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He asked himself if his sister was right. Was their relationship sustainable? Or were they creating something beautiful, like a sandcastle, right where the tide could wash it away? He was once again worried that the pressures from her wealthy father and a society that valued money and status would eventually pull them apart.

As he stepped out of the shower, the air around him felt so cold. He glanced at his reflection in the foggy mirror, a young man from Ajegunle with big dreams but empty pockets, dating a billionaire’s daughter. It sounded like a fairy tale, but looking into his own eyes, all he felt was the crushing weight of reality. In real life, fairy tales often don’t end happily, and when they do, they're usually messy and complicated. The warmth from Ona’s kiss faded away, replaced by a cold fear that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the nagging thought that maybe he was in over his head.

Back in secondary school, he had never considered anything other than the genuine feelings they shared for one another.

A vivid memory came to him, clear like a scene from a movie, taking Jorel back to the noisy, sunlit cafeteria of their secondary school. He was seventeen again, sitting across from Ona, who was sixteen at their usual table. The air was filled with the smell of food and the loud chatter of hundreds of students around them.

They were both laughing uncontrollably about Tunde, the class clown, who had just swapped the Principal’s framed photo with a picture of a bushy goat.

“And he just… he saluted it during morning assembly!” Ona giggled, her eyes sparkling with laughter. “Such dedication!”

Jorel smiled, but his attention was fully on her. He watched how her laughter brightened the dim hall, how the shape of her cheek glowed with happiness, and how her delicate hands rested on the table. A strong wave of affection washed over him, an almost painful longing. For months, he had felt this intense connection that caused his heart to tighten whenever she was near. He wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold her hand, to see if her skin felt as soft as it looked against his own rough, calloused hands. But he never had the courage to do it. He saw himself as the scholarship boy, and Ona as Ona Adeyemi, the daughter of a wealthy family. He believed that risking their friendship, which felt so perfect and easy, was too big of a gamble for him to take.

Their laughter eventually faded into a comfortable silence. Ona looked at him, her head slightly tilted, with a playful, mysterious glint in her brown eyes.

"You know what?" she said, lowering her voice to a secretive whisper, even though the noise around them was loud and chaotic. “I have something important to tell you.”

“What is it?” he asked, feeling a sudden flutter in his chest.

“It’s a secret I can’t share here.” She stood up, smoothing out her pleated skirt. “I’m going to the bathroom near the old staff quarters. You know the one, right? Give me five minutes, then come find me.”

Jorel felt a chill run down his spine, followed by a rush of heat. The bathrooms next to the staff quarters were usually empty after lunch, and it was against the school rules for boys and girls to be there together. If they were caught, they would be expelled immediately, no questions asked.

“Ona…” he started, his voice tight with worry. “We can’t go there. If Mr. Bello checks…”

She leaned in closer, her voice low and daring. “Are you scared, Jorel?”

Then she turned and walked away, weaving through the tables without looking back.

The five minutes that followed felt like an eternity. Jorel's thoughts were all mixed up. Fear, caution, and the strict rules of the school told him to stay put. But a stronger feeling, a mix of curiosity, the chance to be alone with her, and the way she looked at him, pulled at him. He thought about everything he had worked for, especially the scholarship that was his only hope. Then he thought about Ona leaving his life forever and never knowing what she wanted to tell him.

Finally, he made up his mind. He felt a rush of courage. He decided that getting in trouble for something daring was better than living with the regret of not knowing.

He stood up, his legs felt heavy, and he tried to walk out of the dining hall as casually as possible. Once he was out of sight, he broke into a quick run. The hallway leading to the old staff rooms was quiet and dark. His heart raced in his chest like a bird trying to escape.

He carefully pushed open the door to the girls' bathroom, which creaked loudly. The room was empty except for Ona, who was leaning against the tiled wall with her arms crossed. A dusty window let in a beam of light that shone across the floor.

“You came,” she said, her voice softer now. The playful teasing was gone, replaced by a nervous energy that matched his own.

“You knew I would,” he replied, as the door clicked shut behind him, leaving them alone in their secret place.

The air between them was filled with a tension that had been building for a long time. He could see that her breathing was a little faster than usual.

“What’s the secret?” he asked, almost in a whisper, eager to know what she had to say.

Ona took a small step forward, closing the gap. She looked up at him, her gaze unwavering. “The secret is… I like you, Jorel. Not just as a friend. And I’m tired of pretending I don’t.”

The confession hung in the air, stunning him into silence. All his fears, his carefully constructed walls, crumbled to dust in that instant.

Seeing his speechlessness, a flicker of uncertainty crossed her face. “Say something. Or… or was I wrong?”

That broke his trance. “No,” he said, the word coming out rough with emotion. “You weren’t wrong.”

He finally, finally, let his hand come up to cradle her cheek, his calloused thumb stroking the soft skin there. He saw her shiver at the touch, her eyes fluttering closed for a second.

“I’ve wanted to do that for so long,” he confessed, his voice thick. “I was just… scared.”

“Don’t be,” she whispered, leaning into his touch. “Not with me.”

And then, it was she who closed the final distance, standing on her toes to press her lips to his in a sweet, tentative kiss that tasted of hope and stolen moments, and felt like the beginning of everything.

Back then, Jorel's biggest worry was the possibility of being kicked out of school for breaking the rules. He hadn't cared about Ona's friends or what anyone thought about their relationship. The signs had been there but he'd never paid any attention. He was aware some of her secondary friends had discouraged her from the relationship. It had been in the way they stared, the way they talked in hushed whispers, the way they would suddenly stop talking about their trips abroad when he joined them at the table. But he had simply been unbothered and probably naive at the time. As far as he had Ona's heart, those people and their opinions hadn't mattered to him.

While her friends had all received acceptance letters from universities overseas, Ona had chosen to stay in the country so she could be closer to him. They both knew that even if he had taken the scholarship to Stanford, her father would have never allowed her go to the same school. Ona's father had been stuck on prestigious schools like Harvard Law or Yale. It still amazed Jorel how Ona had managed to convince her father to let her complete her first degree at a local university. But that was Ona for you; she was fully committed to their relationship, whereas he…

Whereas he now felt exhausted in a way that came from deep within. It was a tiredness that no amount of working late or studying could match. It was the weariness of always having to prove that he belonged in Ona's world. He loved her deeply and completely, but reality was finally hitting him.

The hardest part for him was this: he loved Ona too much to ever think about hurting her on purpose. Just the thought of breaking her heart felt like a physical pain. But now, he had a different, growing fear, that he might end up hurting her just by being who he was. He worried that the burden of supporting him and bridging their differences would become too much for her; that one day she would look at him with disappointment rather than love. He feared he was more of a problem for her to figure out instead of being the partner who made her life easier.

A painful, practical thought surfaced with cold clarity: Fejiro’s advice. “Put a little space. Build your own foundation first.”

He had dismissed it then, but now he understood. It wasn't about leaving her. It was about becoming someone who could stand beside her as an equal, not as a dependent shadow. It was about building a life so solid that no one could ever look at him and see a gold digger again. But he would have to leave her, for a while. He would need to plan, strategize, and work his ass off.

But how could he explain that to her? How could he say, “I need to leave you to become worthy of you”? It sounded like a betrayal dressed up as nobility. The very act meant to preserve their future felt like it would shatter their present. The chapter of their careful routine now felt like a beautiful, delicate lie. The weight of everyone’s judgment pressed down, and the memory of that brave, reckless boy in the bathroom felt like a stranger. That boy hadn't known the relentless price of his choice. Jorel was paying for it in daily installments of his pride, trapped between the agony of staying and the terror of taking a leave that would break the heart he was desperate to protect.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trapped between the agony of staying and the terror of leaving. The only path forward seemed to be one that led directly through her heartbreak. Wouldn’t he be the most selfish jerk to ask her to wait for a future he couldn't even guarantee? The question kept repeating in his mind, a struggle with no solution.


*****

Chapter 07


The second semester of their first year at college started not with the usual noise of honking buses and students struggling with heavy suitcases, but with the smooth, quiet sound of a fancy SUV driving through the city's early morning mist.

Ona looked refreshed and happy as she lightly tapped her fingers on the soft leather steering wheel. She was wearing a stylish new blouse, a memento from her recent trip, and she seemed completely comfortable in the luxurious driver's seat of the shiny Mercedes GLE.

This car was a surprise gift from her dad on the eve of the day she was to return to school. Ona had been taken aback by such a lavish present, and even though she was afraid that it would come with strings, she’d accepted it. To her, it wasn’t a burden but a way to gain independence.

Her first move with the car was to text Jorel the night before they were returning to school, “Hey love, we’re not taking the bus tomorrow. I’m picking you up at 7a.m.”

The shiny silver Mercedes GLE glided down the narrow, pothole-filled street in Ajegunle, looking like a lost spaceship. Its polished surface seemed out of place among the open drains, worn posters, and the noise of shouting vendors and loud music. When it stopped just in front of Jorel's home, nearly touching a pile of plastic bottles, he was frozen in disbelief.

His mouth fell open as he stared at the car, struggling to reconcile its luxury with his reality. The SUV’s gleaming finish reflected the morning sun, shining bright against the faded buildings and rusted roofs. It felt like a glimpse into a different world, starkly contrasting with his life full of dust and mud from last night’s rain. Just when he thought it was a mirage, Ona waved from the driver’s seat, pulling him back to reality.

He carefully got into the passenger seat, and the door closed quietly, giving off a sense of luxury. Outside, the busy world, the dust, the noise, and struggles seemed to disappear as they drove away, leaving behind a calm, comfortable space. The air inside the car was cool and clean. As they made their way to campus, it felt as if they were living in an entirely different reality, so different from the hot, crowded paths they walked on when they first arrived.

Sunlight streamed through the tinted windows, creating a warm glow inside. Ona excitedly shared stories about her break, telling Jorel about her aunt’s glamorous parties in London. In return, Jorel made her laugh with tales of the lively, crowded football matches he attended with his cousins. They chatted about which professors to impress and plotted big plans for the upcoming year. Ona wanted to start a film club, while Jorel aimed to make it onto the dean's honors list.

Inside the cozy car with its soft seats and Afrobeats music playing, the worries his sister had mentioned felt far away. For those precious moments, it was just Ona and Jorel, laughing and dreaming together on their journey.

It was comfortable, easy. But as the university gates came into view, the unspoken tension returned. The memory of his stunned awe at the car now felt like a premonition. This semester, they weren't just two students anymore. They were a girl from a world of Mercedes SUVs and a boy from a world of kerosene stoves, arriving together. The car, for all its comfort, was a rolling reminder of the gap between their realities, a gap they would have to navigate all over again.

*****

During the course of the second semester, Jorel and Ona enjoyed a comfortable routine in their daily lives. Every morning, a silver Mercedes would arrive at the curb near Jorel's hostel, signaling the start of another day together. On Mondays and Wednesdays, their schedules matched perfectly, and their first class, Use of English 121, began promptly at 8 AM.

On those days, their morning ritual was straightforward. Jorel would prepare a simple bread and sardine sandwich for Ona, carefully wrapped in a small napkin. In return, Ona would bring two steaming cups of rich hot chocolate from a café close to her hostel. They would sit in the back of the large lecture hall, a spot that gave them some privacy. Their studying styles were different; Ona had neat, color-coded notes on her iPad that she wrote with a stylish stylus, while Jorel’s notes were a quick, messy scribble in a well-used notebook. However, during the professor's lectures, their hands would often find each other under the desk, fingers intertwining as a quiet connection in the crowded room.

In between classes, they had a favorite spot on the second floor of the library, nestled between tall shelves filled with old economic journals. This table became their little sanctuary. They would spread out their textbooks, share a packet of chin-chin, and swap gossip about their coursemates. Even as they studied and worked on assignments, the differences in their backgrounds felt small and unimportant.

Their evenings were usually spent with a larger group of friends at a lively off-campus restaurant called "Option Four," known for its spicy asun jollof rice. Ona would passionately debate with the group about which road side seller roasted the best bole with pepper sauce. She remained unmistakably Ona Adeyemi, her laughter was bright, and her clothes were noticeably nicer, but she was also just Ona, part of the group, playfully teasing Jorel whenever he spilled pepper soup on his shirt. Their bond was strong and clear, often attracting curious looks or judgment from others. But for them, their connection felt natural, not forced.

On most nights, especially when he didn’t have work, Jorel would walk Ona back to her dorm before her 10 PM curfew, leaving the Mercedes parked safely in its spot.

They would often linger in a dark corner, beside the fence of the hostel, often being the last couple to say goodnight amid the sounds of other farewells. Jorel would pull Ona close, resting his hands on her lower back, and they would share a lingering kiss that held the flavor of their happy laughter, the smoky scent of food from the roadside grill, and the sweet hint of her strawberry lip gloss. He cherished the warmth of her against the cool night air, inhaling the soft, floral scent of her perfume that lingered on her clothes. He would watch her as she showed her ID to the security guard and followed her with his eyes until she disappeared into the lobby, the door closing quietly behind her.

The walk back to his own all-male residence hall was always quieter, a solitary transition from her world back to his. The air felt different. It was sharper, filled with the raw, unfiltered sounds of loud arguments from open windows, the thump of a football against a wall, and the distant bass of someone's stereo. But as he pushed open his door, often to the immediate, good-natured teasing of his roommates, “Omo, Jorel don come back from heaven,” the feeling of her hand in his, the memory of her focused frown as she highlighted her iPad in the library, and the sound of her unrestrained laughter stayed with him. It was a sustained, comforting echo that made the two worlds feel, for a little while, not so far apart.

It was on one of those evenings, after a particularly long day of back-to-back lectures and a group project meeting that had run late, that Jorel returned to his dorm. The goodnight kiss with Ona still warm on his lips, a private smile on his face, he pushed open the door to his room. The familiar, slightly musty scent of instant noodles and old textbooks washed over him.

The bubble popped instantly.

His roommate, Brume, was lounging on his bed, phone in hand. He looked up, a wide, knowing grin spreading across his face. From the top bunk, their other roommate, Tobe, peered down from over his economics textbook.

“Ah, the king returns from the palace!” Brume announced, sitting up. “We saw the Mercedes pull up in the morning. You’re living the life, my brother. Some guys have all the luck.”

Jorel offered a noncommittal grunt, tossing his bag onto his chair. “It’s just a car, Brume.” He hoped that would be the end of it.

It wasn’t.

“Just a car?” Brume laughed, a sharp, mocking sound. “Come on, Jorel. You can’t be serious. You have officially hit the ultimate jackpot. Do you even understand? The first daughter of the Chief Adeyemi. Your problems are officially over. No more struggling for you.”

Jorel kept his back turned, busying himself with unpacking nothing in particular, the heat of irritation beginning to prickle at the back of his neck. “It’s not like that,” he muttered, his voice low.

“Not like what?” Brume’s tone shifted, becoming more insistent. He swung his legs off the bed. “No need to be humble now. We’re your guys! Just do one thing for me, since we are brothers here. That’s all I ask. Just introduce me to one of her cousins. Or a sister, if she has one. Anyone in that family. Let me just get a foot in the door. You won’t regret it.”

From the top bunk, Tobe let out a low chuckle. “Brume, you better be careful. You see the way that girl looks at Jorel? Ona doesn’t joke with Jorel oh. You think she’s going to let you use her boyfriend as a networking opportunity? She’ll have you rusticated from this school before you can say ‘hello’.”

Brume waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, Tobe, you’re too dramatic. It’s just an introduction. What’s the harm?”

“The harm is that you’re reducing something real to a business transaction,” Tobe said, his voice losing its teasing edge and becoming uncharacteristically serious. He looked down at Jorel. “Don’t listen to him, man. He should go and find his own jackpot by himself.”

The words, ‘jackpot’, ‘ultimate jackpot’, ‘networking opportunity’, landed like a series of small, sharp blows. They reduced everything. They reduced what he and Ona felt for each other, the way her eyes lit up when she debated with him, the way she unapologetically claimed him as hers, in fact it reduced their entire relationship to a transaction. To luck, and to accessing a network.

A hot flush of anger crept up Jorel’s neck. He wanted to turn around and tell Brume to shut up. To explain that Ona wasn’t a lottery ticket, that her father’s money was the least interesting thing about her, and that it often felt more like a barrier than a prize.

But he didn’t. Arguing would only make it a bigger deal. It would give Brume’s crude interpretation more weight than it deserved. So he swallowed the retort, letting the anger simmer silently under his skin.

“Yeah, whatever, man,” he finally said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He grabbed his towel from its hook. “I’m going to shower.”

He left the room, closing the door a little harder than necessary on Brume’s lingering chuckle and Tobe’s sigh. The hallway felt quieter, colder. The perfect warmth of the evening, of her hand in his, her laughter in the car, had completely evaporated, leaving behind the familiar, chilling echo of other people’s expectations. The conversation had only highlighted the fact that everyone was watching, and everyone had an opinion. And most of them saw his deep feelings for Ona as a calculated win.

The shower was way too strong, hitting his skin like a punishment. Jorel stood under the cold water with his eyes closed, not really washing but just trying to drown out the noise in his head. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t forget what Brume had said.

“Jackpot ... Ultimate jackpot.”

He imagined the shiny silver Mercedes parked outside, standing out against the cracked pavement of his neighborhood. He remembered the jealous looks from other students and how conversations would sometimes stop when he and Ona walked by. He’d always brushed those feelings aside, telling himself they didn’t matter. But Brume had given a loud voice to those insecurities, mocking him with his own doubts.

“Your problems are officially over.”

A bitter laugh came out of him. If only it were that easy. The car, the money, the status, they didn’t belong to him; they belonged to Ona. And they came with a heavy cost that he was just starting to realize. The gift she'd received from her father felt less like a blessing and more like a chain, tying her to a life that would never accept him. His troubles weren’t over; they were just getting more complicated. The struggle to afford textbooks had now turned into worrying about being seen as just a gold digger or someone who was trying to climb the social ladder, a boy who had gotten lucky with the rich girl.

Tobe tried to defend him with good intentions, saying, “Ona doesn’t joke with Jorel.” It was meant to show how serious Ona was about him. But all Jorel heard was the hidden message in Tobe’s words: “...so he better not mess this up.” It made him feel the weight of their relationship resting solely on his shoulders. Ona’s love felt like a constant, something that would always be there, while his worthiness in her eyes felt like the unpredictable part everyone was watching closely.

He leaned his forehead against the cool, damp bathroom tiles, feeling overwhelmed by the situation he was in. It was ironic because he was dating a girl who truly saw him beyond his struggles. She loved him for his intelligence and his ambition, yet her presence highlighted those struggles, turning them into something everyone noticed. He loved her deeply, fully and with all his heart. But the more time they spent together, the more he found himself resenting the world around them.

silverlinen:
This love no fit work at all. The chasm between both of them is way too much.

Lol .. well .... Keep reading and we'll see

sal1974:
Duly noted and kudos for the trademark awesome delivery

Thank you.

jupitre:
Hi repogirl....
I hope you're doing okay...

Yes, I'm fine. Just took a short break but will be back this week.

sal1974:
It's been awhile you updated the story, trust all is well with you and yours

All's well. Thanks for asking. The chapter is cooking. It will be packed when I post on Thursday evening or earlier if I can manage it. My apologies for my prolonged absence.

Kelmoore:
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.

My apologies. The spirit was willing but the body was weak. Thanks for reading.

Next post, next wednesday. My apologies for the delay.

When the call finally ended, Jorel sat back on his heels, staring at the now-dark screen long after her image had vanished. The heat still pressed down like a physical weight, the air still thick with the smells of beans and kerosene smoke, but somehow, the world felt infinitely lighter.

Fejiro glanced over her shoulder, stirring the pot with a slow, knowing smile she didn’t even try to hide. “That girl,” she said, her voice laced with affection, “has your entire heart, Jore. And she doesn’t even have to try.”

He smiled faintly, his thumb stroking the edge of his warm phone. “Yeah,” he said quietly, to himself as much as to his sister. “She really does.”

Without looking at him, she continued, “Ona is such a good girl. I can see it and sense it.”

Jorel straightened up, feeling proud and defensive. “She is.”

Finally, she turned to face him, wiping her hands on her apron. Her expression was gentle yet serious, the kind of look she got when she was about to say something he didn’t want to hear.

“But, my brother, you can't put all your heart and hope into that relationship. Not yet.”

The air felt heavier all of a sudden, and he frowned as he asked, “what do you mean?”

“I mean reality,” she said simply. Leaning against the small wooden prep table, she continued. “What you two have… it’s beautiful. It’s like a high school love story. It fits the campus, for a time when life is all about books and dreams. But the world outside is not like that.”

Jorel opened his mouth to argue, but she raised a hand to stop him.

“Listen to me. Do you think that man, her father, the Chief… Do you think he will ever let his only daughter end up with you? With us?” She waved her arm around the small yard, indicating their simple stove and their life. “He has plans for her. Plans that include big houses in Ikoyi, marrying someone from a rich family. Not a boy who cooks beans on a kerosene stove in Ajegunle.”

Her words, stated so plainly in the place he called home, felt like a punch to the gut. They echoed his deepest fears, the ones he tried to ignore whenever he was with Ona.

“She doesn’t care about any of that,” Jorel insisted, though his voice was less strong than before. “She loves me for who I am.”

“And maybe she does,” Fejiro said kindly. “Right now, she does. Her feelings are real, and I believe that. But feelings alone can’t fight against the world. When she finishes school and her father starts to pull her into his world, the pressure will be too much. It will break both of you.”

She came over and knelt in front of him, placing her hand on his knee. “I’m not saying to break her heart. I’m saying… give it some space. Let life happen. If what you have is strong enough, it will find a way. But if you hold on too tightly now, you’ll only end up hurt when the world pulls you apart. Let her go a little, and see if she comes back.”

Jorel looked away, his gaze falling on the flickering blue flame of the stove. He knew his sister wasn’t trying to be cruel. She was trying to protect him. Deep down, the practical part of him that had fought for everything he had, knew she was right. The gap between his world and Ona’s wasn’t just about money; it was about expectations, family legacy, and a whole system created to keep them apart.

He remembered Chief Adeyemi’s dismissive look at the pool. He thought about how Ona’s play ended. He couldn’t shake the image of Benson’s smug face.

He knew Ona’s feelings were real, but was their love strong enough to bridge an ocean? Or was his sister right? Was it just a beautiful, brief moment that would soon drown in the rising waters of reality?

He finally nodded, a slow, heavy movement. He didn’t completely agree. He wouldn’t, couldn’t just “let her go a little.” But he heard his sister’s warning. He tucked it away, a cold stone of doubt settling in his stomach next to the warm, stubborn hope that Ona’s love had planted there.

“I hear you, sister,” he said softly, his voice rough.

Fejiro squeezed his knee and got up, going back to her vegetables. “Good. Now stop dreaming of London and come fan this fire. The pot of beans will not cook itself.”

Jorel let out a soft laugh, a mix of giving in and deep affection. “Yes, ma,” he said, picking up the fan and getting the flames going. The heat warmed his skin, and for a moment, it felt like all the heavy pressures he carried, the invisible kind, were lifted by that warmth. This fire, at least, was one he could manage.

Nearby, Fejiro resumed her work. The steady sound of her knife was a familiar comfort. It was the sound of strength, of a life built on hard work and small, everyday victories. He let that sound ground him, concentrating on the simple, immediate task: to cook, to provide, to help.

As the smell of cooking beans filled the air, he made a promise to himself anyway. He would hold onto this love, not because he was sure it would last, but because it was real. Even if it was only for now, it was worth fighting for. There, in the heart of his humble home, he vowed to protect it for as long as he could, to stay true to the person he was becoming, and to believe, against the fearful, logical voice in his head, that some barriers were meant to be crossed. The future was a storm brewing on the horizon, but in that moment, he would tend to his small, defiant fire.
***********

The call ended, and Ona sat still in the comfy wicker chair for a long moment, the soft light from the iPad screen reflecting in her thoughtful eyes. The garden spread out in front of her. It was a perfect, beautiful scene, framed by neatly shaped hedges and walls covered in ivy. The air carried a gentle, calming scent of lavender and damp earth, a subtle perfume that seemed to fill her aunt’s entire world.

Aunt Zikora’s house in the suburbs of London had an old-fashioned elegance. Red brick softened by age, large windows, and French doors that opened right into the garden where the morning light spilled in like warm honey. Birds chirped in the mature trees. Everything about the place felt calm and intentional. There was a serene order to it that her Aunt deeply admired, but sometimes Ona found it almost too perfect, too quiet.

She set the iPad down on the small iron table beside her, next to a cup of tea that had grown cold. The warmth of the call still remained in her heart. The memory of Jorel’s laughter, the chaotic, smoky background behind him, and the way he’d said ‘two weeks’ like it was a special promise. A faint smile appeared on her lips but quickly faded as she exhaled, her fingers idly tracing circles around the rim of her china teacup.

Right then, her father's sharp, angry voice echoed in her mind. "What kind of stubborn and rebellious child are you?"

The smile vanished as she remembered when she had called her father shortly after landing at Heathrow.

"You think life is just a game? Traveling wherever you want and making your own decisions just because you can? I blame Zikora for encouraging your terrible behavior," he shouted.
“I just needed to visit Aunt Kora, Daddy. Not everything is rebellion,” she had replied quietly, tired of always surprising him with her sudden choices.

The soft crunch of footsteps on the gravel path announced Aunt Zikora’s approach. She appeared, a picture of calm grace in a simple linen dress, carrying a tray filled with fresh pastries, a steaming pot of tea, and a small bowl of sliced fruit.

“There you are,” Zikora said, her voice smooth and cultured, just like the surroundings. “I wondered where my favorite guest had gone. I brought some warmth against the morning chill.”

Ona stood up quickly to take the heavy tray from her. “Thank you, Aunty. I was just… getting some air.”

“And making international calls, it seems,” Zikora pointed out with a knowing sparkle in her eye as she settled gracefully into the chair across from her. She gestured to the iPad. “I assume that was the young man who makes your face light up like you’ve swallowed a piece of the sun.”

Ona laughed, a soft and genuine sound, as she sat back down. “That was Jorel. He was… cooking. Or more like struggling with a kerosene stove in the backyard. It was quite a sight.”

“A man who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty,” Zikora remarked, pouring the fragrant tea. “There’s value in that.” She handed a cup to Ona. “Now, hope you’re all set, we have a busy day ahead. I thought we’d start at the designer outlets in town. There are a few things I simply must get for you. Then, lunch, and maybe some shopping on Bond Street later. Last week, I spotted a handbag that has your name written all over it.”

Ona’s eyes widened, and she instantly felt the need to protest. “Aunty, no! You can’t keep doing this. You’re spoiling me! The flight was more than enough, really!”

Zikora waved her hand dismissively, a hint of amusement on her face. “Nonsense. What else is all this for?” She made a graceful gesture that seemed to take in the whole garden, the gorgeous house, and the life it represented. “Generational wealth, my dear sunshine, is not meant to be admired from afar like a painting in a museum. It is meant to be used. It should bring joy, create beautiful moments, and spoil one’s favorite niece. Otherwise, what is the point?”

Ona shook her head, a warm smile finally breaking through her attempt to protest. "You're impossible, Aunty! If you keep spoiling me like this, I'll go back to Lagos a proper brat. Jorel won't even recognize me."

"Let him be surprised," Zikora replied, her eyes twinkling playfully as she lifted her chin. "A woman should always have a little mystery. It keeps life interesting. Now, finish that pastry. The car will be ready in an hour."

They sat for a moment, sipping their tea in a comfortable silence. Ona's smile slowly faded as her thoughts drifted back to the conflict she had left behind. "He's so angry, Aunty," she found herself saying, the words slipping out. "Daddy. He had this internship all arranged at a law firm in Victoria Island. He said I was being impulsive and irresponsible for leaving."

Zikora's expression softened with deep understanding. "Your father sees only one narrow path to success and security. He forgets that sometimes the most valuable journeys are the ones we choose for ourselves. His intentions are good, my dear, but he has never learned to love without also trying to control."

"He thinks I'm reckless," Ona murmured, her gaze fixed on the dark tea in her cup.

"He thought the very same thing about your mother," Zikora said, her voice gentle with the weight of memory. "And yet, she was the bravest and most full-of-life person I have ever known. You have her fire, Ona. It frightened him then, and if I am being honest, it frightens him now to see that same light burning so brightly in you."

A peaceful quiet settled between them, filled only by the cheerful songs of garden birds. The morning sun grew warmer, painting shifting patterns of light through the leaves.

Finally, a more confident smile returned to Ona's face. "Jorel says my stubbornness scares him, too."

Zikora chuckled, a low, warm sound. "Then the boy is perceptive. That is a very good sign."

"Maybe," Ona conceded. "He says he's just glad he's not the one on the receiving end of it."

"Oh? Should he be scared?" Zikora asked, a knowing, teasing tone in her voice.

Ona's laugh was light and full of affection. "He doesn't need to be. He... he somehow calmed the lioness in me a long time ago. He knows all my soft spots, all the right buttons to press."

Zikora's elegantly arched eyebrows rose in genuine and amused surprise. "To know you that well and still be by your side? Then he is truly special, indeed."

"He is," Ona confirmed, her voice soft but filled with certainty.

Zikora watched her, her gaze tender and insightful. It was the look of a woman who remembers the all-consuming nature of first love. "Finish your tea, my sunshine," she said gently, rising from her chair. "The day is waiting for us. I have so much to show you."

Ona nodded, picking up the flaky pastry. Her heart was still warm from Jorel's call, and her spirit felt lighter, bolstered by her aunt's unwavering support. For the first time in days, the heavy weight of her father's disappointment felt a little easier to carry, its burden just a little bit lighter.
**************

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.”

Next post comes up tomorrow

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


Repogirl... Weldone

Thank you 🙂

Ibunkun1:
Well done. I’ve been a bit occupied for a while i couldn’t comment well. Monday we mount!

🙏🏽🙏🏽 thanks

Dear Readers, I'm afraid the next post will be on next week Monday. Please bear with me.

Uthman51:
Thank you repogirl

you're welcome

jupitre:
The way I do look forward to reading this...
And you don't disappoint...
Thank you...

🙂🙂 thank you

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

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.

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.

bigbauer:
Thanks for the update.

You're welcome.

True to her word, Ezinne returned to the dining room in just a few minutes. The soft shuffle of her slippers on the floor announced her arrival, and she immediately heard the sound of Mofe rising from his chair.

His footsteps approached, and she felt his presence beside her a moment before his hand gently guided hers to the back of the chair he was pulling out for her.

"That was quite fast," he remarked, his voice light with what she assumed was a smile.

She ignored the comment. With Azora not there to act as a buffer, she felt no obligation to engage in his small talk. Instead, she cut straight to the point, her tone flat. "You know I can find my own way around, right?"

His hand left hers as the chair settled into place. "I know," he replied, his voice calm and close. "But what kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't assist a lady?"

She shook her head slightly, a faint, unbidden tug at the corner of her mouth that she quickly suppressed. She would not give him the satisfaction of a smile. She settled into the chair, sitting up straight.

"What are we having for dinner?" she asked, deftly steering the conversation away from his chivalry and back to practical matters.


"I asked the cook to make us some poundo and vegetable soup with fried tilapia fish. I hope that's alright with you."

"Yes," she replied with a slight shrug, her tone neutral. She didn't add that she thought his choice of food for dinner was a good one.

"Would you like me to serve it for you?" he asked.

She was fully capable of finding the food and serving herself with her hands, but when someone was around, it took her longer, felt more careful, and honestly, was less graceful. It was usually easier and less frustrating to accept help. "Yes, please," she agreed.

She listened to the quiet sounds of him serving the food, the ladle scooping the soup, the gentle clink of the fish being placed on the plate. He worked quietly and efficiently.

"Alright, you're all set," he said, his voice letting her know he was done and had stepped back. "The bowl of soup is directly in front of you, with the piece of fish on the right. The plate with the poundo is just to the left of the bowl."

Ezinne reached out, her fingers lightly brushing the edges of the dishes to find her way, confirming the layout he had described. "Thank you," she said softly, her words sincere.

"You're welcome," he replied, his voice just as gentle.

For a moment, the only sound was the quiet clinking of cutlery as they began to eat, the simple act of serving each other creating a fragile, temporary connection between them.

The words came out of him, low and heartfelt, as if drawn from a deep place of memory. "You can’t imagine how much I’ve missed our local food."

His confession lingered in the air, more personal than she expected. It wasn’t just about the meal, it showed how much he longed for everything he had left behind. Ezinne paused, her fingers stopping at the edge of her plate. She could imagine him, looking at the steam rising from the vegetable soup, breathing in the familiar, spicy smell.
A memory suddenly popped up, clear and unexpected, Mofe in his small BQ kitchen, skillfully flipping an omelette, while the air was filled with the smell of peppers and onions. He had always loved food, and was a good cook who had enjoyed making meals for her back then. She felt a faint smile wanting to appear, but she quickly pushed it down, hiding those thoughts away.

She decided not to respond to the emotional weight of his statement. Instead, she focused on the practical, her tone light. "Well, you're back now. You can have it whenever you want."

She rinsed her hand and dug into her food, effectively closing the moment of shared nostalgia.

"Dara sends her regards by the way," he said.

"Oh, okay," she replied.

The conversation died there, leaving them to finish their meal in a silence that was heavy with everything left unsaid.

Finally, Mofe broke the quiet with a contented sigh. "Phew! I think I ate too much. Nigerian food is going to make me gain weight really soon."

The confession was so familiar, so him, that Ezinne felt the urge to laugh bubble up in her chest. She pressed her lips together, refusing to give in. Why was he doing this? All she wanted was a detached, civil coexistence.

"The house is so quiet without Azora," he added with another sigh, his tone shifting to genuine wistfulness. "I miss her already."

That, she could understand. It was a sentiment she shared. Using it as her anchor back to the purpose of this awkward dinner, she finished rinsing her hands in the bowl of water provided. "What was it you wanted to discuss?" she asked, her voice steady and direct, cutting off any further attempts at nostalgia or small talk.

Mofe sighed, bracing himself. "It’s .. Azora invited me to speak at her the career day event at her school. And if it's alright with you, I would love to."

Ezinne was so shocked she fell silent, the air seeming to vanish from the room.

"Ezinne," he continued gently, "just hear me out. This might not be a bad idea."

"Mofe..." she began, her voice a warning.

"Please, let me explain," he said, leaning forward slightly. "It might be the perfect, most natural way to introduce me as her biological father to her school community. Think about it. Ekene was her adopted father, a fact people knew and respected. I can be presented as her biological father, who is now back and actively involved in her life. It creates a complete picture, not a secret."

When he said it, it sounded simple. But Ezinne knew people wouldn't make it simple. She could already hear the whispers. "It's not that straightforward, Mofe. People will talk. They'll have questions we aren't ready to answer."

"I know they will," he conceded. "But isn't it better we control that narrative ourselves, in a positive setting, rather than letting rumors and speculation run wild? A Career Day is about the future, about inspiration. We can frame this as a story of different kinds of families and different paths to success. It takes the power away from the gossip."

He paused, letting that sink in before appealing to her core concern: their daughter. "Most importantly, Ezinne, this is what Azora wants. She's proud enough of me to ask me to stand up in front of her whole class and represent her. Denying her this, or having you show up without me after she's invited me... what would that tell her? That we're ashamed? That her family is something to be hidden?"

He softened his voice further. "This isn't about us, or our past. This is about giving Azora the confidence to claim both parts of her story openly and with pride. We can stand together as her parents. You, the constant, incredible force in her life, and me, the father who's returned to step up. We show the school, and more importantly, we show her, that we are a united team for her sake. That's the message that will silence the whispers faster than anything else."

Ezinne was quiet for a long time, her fingers tracing the edge of the table. Mofe’s words hung in the air, and for once, they weren’t filled with anger or demands, they were measured, thoughtful. Almost convincing. Damn! He made one hell of a good argument, making it very difficult for her to refuse.

He was right about a few things, but most especially about the fact that Azora had asked him. For her to invite Mofe… it meant something. It meant she was already claiming him, in her own bright, uncomplicated way.

And the idea of controlling the story… Ezinne had spent ten years building a life that was orderly, predictable, safe from prying eyes and judgment. But Mofe’s return had shattered that peace. Secrets, she was beginning to realize, had a way of bubbling to the surface. If this was going to come out, maybe he was right. Maybe it was better to frame it on their own terms.

But the thought of standing beside him, presenting a united front… it felt like a performance. A lie. They weren’t united. They were a fractured thing held together by their love for a little girl.

“It’s a lot to process, Mofe,” she said finally, her voice low. “You make it sound so simple. But it’s not.” She shook her head slightly. “I need to think about it. I need to be sure this is what’s truly best for Azora, and not just what’s easiest for you.”

Mofe listened quietly, his usual defensiveness absent. He could hear the genuine fear and uncertainty in her voice. This wasn't an attack, but a real, heartfelt question.

He sensed that she didn’t fully trust that he was back for the long haul. She still didn’t understand that he was all in, and fully ready to do this with her.

He sighed, not in frustration, but in understanding. "That's fair," he said, his voice low and serious. "Ezinne, I can't give you a legal document or a blood oath to assert to you that I'm back to stay. But I can tell you what I'm doing, not just what I'm saying."

He leaned forward, as he tried his best to explain and allay her concerns. "My company has a competent acting CEO in place, William. He's been effectively running day-to-day operations for the last two years, and the board trusts him completely. My role has shifted to Chairman of the Board, which means I'm involved in high-level strategy, not daily management. Those meetings can happen from anywhere in the world, including here."

He paused, letting that sink in. "But more importantly, Ezinne, I've already started the process of stepping back. I'm not here on a extended vacation. I'm in the process of delegating my final core responsibilities. I'm not juggling two lives; I'm choosing one. This isn't a trial run for me. I've missed ten years. I'm not missing another decade. My guarantee is my action, this office I set up here, the drivers I've hired locally, the school runs I'm making. I'm building a life here. The company will always be part of my legacy, but Azora... and you... you are my future."

His words landed with the force of a physical blow. You are my future. The air left her lungs in a soft, startled gasp. What did he mean by that? Before the dizzying implication could fully take root, he pressed on, his voice intense.

"Ezinne, do you really think I would abandon you and Azora and just disappear? Do you think that's something I'm capable of? Do you think that's the sort of man I am?"

This time, the answer came to her instantly, rising from a place of deep, unshakable knowledge beneath all the layers of hurt and anger. He was many things; stubborn, arrogant, a schemer who operated in shades of grey. But a man who would willingly walk away from his own child? No. That was a line he would never cross. His own childhood had been marked by a painful absence; he would never inflict that same wound on his daughter.

She gave a slow, deliberate nod, her expression solemn. "I believe you," she said, her voice quiet but clear. "I believe that you believe what you're saying."

It was both an acknowledgment and a subtle shield. She trusted his intention in this moment, but the scars of the past were still too tender to fully trust the promise of the future. She was conceding the battle, not surrendering the war.


"Okay," Ezinne said, the words feeling heavy as she said them. "You can represent her for Career Day." She silently hoped this decision, this small act of trust, wouldn’t come back to hurt her.

She heard him let out a deep, relieved sigh. "Thank you," he said, and his sincerity was clear in his voice.

"If that's all," she said, starting to stand up, "I'd like to go to my room now."

"Err... Umm..." he stammered, sounding unusual hesitant. "Would you... would you like me to stay the night?"

What? His question surprised her so much that it momentarily shocked her. Her mind raced. Their relationship wasn’t at a point where he should be asking that.

He must have sensed her surprise because he quickly added, "The last time Rachel was away, she asked me to... keep an eye on you. In case you needed anything."

His explanation cooled her initial anger with a dose of reality. It wasn’t a romantic offer; it was a duty, a favor for Rachel. It reminded her of her own vulnerability.

"Oh," she said, regaining her composure, though her tone had a hint of frost. "No. That’s fine. I’m feeling much better now. I sleep much better." It was only partly true, but she needed to feel independent again.

"Okay," he replied, and she heard him get up from his chair. "I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Azora gets back by noon, right?"

"Right," Ezinne confirmed, turning toward the hallway, eager to escape the mixed emotions his presence stirred in her and the sting of his offer, which came from pity, not passion.

"Ezinne," he called softly.

She turned back, her body asking a question.

"I know you said you're fine, and I believe you," he started, his voice calm and steady. "But just in case... I moved the small side table from the hallway into your room. It’s right beside your bed, on the left. I put a bottle of water and your phone charger on it. So you don't have to get up at night if you’re thirsty."

The gesture was simple, practical, and thoughtful enough to completely disarm her. It wasn’t about him staying; it was about making her space safer and more comfortable while he was away. He had noticed the path she took to her room and remembered which side of the bed she used. He had thought of a small nightly inconvenience and quietly solved it for her.

A small but undeniable warmth spread through her chest. It was the kind of quiet, attentive care she hadn’t felt in a long time.

"Thank you, Mofe," she said, her voice softer than she meant it to be.

"Goodnight, Ezinne," he replied, and this time, she could hear the smile in his voice before he turned to leave.


*******
Next Chapter will be posted next Thursday

And for a moment, Mofe just sat there watching her, his loud, brilliant, hilarious little girl who called him dad like it had always been that way.

Parent.

She’d said it like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to show up as her dad.
He swallowed, leaning back in the chair, his heart thumping a little harder than before. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to be there for her. God knew he did. It was just… complicated. Everything with Ezinne was still hanging by threads of tolerance, and him just showing up at her school, claiming to be Azora's father might not sit well with her.
He watched Azora tilt her head and burst into laughter as her character narrowly escaped a police chase. She had no idea what those words she’d said had done to him.

It’s time for my dad to do his.

That word, dad, it made something inside him tighten, a mix of joy, guilt, and fear.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaling slowly. “Okay,” he muttered under his breath, half to himself. “You’re not going to mess this up.”

“Did you say something, Uncle Mofe?” Azora asked without looking away from the screen.

He smiled. Now he realized his name, Uncle Mofe came to her naturally since it's how she began addressing him earlier, however, Dad, was more intentional. When she said it, it was deliberate.

“Nothing, boss. Just… practicing my speech for Career Day.”

She giggled.

He let out a soft laugh but his mind was already a few steps ahead, to Ezinne.

He needed to talk to Ezinne about this first, and knowing how things were between them… that conversation wouldn’t be easy.

But as he looked at Azora, so full of life and trust, he knew he’d have that conversation anyway. For her. Even if Ezinne shot down the idea like a heat-seeking missile.
****


A soft knock interrupted their game, and Tope appeared at the door. "Sir, Mrs Dara is here for Azora."

Mofe looked up from his phone, turning to Azora, "guess our gaming session's over, Runway Model. It's time to get your bag.”

Azora grinned, giving him a heartfelt hug. "I enjoyed playing Roblox with you today. Don't forget to start practicing your career day speech."

"I'll have it memorized by Monday," he promised, holding her to himself for a few seconds before letting her go.

“Have fun sleeping over, okay?” He told her, following her out of the room before going down the stairs.

Dara stood near the entrance, her posture as elegant as he remembered. "Mofe," she greeted with a polite nod. “Wow, you're around today.”

"Dara," he said warmly. "It's good to see you. How is your family?"

"They're all well, thank you," she replied, her eyes studying him carefully. “You look … different? Is it the beard?"

"That and maybe, fatherhood changes a man," he said simply, watching Azora return downstairs and skip toward the waiting car. The words felt true, yet they sat uncomfortably in his mouth.

When the door closed behind Azora, Dara's expression became more serious. "You know, every time I look at that girl, I see more of you in her," she said, her voice softening. "Not just the eyes, it's the way she tilts her head when she's thinking, that stubborn set of her chin when she's determined."

Mofe felt an unexpected warmth at her words, "yes, I've noticed it too."

"That's why I'll be honest with you," Dara continued, her gaze direct. "I'm glad you're back Mofe, if you're here to assume to role of a father to her. But if you're here to punish Ezinne for keeping Azora from you all these years..." She let the warning hang in the air.

Mofe met her gaze steadily, "I'm not here to punish anyone. I missed ten years of my daughter's life because of my own choices as much as anyone else's."

Dara's shoulders relaxed slightly. "She was trying to protect Azora, you know. In her own way."

"I understand that now," Mofe said quietly. "All I want is to be the father Azora deserves. And if Ezinne will allow it, to be whatever she needs me to be for her too."

Dara’s gaze scanned his features, as of searching for a sign that would give something away.
He knew this wasn't entirely honest. Even as he spoke, he was actively scheming and orchestrating the eye check-up event as a cover for his initial shady actions. He told himself it was for her own good, that her stubbornness left him no other choice. But standing before Dara's straightforward trust, his "noble" deception felt shameful.

"You'll need patience," Dara warned. "More than you've ever had."

"I'm trying," he said, the words feeling hollow. Was he? Or was he just forcing his will on Ezinne in a different, more manipulative way?

"Maybe you could help her see that I'm sincere?" he asked, the request now tasting like ash.

Dara's lips curved into a small, trusting smile. "I might mention it. But Mofe, no games this time. No schemes."

"No games," he vowed, the lie smooth and practiced on his tongue. "Just the truth."

As Dara walked to the car, Mofe remained in the doorway, watching until the taillights disappeared. The warmth of their conversation evaporated, leaving only the cold, hard reality of his plans. He had meant every word about wanting to be a good father and partner. But he also knew that to help Ezinne, he would have to first betray her trust all over again. The path forward felt paved with contradictions, and he was only just beginning to walk it.

******

The car pulled to a gentle stop, and Ezinne heard the familiar crunch of gravel that meant she was home. The drive back from dropping Rachel at culinary school had been quiet, and she had assumed it would remain so. She fully expected Mofe to be long gone, having fulfilled his babysitter duty with Azora.

So when the back door of the car opened, she was surprised by the shift in the air, the subtle displacement that signaled someone tall and solid was there. But it was the scent that confirmed it. His breezy, masculine fragrance with a hint of a designer scent and something uniquely, infuriating him. Mofe.

"Let me assist you, Ezinne," his low voice rumbled, closer than she had anticipated.

Her senses, always on high alert, went haywire. The fine hairs on her arm prickled as his hand found hers, his grip firm and warm as he guided it to his waiting forearm. His other hand came to rest lightly, possessively, on the small of her back as she began to step out. It was a simple, courteous gesture, but the points of contact felt like live wires.

As she rose, her face came dangerously close to the collar of his shirt, and the scent of him intensified, wrapping around her, pulling at a deep, dormant part of her memory.
Her breath hitched, a tiny, almost imperceptible sound, but she was sure he heard it. For a dizzying second, she was not an executive director or a mother, but simply a woman thrown off-balance by the man she had never been able to fully forget.

She quickly found her footing on the gravel, but the ground beneath her felt less stable than before. She withdrew her hand from his arm, the skin tingling where she had touched him.

"I thought you would have left by now," she said, her voice coming out slightly breathless. She took a small, deliberate step back, needing to put space between herself and the intoxicating, dangerous familiarity of him.

“I had something important I needed to discuss with you,” Mofe explained, his voice still disarmingly close. “That’s why I stayed.”

Ezinne’s curiosity instantly overrode her sensory confusion. “What is it about?” she asked, turning her head in his direction, her tone sharpening with suspicion and interest.

“It’s… a rather heavy topic,” he replied, his tone careful. “I think it would be better if we had dinner first. It’s been a long day. We can talk with clear heads afterward.”

A sigh escaped her lips, part frustration, part resignation. He was deliberately building anticipation, and she hated that it was working. Her mind raced with possibilities, each one more unsettling than the last. Was it about Azora? Legal matters? His sudden, permanent return?

“Fine,” she conceded, her voice clipped. “I’ll need to freshen up and change. I’ll meet you for dinner shortly.”

“I’ll have everything ready,” he said.

Without another word, she turned, using her cane to guide her confidently toward the house, feeling the weight of his gaze on her back with every step. The mystery of his important discussion now loomed as large and unsettling as his physical presence, ensuring that her thoughts would be entirely consumed by him until they sat down to eat.

Azora crossed her arms, all smug. “No problem. I’ll control the game since we’re a duo. I've got this.”

He chuckled, lightly rubbed her shoulder, and rushed out.

Mofe took the stairs two at a time and reached the driveway just in time to see Ezinne standing beside the car with her white cane lightly touching the ground. Rachel was already halfway inside the back seat, wearing her full chef uniform like a TV chef about to film a cooking show.

“Wait, wait .. were you really going to leave without saying goodbye to me, Rachel?” Mofe called, slightly out of breath as he jogged toward them.

Rachel arched a brow at him. “Are you five years old Mofe? Do you need Aunt Rachel's hug before she leaves for the month?”

“No, I’m practical,” he teased, stepping closer to Ezinne. He gently touched her elbow so she’d know he was there before guiding her hand to the car door, silently relishing the smooth feel of her skin. “I can’t just let a top chef-in-training go off without promising to return with some coconut cake.”

Rachel laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, now you've confessed what you really want. It's coconut cake that had you running out of the house like that? Too bad because we are done with baking. Now, we’re on poultry.”

He placed a hand dramatically over his chest. “So… no coconut cake?”

“No cake.”

“Then don’t come back,” he told her, “we have standards in this house.”

“Yeah right,” she replied, laughing and shaking her head.

Ezinne lowered herself carefully into the back seat, folding her cane and placing it beside her, choosing to ignore Mofe and Rachel's playful banter. There was a quiet awareness in the way she turned slightly toward his voice.

“You and Azora will be fine before I return?” She asked.

“Yes, we'll be fine,” he said lightly, hands tucked in his pockets as if to make everything sound easy. “she has already packed her overnight bag. She's done with home work so we'll be playing games till Dara comes to pick her up.”

Ezinne gave a small nod. “Alright.”

“Good. And Rachel,” he tilted his head toward her, “try not to burn down the kitchen.”

Rachel scoffed. “Ha ha. Very funny, Mofe.”

He stepped back as the driver started the car. “See you in a few weeks, Rachel, and if cake somehow happens, don’t be stingy.”

Rachel waved him off with a laugh as the car rolled away.

Ezinne didn’t say anything else, but he caught the slight tilt of her head in acknowledgment before she faced forward.

Mofe stood there for a second, watching the taillights disappear down the drive, then exhaled and headed back inside. Upstairs, a certain little fashion queen was no doubt already stealing the spotlight.

****



When Mofe walked back into the gaming room, he expected to find Azora on the virtual runway, still strutting and posing like a tiny dark coquette fashion queen.

Instead, she was perched on the edge of the beanbag, face glued to the screen with a completely different game flashing in neon colors.

“Wait…” He blinked. “Where’s my catwalk? Where’s my winning strut?”

She glanced at him over her shoulder, rolling her eyes like a seasoned gamer. “We came third, Uncle Mofe.”

“Third?” He clutched his chest dramatically. “Third? We were robbed.”

“Exactly!” she declared, spinning back to her screen. “They rigged the votes. There’s no way my outfit lost to a giant pink chicken in fishnets.”

He tried not to laugh. “A pink chicken in fishnets?”

“Yeah,” she muttered bitterly. “Anyway, I’ve moved on. Now we’re playing Jailbreak. Come on, hurry and join.”

“Jailbreak?” He walked closer, squinting at the screen. “Azora… are we convicts?”

She beamed. “Yup! First, we break out of jail. Then we rob the bank, maybe the train, and get rich so we can buy matching cars.”

He stared at her like she’d just casually confessed to being a crime boss. “Are you… sure this game is legal?”

Azora gave a long, exaggerated sigh, the kind children give when adults ask “boring” questions. “Uncle Mofe. It’s a game.”

“Yes, but” he pointed at the screen as her character picked up an AK47 weapon like she’d been doing it all her life, “this is very detailed crime.”

“Exactly,” she said proudly. “I’m a pro.”

Mofe stared at his daughter, fighting back laughter. “Oh great. First we lost a fashion show to a pink chicken… now I’m about to become an accomplice in a virtual armed robbery.”

“Uncle Mofe, let's go! Join the game already,” she ordered, “the train leaves in five minutes.”

He sighed dramatically and sat down on the armchair, retrieving his phone. “This is how it starts. One minute you’re matching outfits, the next you’re knocking over a bank.”

“Uncle Mofe,” she said sweetly, “have you spawned? I need to show you how to break out of prison.”

He shook his head, chuckling as he joined the game. “Lord help me, Ezinne has raised a tiny criminal.”
*”””

They played for almost an hour, escaping jail, robbing virtual trains, and getting caught a few times because Mofe kept taking wrong turns.

“Uncle Mofe!” Azora groaned as sirens wailed again. “You can’t just drive into a wall like that.”

“It was dark!” he protested, laughing as his character got arrested again. “Besides, who builds a highway with no proper streetlights?”

She shook her head, clearly exasperated but trying not to laugh. “You’re lucky I’m the brains of this operation.”

“Well you're lucky that I’m the good-looking getaway driver,” he said with a grin.

Azora burst out laughing. “You’re not even a good driver, Uncle Mofe.”

They reset for another round when Azora suddenly paused, tapping the keyboard absentmindedly.

“Uncle Mofe… science fair is coming up soon,” she said, suddenly shifting topics. “I want to do something really cool this year. I just don’t know what yet.”

“Hmm.” He leaned back, pretending to think very hard. “What’s cool these days? Flying cars? Time machines?”

She giggled. “Dad!”

This took him by surprise. Up until now, she'd called him uncle Mofe, probably because they'd been playing. Now, she was being serious.

“What? Those were cool in my time,” he teased. “Okay fine, what about a robot? We could build one with Lego robots. I’m sure I can get a set for you.”

Her eyes lit up instantly. “A robot? Like an actual robot? That’s perfect!”

He chuckled at how quickly her excitement spiked. “We can make it walk, wave, maybe even say something.”

“Really?” She asked, her eyes wide as saucers.

“Yup.” He nodded.

“That would be really cool, thanks dad!” She said proudly, getting up from the bean bag and coming to hug him.

Then, almost shyly, Azora added, “Science fair and career day are going to be on the same day. Do you want to come for it? You know… as my parent.”

Mofe froze for half a second, caught off guard. Parent. The word landed somewhere deep in his chest, warm and heavy.

“What do parents do on career day?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

She shrugged like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Just talk. You can give a talk about your job or just talk about anything that you feel kids should know. The parents always do it. It’s fun, we learn so much.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if your mum did it?” he said softly.

Azora gave him a look that was far too knowing for a little girl. “Mummy always does it. But now it’s time for my dad to do his.”

That word again, dad, made his throat tighten a little. He didn’t want to show it, but it hit him straight in the heart.

“I…” He cleared his throat. “I guess I’ll have to figure out how to sound smart in front of your classmates.”

She laughed. “Common dad, you know you're always smart. You'll be fine, But don’t wear any weird 80s outfits, okay?”

“Hey!” he protested, but his smile gave him away. “Fine, I’ll leave the platform heels at home.”

“Good,” she said, giggling as she returned to the beanbag, returning to her game.

sal1974:
Kudos for your effort,and waiting eagerly for the next installment

❤️, thank you.

Dear Readers,

So I was banned after the most recent post late last night. There's still quite a few more posts coming this morning. This chapter is a lengthy one. Hope my bot nemesis will allow me post everything without acting up.

Thanks for reading.

Present Day

"Uncle Mofe, are you ready for the next round? It's about to start!" Azora asked, her voice buzzing with excitement from where she sat at her PC. "This time we have to dress our avatars better. Your last outfits were weird. Do better this time, Uncle MJ."

"Do better?" Mofe retorted, not looking up from his phone as he navigated the game's menu. "I'll have you know that the Afro hair and platform heels with extra flared pants were all the rage in the 80s. It was a classic look, not some... mini skirt."

"Well, nobody in the game thought so," she shot back, giggling as she did, "look, the votes are in. You came dead last."

Mofe chuckled, shaking his head in mock defeat. Before he could form a reply, she shouted, "The new theme is 'dark coquette'! Are you ready?"

They were playing Dress to Impress on Roblox, and Mofe had a sinking feeling he was losing his self proclaimed reputation as “the master gamer.”

“Yes, I’m ready,” he said, trying to sound confident as he cracked his knuckles dramatically. “I’ll dark this coquette to the absolute max.”

Azora gave him a long, doubtful look, one brow raised as she shook her head at his theatrics.

"You know what," she said, her tone suddenly gracious, like a queen offering a pardon. "Let's just duo. We can be twin dark coquettes. You just follow me around and wear exactly what I'm wearing. It'll be easier."

"Okay," Mofe agreed immediately, a wave of relief washing over him. He wasn't going to argue with that. It saved him the trouble of racking his brain for the perfect combination of a lacy top, a velvet skirt, and platform boots. He didn't even know which category half the clothing items were in. Navigating the virtual boutique and deciding on a full outfit within the six-minute time limit was a huge challenge, but somehow, Azora did it effortlessly every single time, often with minutes to spare. He was perfectly happy to be her fashion clone if it meant saving his gamer pride.

“Uncle Mofe,” Azora sighed dramatically, “why are you still bald? You haven’t even picked a hairstyle yet!”

“I’m going for a minimalist aesthetic,” he said, frantically scrolling through the options in the virtual hair salon. “Bald is bold. You’ll see.”

“Yeah,” she muttered under her breath, “boldly losing again.”

Mofe tried to navigate back to the clothing rack, but navigating the controls on the phone was proving quite tedious. Every time he clicked “black jacket,” his avatar ended up in a glittery pink crop top.

“Who designs these menus?” he grumbled. “I swear they move things around just to confuse adults.”

Azora burst into giggles. “Uncle Mofe, it's not that difficult. You literally have a computer science degree!”

“That’s coding, not coquetting!” he protested. “Totally different skill set.”

She just shook her head, laughing so hard, she forgot her character for a while. “You’re so lucky you have me, Uncle Mofe. Without me, you’d be a fashion disaster every round.”

He grinned, stealing a quick glance at her. Her laughter filled the room, and in that moment, he didn’t care if he came last again. Losing had never felt so good.

Just as Mofe finally found the black jacket and managed to make his avatar look at least halfway decent, he saw that he had just ten seconds left before they would be on the runway.

“Ha! See?” he declared triumphantly, spinning his avatar like a fashion icon. “Who’s bald now?”

Azora glanced at his screen and burst into giggles. “You’re still bald, Uncle Mofe. But at least now you’re bald with style.”

Before he could reply, there was a soft knock on the door and one of the household staff peeked in. “Sir, Madam Rachel is about to leave. Miss Ezinne is accompanying her.”

Mofe’s eyes widened. “Ah! of course.” He turned to Azora, pointing dramatically like a general on a battlefield. “Alright, runway model. I’ll be right back. I need to bid aunty Rach farewell.”

Azora crossed her arms, all smug. “No problem. I’ll control the game since we’re a duo. I've got this.”

My apologies, dear readers. I couldn't meet up with yesterday's post. The second part of Chapter 13 should be ready by tomorrow evening, thanks for reading.

kingphilip:
Just got here now.

Saw the post the first day you began but couldn't read them till I started few days ago as I'm sure as always that it will be a great read and something as great as this requires time to digest in and enjoy.

Thanks Repogirl, it was such a great and enjoyable read. I'll surely stick around as always.

Thanks so much for this, your feedback keeps me going. Glad you're enjoying the story.

Mhizdebs:
Thank you repo
I always look forward to all episodes...

Thanks, I'm glad.