizing too late that sometimes, a story could destroy the very thing that inspired it.

But she wasn't going to let her mistake destroy them. She wouldn't let him walk away. She would follow him until he was ready to listen, she thought as she followed behind.
******

The humid night air felt heavy, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shrug off. Jorel walked fast, his strides long and uneven, though he had no real destination in mind. He just needed distance. He needed distance from the lights, from the noise, from the people who had cheered at a story that cut him open.

He heard her footsteps behind him. It was soft and careful. Following.

A part of him wished she wouldn’t. Wished she would just turn back, leave him to his thoughts, to the storm boiling quietly inside him. He didn’t want her to see him like this, when he was angry, hurt, and unraveling. But another part of him, the one that always wanted her close, was quietly grateful that she hadn’t listened to what he wanted.

That was Ona. She knew him too well. She knew he hated walking away angry, hated unresolved silences. She knew he couldn’t sleep when something was broken between them. And so she followed, not to argue, but because she understood that he’d rather face the pain than lose the connection entirely.

He slowed his pace, his breaths coming heavy, ragged. The sounds of the bar had long since faded into the distance. All that remained was the rhythmic tap of their shoes against the pavement and the soft rustle of night wind brushing through nearby trees.

He reached a flickering streetlight, its orange light weak and stuttering. The glow stretched his shadow long across the ground, distorted and uncertain.

He stopped, deciding he’d kept her walking long enough. It was time to face it. It was time to face the issue, the ache, the truth that had been building between them since the curtain fell. He hoped she would be honest with herself this time.

For a while, he just stood there, staring at the cracked pavement, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Then, with a deep, unsteady breath, he turned.

Ona was a few steps behind, her chest rising and falling fast, strands of her hair sticking to her damp face. She didn’t speak. She just looked at him, waiting.

He studied her in silence. She looked small under the harsh light, vulnerable, but her eyes were steady, searching his face for a crack, a way in.

“You think I don’t know?” he said at last, voice low, rough-edged.

And the words that had been burning inside him finally began to spill out.

“You think I don’t lie awake at night wondering why you’re with me? Wondering when it’s all going to fall apart?”

Ona’s breath caught, but she said nothing.

“You think I don’t see the way people look at us?” he continued. “I know what they’re thinking. I know what your father thinks of me. I carry that around every single day, Ona. Every time I walk beside you.”

“And then tonight… I had to sit there and watch you give them the ending they all expect. The ending that makes sense to them. The realistic one. You proved them right.”

“Jorel, that’s not fair,” she whispered. “Please believe me, that’s not what I meant. It was just a stupid school project—”

“It wasn’t stupid,” he snapped, cutting her off. “It meant something! You stood there, on that stage, and told the world that what we have isn’t possible. That no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be enough.” His voice cracked, rough with emotion. “Do you know what that felt like? Watching that?”

Her tears came fast now. “Jorel, I told you I didn’t mean it like that,” she said, shaking her head. “You have to believe me.”

“Then what did you mean?” he demanded. “Because it sure didn’t look like fiction from where I was sitting. You made her walk away. You made her choose the easy life, the one that made sense. You made her—”

“I told you before, I really didn’t want to!” she cried, her voice breaking. “I didn’t want to write it that way! I swear I fought them, Jorel. I fought everyone.”

He stared at her, his jaw working as if he wanted to speak but couldn’t.

“But you changed it,” he said finally, each word quiet and deliberate. “Means you agreed with them.”

Her lips trembled. “I didn’t agree,” she said. “I just… gave up. I didn’t want to fail the course. I thought if I changed the ending, it wouldn’t matter and it would get them off my case. Can you just try to understand? It was me against the rest of them.”

And Benson.

He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “Understand?” He rubbed a hand over his face, exhaling shakily. “You wrote our love story, Ona. And you turned it into a warning.”

The silence that followed was unbearable. Ona took a tentative step closer. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice small. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t think you’d see it that way. I just wanted to prove I could do it. I wanted to show that I could tell a story people would take seriously.”

He looked at her then, really looked at her. “And what about us?” he asked. “You think what we have isn’t serious?”

She shook her head quickly, wiping at her tears. “No. God, no. What we have is the only thing that feels real to me.”

“Then why does it feel like you just told me it’s doomed? That’s what I feel after watching it play out on stage.”

Ona swallowed hard, fighting to steady her voice. “Because I was scared,” she admitted. “Scared of them, of their judgment. Scared of being laughed at for believing in something good.” She looked up at him, her eyes red and shining. “But I was wrong, Jorel. I was so wrong. I was wrong because I would pick you a hundred times over.”

Her voice grew steadier, stronger with every word. “When I wrote that ending, it felt like cutting out my own heart. Honestly, I hated myself for it, for giving in to what they wanted. Because it is real. We’re real, and I know it to my soul. Now, I see I should I should’ve fought harder for that.”

She stepped forward until she was standing right in front of him, her chin tilted up in defiance of the tears still streaming down her cheeks.
“They don’t get to decide what’s realistic for us,” she said fiercely. “Not Benson, not my classmates, not even my father. The only truth that matters to me is this.” She gestured between them. “You. Me. What we have.”

Jorel’s breath caught, and his expression softened. She was finally being honest with herself.

Ona reached out then, her hand trembling slightly as she took his. Her fingers slid between his, firm and sure. “The play is over,” she said softly. “That wasn’t our story. Our story doesn’t have an ending yet. I’m still writing it, with you, not for them.”

He stared down at their joined hands, then lifted his gaze to her face. There was something fierce and unyielding in her eyes now, something that made his chest ache.

The knot in his chest loosened just a little. The anger was still there, but beneath it was something gentler, a fragile, tentative hope.
He took a slow breath. “You have no idea how hard it is,” he murmured. “Loving you, knowing what I’m up against.”

“I do,” she said quietly. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

The flickering streetlamp buzzed overhead, casting them in a half-shadow that made the moment feel both unreal and inevitable.
And for the first time that night, Jorel let himself believe her.

He squeezed her hand. “Then I guess,” he said, voice low, “we’ll just have to write a better ending.”

Her answering smile was small, trembling, but it reached her eyes. “Together,” she whispered.

“Together,” he said.

The light flickered once more, then steadied. And under its dim, uncertain glow, they stood hand in hand, as two people daring to believe that their story could still be rewritten.
*****************


Next post Next Monday

That kind of pain hits different... seeing your love story end right before your eyes..


Repogirl... Weldone

Uthman51:
That kind of pain hits different... seeing your love story end right before your eyes..


Repogirl... Weldone

Thank you 🙂

Next post comes up tomorrow

This is really sad. That a story as lovely as this one has to beg for new update. This is why I never like to follow nairaland stories. You said you would post every Monday you even said you will post yesterday but reasons best known to you. No update till now.

Chapter 06

The Lagos afternoon sun beatdown on Jorel mercilessly as he crouched low beside the tripod stand, his muscles sore from holding that position. Sweat dripped along his hairline, creating a path through the dust on his skin before sliding down the back of his neck. His old t-shirt was soaked, sticking to his back. In the small backyard, which was just red dirt and stains from old fires, the heat felt even worse because it was trapped by tall concrete walls. The air was filled with the strong smell of kerosene and the sweet smell of cooking beans.

Every time he leaned closer to fan the tiny, stubborn flame with a piece of cardboard, a fresh wave of smoke rose up, stinging his eyes and choking him, making him cough. Still, he kept going, moving his hand in a steady rhythm, trying to get the fire to burn a little brighter.

“You're going to put the fire out, Jorel," Fejiro said in a joking tone. Her knife tapped on the old cutting board. Her eyes were watering from a strong onion, and she squinted through the smoke. "Stop fanning it so much. Just be patient and let it breeef.”

“Let it breeef? Really Fejiro?” He asked, giving her a half-smile, ready to reply sarcastically, but then he heard the ringing of his phone cutting through the sounds of the yard. The ring tone was one he’d specifically saved for …

Ona.

He almost dove for the device. Seeing her name on the screen felt like a small, comforting anchor. Just the sight of it made the weight of the heat and his tiredness lighten for a moment. The corners of his mouth lifted almost instinctively, a smile appearing. Without thinking, he wiped his dirty, sweaty hands on his faded shorts, swiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm, and tapped the green icon.

The screen brightened with her face, glowing and radiant. She was surrounded by soft sunlight and lush green plants behind her. It looked like she was sitting in a sunny conservatory, with wide glass walls letting in the light to create a warm gold glow. Neat rows of potted plants in the background had glossy, vibrant leaves that seemed to thrive with health.

The difference between their worlds was so striking it felt almost unreal. His world was this smoky, cramped, red-earth yard filled with strong smells of kerosene and cooking, while hers was an airy, polished space, quiet and peaceful.

For a long moment, Jorel just stared, caught between admiration and self-mocking amusement. The contrast was so clear it was almost funny. Him, sweaty and covered in soot by a struggling stove, while she looked like she had just stepped out of a luxurious magazine. Yet, beneath that hint of humor was something warm and comforting that settled in his chest.

“Hey, you,” came her voice, clear and bright, untouched by the background hum of generators, honking danfos, and the distant shouts of children playing football in the street.

Jorel was smiling before he even spoke. “Hey,” he said, shifting the phone to find a better angle. The camera caught him half-squinting, half-smiling, tendrils of smoke swirling behind his head. “Sorry if I look like a chimney sweeper’s apprentice. This fire has just refused to cooperate with me today.”

Ona’s laughter bubbled through the tiny speaker, a sound so full and bright it seemed to thin the smoky air around him. “What on earth is happening there? It looks like a cinematic war zone. Are you performing some kind of fire ritual or trying to summon a spirit?”

He laughed, a deep, genuine sound, his teeth flashing white against his soot-dusted face. “Maybe a bit of both. We’re making beans, and the ancestors prefer their offerings with a smoky flavour.”

“Beans?” she exclaimed. “Chai Jojo! You've just reminded me how much I miss eating the beans you cook!”

Jorel's head swelled at her appraisal of his cooking skills.

“Did Sis Fejiro finally allow you into her kitchen? You said she never allows you mess with her ingredients, and calls your cooking largely experimental. How did you get her to cave to your interesting culinary ideas?” Ona joked and Jorel laughed even harder.

“I didn't. I'm still working on convincing her but for today,” he said, leaning aside to pan the camera over to Fejiro, who was crouched nearby, expertly dicing onions. “I’m just the apprentice, fanning the flames. She’s the head chef and my severe taskmaster. Say hi to your number one fan, Fejiro.” and then he added, “and you heard her, my beans is out of this world.”

Fejiro lifted her head and gave him that classic side-eye, her lips pursed in disbelief. With a faint snort, she brushed her palms on her faded apron before leaning closer to the camera. “Ona, hello oh! How is the UK treating you?”

Ona’s face instantly transformed, lighting up with pure affection. “Sister Fejiro! It is fine but it’s cold, perpetually grey, and I’m already tired of layering coats. I miss the sun, even the brutal Lagos version.”

Fejiro chuckled, shaking her head. “You’ll be begging for that cold again when you return. This Lagos heat no dey pity anybody.”

“True,” Ona conceded with a laugh. “But at least in Lagos, I could turn on the A.C. Here, it’s just drizzle and my aunt, feeding me lots of pastries, as if it would console me from the weather.”

Jorel laughed and Fejiro’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “Pastries? Ah, seems like your aunty is treating you like a queen.”

“How is she doing?” Jorel chipped in.

“She’s very good! She sends her love. And the feeding is relentless, It's like she’s trying to inflate me before I return. Yesterday it was homemade meat pies and a carrot cake so big it could feed a village. I told her I’m one pastry away from exploding.”

Fejiro laughed heartily, the sound rich and warm. “Good! Allow her to spoil you. Eat, oh! Enjoy it for all of us here who are sweating over a stove.”

“I will, I promise,” Ona said, her grin softening. Then she leaned closer to the camera, her tone dipping into genuine interest. “How’s the salon, Sis Fejiro? I saw the post about the new professional steamer on instagram. It looked so sleek!”

Fejiro puffed up with visible pride. “Ah, we thank God. It’s moving, my dear. Customers are coming. In fact, I’m even thinking of hiring another girl to help with the washing. But these Lagos women sef. They want their hair to look like the ones models and celebrities make, but they start haggling when you give them the price.” She sighed dramatically. “They want to be Beyoncé for two thousand naira.”

Ona burst out laughing,“I can only imagine! You have the patience of a saint.”

Fejiro pointed her knife playfully toward the screen. “Not patience, and grace, my dear. It is only by God’s grace I have not chased one away.”

“Still, you’re the best,” Ona said, her voice warm and sincere. “Everyone knows if you want your hair done perfectly, you go to Sis Fejiro, no one makes hair like you do.”

“You and your sweet mouth,” Fejiro teased, shaking her head fondly before turning back to her onions. “Let me finish cutting the vegetables before your boyfriend turns my beans to charcoal.”

As she moved away, Jorel chuckled and turned the phone back to himself. “You see? She has zero trust in my capabilities. ”

Ona laughed, and he couldn’t help but join her, watching her through the screen as if she were sunlight he could bottle and keep. He stared for a moment longer than he intended, his grin softening into something more tender.

“What?” she asked, catching the shift in his gaze.

He shrugged, a sudden shyness making him look down before meeting her eyes again. “Nothing. You just look… really happy. Peaceful.”

Her voice softened, losing its playful edge. “I am. But I’d be happier if you were sitting here with me.”

He swallowed, the noise of the yard fading for a second. “Yeah,” he said, his voice low. “Me too.”

The air between them, even across thousands of miles, shifted, It still felt familiar and playful, but now thrumming with an undercurrent of longing that neither made any effort to hide.

“I miss you, Jojo,” she said quietly, tucking a loose braid behind her ear. “I didn’t think I would, not this deeply, and so soon for that matter. It’s just not fun being here without you. No morning walks to argue about the best akara spot, no fighting over the last piece of chicken suya, no late-night studying in class where you ‘pretend’ to be reading while you’re actually falling asleep.”

He laughed softly, the sound rough with affection. “You miss my fake studying?”

“I miss the sound of you breathing on the other end of the line,” she said simply. “That’s how bad it’s gotten.”

Jorel’s chest tightened. “I miss you too,” he said, his voice dropping to a gentler register. “You’d think two weeks would be nothing. But it feels like a whole semester has passed.”

Her lips curled into a faint, knowing smile. “Jorel, it’s only been two days.”

“I know,” he said, “my days are noisier without you in them, and my nights are too quiet. I can’t decide which is worse.”

Ona chuckled, though her eyes looked suspiciously bright.“and when did you become such a good poet, Jorel?”

He smiled. “Desperation makes poets of us all.”

“Ah, romantic and dramatic,” she teased. “What happened to my practical, level-headed Jorel?”

“He met you,” he said simply.

That made her fall quiet, her teasing smile melting into something more profound and real. Then she smiled softly. “Good answer.”

Behind him, Fejiro’s voice sliced through the moment. “Ona, biko, bring me real chocolate when you come back, oh! Not that one that melts as soon as you look at it.”

Ona laughed, the sound bright and musical. “I promise, Aunty Fejiro! The real deal. Swiss!”

“Good girl,” Fejiro said with mock seriousness.

The pot suddenly hissed and sputtered violently, rattling on its stand. “Jorel!” Fejiro yelped. “Manage that fire before we have to serve charcoal for dinner!”

He scrambled to adjust the flame, laughing as he moved the pot to a safer spot. “Yes, ma! On it!” He wiped his face with the back of his arm, leaving a fresh smear of soot, and turned back to the phone.

Ona giggled. “I can see you’re really busy. I’ll let you go soon, don’t worry. I wanted to know if you’ve checked your portal? Have you seen your result?”

He nodded, trying and failing to suppress a proud smile. “Yeah. Pulled all A’s this semester.”

Her eyes widened, lighting up with a joy that was entirely for him. “Jorel! That’s amazing!” She clapped her hands together softly. “And guess what? Me too! Straight A’s!”

He let out a low, impressed whistle. “Ah, so the competition is still on. I can’t afford to slow down next semester.”

“Not unless you want me to leave you in the academic dust,” she said, lifting her chin in a playful challenge.

He laughed, a full, happy sound. “Never going to happen.”

They grinned at each other, basking in that easy, shared pride that made the distance feel momentarily irrelevant.

Then his expression grew a touch more serious. “So… how did your dad take the news of your great escape? You kind of vanished on him.”

Ona rolled her eyes, leaning back in her wrought-iron chair. “Oh, he had a meltdown. You know the script. He had this whole ‘character-building’ internship lined up for me at a law firm in Victoria Island. Said I was being irresponsible and impulsive.” She mimed air quotes with her fingers. “But I just .. I needed to see Aunt Kora, it’s been two whole years. So, she booked my flight and I left, simple.”

“You just left without his knowledge or blessing, Ona” Jorel said. Ona had a mind of her own, he knew but it still surprised him how strongly willful she was.

“Oh, I blessed him with the information,” she said dryly. “After I’d cleared immigration.”

Jorel winced in sympathetic amusement. “You’re either very brave or slightly crazy.”

“A healthy dose of both,” she declared proudly. “He shouted, of course. Gave me the whole ‘I’m disappointed’ speech. But as usual, it just… rolled off. I needed to be somewhere that wasn’t his world, following his schedule. Honestly I’m surprised that he hasn’t understood by now that I only do what I want to do.”

He shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Your stubbornness is honestly terrifying. I’m just glad I’m not the one on the other end of it.”

She laughed softly, her eyes dancing. “You could never be. You tamed the lioness in me a long time ago.”

He raised an eyebrow, a smirk forming. “Tamed? That’s a very generous interpretation of events.”

“Oh, please,” she teased, leaning so close her face nearly filled the screen. “You know all my soft spots. You know which buttons to press.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “And that, my love, is my secret weapon. I’m not giving that up.”

They lingered there then, just smiling at each other, the silence stretching. It was warm, comfortable, and full. For a few heartbeats, the cacophony of Lagos faded into a dull roar for him, and the chill of London ceased to exist for her. It was just them, suspended in a bubble of their own making.

“Two weeks, Jorel,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Two weeks,” he echoed, the word feeling like a promise. “It can’t come soon enough.”