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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Omotayo scrolls through the monthly spreadsheet: cleaning supplies, pest control. His MacBook rests on his thighs as he sits cross-legged on the bed, back against the headboard.

His phone vibrates.

WhatsApp Video Call: Lola

He taps accept and sets the phone against the laptop screen without lifting his eyes.

“Hey, Enny. Good evening.” Lola’s face fills the screen as she walks through the hallway to the living room. “I heard about Dad and Rahama. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine.” Omotayo’s voice is flat. Then, after a beat, “But you shouldn’t have told Dad about her.”

His fingers pause on the keyboard.

“At least not yet,” he adds. “You know how Dad is.”

Lola sighs as she drops onto the living room couch. She shifts the phone, angling it until she’s framed neatly, like she’s about to make a case in court.

“I was talking to Mum. He overheard. What was I supposed to do?”

“You could’ve warned me,” Omotayo says. He stares at the spreadsheet like it has personally betrayed him. “Just a heads-up.”

She softens immediately. Tilts her head. Pulls a face she’s been using on him since they were children.

“Ma binu, abúrò mi,” she says. (Don’t be angry, my junior brother)

He finally looks up at the screen, eyes sharp. “You should’ve told me you wanted to tell Mum.”

“I had to, nau.” She shrugs. “Rahama said you touched her. Isn’t that good news?”

His jaw flexes.

“And won’t you bring her home eventually?” Lola adds, like she’s stating a fact everyone agreed on already. “The earlier, the better.”

Omotayo leans back, rubbing a hand down his face.

Then, softer, “I’m still angry at you.”

Lola opens her mouth to respond when Folashade steps into the living room.

“Lola, is that your brother?”

Folashade’s voice comes before her face does.

Lola glances sideways. “Mummy…”

Folashade leans into view, lace gown immaculate, gold jewelry everywhere it matters. Her glasses sit low on her nose as she studies the screen, then Omotayo.

“How are you, my dear?” Folashade says, her voice carrying first, her smile following.

“Lola told me you have a girlfriend now?”

The words float out gently, but Omotayo knows better.

Perfect. This is going to take a while.

“Sún fún mi, Lola,” Folashade adds in the background as she settles beside her daughter.

Omotayo makes a low sound in his throat, eyes still moving across the spreadsheet. “Yes, Mom.”

“And she said you went to meet her family?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“And you touched her,” Folashade continues, tilting her head, “and kissed her?”

He swipes to the next column. Disinfectant prices have doubled again.

“Yes,” he says.

A pause.

“She also said she’s Hausa.”

Omotayo leans back, dragging a hand down his face. “Yes, Mom. Please…can you just ask all the questions at once?”

“How did that happen?” Folashade asks. “Why a Hausa girl?”

He looks up this time.

“Because I love a Hausa girl,” he says evenly. “That’s why I’m with her.”

Folashade exhales, sharp and audible.

“Ah.” She clicks her tongue. “Ìwọ ọmọ yìí.”

She shakes her head. “O kì n koju sí ibi tí ayé ń koju sí.”

(You never do things the way everyone else does it)

“You used to say even ‘clean’ girls were dirty to you. That they had germs you couldn’t ignore.”

She leans closer to the screen.

“So how did we get from that… to a Hausa girl in the slum?”

“Lola!” Omotayo’s voice cuts in loudly.

Lola’s face slides into view slowly, already smiling.

“Is it you that told Mum that Rahama lives in a slum?” he asks.

She shrugs, grin widening. “I just thought she’d find out eventually, no?”

“Leave her,” Folashade says, waving a hand. “Let her talk. Isn’t she our only source of information about you?”

Omotayo presses his lips together.

“Let’s focus on your own matter now,” she says calmly.
“And this Hausa girl you’ve decided to fall in love with.”

“Your father is not taking it lightly,” Folashade adds. “At all.”

Omotayo pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mom, can I call you back? I’m in the middle of something.”

“Never, don’t call me back.” She cuts in quickly. “You won’t call. Let’s talk now.”

She pauses, then adds pointedly, “Abi do you have another mother somewhere else?”

“No,” he says dryly. “She’s dead. So technically, you’re the one.”

Folashade gasps. “Ah! This your mouth is not good at all.”

He sighs, shifts on the bed.

“I love Rahama, Mom,” he says, steady now. “And her name is Rahama. Not ‘Hausa girl.’”

He reaches for his Montblanc, tapping it lightly against the mattress: once, twice, something to keep him anchored.

“I’ve tried to be the best mother I can be,” Folashade says, her voice softer, slower. “I took care of you. Made sure you were okay. I see you as my own son. You know that.”

He doesn’t respond. He’s learned when silence is safer.

“So don’t misunderstand me,” she continues. “It’s just that I don’t think someone like you should lower yourself to date a Hausa girl.”

Omotayo closes his eyes.

God, help me not lose it.

“Mom,” he says, opening them, calm but firm, “I’ve told you her name. And we’re not doing this right now. I love her. That part is not up for discussion.”

A beat.

“Everyone will just have to get on board.”

The silence stretches.

“Okay,” Folashade says at last, clipped. “It’s your life. You’re old enough.”

“I am.” He nods. “So please help me talk to Dad. I’m bringing Rahama over this weekend.”

“Ahh, this weekend?” Folashade repeats. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“Let him come, oh,” Lola’s voice cuts in from the background. “Don’t discourage him.”

“Later, Mom,” Omotayo says. “I’m really busy.”

He ends the call before it can spiral again, sets the phone gently on the bed, and exhales.

The spreadsheet stares back at him.

Because right now, budgets don’t matter.

Taking Rahama home does.

Hopefully, his family will learn to see her the way he does.

Omotayo walks in…and stops.

Rahama is laughing.

Not a polite smile. Not the soft one she saves for small talk. This one has her head tipped back, eyes nearly closed, hand pressed to her chest like she’s forgotten herself.

Peter stands close. Too close.

He says something again, low enough that Omotayo can’t hear it. Rahama laughs harder, reaches out, taps Peter’s arm like he’s just delivered gold.

Heat climbs Omotayo’s neck.

He’s seen this several times; Peter hovering, always ready to explain Rahama to the room, always conveniently nearby to protect her.

Admiration, maybe.

Or something else.

He trusts Rahama.

Peter? Not so much.

Omotayo crosses the room, smile easy, grip firm as he takes Rahama’s hand and draws her to his side. She startles, then relaxes, fingers sliding into his like that’s where they’ve always been.

Peter straightens, grinning. “Ah, Mr Savage. Good afternoon, sir. Do you need something?”

Omotayo’s smile doesn’t budge. “Yes. My babe.”

Peter blinks. “Sir?”

“I came to get my babe.” Omotayo’s gaze doesn’t leave his face.

The pause stretches. Then it clicks.

Peter laughs. “Ahh! She’s all yours, sir.”

He lifts both hands in mock surrender, even nodding at where Omotayo’s still holding Rahama.

Her cheeks warm, caught between a smile and a glance she pretends not to make.

“Are you sure?” Omotayo asks softly. Teasing…but not.

“Sure about what, sir?”

Rahama elbows him, a quiet warning, but Omotayo doesn’t look away.

“With the way you’ve been defending Rahama since she stepped into this place,” he says calmly, “I just want to be sure you’re not catching feelings.”

He finally looks down at Rahama, squeezes her hand once.

“Because I am in love with her.”

Peter bursts out laughing, loud, unguarded.

“No, no, no, sir! Rahama? No, oh.” He shakes his head. “She’s like a sister to me. A northern sister. I just like culture. We were talking about Hausa food, traditions, all that.”

He chuckles again, softer now. “Nothing more. I swear.”

Rahama shakes her head, smiling. “Mr Savage, don’t be jealous. Peter’s just a friend.”

Tayo turns to her, his jaw easing. “Tayo,” he says gently. “Or Enny. Please.”

A faint blush warms her cheeks. “I’m still getting used to it.”

He leans in just enough to be felt. “You will.”

Peter watches the exchange, the shift in energy, how Rahama melts just a little under Mr Savage’s gaze, how Mr Savage softens the moment she speaks.

With a quiet smile, Peter steps back and returns to his desk.

Never in his life did he think the famously aloof Mr Savage would be the jealous type or act like a mildly possessive teenager with a crush. But here they are.

And honestly? It’s kind of sweet.

“Mr Savage, you don’t have to be jealous,” Rahama says softly, her fingers still laced with his. “I love you. I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you… that day I came to clean your place. You looked like Michael.”

Tayo lifts a brow. “Michael? Who is Michael?”

She blinks, then laughs. “Archangel Michael.”

He lets out a low chuckle. “So I remind you of a heavenly warrior with a flaming sword?”

She tilts her head. “And a very nice jawline.”

His blush is immediate and hopelessly boyish.

Wonders would never end, Peter thinks from his seat, watching the transformation.

“I wasn’t jealous,” Tayo says, defensive but smiling. “I was just… cautious. Peter hovers. I had to be sure.”

Rahama leans into him, amused. “I didn’t know you had this side.”

He grins, sidestepping. “Come. Let’s go to my office.”

She follows him into his office, their shoulders brushing like a shared secret. Inside, he pulls out a chair for her before taking the one opposite, elbows resting on the desk, expression unguarded.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says quietly. “About inviting you over. Lunch. At my place.”

Her smile slows. “I haven’t been there since the day I cleaned it.”

“Exactly,” he says. “And I haven’t stopped thinking about that day.”

She shakes her head, amused. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Coming to your house when we’re not even engaged.”

Tayo leans forward, reaches across the table, and takes her hands in his. “That’s why I’ve gathered all my courage,” he says. “I’ll drop you off the day after tomorrow. And I’ll meet your parents.”

Her eyes widen.

“I might as well pay your bride price while I’m there,” he adds, grinning, like this is simple math.

Rahama bursts out laughing. “It’s not that easy, Mr Savage. You need your parents’ blessing first. You can’t just skip steps.”

“I know.” He sighs, still smiling. “But I’m coming anyway. I’ll meet your family, get their blessing, and maybe they’ll be so impressed they’ll hand you over to me immediately, parents or not.”

She laughs again, shaking her head. “You are very charming. And very handsome. You could probably sweet-talk all of Somolu if you tried.”

He watches her thumb trace slow circles over his knuckles. “Is that how I got you?”

She considers it, then smiles. “No, oh. You weren’t that nice at first. I just liked you on my own.”

His laughter comes easy, warm, filling the room. She joins in, something light settling in her chest.

She glances at his hands again, so soft, so neat, like they belong in a commercial for expensive hand lotion. It still amazes her that this beautiful, almost freakishly hygienic man wants her.

The girl who used to skip baths on long days, who’s just adjusting to twice-daily showers and good hygiene.

She’s trying. For him. For herself.

Not because he’s making her, but because she loves him. Deeply. And she wants to meet him halfway… maybe even all the way.

Even if it takes baby steps.

She’s already taken the first.

And he’s still holding her hand.

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“I have good news, babe,” Tayo says, that boyish grin stretching across his face as he navigates the car through Yaba traffic, heading toward Somolu. “I’ve been meaning to tell you since morning, but you’ve been busy with your adventure with Lola.”

Rahama turns in her seat, eyes playful. “What happened?”

He laughs, then gives her a quick sideways glance. “You are coming with me to my parents’ next week.”

Rahama’s smile freezes slightly, curiosity now peeking through. “Your parent?”

He nods. “Yes. I spoke with my mom. Although it’s not going to be easy but then she already agreed that we can come over.”

Rahama lets out a mini-scream and practically launches at him from the passenger seat, grabbing his arm like he just told her she won a visa lottery. “Wait—what?! You’re serious? I’d love that!”

Tayo chuckles, still focused on the road. “Yes.”

They share a smile. Comfortable silence stretches for a beat before Rahama’s voice softens. “Can I ask something… personal?”

“Shoot.”

“Your mom isn’t she like late?”

Tayo nods. “Yeah. She was sick.”

“Mysophobia?” she asks gently.

“No. Cancer.” He says it quietly, like the word still feels heavy in his throat.

“I’m sorry.” Her hand brushes his arm.

“It’s okay,” he says, eyes on the road, voice calm. “It’s nobody’s fault. Life just... happened.”

She nods, lips pressed together, watching him, her heart wrapped in the invisible tenderness between them.

A few minutes pass.

Tayo’s chest loosens with relief. He reaches for her hand and squeezes gently. “Thank you. For your patience. For loving me. For calming my chaotic brain.”

Rahama smiles, cheeks glowing. “You’re welcome, Mr Savage.”

He groans playfully. “We really need to do something about this ‘Mr Savage’ thing. It makes me sound like a retired WWE fighter.”

She giggles. “You are dramatic enough for it.”

They turn into her street, Somolu’s familiar buzz welcoming them. Tayo’s grip on the steering wheel tightens just a little.

“You okay?” Rahama asks, watching him. “We can do this another time.”

“I’m fine,” he says, nodding slowly. “I want to do this.”

He parks neatly outside her compound, steps out, and walks around to her side, opening the door.

“You’re not wearing gloves?” Rahama asks, stepping out of the car, her brows lifting as she scans his hands; bare, exposed, vulnerable.

No gloves. No sanitizer. No disinfectant.

Tayo grins like he’s just walked into an ambush and is choosing charm over armor. “Come on, I’m trying to impress my in-laws here. Can’t show up looking like I came to fumigate the building.”

Rahama laughs, that soft belly laugh that always disarms him. “You don’t need to impress anyone. They’re already obsessed with you.”

“Oh, really?” he arches a brow.

“Especially Dawuda,” she adds, taking his hand and leading him toward the entrance.

Tayo lets out a breath. He can do this.

They step into the house, and the first thing that hits him is not only the heat, but the chaos.

Maria is sprawled out on a mat right in the middle of the sitting room, snoring softly, her pregnant belly rising like a gentle wave and falling with each breath.

Clothes are stacked…no, dumped on the wobbly center table. There’s a half-eaten mango on the arm of the couch.

A baby doll missing an arm and a leg under the chair, an old and dirty TV remote taped together with masking tape. A slipper on the curtain rod.

Why is there a slipper on the curtain rod?

Tayo freezes.

His brain yells abort mission. His heart say hold the line.

Rahama bends over her sister, nudging her shoulder. “Maria, ki tashi.”

Maria groans, rolls to the side, pulls the wrapper over her head like she’s blocking sunlight from another dimension.

“Maria!” Rahama taps her harder, louder this time.

Tayo flinches at the unexpected boom of her voice. So she can yell. Noted.

Maria lifts the wrapper slightly, her eyes half-open, half-defiant.

“What is it now? You’re waking me just because you came back from work?”

“Where is everybody?” Rahama asks.

“Mom and Dad are at the market. Dawuda stepped out. Aisha’s probably somewhere outside playing with dust.” Maria yawns. “Can I go back to my sleep now?”

Rahama lowers her voice like she’s about to drop national news. “Mr Savage is here.”

Maria grumbles, rolls the other way. “Ohh, leave me alone. Me kuma ne yanzu? What’s the issue now?”

“I said, Mr Savage is here!” Rahama says louder, like an alarm bell.

Tayo flinches again. Okay, definitely not soft-spoken Rahama right now.

Maria bolts upright like a bear startled out of hibernation. Her eyes scan upward, locking onto Tayo, who is now awkwardly standing at the door like a UPS deliveryman holding emotions.

Maria blinks. “Yaya Rahama! Shouldn’t you have told him to wait outside?!”

“And why were you sleeping in the middle of the sitting room like a sacrificial lamb?” Rahama fires back.

Maria mutters something under her breath in Hausa, rubs the sleep from her eyes with one hand, and grabs the mat. She rolls it up and dumps it in the corner, wiping spit from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.

Tayo looks away immediately, blinking. His brain screams hazard detected.

She extends her now-spitty hand toward him. “Hello, Mr Savage.”

His survival reflex betrays him. He shifts back half a step…just a small, subtle step, but enough for Rahama to pinch his side lightly.

He recovers. “Good evening, Maria. How are you doing?”

Maria beams. “Fine, fine!”

He glances down at her outstretched hand and - with the grace of a man whose brain is screaming - pinches the tips of her fingers and gives a micro-shake.

Polite. Barely there. Not technically a full handshake. Safe.

Maria doesn’t seem to notice. “He’s so fine,” she whispers loudly to Rahama.

“I heard that,” Tayo says, chuckling.

Rahama hides her smile, cheeks tinged pink.

“Please, come and sit down, Mr Samage,” Maria says, motioning to a chair draped in what may or may not be yesterday’s wrapper.

Tayo smiles tightly. Samage? He wants to correct her - so badly - but now is not the time to lose points.

As if she can read his mind, Maria laughs and says, “Ah—sorry! I meant Mr Savage.”

Tayo nods, relieved. “Thank you.”

He lowers himself carefully onto the chair, brushing invisible dust off with a flick. Maria watches him with curiosity, Rahama with quiet pride.

“Let me call Mama,” Maria says, her eyes lingering on Tayo with barely disguised admiration. She winks at Rahama like they’ve just scored front-row tickets to heaven.

Rahama shakes her head, trying not to laugh, and shifts a pile of clothes aside to claim a corner of the couch. The cushion sinks under her like it’s seen things.

Maria fishes her phone from a leaning tower of old textbooks in the corner and dials. “Hello Mama,” she chirps. “Mr Savage is here. He wants to meet you and Baba.”

“Mr Savage,” she repeats over the phone.

She plops herself on the bare floor like it’s a personal throne. Tayo watches her, puzzled. There are two whole chairs available - okay, one and a half. But still.

“You’re not sitting on the couch?” he asks casually.

“I’m fine here,” Maria says, grinning. “Besides, my sister said you were handsome, but seeing you now… wow. You are fine.”

Tayo chuckles, slightly embarrassed. “Thank you, Maria. You’re beautiful too.”

And he means it. Even heavily pregnant, even with the floor mat hair imprint still on her face, there’s something warm and earthy about her.

“Na gode,” Maria says, beaming like she just got complimented by a celebrity.

Rahama stands. “Let me get you something to drink…Minerals?”

But Tayo gently catches her wrist, still smiling. “Don’t worry, babe. I’m good.”

Maria’s brows shoot up like she just saw a plot twist. “Babe? Yaya? Babe?”

She turns to Rahama in wonder. “This fine man is calling you ‘babe’? Kai, nothing is impossible.”

Rahama hides her face, cheeks blazing as she sits back. But she doesn’t let go of Tayo’s hand.

Just then, a loud knock rattles the door. Tayo jumps slightly.

It swings open and a tall guy strolls in, jersey-clad, shorts dripping with sweat. His entire being radiates fresh off the pitch. His body scent hits Tayo’s nostrils like a slap from destiny.

“Yaya Rahama!” the guy announces, arms wide as he leans in for a hug.

Tayo instinctively shifts back, side-stepping like he’s dodging incoming bacteria.

“Dawuda! Where did you go?” Rahama asks, rising with a wide smile.

“Just small football, you know. Exercise,” Dawuda says, wiping sweat with the edge of his jersey. Then he turns to Tayo.

“You didn’t tell me Mr Savage was coming oh. I wouldn’t have gone out.”

Tayo nods politely, still mentally begging the universe: Please, no handshake. Please.

Dawuda eyes him, then leans toward Rahama and says “Kin yi sa’a sosai.”

Rahama giggles, glowing.

“I’ll go wash up,” Dawuda says and walks out, his jersey clinging to his back like a second skin.

Tayo exhales through his nose, steadying himself. Smile still intact. Hands untouched. No panic attack.

So far, so good.

“So… what exactly did you see in my sister?” Maria asks, tilting her head like she’s genuinely trying to crack a riddle.

Tayo chuckles. “She makes me want to do things I never thought I could. Things that scare me. Things that stretch me. She’s smart, beautiful, a little chaotic—” he throws Rahama a sideways glance— “but she’s got this way of making everything feel possible. I love her.”

Maria places a hand over her chest, grinning. “Aww. That’s so sweet,” she says, clapping softly. “You can go ahead and marry her. I approve.”

Rahama’s face flushes red as she gently pulls at a loose thread on her gown.

Maria isn’t done. She leans forward, elbows on knees. “So tell me, what’s it like living in Ikoyi? Do you have AC in every room? Are the houses like in Nollywood movies?”

Tayo laughs, answering each question patiently, good-naturedly.

Ten minutes go by in a blink - him fielding questions about his business, the traffic on the Island, how much swallow he can eat in one sitting - until the front door creaks open again.

Rahama’s parents walk in, Hafsat’s pauses mid-step, eyebrows lifted when she sees Tayo sitting there. Nasiru steps in behind her, dusting his cap off.

“Hello,” she says, lowering herself onto the couch with quiet elegance. Nasiru joins her, perching on the armrest, his gaze traveling over Tayo from head to toe.

Tayo rises immediately. “Good evening, ma. Good evening, sir,” he says, bowing slightly in greeting.

“Good evening, my son,” Hafsat says with a polite smile.

Nasiru leans back in his chair like a man ready to conduct an interview. “So… you’re the one,” he says.

“When I first heard about this relationship, I didn’t take it seriously. But now you’re here, I can see you mean business.”

“I do, sir,” Tayo says sincerely. “I came because I want to marry Rahama.”

Nasiru nods once, slow and firm. “Just come back with your people and fulfill the requirements. That’s how we do things here.”

“Yes sir. I’ll do everything properly.”

Hafsat beams, clapping her hands softly against her lap. “I knew it. I always say I have a sense for good men. This one? He’s a good man.”

Rahama lowers her head, smiling like she’s trying to hide from the joy swelling in her chest.

“You’ll be good to her?” Nasiru asks suddenly, his face firm.

Tayo meets his gaze. “I love Rahama, sir. I’ll be good to her. I give you my word.”

“Good.” Nasiru nods again. “Very good.”

Tayo reaches into his pocket, pulls out a large white envelope, and offers it to Nasiru with both hands, bowing slightly, careful not to brush his fingers.

“This is just a small token of my appreciation for your warm welcome, sir.”

Nasiru opens the envelope, eyes widening. “Tor. Have you started paying bride price already? Because this money can settle all that.”

Tayo laughs gently. “No sir, just appreciation.”

Hafsat places her hand over her heart. “God bless you, my son. May God increase you in everything.”

“Thank you, ma,” Tayo replies.

“Are you rushing off already?” Hafsat asks. “At least stay and eat something. We have Tuwo Shinkafa. Or should I quickly make Masa? We even have malt…cold one or water?”

Tayo’s smile holds steady. “I would’ve loved to, ma, but I should be going. I don’t want to take too much of your time.”

“Alright, then. Rahama, go and see him off,” Hafsat says, already rising alongside her husband.

“Thank you so much, sir, ma,” Tayo says as they walk him to the door.

“Just come back with your people,” Nasiru reminds him again. “Let’s make this thing official.”

“I will, sir. Thank you.”

Outside, as soon as Tayo steps into the cool air of the compound, he pauses and quietly releases a long, shaky breath.

Rahama reaches for his hand, her fingers threading gently through his. “Are you okay? How are you?”

Tayo exhales like he’s been holding it in since he stepped into her father’s house. “Excited. And slightly breathless. Like I just passed an exam I didn’t study for.”

She giggles, walking with him toward the car.

“Thank you for doing this, Mr. Savage,” she says, smiling like she just gave him a birthday card.

Tayo halts, brows raised, one hand still gripping hers. “Thank me? I love you, Rahama. I came for your parents’ blessing because I want to spend my life with you.”

She leans against the car, still smiling, the metal warm against her back. “Well… still. Thank you.”

Omotayo chuckles. “I love you, Rahama.”

She nods.

“I love you,” he says again, this time slower, like he means for it to land deep.

She nods again, lips twitching but sealed.

He squints. “That’s it? No ‘I love you’ back?”

She giggles again.

“I love you,” she whispers, giggling

“You look beautiful. You always do,” he says, his voice dropping a little

“Thank you, Mr Savage,” Rahama replies softly, blushing

He steps closer, stopping just short of her space. His presence is unmistakable, his smile fading into something steadier, more focused.

“And about that ‘Mr. Savage’ thing,” he says, lowering his voice. “Don’t you think we should do something about it?”

“Oh?” she murmurs, eyes dancing. “Like what?”

“I have an idea,” he whispers.

She blinks up at him. “Let’s hear it.”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he kisses her.

Just like that.

No warning. No permission slip.

His lips brush hers gently at first - like a question. Then his hand slides around her waist, pulling her into him, and the question turns into an answer.

Her breath catches.

Her knees buckle.

She forgets her name.

His mouth is warm, tasting faintly of citrus and something impossibly gentle. Hers tastes of mint and nervous excitement.

His other hand lifts to cradle her face as she tilts her chin, rising on tiptoe, and wraps her arms around his neck like she’s clinging to gravity, lost in the softness, the electricity, the way her whole body feels like it’s floating and grounded all at once.

Her breath catches.
“Enny,” she whispers.

He smiles against her lips, deepening the kiss like it’s a promise.

And then…

“Ahem.”

Maria’s voice slices the air like a sharp pin to a balloon.

They jump.

She’s standing a few feet away, belly round, hands on her hips, face set like an aunty who’s just caught you behind the church.

“I think you should get the list first and pay her bride price before all this mouth-touching.” she says flatly. “No more kissing until she’s fully yours. This is not one of those Lagos movies.”

Rahama springs back like the car just burned her, face flushed.

Tayo straightens, adjusting absolutely nothing but his composure.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says quickly, hands raised in surrender but still smiling. “Noted. No more kissing. Strictly engagement-level affection from now on.”

Maria narrows her eyes like she doesn’t trust his definition of “strictly,” then walks off slowly - still watching. Like a hawk. A very pregnant hawk.

Tayo turns back to Rahama, breath a little shaky, grin a little boyish. “So… I’ll see you on Monday”

She nods, still stunned, lips tingling.

“And for the record,” he says, stepping back just enough to plant a soft kiss on her forehead, “I like the way my name sounds on your lips.”

Rahama blinks, short-circuited. She nods again because her tongue and brain have apparently resigned.

“I love you, Rahama,” he adds softly.

She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. She clears her throat.

“I…sorry…my brain’s still rebooting from that kiss,” she mumbles. “I love you too, Mr Savage.”

He squints at her playfully. “Seriously?”

She laughs, head tilting back. “Fine. I love you, Enny.”

“That’s better,” he grins. “I love you more.”

He opens the car door, shoots her one last look - the kind that feels like a thousand unspoken promises - and gets in. The engine purrs. The car pulls away.

Rahama stands there, heart still dancing in her chest, hands on her cheeks, trying to steady her pulse.

That kiss? That kiss just changed everything.

The truth settles gently inside her.

She’s about to step into a whole new world with Omotayo Enioluwa Savage: scary, wide, beautiful, exciting, unexpected, and just a little overwhelming.

Somehow, it’s only the beginning.

And she can’t wait.

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Author’s Note

Should we wrap up Series One here and move into the next chapter?

Up next: A Germophobic Marriage? 👀

That one might need a little anticipation - possibly a mid-year release - so there won’t be an update tomorrow. I’ve been swamped with work lately.

Below is a sneak peek of what’s coming in the next Germophobic Series.

Coming Next in the Germophobic Series…

A Germophobic Marriage

Tayo and Rahama survived hand-holding, and a cleaning company romance.

Now comes the real test: living together and family drama.

Not just any marriage:

• A Yoruba groom armed with a color-coded sanitizer kit, a five-step post-shower protocol, and anxiety over shared bathrooms.
  

• An Hausa bride whose family expects kilishi, camels, and a sun-drenched open-air wedding… with at least 200 guests (barefoot optional).
  

• And two lovebirds with wildly different ideas of what “home sweet home” should smell like.

He wants a scent-free, sterilized, indoor celebration with controlled lighting and gloved servers.
The families? “If it’s not owambe, it’s not a wedding.”
She wants culture. He wants controlled airflow.
He wants sleek minimalism.
She wants colors, couscous, and cousins sleeping over.

In A Germophobic Marriage: Love moves in permanently along with unexpected guests, family traditions, deep-seated fears, and a whole lot of emotional clutter.

Things get louder, messier, funnier - and a whole lot more real - both in marriage and with the Luxetouch cleaning company staff.

Culture clashes. Secrets unravel. Love and boundaries get tested.

And somewhere between disinfecting doorknobs, loud snores, and burning jollof, they’ll learn:
Marriage isn’t just about love.
It’s about compromise, culture shocks, and courage… plus a little grace, a lot of laughter, and maybe a few extra gloves.

Get ready for:
Laughs that linger.
Love that deepens.
And a whole lot of: ‘Can you adjust your sleeping position? Your snoring won’t let me sleep,’ and ‘Why is there a lump of sand at the front door?’

Coming Soon.
Because falling in love is easy, living together is the real rom-com.

Excerpt: A Germophobic Marriage

The invisible smell hits Tayo like a slap right as he lifts his lemon-ginger detox tea to his lips.

He freezes mid-sip, eyes narrowing toward the hallway like a lion catching a whiff of trouble.

He sniffs again. Nope. This isn’t just trouble. This is war.

And it’s coming from the guest toilet.

“Babe!” he calls out, setting his mug down with military precision. “Did something... die in the guest toilet? Please tell me that’s not you.”

Her voice drifts back, annoyingly casual. “Sorry, Enny. I tried to spray.”

“Tried?” His voice sharpens as he reaches for his emergency air-neutralizing diffuser. “Babe, ‘tried’ doesn’t cut it here. This is a crisis. I can taste it. My plants just fainted.”

She strolls into the kitchen, wiping her hands on her pyjamas like she owns the place, which, honestly, she does.

Tayo takes a cautious step back. “Why didn’t you use the master bathroom?”

She shrugs, unapologetic. “I was closer to this one. It was urgent.”

He clutches his chest like she just stabbed him. “My home has officially become a biohazard zone.”

She grins, completely unfazed. “That’s called love, Enny. And fiber. You married this sweetheart.”

Tayo exhales a long sigh, misting lavender disinfectant like it’s holy water. “And I’ve been repenting every Sunday since.”

P.S.
The above is an early draft and may be adjusted. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Thank you so much for sticking with me through the series.

Also, which part did you enjoy the most?

Love you all 🥰

Leave a comment

Read the previous chapter here

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Omotayo steps into the office lobby with Rahama’s hand anchored in his.

The effect is immediate.

Conversation drops. Air stills. Someone gasps.

Peter nearly fumbles his bottle of Fanta. Ifunanya straightens so fast it’s almost painful, eyes wide like she’s staring at something unreal. Mr Savage is holding hands.

“Is Adeyemi back?” Omotayo asks, voice cool but sharp enough to slice tension.

Ifunanya blinks like her brain’s buffering. “Uh…yes, sir. He’s in the breakroom. Just got back from an on-site job.”

Peter is already moving. “I’ll get him, sir.”

He dashes off like someone trying to preempt a thunderstorm.

Rahama tries to slip her hand out of his.

Maybe she should blend in with the rest of the staff, pretend her heart isn’t thudding like an alarm bell. But Omotayo’s grip tightens gently.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, voice so low it brushes against her ear like velvet.

Rahama’s cheeks warm immediately. She nods almost shyly and lets her hand stay in his.

His grip grounds her carefully, like he’s afraid of losing balance again.

And just like that, her mind drifts back to the drive to the office.

She’d seen him unravel.

Seen the fear he hides behind control and distance.

There are still questions she doesn’t have answers to. Why he ended the relationship. Whether his illness was the reason, or only part of it.

Mysophobia.

The word settles again in her thoughts, unfamiliar, heavy. She doesn’t fully understand it yet. But she will.

What she’s sure of now is this:

Beneath the life everyone assumes is perfect and rich, is a man carrying more than he should alone. A man who needs help.

And the one person who should have given it, his father, never did.

Her fingers curl slightly tighter around his.

She stays.

A moment later, Adeyemi walks in. He bows slightly.

“Good afternoon, Mr Savage.” Then his eyes drop to the hands. He blinks. Once. Twice. Processing.

This isn’t protocol.

Omotayo doesn’t blink. “I told you to always report every one of Rahama’s on-site assignments directly to me.”

Adeyemi swallows. “Yes, sir. I tried this morning. But you were on a call. I told Samuel to pass the message. Maybe he forgot. I had an early supervision at Ikeja General Hospital, so I left early. I’m sorry, sir.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Rahama shifts awkwardly, guilt tugging at her chest. She tries to free her hand again.

Omotayo doesn’t let go.

Still firm.

Still gentle.

Still his.

“When I give an instruction,” he says, voice steady, “I expect it to be followed.”

The entire staff nods like they’re in a synchronized choir rehearsal.

Adeyemi swallows hard. “Yes, sir.”

The staff look like they’re watching the most intense episode of office reality TV. Ifunanya clasps her hands together, squeezing them like a stress ball.

Still holding Rahama’s hand, Omotayo turns toward his office.

And just like that, he walks off, Rahama in tow, her work sneakers clicking beside his polished shoes.

Behind them, the staff explode into whispered chaos.

Peter leans into Ifunanya and whispers, “Is this real life?”

“This is Savage+,” Racheal mutters behind them.

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“I’m sorry, Rahama,” Omotayo says quietly.

They sit across from each other in his office. The distance between them feels deliberate. Necessary.

“My family is complicated,” he continues. “That has nothing to do with you. My father was just looking for a way to get at me.”

Rahama doesn’t respond right away. Her eyes drop to his pale hands resting on the desk, before looking up at him.

“What did your dad mean by… mysoap?” She pauses, frowning. “No…mysob?”

“Mysophobia,” he corrects gently.

She blinks. “What’s that? Is it why you don’t eat out… and you always wear gloves, and use sanitizer?”

He nods.

“Yes.” He hesitates, then continues. “It’s an intense fear of germs. Of contamination. When I think something is unclean, my body reacts before I can stop it.” He exhales, eyes dropping.

Rahama goes still.

So he isn’t cold.
He isn’t distant by choice.

He’s been fighting something she never saw.

Her chest tightens. “How did it start?” she asks quietly. “Is there… a way out of it?”

Omotayo lets out a breath.

“I don’t know exactly when it began,” he says. “I just know I grew up learning that dirt meant harm.” His fingers twist together. “There’s no cure yet. Just management.”

He pauses.

“When I was young, my father hated mess. I wasn’t allowed to play outside. The house had to be spotless always. Everything cleaned before I touched it.” His voice softens. “Somewhere along the way, my body learned fear.”

Rahama studies him like he’s unfamiliar, like she’s seeing past the clean lines and careful distance for the first time.

All this time, she thought his life was simple. Perfect.

She hadn’t known how small his world had been.

“Did you have an attack when you hugged me then?” Rahama asks, her voice small but laced with worry.

Omotayo chuckles under his breath. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.”

She looks at him, uncertain. That didn’t sound like a no.

His eyes lift to hers, steady now.

“With you,” he says slowly, “I can risk mysophobia.” He swallows. “Ending things made it clear. I don’t want a life without you.”

He meets her gaze fully.

“I want us back.”

Rahama’s cheeks bloom pink. She turns toward the window, suddenly too aware of her heartbeat.

This guy.

This actual human man just said that.

She looks back at him. His hands look fragile. The collar of his shirt is crisp, almost too white.

And for the first time, she doesn’t see him as cruel.

She sees a man fighting invisible wars just to hold her hand.

And somehow, that breaks her.

She swallows. This isn’t just about liking him anymore. It’s deeper. He deserves more than fear. More than constant caution. More than surviving.

He deserves to live.

To eat fried potatoes and sauce without flinching.
To breathe without counting wipes and gloves.
To be hugged without his body turning against him.

If she can scrub her life cleaner for him, even a little, she will. If there’s a cure, a fix, a sliver of hope, she’ll chase it.

Not because he asked.

But because she has seen him now.
The vulnerable one.
The brave one.
The man who chose her even when it hurt.

And that… that means something.

It really does.

Rahama lies on her narrow bed in the staff quarters, one knee drawn up, the other leg slipping off the edge of the mattress. The room is quiet. Oritsejumi isn’t around.

She opens her phone and types a careful search.

fear of germs sickness

The page loads.

Her chest tightens as she reads.

Mysophobia.

Her thumb pauses. Her brows pull together.

She scrolls.

Symptoms: Rapid heartbeat, shortness of breath, muscle tension, nausea, dizziness, chest pain.

All from a single touch?

Her grip on the phone loosens, then tightens again.

She keeps reading.

Behavioral signs: excessive hand sanitizer use, refusal to shake hands or touch surfaces, covering furniture before sitting, avoiding loved ones…

Her breath catches.

Avoiding loved ones?

She swipes down again.

When triggered: person may freeze, panic, or shut down. Might begin intense cleaning rituals. May feel as if in real danger, even when they know they’re not.

Rahama turns onto her side, pressing the phone to her chest. Her eyes burn from tears and understanding.

He isn’t distant.
He isn’t cold.
He isn’t careless.

He’s been carrying something she couldn’t see.

Every day.

She rolls off the bed and sinks to the floor, the tiles cool against her knees. Her hands come together without thought.

“God,” she whispers.

“Help him. Please.”
“I don’t know how to make it better but You do.”
“Teach me how to love him the way he needs.”

She stays there, unmoving, until the ache in her knees matches the heaviness in her chest.

She sits up and reaches for her phone again, thumbs hovering for a moment before opening her Notes app.

She types a heading and pauses.

Help Mr. Savage.

A breath. Then the list begins.

• Bathe twice a day (Even when I’m tired, cold, and dramatically inconvenienced.)

• Wash my hands frequently after everything. EVERYTHING.

• Make my environment germ-free. Always.

• Pray more for him

• Carry hand sanitizer, gloves, disinfectant, and bottled water in my bag

• Learn how to help during Mr Savage panic attacks

• Don’t hug him when I’m sweaty 😩

She reads it over once, then nods to herself.

Opening her alarm app, she sets three reminders.

Morning.
Midday.
Before bed.

Each one gets the same label.

Be better for Mr. Savage.

She bites her lower lip, glancing at the last thing she wrote.

Mr Savage deserves a normal life. To go outside. To sit properly in a restaurant without flinching. To hug someone: hug her and not feel like he’s dying inside.

He deserves to be loved out loud.

And she’ll learn. She’ll adjust. She’ll figure out how.

Because no one deserves to live like that.

Especially not by someone who never saw the fight.

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“Rahama,” Omotayo says, already rising to his feet the moment Rahama walks in.

He circles around his desk, pulls out the guest chair with a small bow, like she’s royalty.

Rahama laughs softly. “Thank you,” she says, sitting.

He takes his seat across from her, leaning forward until his elbows rest on the table, eyes locked on hers.

But Rahama’s smile fades just a bit. She leans back, putting some space between them.

“So, I’ve been thinking…” she starts, her voice more serious now. “Can we have a relationship? With your health and everything?”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just smiles.

“You worried about me now?”

“Of course I am,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

“I’ve been trying, you know? I now bath twice a day. My clothes smell like Dettol and lavender. I set reminders to wash my hands.”

Omotayo laughs gently, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Like my dad said, I use to run. That’s what I have always know how to do. He wasn’t wrong. When home got too hard, I packed out. When I couldn’t handle the company, couldn’t shake hands, couldn’t breathe in the elevators, I left. Then you came…”

Rahama swallows, silent.

“I tried to run again. Tried to avoid you. Tried to chase you away with all my drama. But I couldn’t. Because now I know losing you would be worse than my sickness.”

He pauses. The air between them thickens.

“This time, I don’t want to run. Not from you. I love you, Rahama. And for the first time in my life, I want to stay. I want to try.”

She shifts in her seat, cheeks warming, but she meets his eyes.

“Well,” she says, showing her phone. “I made a plan. A real plan.”

Omotayo laughs, his eyes shining. “You wrote it down?”

“Typed,” she says proudly. “In my Notes. With alarms.”

He stretches his hand across the desk, palm up. “Let me see.”

She hesitates…then pulls her hand back.

He raises a brow. “So… you’re the one running now? You scared to hold my hand?”

She shakes her head, smiling. “No, Mr Savage. I’m just scared I’ll make you sick.”

Omotayo freezes, mock-offended. “‘Mr. Savage’? We’re still on surname basis? After love confessions and life plans?”

“I’m still shy,” she mumbles, biting her lip.

He tilts his head. “Should I kiss you, then?”

She stares at him, a slow smile pulling at her lips.

“My mother said you should pay my dowry before your brain starts running faster than your hands,” she says sweetly.

Omotayo bursts out laughing, holding his chest like it hurt.

“Your mother is too wise.”

“She’s my mother,” Rahama says with a grin.

“Then I’ll pay this weekend,” Omotayo says, eyes locked on hers again. “Because I want to kiss you.”

“You’ll wait till you pay,” Rahama says, standing up, still smiling.

He watches her move, the warmth in his gaze almost touchable.

“I have a cleaning job this afternoon,” she says, adjusting her gown.

Omotayo frowns slightly. “I don’t think you should be cleaning anymore. Maybe we move you to an office role? Just for now?”

Rahama shakes her head. “No oh. Cleaning is what I know. I’ve been cleaning since I was tall enough to drag a mop. Give me laptop now, and I’ll just be staring at it like it insulted me.”

Omotayo leans back. “You can learn.”

“Maybe someday. But for now, I’ve work to do,” she says, already halfway to the door.

He watches her leave, that quiet pride swelling in his chest again.

Omotayo exhales, stares at the now-empty chair, and whispers, “I’m definitely marrying that girl.”

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“My soap, A’a… my sob-fear… ugh, what’s it called again?” Rahama mutters, tapping her head lightly as she sits beside Dawuda on the worn-out couch outside their house.

“Mysophobia?” Dawuda asks, eyes squinting in the sun, a smug grin crawling onto his face.

Rahama whips her head toward him. “Wait, how did you know that?”

He shrugs casually. “I know phobias. Most people have one.”

She stares at him, clearly impressed. “Do you have one?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Heights now.”

Rahama chuckles. “True, you almost fainted when you climbed the ladder to fix our wire on the NEPA pole.”

“Excuse me,” Dawuda says, hand on chest. “That was once. And the wind was strong.”

Rahama snorts. “Sure.”

“And you’re scared of dogs,” he counters.

“That’s different. Dogs bite.”

They both laugh, then Rahama’s smile softens. “But Mr Savage… his own is different oh. Comes with panic attacks...”

Dawuda’s laughter fades into a nod. “So it’s extreme then.”

Rahama nods. “Exactly. That’s why I’ve been extra clean. I now bathe twice a day. I even bought new clothes with part of last month’s salary.”

Dawuda starts chuckling, then flat-out laughs.

Rahama narrows her eyes. “Why are you laughing?”

He tries to suppress it, but fails. “It’s just funny, you, of all people, attracting someone with mysophobia.”

Rahama squints. “Excuse me?”

“I mean…” He raises his hands in surrender. “I didn’t say you’re not worthy, but Mr Savage is like Mr Clean’s mentor, and you used to forget to comb your hair.”

She smacks the back of his head.

“Kai! My brain!” he says, rubbing his scalp.

“You even think we’re mates? I’m two years older than you!”

“I know, Yaya Rahama,” he teases. “And now you even look like it. All fine and fresh. The transformation is real!”

She pulls his ear.

“Ahh!” he yelps, holding his ear.

“Mr Savage better come and marry you fast. Before I go deaf.”

Rahama smiles, blushing before she catches herself.

“He’s ready,” she says quietly. “But… I don’t think his parents are.”

Dawuda’s face shifts, brows furrowing. “Why?”

She shrugs, then sighs. “Maybe because they’re very rich. Maybe because I’m not polished enough. Or maybe… because I’m Hausa. His father called me ‘Aboki.’”

Dawuda pauses. “But ‘Aboki’ means friend.”

“Yeah, I know,” she says. “But sometimes… It’s not what people say, it’s how they say it. His tone wasn’t friendly. It was… dismissive. Like I didn’t belong.”

He nods, lips pressing together. It’s not surprising. The unspoken truth is that love in this country sometimes has to fight not just distance, but difference. Status. Tribe. Assumptions.

“Don’t tell Mom, Dad or even Maria though,” she adds quickly. “If they find out his family doesn’t approve, they’ll say I shouldn’t see him again.”

Dawuda stays silent for a moment, then nods.

“Toh. Your secret’s safe. But Rahama…” he says slowly, “this won’t be easy.”

She nods, eyes locked on the plastic bin in front of her like she’s bracing for a war.

“I know,” she says. “But I’m not going to scrub myself clean on the outside and be small inside. I’ll grow. And love doesn’t need permission from tribe.”

Dawuda smiles faintly. “Look at you sounding like a big girl now.”

Rahama grins.

And for a moment, the two siblings just sit there, side by side, sunlight spilling across the couch.

🥳 The Germophobic Romance ends next week 🧼🤍
Panic attacks, sanitizer, feelings… and love. 🤭

Let’s talk in the comments 👇🏽

Read the previous chapter here

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Omotayo paces the length of his living room, his black socks tracing the same invisible path again and again. His chest feels crowded, as if the air itself has grown scarce.

He knows anxiety. He knows the restlessness, the racing pulse, the spiraling thoughts that refuse to quiet. He has lived with them long enough to recognize their patterns.

But this…this is different.

This ache doesn’t spike and fade. It settles. Heavy. Persistent. His chest tightens, not with fear, but with something hollow and bruised, like something vital has cracked open and stayed that way.

He can’t find a name for it.

When he ended things, he expected relief. He thought the tension would ease, the noise in his head would finally quiet.

Instead, the silence left behind is unbearable.

Losing Rahama hurts more than any panic he has ever fought. More than the obsessive fear. More than the rituals. More than the constant need for control.

He drops onto the couch and leans back, closing his eyes. His hands curl into the cushions, fingers tense.

He did it for her. That’s what he keeps telling himself. He wanted her happy - fully happy - not tethered to someone who flinches at touch and hesitates at closeness.

He should feel proud. Selfless. Responsible.

So why doesn’t it feel right?

Each day feels heavier than the last. Seeing her at work and pretending she isn’t there takes effort he barely has. Keeping his phone silent feels crueler than any symptom he’s ever battled.

Not hearing her voice hurts in a way he doesn’t know how to manage.

Sleep barely comes. When it does, it doesn’t stay. He’s reached for medication more in the past days than he has in months, yet rest still slips through his fingers.

Work blurs. Words lose meaning. Focus slips through his fingers.

He tries to steady himself the way he always has.

I’m fine.
This will pass.
I did the right thing.

The words fall flat. They don’t hold.

For the first time, the strategies that helped him survive even his fear of contamination don’t work.

He exhales slowly, his chest tight.

He always believed his condition was the hardest thing he would ever face. And maybe it still is.

But walking away from Rahama feels worse.

All the fear, the rituals, the careful control, he knows how to manage. He’s learned its language.

But this emptiness?

This longing?

He opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling.

If this is the cost of walking away from her, then it’s a cost he can’t accept.

There has to be a way. Something he hasn’t tried yet. Something that allows him to live fully, to love fully, stand beside her without pulling back.

He won’t accept this as the end.

He will find help. He will face it properly. He will do whatever it takes to become someone who can stand beside her without fear.

And when he does, he’ll go back to her.

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“Tayo! You finally remembered I exist?” Dr Lawrence’s voice bursts through the phone, warm and teasing.

Omotayo leans over his office chair, elbow on the armrest, phone pressed to his ear. “Morning, Doc. I need to ask something. And please… not the professional answer.”

The teasing fades. “Alright,” Lawrence says. “Go on.”

Omotayo exhales slowly. “Is there anything that actually makes this sickness easier? I can’t even seem to live a normal life right now. And I really want to.”

Silence stretches. Then a sigh.

“There’s no shortcut, Tayo,” Dr. Lawrence says gently.

Omotayo closes his eyes.

“But there is help,” Lawrence continues. “Therapy. Exposure therapy works for a lot of people. And sometimes…” He pauses. “Sometimes it’s not about fixing it. It’s learning how to live without letting it run your life.”

Omotayo closes his eyes. He’s tried that. Again and again.

Each attempt ends the same way: more irritation, frustration, disappointment. It never fixes anything. It never did. Not even with Rahama.

“You’ve said that a hundred times,” he murmurs, rubbing his temple. “But it’s hard to live with it.”

He hesitates. “Is there something—”

A soft knock cuts through his words. He glances up.

Racheal stands at the door, hesitant, eyes wide. Something’s off.

“Doc, please let me call you back,” he says quickly, ending the call before waiting for a response.

He straightens. “What’s wrong?”

“Sir…” Racheal steps in, lowering her voice. “Oritsejumi just called me now. She said… Rahama’s been in the director’s office at Savtel. For over thirty minutes.”

Omotayo frowns. “What do you mean in the office?”

“They finished cleaning, sir. But they can’t get her. The secretary says no one’s allowed in. That the director doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

He blinks. “Wait, Savtel as in my dad’s Savtel?”

“Yes, sir,” she whispers, “Your dad’s office.”

Omotayo doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe.

Then

“Rahama?” he repeats slowly. “She’s in my father’s office?”

“Yes, sir.”

No.

No no no no no no.

He grabs his phone and dials her.

No answer.

His hand flies to the intercom. Adeyemi’s desk. No response.

The receiver hits the cradle too hard.

He stands.

Because now, it’s not just surprise swimming in his gut.

It’s anger that doesn’t shout. It concentrates.

He dials Peter.

“Peter. My office. Now”

Peter walks in almost immediately.

“Rahama’s not upstairs?” Omotayo asks, his tone clipped.

“No, sir,” Peter says quickly. “She left this morning with the deep-clean team. Savtel Telecom.”

Racheal nods. “Left around nine.”

His jaw tightens. “I told Adeyemi explicitly to inform me of any Rahama field assignments.”

“Sir, Adeyemi handled the dispatch this morning. He, he didn’t mention it.” Racheal replies.

“And where is he now?”

“He went to oversee a general hospital sanitization job in the mainland,” Peter says.

Omotayo exhales through his nose. Slow. Controlled. But the fire in his eyes is unmistakable.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He told Adeyemi to inform him of any Rahama onsite jobs.

And now she’s not just on-site.

She’s in his father’s office.

With Tokunbo Savage and his condescending attitude.

Who has zero filters. And even less patience for anyone who doesn’t fit into his perfect little box.

Omotayo snatches his car keys from the desk and grabs his blazer off the chair.

Peter and Ifunanya move aside.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t look at them.

He just storms past, already imagining the worst.

His father’s voice. Rahama’s confusion.

And Rahama, alone in the middle of it.

No. Not today.

This is Rahama. And she’s not a pawn in anybody’s corporate power play.

He’s taken a lot from his father over the years.

But not this. Never her.

Omotayo barely slams his car door shut before he’s already storming toward the Savtel building. No greetings. No nods.

The security men call after him. “Good afternoon, Mr Savage!”

He doesn’t glance back.

His shoes thud against the polished tiles as he strides past the front desk. The receptionists beam, already halfway into a “Welcome to Sav—” when he brushes right past them.

He heads straight for the private executive elevator, then stops.

He reaches for his pocket.

Nothing.

No access card.

He lets out a quiet breath of frustration, pats his blazer again like it might magically appear. It doesn’t.

No glove either. No sanitizer. Not even a single disinfectant wipe.

Fantastic.

Going back to the car? Not an option. Rahama is in there. Alone. With his father.

His eyes flick to the public elevator across the lobby. Packed.

A man chewing something way too loudly. Someone coughs.

Yeah—no.

He doesn’t even bother debating. His chest tightens just looking at that crowd.

He lets out a tight breath and veers toward the stairwell.

Twenty-one floors. No big deal. Just a mild cardio session with a side of existential panic.

His legs burn on the eighth floor. By the fifteenth, his shirt clings to him. Still, he pushes harder, taking two steps at a time, chest rising and falling like he’s outrunning something.

Because he is.

He’s outrunning his father’s judgment. His condescension. That smug look Tokunbo Savage wears like cologne every time Omotayo falls short of the son he was supposed to be.

The years of trying to morph into the “perfect son.” The suits. The dinners. The endless lectures about legacy.

And in the end?

He still opened a cleaning company.

His father called it a glorified janitor business. And a waste of his degree.

Omotayo wipes sweat from his forehead, the sting of memory sharper than the climb.

And now Rahama’s in there.

In his den.

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Rahama stands ramrod straight, her shoulders burning, gloves still on. Her fingers curl around the edge of the cleaning cart, gripping it harder than necessary. The room smells of lemon disinfectant; clean, sharp, impossible to ignore.

Tokunbo Savage hasn’t offered her a seat.

Not once.

Nearly an hour passes, and he’s already made her clean the same place three times.

He’s made her clean the same space three times.

First, the glass table.
Then the floor beneath his desk.
Then the clean file cabinet.

“Aboki,” he says lazily, his gaze drifting to her ID badge. “Lafiya lau?”

The word sits wrong in his mouth.

“Lafiya lau. I’m fine, sir,” she replies, her tone even.

He nods and swivels his chair, unhurried. “So. You’re done?”

It’s the third time he’s asked.

“Yes, sir. I’ve finished.”

The office was spotless when she arrived. When Oritsejumi sent for her, she’d only said Mr Savage’s father wanted to see her. No explanation. No warning.

Omotayo Savage hasn’t spoken to her in over a week.

So why is she here: being watched, tested, stalled?

Tokunbo remains seated, deep in conversation with the man in the navy suit in front of him. Each time Rahama pauses, waiting to be dismissed, Tokunbo glances up and gives another instruction.

Wipe the shelf again.
Mop that corner again.
Adjust the file again.

Each request wrapped in politeness. Each one delivered like a test.

The man in the navy suit sits quietly, legs crossed, eyes following her movements. He knows something is off. The tension isn’t subtle.

Tokunbo turns slowly, just enough to catch her eyes.

“Aboki.”

“Yes, sir.”

He gestures vaguely at the desk, still spotless. “I think this place needs more attention. Don’t you?”

She blinks. “Sir?”

He raises a hand.

She stills.

A smile spreads across his face, practiced and cold. “I could put in a good word for you,” he says. “If you do your job properly.”

Her fingers twitch inside the gloves.

Is this a game?

Tokunbo folds his arms. “What do you think?” he adds lightly, like they’re sharing a joke.

The other man lets out a quiet chuckle.

Rahama lowers her eyes. “I’ll clean it again.”

Tokunbo’s smile sharpens. “Good. At least you’re useful.”

Then, almost casually, “Unlike your boyfriend.”

The words linger.

He leans back. “For a Hausa girl,” he adds, “that’s to be expected.”

Rahama doesn’t move.

She reaches for the cloth.

Share

Omotayo reaches the twenty-first floor, breathless, heart thudding like a speaker on full bass. He drags a palm down his face and heads straight to the reception area.

Linda, the secretary, looks up, startled. “Good afternoon, Mr Savage—”

“I need to see my father,” Omotayo says, still catching his breath.

She blinks, trying to mask her concern as she picks up the intercom. “Yes, sir. I’ll put a call through—”

But he’s already walking.

“Sir, Mr Savage!” Linda’s voice follows him, confused and a little alarmed. Omotayo doesn’t stop. Doesn’t slow down. He pushes open the heavy door like it’s dared him to.

Linda watches, phone still pressed to her ear, hand frozen. She’s never seen him like this.

Gentle, polished, soft-spoken Omotayo Savage just stormed into the director’s office like he’s ready to burn it down.

And Linda knows better than to stop a Savage when he looks like he’s about to explode.

And she quietly lowers the phone without dialing.

The office door swings open with a bang that echoes.

Rahama flinches. Everyone turns.

Omotayo strides in, breath uneven, eyes sharp with purpose.

“Rahama.”

She releases a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding and steps back.

He reaches her in two strides, positioning himself in front of her without pause. His hand finds hers; sure, grounded. He holds on like he means it.

Tokunbo leans back in his chair, a smirk growing. “Look who finally showed up.” He gestures lazily at their clasped hands. “And without gloves or sanitizer? That’s a miracle.”

“Good afternoon, Father,” Omotayo says, flat and controlled.

The room stills.

Omotayo turns slightly, voice level but edged. “Mr Bamidele. I’d like the room, please.”

The man hesitates, glances between father and son, then quietly exits.

The door closes.

“I delayed your Hausa girlfriend,” Tokunbo says, leaning forward, “Wanted to see if you’d avoid the situation, like you always do.”

He scoffs. “Color me surprised. You love her more than your sanitizer because this time you came without any”

Rahama stiffens. Omotayo doesn’t react.

“How do you know about Rahama?” Omotayo asks.

Tokunbo’s eyes flick toward her. “Your sister mentioned her. Said you hugged her. Kissed her too.”

Rahama blinks. Why does everyone keep circling that moment?

Omotayo shuts his eyes briefly, jaw tightening; he won’t let Rahama be dragged into his world.

Not like this

“I respected you,” he says evenly. “All my life. Loved you too. Because of how deeply you loved my mother until the end.”

Rahama’s breath catches.

Until the end?
Is his mom dead?

“You tried to shape me into your version of a Savage,” Omotayo continues, “and I tried. Every time. Failed, maybe. But I tried.”

He exhales, then looks at Rahama. His grip softens, not loosens.

“But not her. You don’t get to reduce her. Not now. Not ever.”

Tokunbo scoffs.

“I love her,” Omotayo says. Clear. Certain.

Rahama’s chest tightens.

Love her?

Didn’t he walk away? Didn’t he say he isn’t interested?

She pulls her hand from his, anger flashing through her veins.

Omotayo flinches but doesn’t reach back. He accepts it.

He steps forward instead, closing the distance between himself and his father.

“You’ve thrown everything at me: new family, new expectations, loneliness. I accepted it all. Now it’s your turn to accept Rahama.”

Rahama’s eyes dart between them.

New family?

“I love Rahama, Dad.” His voice sharpens. “You either accept that, or you lose me too.”

The silence that follows is sharp.

Tokunbo rises slowly, clapping once. Twice. Mocking.

“Impressive,” he says. “O gbìyànjú, Ọmọ ni ẹ.”

He steps closer until they’re face to face.

“Lose you?” Tokunbo sneers. “I lost you long ago to your strange condition.”

Rahama’s gaze snaps to Omotayo.

Condition?

“Imagine. Something finally made you brave. Not the family business. Not the weight of our name. Not me. But an hausa girl.”

Tokunbo slams the desk.

Rahama flinches again. Omotayo doesn’t even blink.

“I wish I had another son. One with teeth. Fire. Use.” Tokunbo’s voice rises. “One who actually dares.”

Omotayo leans in. Just slightly. His jaw clenched.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Dad. I’m none of those things. Not your ideal. Not your prodigy.”

“And she?” He tilts his head to Rahama. “She’s not your ideal daughter-in-law either. That’s staying that way, too.”

Tokunbo studies him in silence.
Omotayo meets his gaze and doesn’t look away.

They stand facing each other, close enough for tension to buzz between them. Man to man.

Behind them, Rahama inhales softly and takes a small step back, her breath shallow, uncertain.

Tokunbo lets out a short laugh and sinks into his wide, imposing chair. He leans forward, fingers steepled, his attention drifting not to Omotayo’s face, but to his hands. The ones that once held Rahama’s.

“I’ll accept her,” Tokunbo says lightly.

Too lightly.

Omotayo blinks. “What?”

Rahama stills.

Tokunbo waves a dismissive hand like he’s granting royal pardon.

“On one condition. You leave that passion project you call a business and come back here. Run Savage Telecom like I taught you.”

His eyes flick briefly to Rahama, then back to Omotayo.
“If you can hold her hand, surely you can hold a board meeting.”

Omotayo’s jaw tightens. “So, I give up my life to earn your approval?”

Tokunbo shrugs. “You want my blessing? Earn it.”

Rahama’s chest tightens.

What is this?
Hasn’t he already ended things?
Why does it sound like she’s being discussed instead of spoken to?

“I’m not negotiating her,” Omotayo says.

His voice stays steady, but something hard settles beneath it.
“She isn’t an offer. She isn’t leverage.”

Tokunbo’s expression flickers: brief, sharp.

“She’s my choice.”

Omotayo turns without waiting for a response. He reaches back, finds Rahama’s hand, and closes his fingers around it.

Then he leads her to the door.

Omotayo says nothing as he pulls Rahama toward the elevator. His grip is firm, unyielding.

Rahama’s heart pounds. She glances back. Wura. Tobechukwu. Ebira. Oritsejumi. All frozen in place, mouths half-open, eyes tracking them. No one steps in. No one asks a question.

“Everyone, pack up,” Omotayo snaps without turning. “Use the company car. Rahama is coming with me.”

The elevator chimes.

They step inside. Empty. Quiet.

Rahama keeps her thoughts to herself, her pulse loud in her ears.

The doors slide open again at the eighteenth floor. Staff begin to file in, filling the space in front of them inch by inch. Shoulders brush. Perfume lingers. Heat gathers.

Too many people.

She feels it before she understands it.

Omotayo’s fingers tighten around hers. His breath catches. His body stiffens, like a wire pulled too tight.

She turns toward him. “Mr Savage?” she asks softly. “Are you okay?”

His eyes flick around the elevator, sharp and restless. Someone sneezes behind them. Another laughs at a message on their phone. A man wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

Omotayo sways.

“Mr Savage?” Rahama says again, reaching for his arm.

The numbers above the doors glow and shift…
14.
13.
12.

His chest rises too fast. A sheen breaks across his skin. His lips part, but nothing comes out.

The space feels smaller. Tighter.

Rahama tightens her hold on him as his weight leans subtly her way.

Something is wrong.

“Are you okay?” Rahama whispers. “You’re shaking, Mr Savage.”

He nods, but it isn’t convincing. His fingers twitch at his side. His body goes rigid, every muscle locked in place. Sweat gathers along his hairline.

The space feels tighter. Closer. As if the walls have shifted inward without warning.

Floor Eleven.

The numbers blur.

He shuts his eyes, jaw clenched, holding something back.

Rahama lifts her hands and cups his face. “Look at me,” she says softly. “Please. Breathe. What’s wrong?”

His eyes open and meet hers.

Wide. Unsteady. Afraid but anchored on her.

“I’m okay,” he says, though his voice betrays him.

He isn’t.

She studies him quickly. The shaking. The sweat. The way his chest moves too fast.

“Is it fever?” she asks, glancing around the packed elevator, already weighing whether to call for help.

“I’m fine,” he repeats. His grip tightens on her arm, holding on as if she’s the only solid thing left.

She knows better.

“Tayo… breathe,” he murmurs to himself, eyes dropping to the floor. “Count.”

He draws in a breath, measured. Holds it. Lets it out slowly.

Rahama’s chest tightens.

This isn’t an illness, it’s a warfare.

His hands tremble. His breathing stutters. He avoids every face around them, staring only at the ground.

Something is very wrong.

Floor eight.

7.
6.

“What’s happening to you?” she asks, her voice breaking.

5.
3.

He swallows hard, forcing air into his lungs. His shoulders rise and fall, uneven. Too fast.

The sound of his own breathing fills his head, loud and unforgiving. He presses his lips together, trying to steady it, but his chest won’t listen. Each breath comes short and sharp.

His skin prickles. His vision blurs at the edges.

2.
1.

Rahama steps closer, wrapping her arms around him, bracing his weight without thinking.

The elevator slows.

Ground floor.

The doors slide open.

He stumbles forward, unsteady, like someone who’s held his breath for too long. Rahama stays close as he makes it to the parking lot and fumbles into the driver’s seat.

She slides in beside him, watching him carefully.

Nothing about this makes sense.

Omotayo reaches for a bottle of water, twists it open, and drinks deeply. Water spills down his jaw, soaking the collar of his shirt. His chest still rises too fast, each breath shallow.

Without a word, he shrugs out of his jacket, kicks off his shoes, peels away his socks, and drops them into a bin in the back seat. He plants his bare feet flat on the floor.

Grounded.

“Mr Savage,” Rahama says, her voice shaking. “What’s happening?”

“I’m okay,” he murmurs, the words broken by breath.

He brings his palms together and stares straight ahead.

“In,” he whispers.

He draws a slow breath through his nose. Holds it. Releases it through his mouth, longer than before.

Again.

His shoulders ease, just a little.

His lips move, forming silent words around him.

Phone.
Car Key.
Mirror.
Rahama.

Rahama watches him, her heart thudding.

Why is he talking without sound?

“What’s going on?” Rahama asks again, barely above a whisper.

His heartbeat falters, then finds a steadier rhythm. The tightness doesn’t disappear; it eases just enough for him to breathe without forcing it. The shaking slows, no longer sharp, no longer out of control.

“I’m sick, Rahama,” he says after a moment, his voice calm but careful.

She nods. That much is obvious, just not in the way she expected.

“Typhoid?” she asks.

“I have mysophobia,” he says, the word slow on his tongue, like it costs him something to say it out loud.

She doesn’t understand it, not really. But asking right now feels wrong.

“I’m here,” she says quietly. “You’re safe with me.”

His head dips in a small nod.

So that’s why: the gloves, the distance, the way he always steps back instead of closer.

“I’m safe with you?” he repeats under his breath, testing the words.

“Yes,” Rahama says. “You are.”

Something in him gives way.

He pulls her into his arms, holding on with a strength that surprises her. She feels his heartbeat against her chest: fast, uneven, alive.

His grip speaks for him, filling the spaces where words fail.

He holds her like she’s the only thing keeping him upright.

Maybe she is.

Rahama doesn’t pull away. She doesn’t ask questions.

She just stays.

Longer than either of them expect.

Then his voice finds her ear, soft and unguarded.

“I’m safe with you, Rahama.”

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CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Omotayo turns on the bed, the sheets twisted around his legs. His throat burns. His head throbs. Heat rises and settles beneath his skin, leaving him restless and weak.

He made sure Rahama didn’t see him like this.

Not yesterday.
Not today.

This morning, he called his sister and asked her to pick Rahama up earlier than planned.

Saturday wouldn’t work, he’d said, because Rahama leaves for home every Friday evening.

He stopped by the office briefly, long enough to look fine. Long enough to be seen. The moment Lola took Rahama, he drove straight back home.

He’s always known close contact isn’t his strength. Relationships are marked by hands holding, bodies leaning closer, and shared space.

And with that closeness comes the tightness in his chest, the spiraling thoughts.

What kind of man starts a relationship knowing closeness costs him this much?

His phone vibrates on the bedside table. He drags himself closer and squints at the screen.

Rahama.

They must be done with Lola’s spa outing by now.

He lets the phone ring out.

She shouldn’t get pulled deeper into a relationship he can’t fully show up for.

He pushes himself upright, his gaze drifting to the neatly arranged bottles on the table nearby. Anxiety meds. Antidepressants. He exhales slowly.

Everything feels small. Distant.

The phone rings again.

Rahama.

Maybe he should be the one to end it this time.

He should’ve let it end when she tried to walk away first. Saying it now would sound petty. Like retaliation.

The phone rings a third time.

He reaches for it, intending only to silence it. But something in him hesitates, and the call connects.

“Hello,” Rahama says, bright and warm.

He can hear the smile in her voice. He can picture it too: soft, cheek flushed, familiar.

Despite himself, his lips curve upward.

He presses his fingers to his forehead, easing the ache, and lifts the phone closer.
“Hey. Where are you now?” He keeps his voice steady, careful not to sound as tired as he feels.

“On my way home,” she says cheerfully.

How does she make everything sound so easy?

“I should’ve called earlier,” he says. “Did you get a ride?”

“What do you take me for?” Lola cuts in. “You think I’d abandon your girl?”

“I’m personally chauffeuring your woman,” Lola adds. “You’re welcome.”

He chuckles, nodding even though she can’t see him. “Thank you, Lola. I owe you.”

He imagines her driving one-handed, dramatic as ever. Rahama beside her, probably quiet, probably blushing.

As usual, he lets Lola carry the weight he should be carrying himself.

“You owe me plenty,” Lola says. “Wait till you see her, video call or in person on Monday. You’ll appreciate me properly.”

“Oh no,” Omotayo says, smiling through the headache.

He pauses, listening to his own breathing, then adds lightly, “You’ve officially recruited her, haven’t you?”

“She’s one of us now,” Lola declares. “Skin glowing. Nails done. Hair? Absolute main-character moment.”

Rahama’s laughter filters through the background.

“Rahama,” Omotayo says gently. “You good?”

He shouldn’t be asking that. He should be ending things.

“Yes,” she says. “Well… except the waxing. But I’ll live.”

He smiles. That’s her.

“Alright then,” he says. “I’ll call you later.”

He ends the call before she can respond.

The silence settles fast.

He lies back and stares at the ceiling.

Letting Rahama stay feels good, but keeping her here, in a world shaped by fear and careful distance, feels wrong.

And loving someone shouldn’t feel like confinement.

Share

Rahama lowers the phone, the smile still lingering on her lips.

Lola glances at her and grins, eyes flashing. “Now that I know Enny’s weakness…”

She taps the steering wheel like a villain in a Disney movie. “He’s finished!”

Rahama turns toward her, warmth spreading through her chest.

The late-afternoon light slips through the windshield, softening Lola’s features. But it’s not the sunlight that catches Rahama’s attention. It’s the care behind the jokes. The effort. The way Lola has taken her in without hesitation.

Rahama looks at her for a moment longer, then says quietly, “You’re a really good sister.”

Lola shrugs, casual as ever. “He’s my brother. You’re his girl. That makes you my responsibility.”

Rahama’s smile deepens. “Then I’m lucky.”

Lola shoots her a wink. “Yeah. And lucky him, too.”

The car slows to a stop in front of Rahama’s house. Lola cuts the engine.

“I should greet your family before I head out,” Lola says, already reaching for the door.

Rahama blinks. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” Lola says, smiling. “It’s the polite thing. Not after Enny came here and ghosted everyone.”

Lola steps out, steadying herself as her heels sink slightly into the uneven ground.

Rahama follows, her gaze sweeping the compound without thinking - the chipped walls, the clothes hanging from a wire, firewood stacked neatly in one corner, dry leaves scattered across the earth.

Then she looks back at Lola.

In her tailored dress and carefully styled curls, Lola looks out of place and yet completely unbothered. Like she belongs anywhere she chooses to stand.

Rahama chuckles, nerves beating beneath her breath. She lifts her bag and walks slowly, deliberately matching Lola’s awkward tip-toe shuffle across the rocky ground.

A small voice rings out before they reach the door.

“Yaya Rahama! You look beautiful!”

Aisha bolts from the cluster of kids playing with an old tyre and throws her arms around Rahama’s waist.

“Aisha! Look at you!” Rahama laughs, scooping her up. “Na gode, na gode,” she says shyly at Aisha’s compliment, cheeks burning.

Lola steps forward, waving gently. “Hi, sweetheart.”

Aisha tightens her grip on Rahama’s neck, peeking at Lola with the wary curiosity only kids possess.

“Hello,” Aisha replies softly.

“You’re beautiful,” Lola tells her, and Aisha rewards her with a small smile before burying her face into Rahama’s neck again.

“Let’s go inside,” Rahama says, already regretting it.

She should’ve insisted Lola head back. The house wasn’t ready. It was never ready. But now it’s too late.

Lola nods, heels clicking against the uneven floor as they step into the living room.

Chaos welcomes them like an old friend.

An old couch sagging under Hafsat’s sleeping body. The center table buried in folded and unfolded clothes. Plastic chairs stuffed with laundry. Bags and wrappers dangling from the wall nails. A dusty TV with Dawuda’s tattered books stacked like ornaments.

Rahama’s heart sinks. Her shoulders fold inward as she puts Aisha down, who dashes back outside like a bird freed from a cage.

She moves to her mother. “Mama?” she calls softly, tapping her.

Hafsat stirs, then sits up slowly. Her eyes find Rahama’s face and pause.

“Rahama?” she asks, blinking like she’s unsure it’s really her.

“Ina wuni, Mama.” Rahama greets in Hausa, voice low.

Hafsat stares. “What happened to your face? And your hair?”

Before Rahama can reply, Hafsat’s gaze shifts, she sees Lola.

Her spine straightens. “Wa ne wannan?” Who is this?

Rahama takes a breath. “Mr Savage’s sister. Saurayina”

Hafsat’s eyes flick between them. Lola, to her credit, steps forward with grace and a polite, practiced smile.

“Good evening, ma. My name is Lola,” she says with a respectful bow.

Hafsat nods, still looking like she’s piecing together a puzzle.

“Bring a chair for her,” she says, already tucking in her wrapper properly.

Rahama sets her bag down right onto the table mountain of clothes.

She walks to the corner, grabs the lone plastic chair near the plate rack, removes the plates with care, wipes the seat with a kitchen napkin, and brings it to Lola.

Lola settles onto the plastic chair like it’s a throne, not missing a beat.

“I heard my brother came by last week and disappeared before anyone could blink,” she says, smiling like it’s a private joke. “I’m so sorry about that, ma.”

Rahama watches quietly. Her eyes scan Lola’s face, searching for even a flicker of discomfort at the cluttered room - the old couch, the sagging table under a pile of clothes, the tired walls. But nothing. Lola just beams like she belongs here.

Hafsat sits straighter, fixing her wrapper as she yawns mid-nod. “It’s our way here. If our daughter is in a relationship, we must know about it. Approve it. With our own eyes. Your brother has to come.”

Hafsat leans forward, voice firmer. “I know your people like long love story, but here, we don’t do ‘just dating.’”

Lola nods without flinching. “Mama, I agree with you. I don’t believe in long dating either. If he knows what he wants, let him do what’s right. I’ll talk to him. Whatever you want, we’ll make it happen.”

Hafsat’s face softens. “Thank you, thank you for understanding us.”

Then she loosens the knot of her wrapper, digs into a hidden fold, and pulls out some folded, tired naira notes. “Let me buy you something. What kind of minerals do you want?”

“Mama, don’t stress,” Lola says quickly, eyes kind. “Just give me water. I’m fine.”

Still, Hafsat stretches the note towards Rahama. “Go and buy table water from Mama Sultan—”

“No, no,” Lola interrupts gently, reaching out and pressing Hafsat’s hand back down. “Whatever water you have here is fine. Next time, I’ll call ahead so I can come and eat tuwo with you.”

That catches Hafsat off guard. Her brows lift. “You’ll drink the water we fetch into our drum?”

Lola smiles wider, sinking comfortably into the chair like she’s on her aunt’s verandah. She winks at Rahama.

“Yes, ma. Water is water.”

Rahama bites back a laugh, heart swelling. She heads to the corner, pours the room-temperature water from their covered bucket into a plastic cup, and hands it to Lola. No fuss. No grimace. She drinks it like it’s from a five-star hotel.

Then, with graceful ease, Lola reaches into her bag and pulls out a bundle of crisp ₦500 notes. She places it in Hafsat’s palm.

“Mama, please help me manage this. Next time, I’ll come more prepared and bring some things for you.”

Hafsat stands immediately, visibly moved. “Na gode! Na gode sosai!” She pulls Lola into a hug, firm and motherly. Lola hugs her back, just as warmly.

Hafsat turns to Rahama. “Keep it,” she says, handing her the money like a treasure.

“I’ll see you off,” Hafsat adds, and they step outside, side by side, into the fading light.

As they approach the car, Hafsat speaks again, softer this time. “Make sure your brother comes. If he’s anything like you…He must be a good man.”

She chuckles. “You didn’t even mind that we are Hausa. Or that we gave you water from our drum.”

Lola looks at her, eyes crinkling with a knowing smile. “Mama, love doesn’t know tribe. It’s about people. And you raised a really good one.”

Hafsat’s heart relaxes, visibly.

“I was scared,” she admits. “I don’t want Rahama ending up with someone who’ll forget where she comes from. But you… you didn’t judge us. You felt like family.”

“My brother’s actually the better one,” Lola says, adjusting her heels as she walks toward the car.

“He might not look it, but you’ll like him. And he didn’t just choose your daughter, he saw her. In twelve years, I haven’t seen him with anyone else.”

Hafsat nods slowly, watching her with the same cautious warmth she gives strangers who surprise her.

Lola bows again, hand over her chest. “I’ll come back soon, Mama.”

Hafsat nods, more certain this time. “You’re welcome anytime.”

Lola circles the car, opens the door with practiced grace, slips in, and winds the window halfway down.

“Be careful,” Hafsat calls.

Lola nods, eyes kind. “Yes, ma,” she says, then drives off, the sound of the engine softening behind them.

Rahama spins toward her mum like a child bringing home a school prize. “Mama! How is she?”

Hafsat watches the road a moment longer before turning. “She’s not what I expected.”

Rahama blinks. “Expected how?”

“With that fine face, the fancy car, everything... I thought she’d carry her nose in the air.” Hafsat waves vaguely, mimicking the air of someone too posh to breathe. “But she’s warm. She greeted well.”

Rahama grins. “She’s really sweet, Mama.”

Hafsat nods again, thoughtful. “If her brother is half as kind, I can sleep easily.”

Rahama’s heart swells.

Hafsat looks her up and down, eyes narrowing like she’s finally registering what’s right in front of her.

“Wait… what happened to your face and hair? You look—” She squints, then laughs. “—like someone who’s not from here again.”

Rahama does a shy spin, her hair bouncing in soft waves. “Ms Savage took me out. Face. Hair. Nails. Everything.”

Hafsat whistles. “Ah. That’s why your cheeks are shining.”

They laugh together, and Rahama feels lighter, more grounded than she has all day.

“Where’s Maria and Dawuda?” she asks, looking around, suddenly realizing the house is missing its usual chaos.

“They went to the clinic. Dawuda followed Maria, she’s been feeling weak.”

Rahama frowns, nodding. “She’s seven months now. It’s expected.”

“Eh,” Hafsat mutters. “It’s not easy.”

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

“Who is this?” Racheal blurts, her eyes wide as they trail Rahama descending from the staff apartment like a scene straight out of a makeover movie.

Her brows knit together in confusion - Rahama’s brows are perfectly trimmed, her hair long and silk-pressed like glass, swaying with every step. Her skin? Smooth, deep, and glowing like she bottled the sun over the weekend.

Rahama smiles, soft and easy. “Good morning, Racheal.”

Racheal stares for another second before recovering. “Happy new week,” she says, blinking fast.

From their corner of the office, Adeyemi, Samuel, and Mngohol glance up and freeze like someone pressed pause.

“Oh my God,” Mngohol gasps, pushing back from her desk and walking straight toward Rahama. “You look so nice! Wait - did you straighten your hair? And your skin, babe, you’re glowing!”

Rahama chuckles, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Yes, thanks to Ms Savage,” she says, shy but pleased.

Ifunanya strolls over, arms folded like she’s just here to investigate. “What’s the commotion?” she asks - and then her eyes land on Rahama.

She raises an eyebrow. “Ah. So dating the boss comes with skin benefits now?”

“Thank you, everyone,” Rahama says, cheeks warming as the compliments keep rolling in.

“I’m happy for you, oh,” Ifunanya adds with a small nod, already turning like she didn’t just say something unexpectedly soft.

Rahama watches her walk off and smiles to herself.

For someone who acts like she doesn’t care about anybody, Ifunanya’s got some softness tucked inside her.

“Mr Savage is here coming!” Tobechukwu calls from the front window, his voice slicing through the chatter.

As usual, everyone snaps into clean-up mode: fixing their shirts, patting down their hair, and scanning for even the tiniest speck of dirt.

But Rahama? She’s still standing there, her smile growing wider. It’s been three whole days since she last saw him, and now, she can’t stop blushing.

“Mr Savage,” Rahama says, her voice low and playful as she stands at the entrance of Omotayo’s office.

He looks up from his desk and rises. “Good morning, Rahama.”

She steps in, smiling, and takes the chair opposite him. He sits too, careful, measured.

“How was your weekend?” she asks. “Do you like my new look?”

How she missed him. Their calls had been shorter this time. Fewer. He’d said work was heavy, and she hadn’t pushed.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “My weekend was fine. And yours?”

“Fine too.” Her smile deepens. “I missed you.”

Something flickers across his face, but it doesn’t stay. He taps a finger lightly against the desk instead.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

“Yeah. I’m good.”

She hesitates, then leans forward, reaching for his hand. “You didn’t miss me?”

He pulls away at once.

The movement is sharp. Instinctive.

Rahama freezes. Her gaze drops to her hand, then lifts back to his face. Slowly, she draws it back to herself.

Something is wrong.

Before she can ask, his voice cuts through the silence.

“I want to end this,” Omotayo says, firm and measured. “This relationship won’t work.”

The room goes still.

Rahama stares at him.

Dawuda’s voice echoes in her head - gentle, cautious. He warned her. Said things moved too fast. Asked when she fell in love. Asked if she was sure.

She’d laughed it off. Told him she liked Omotayo from the very first day she went to clean his house. Told him this man cared too deeply to ever hurt her.

She was wrong.

Now the office feels smaller. Colder.

“I shouldn’t have stopped you last week,” Omotayo continues. “I thought about it over the weekend. We can’t do this.”

Rahama doesn’t move.

He announced them at work. Drove her home. Let his sister introduce herself to her family.

Why do all that…just to end it here?

Her chest tightens.

Is it because she’s not polished enough?
Because she cleans offices?
Because she’s Hausa?

She pushes her chair back and stands. No tears. No argument. Not a single word.

She walks out.

Omotayo watches her go.

He waits for something: for anger, for tears, for questions. Anything that would make this feel less heavy.

Nothing comes.

He exhales and sinks back into his chair.

It’s for the best.

She deserves someone who won’t flinch when she reaches out. Someone who will take her hand without hesitation.

Someone who leans in, laughs easily, and eats fried potatoes straight from an old newspaper.

Someone who fits into her joy without hesitation.

Not a man who flinches at touch.
Not a man who measures affection like risk.

Someone who isn’t him.

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“Asanwa m, mma m, ụtọ m.” Tobechukwu croons dramatically as he saunters into the relaxation space like he owns it, hands behind his back like a proud village suitor.

She hisses. Loudly.

“Tobechukwu, abeg, it’s 10 a.m. on a Monday,” she says mid-chew. “Even if you don’t have a cleaning job this early, at least have shame. Don’t come and jinx my morning, Abeg.”

Tobechukwu grins, undeterred.

“Maybe it’s even you that chased my Mr Savage away, it might be your interest in me that made him not choose me, we all know he is a calm boss and doesn’t like trouble, that’s why he picked the less troubled girl among us,” Ifunanya says.

Her eyes go wide, as if the revelation just smacked her biscuit out of her hand.

“Wait... that’s true oh. Maybe what Mr Savage wants isn’t a clean girl. Maybe it’s... gentleness,” she says slowly, like the revelation is falling into place in real time. “Someone soft, like air freshener.”

Tobechukwu plops into the second beanbag like it owes him rent.

“And that, my dear Ifunanya, is something you don’t have. Gentleness saw you coming and relocated to Enugu.”

She shoots him a look.

“But I still love you like that,” he adds with a cheeky grin. “It’s your sharp mouth that made me fall for you in the first place.”

Ifunanya rolls her eyes so hard they almost exit her soul. “Even if I’m God’s prodigal daughter, why must my love life suffer to this level? How I take attract somebody like you?”

He clutches his chest, mock-wounded. “Am I not good enough?”

She stands, dusts off invisible crumbs, and tosses him a dry glance. “You’re good enough to mop a floor. Not to date a queen like me.”

And with that, she struts off toward the reception, leaving Tobechukwu smiling like a man who just got handed a romantic challenge instead of a flat-out rejection.

He’ll get her.

Slowly. Surely.

After all, even stubborn soap lathers when you scrub it right.

At the reception, Ifunanya taps through the company phone like it personally offended her, checking updates, bookings, and the business WhatsApp.

A message pops up.

Savtel Telecom:

Good morning.

Please schedule a deep cleaning session for the Savtel HQ office in Lagos for next week.
Also, please send the hygiene technician, Rahama, along with the rest of the team.
Management insists on her specifically.

Thank you.

Ifunanya blinks. Rereads it.

A slow, knowing smile creeps across her lips.

“Oh wow. Even Mr Savage’s father’s company knows his daughter-in-law’s name?” she mutters to herself.

“God, some people are just highly favoured. Meanwhile, I’m still here arguing with broom boy.”

She sighs, shaking her head as she settles down.

Some people are born into favour. Others have to sweep their way into it.

Rahama lies curled on her narrow bed in the staff quarters, knees drawn close, one hand pressed against her stomach.

Pain coils low and deep, sharp enough to steal her breath. Her eyes sting, tears slipping into her hairline and soaking the pillow beneath her.

She isn’t sure what hurts more: the cramps or the emptiness spreading through her chest.

Omotayo Enioluwa Savage is cruel.

She should have known. People don’t appear out of nowhere and ask for love. They don’t switch so easily, warmth one moment and distance the next.

Just last week, he held her and told her how much she meant to him.

Now this.

She should have asked why. She should have demanded an explanation. She should have stayed long enough to hear something - anything - that made it make sense.

But shock stole her voice. She stood, turned, and walked away like someone who didn’t care.

She thought he would follow.

She thought he would come back, call, apologize, and say he’d made a mistake. Anything.

But Friday arrives, and the silence stays.

All week, he hasn’t called. He didn’t send for her. When they cross paths at work, his eyes slide past her like she isn’t there.

No one says anything. Maybe no one notices. Or maybe they do and choose not to look too closely.

Even his sister calls that morning, cheerful, asking if she’s ready for their usual Friday outing. Rahama tells her she isn’t feeling well. The cramps give her an easy excuse.

He must not have told her anything.

The thought settles heavily in her chest.

She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. She can’t bring herself to tell Dawuda. Or Maria.

They warned her. Said everything moved too fast. Said she was risking too much.

Her boss. Neat. Wealthy. Distant.

What would she even say now?

That she believed him. That she trusted his care. That she mistook attention for permanence.

Dawuda would laugh first. He always does. Then he’d remind her she should have known better.

She presses her forearm over her eyes, muffling the sound as another wave of pain pulls a sob from her chest.

She won’t forgive him.

Not for the way he drew her close, only to step away without warning.
Not for how easily he erased her.

She lies there until the crying slows, until the room grows quiet again.

And when it does, the emptiness feels louder than anything else.

New Chapters drop every Thursday and Friday. 🤍

Read the previous chapter here

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Rahama sits stiffly across from Omotayo, the morning sun slipping through the blinds, warming the edges of the desk between them. She gently pushes a black nylon bag toward him like she’s offering a peace treaty.

“I got fried sweet potato with pepper,” she says, smiling too hard. “Oritsejumi said there’s this woman a street away whose fried yam is very sweet, so I thought... we could eat it together.”

Omotayo blinks. His smile appears too quickly - too polished. “No, thank you.”

Rahama tilts her head. “Are you fasting?”

“No.”

He folds his hands, neat as always, then adds with a practiced grin, “I just thought since it’s that nice, you should enjoy it all by yourself.”

“I brought it for us,” Rahama insists, voice gentle but firm.

She opens the nylon before he can deflect again, and the sweet, fried aroma of hot potato and sauce fills the room like an edible perfume.

She plucks one potato from the old newspaper, dips it into the sauce spread beside it, and offers it to him across the desk. “Here.”

Omotayo recoils before he can catch himself. He leans back slightly, eyes wide like she’s offering him anthrax.

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, leaning back ever so slightly, the smile on his face turning awkward.

Rahama blinks. Then slowly lowers her hand and sets the potato on a tissue.

Silence.

“I want to break up,” she says quietly.

Omotayo jerks his head up. “What?”

“I’m not interested anymore.”

“Rahama…” He leans forward, eyes wide. “How did we get from potato to breaking up?”

She shrugs like it’s obvious. “I overheard you and Peter yesterday. You called me a walking germ and wait…” She squints, trying to remember. “Something else… bio… bio…”

“Biohazard,” he murmurs, ashamed.

“Exactly.”

He exhales and runs a hand down his face. “Rahama, that was a month ago. Before… all this. Before I even admitted to myself that I can’t do without you.”

“Then why won’t you eat what I brought?” she asks. “Why can’t you just take one potato from me?”

“I don’t eat street food,” he replies.

“Not even the one I give you?” She sounds genuinely baffled, like he just admitted he doesn’t believe in jollof rice.

“I can’t,” he says gently. “I mean - I don’t. I just…”

She reaches across the desk and brushes her fingers against his.

And just like that, he pulls away. Instinct. Fast. Sharp. Like her touch burns.

There it is.

Rahama nods, her throat tight.

“You see?” she whispers. “I can’t even touch you.”

Omotayo shuts his eyes. Everything in him wants to explain - but how?

How do you tell a woman you’re falling for that you’re scared of her skin, not because of her, but because your brain is at war with your heart?

“I’d like to break up,” Rahama says again, her voice firmer this time as she heads for the door.

Omotayo bolts upright. “Wait—Rahama—” he calls, already circling the desk.

But she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even turn.

His heart thunders. His brain races.

He’s losing her.

And for the first time in his perfectly scheduled life, he acts before thinking.

He crosses the room in three quick strides and grabs her hand. “Rahama, wait.”

She freezes. Doesn’t look at him. Just stands there, shoulders stiff.

So he does the unthinkable.

He pulls her into a hug.

His arms wrap around her like instinct, like need, like home. His heart is pounding so loudly he swears she can hear it.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes into her hair. His voice breaks the silence, soft and scared. “Please… wait.”

Rahama goes still in his arms. Like someone hit pause on her whole nervous system.

He smells like rosewood and lavender and something else that makes her knees wobble: like clean rain on a rich man’s shirt.

“I love you,” he whispers into her ear, breath warm on her neck. His voice is trembling. Honest. Scared.

Rahama’s breath hitches.

Her body stiffens instinctively - because how can someone that clean want someone like her?

But before she can take a step back, Omotayo’s grip tightens. Not forceful. Just... afraid.

“I’ve loved you since the first day,” he says. “Since you showed up in my house with the mask and cleaning supplies…I was just scared”

“Your voice is adorable,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at her. “And your eyes… my God. Your eyes...”

She giggles, blushing so hard it’s impossible to pretend otherwise.

“I love you too,” she says quietly. “I just thought… maybe you didn’t like me. I mean—I’m Hausa. And not... your kind.”

Omotayo leans back slightly, still holding her, his hands warm and steady on hers.

“Your tribe has nothing to do with this,” he says.

“And I’ve been rearranging my life just to make space for your chaos.”

She blushes, a smile blooming across her face like sunshine cracking through clouds.

“So… do I still have a chance?” he asks, half-grinning.

She nods, cheeks pink. “You do.”

He exhales - relief, heart racing, everything at once - but then something shifts.

The room feels… off. The air suddenly too thin.

His body starts to chill, then dizziness, then tremble all at once. His chest tightens like someone is sitting on it.

Still, he holds her hand, refusing to ruin the moment.

“Can we, um… talk later?” he asks with a strained smile, trying to stay upright, trying not to collapse from whatever’s happening to his insides.

“Okay,” she whispers with a bright smile.

He leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead - gentle, lingering.

“I love you,” he says again, almost like a prayer.

And then she leaves, practically floating. Heart light, grin wide.

As soon as Rahama disappears, Omotayo grips the edge of his desk like a man bracing against impact. His knees wobble. The room tilts - just a little at first, then enough to make him swallow hard.

Air stutters into his lungs.

Too fast. Too shallow.

He drags a hand down his chest, pressing as if he can physically slow his heart.

His breath comes in short, panicked bursts.

“Breathe,” he whispers to himself, pressing one palm to his chest.

His eyes squeeze shut, voice trembling.

“Box breathing, come on…Inhale for four… one, two, three, four…”

He holds. “One, two, three, four…”

Exhales, shakily. “One, two, three, four…”

He freezes there, lungs stretched tight, skin prickling where her arms had been.

“Hold.”

One. Two. Three. Four.

He exhales, shaky, uneven.

Again.

Again.

“I’m not dying,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I’m just… uncomfortable.”

His knees buckle. He catches himself on the desk, knuckles whitening, legs trembling like they might fold out of spite.

“I’m okay,” he insists, to the room, to his body. “I chose this.”

He stumbles toward the mini fridge, holding the desk along with him for balance. His movements are clumsy, desperate - controlled chaos.

He yanks the fridge open, grabs the coldest bottle he can find, fumbles the cap twice before it finally gives.

He drinks like he’s been underwater too long.

Cold floods his throat. It helps. A little.

His muscles burn. His heart won’t slow. His skin feels too tight, like it doesn’t fit him anymore.

He drops into his chair, folds forward, elbows on knees, hands clenched so hard his nails bite. He doesn’t wipe them. He can’t yet. Not until the shaking stops.

“God,” he breathes, forehead hovering just above the desk. “Please.”

This is not a tidy prayer. There are no full sentences. Just need. Just survival.

His breathing evens out inch by inch. The spinning dulls. The scream in his chest lowers to a roar, then a growl.

And through it all - through the nausea curling in his stomach, through the itch under his skin - one truth holds steady.

He hugged her.

He chose her.

He lifts his head slowly, testing the world. Still upright. Still here.

She’s still his.

That’s the win.

Even if his stomach is still doing things that should qualify as a competitive sport.

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“So…” Lola starts, steering the wheel with one hand and shooting Rahama a loaded side-eye, “what do you think about Enny?”

It’s barely 11 a.m., Friday sun gentle on the windshield, and Rahama’s already blushing like someone sprinkled sugar in her bloodstream.

Rahama shifts in the passenger seat, cheeks warming. “He’s… handsome. And neat ma,” she says softly, fingers twiddling in her lap.

Lola bursts out laughing, the kind that comes straight from the belly, catching Rahama off guard.

“Well, he is,” Lola says, still chuckling. “Extremely neat. Obsessively neat, actually.”

Rahama chuckles shyly.

“Oh, and drop the ‘ma’ thing, please,” Lola adds, flicking her fingers in the air. “We don’t do that. It makes me feel like I need to start wearing orthopedic shoes.”

“Okay,” Rahama says with a smile, studying Lola for a moment.

She is stunning. Curvy in all the right places, glowing skin like she drinks water and minds her business, nails long, wig definitely imported, and the kind of dress that doesn’t live in regular boutiques. She smells like confidence and clean money.

“Better.” Lola nods, satisfied.

Lola steals another glance. “So… his neatness doesn’t bother you?”

“No. Not at all.” Rahama’s voice turns soft again, her mind drifting to yesterday - the hug, the warmth, the way he didn’t flinch this time. “He hugged me yesterday.”

Lola slams the brake just enough for the car to jerk a little. Her eyes widen. “What?!”

Rahama startles, clutching the seatbelt.

“He—he hugged me. It wasn’t a big deal—”

“Not a big deal?” Lola’s jaw drops. “Enny hugged you?! Like… full body contact?”

Rahama nods, cheeks hot again.

Lola slows the car to a crawl, turning to stare at her like she just declared she touched the sun and it winked back.

“Oh my goodness. Who are you, Rahama?” she whispers, clearly in awe. “Do you realize you’re the first person he’s hugged in, like… twelve years? He doesn’t even hug me. I’ve literally begged before, like I was asking him to donate a kidney.”

Rahama smiles, biting her lip, unsure what to say. “Well… he did. He pulled me in.”

Lola shakes her head, laughing under her breath, but her mind is working overtime.

Lola sizes her up again - this time not with judgment, but stunned curiosity.

Rahama’s beauty is there, tucked behind rough edges: her thick hair cornrowed in an all-back style; her full lips begging for a little lip balm; skin that needs TLC and oils her brother probably keeps in alphabetical order.

And yet... he hugged her?

Lola narrows her eyes.

“I noticed he doesn’t like being touched,” Rahama says quietly. “Even in the office. No one comes close to him.”

Lola’s hand stiffens slightly on the wheel.

And then it hits her.

His condition.

His mysophobia.

She swallows. “And… he was fine afterwards?”

Rahama furrows her brow. “Fine?” ​​

“I mean, like… he didn’t act weird? Get sick?” Lola asks, making a quick U-turn, as if she just remembered an errand. But her eyes keep darting to Rahama.

Rahama blinks. “Sick? Why would hugging make him sick?”

Lola’s lips twist into a small, awkward smile.

So he hasn’t told her.

Omotayo hasn’t said a word.

Not about the therapy. Not about the panic attacks. Not about his sickness.

“Considering he doesn’t do body contact,” Lola says, flashing a brighter smile like she’s trying to laugh off how stunned she still is, “I was joking. Kind of.”

Rahama nods slowly. “Oh. Well… he’s fine. I mean, I actually tried pulling away from the hug, but… he pulled me back in. Then he…” Her cheeks catch fire. “He kissed my forehead.”

She hides her face a little, unable to stop smiling.

Lola misses the red light until it’s a breath away. She slams the brake.

Rahama jerks forward against her seatbelt with a quiet gasp.

For a moment, there’s silence - except for Rahama’s exhale and Lola’s blink as reality catches up to her.

What is it with Savage siblings and emergency braking? Rahama mutters under her breath.

She’s turned fully toward Rahama now, eyes wide, invested, as if Rahama just dropped the plot twist of a drama series.

“Wait, wait, wait—rewind,” she says, holding up one hand. “You tried to pull away from the hug - he pulled you back in - and kissed your forehead?”

Rahama nods, still smiling, still glowing. “Yes.”

Lola stares at her like she’s looking at the fifth wonder of the world.

Her eyes flick to Rahama’s forehead, as if the kiss might still be stamped there, glowing or sparkling or something.

“Did you notice anything strange about him this morning?”

Rahama shrugs a little, unsure which part is meant to be the big deal - the hug or the forehead kiss. “No, he seems fine.”

Lola is still staring. Still smiling. But quieter now.

That kind of quiet when something big is dawning.

If Enny pulled her back into a hug… if he kissed her forehead… no gloves, no flinching, no sanitizing his lips afterward… then maybe —

Maybe Rahama isn’t just a passing interest.

She’s a cure.

A breaking point in the best way.

Lola exhales and softly shakes her head, more to herself than Rahama. “He’s never done that. Not for anyone.”

Rahama looks at her, now curious. “Why? What’s so strange about a hug and a kiss?”

Lola gives a soft laugh, but her eyes shine like someone watching a miracle unfold.

“You have no idea what that hug cost him.”

Omotayo has found something worth breaking rules for.

Someone worth braving fear for.

And her name… is Rahama.

“I’d like to invite you to our family dinner,” Lola says casually.

Rahama’s lips part, about to respond, but a blaring honk from behind cuts her off.

Lola jumps. “Oh shoot—green light!” She hits the gas like she’s in a race, and Rahama holds the edge of her seat for balance.

“Sorry, sorry,” Lola says with a sheepish grin, eyes back on the road. “Anyway—just convince Enny to come with you. He’ll listen to you. I’m sure of it.”

Rahama’s face warms with a shy smile. “I’ll tell him.”

Lola glances at her, satisfaction written all over her face. Perfect. She doesn’t need to warn Rahama about the circus that is dinner with their family. No need to spoil the moment. Let her just bring Enny home. Let love do the rest.

Rahama’s fingers play with the hem of her sleeve.

If she’s meeting all of his family, then he should meet hers too. She nods to herself. It’s only fair. And… kind of romantic.

Lola beams suddenly, like another lightbulb has just flickered on.

“Also, I’m officially stealing you for a girls’ date every Friday afternoon. I planned Saturday, but I found out you need to go back home Friday evenings.”

Rahama turns to her, blinking. “Every Friday?”

“Absolutely,” Lola says with a wink. “Pick-up included. Full glam, full gist.”

Rahama chuckles but tilts her head. “Won’t that affect my cleaning schedule?”

Lola scoffs like she’s just been personally insulted.

“Excuse me, your man owns the company. If they need more help, they should hire more staff.”

“Still, I—”

“I’ll tell him myself. I’ll have your Fridays cleared just for me. Big sister privilege,” she declares with a confident nod.

Rahama bites her lip to hide a smile. Lola is intense, but somehow… in the best way.

Lola pulls into a neat parking lot and parks in front of a pristine grey building. The words Grey & Glow Spa gleam on the glass like it’s winking at Rahama.

“We’re here,” Lola says, already unbuckling.

Rahama looks around, then at the spa, then back at Lola. “Where is here?”

Lola opens her door, tosses her long weave back like a Nollywood star, and smirks. “Somewhere magical.”

Rahama hesitates, then quietly follows, still unsure what she just signed up for.

Rahama steps into Grey & Glow Spa like she’s walked into the wrong building. The air smells like warm oranges and expensive peace. Soft music swirls around the gold-accented lobby. Everyone is either whispering or smiling too much.

She halts. “Are we here to clean?”

Lola does a slow blink. “Clean?”

Rahama nods cautiously.

Lola gasps, placing a hand dramatically on her chest like Rahama just slapped her spirit. “Sweetheart. We’re not here to clean. We’re here to resurrect.”

She snatches a plush white robe from the receptionist and tosses it into Rahama’s arms like it’s a sacred scroll. “Today, you are the VIP.”

Rahama stares at the robe. “Why?”

Lola flips her wig. “Because I like you and want to spoil you. And because you’re courting my brother, so congrats, you’ve unlocked a full spa day.”

“Ms Savage, please. I didn’t plan—”

But Lola already waves her off. “No long talk. Let the pampering begin.”

Minutes later, Rahama re-emerges from the changing room, wrapped in the robe like a reluctant lamb heading for the altar.

Her slip-on sandals flap as she tiptoes past the velvet curtain into the treatment lounge.

“Don’t be scared,” Lola calls from a recliner, legs crossed, sipping lemon-cucumber detox water like royalty. “This is the fun part.”

A warm mist greets Rahama’s cheeks as Tonia, the aesthetician, gently spreads something grainy across her face.

“This is sugar-based,” Tonia says with a calm smile.

Rahama’s tongue pokes out instinctively. “Tastes like sugar.”

Tonia freezes. “You… tasted it?”

“My sister-in-law is new,” Lola says, smiling without looking up. “Still thinks spa products are snacks.”

Rahama giggles under her breath.

Exfoliation. Extraction. A cooling cucumber mask that smells like someone’s rich garden. When they peel it off, Rahama’s skin is reflecting light like glass.

Next stop: a candle-lit massage room. Rahama lies face-down on a heated table, wrapped in soft towels like a burrito.

When the coffee-vanilla scrub touches her back, she jumps.

“Tickles,” she squeaks.

“Good,” the masseuse says in a melodic voice.

“That means your skin is waking up.”

Soon, warm oil replaces the scrub. Skilled hands knead through her back and shoulders, coaxing out years of tension and maybe a few ancestral fears. Ten minutes in, her brain is floating somewhere between Earth and Mars.

“Did I just… sleep?” she mumbles.

“No,” Lola replies from beside her. “You levitated.”

Then she sees it.

Wax strips.

Rahama sits up. “Wait. Wait. What are those?”

“Eyebrow threading. Leg and armpit waxing,” the technician says sweetly, like she’s offering candy.

“No. No, no, no. My hair is there for a reason. God put it there.”

Lola pokes her head in. “God also gave us coconut oil and self-awareness. Relax.”

Rahama eyes the wax strip like it’s a weapon. “I’m not ready.”

“You’ll survive,” Lola grins. “I’ll hold your hand.”

That’s a lie.

Rahama screams like she’s seen her life flash in HD.

“Ahh, what have I done to deserve this punishment?!”

“She’s doing great,” the technician says, unbothered.

“She’s lying!” Rahama sobs. “Check my leg. Is it still there?!”

More ripping. More wailing. Threading. Waxing. Rahama emerges minutes later limping slightly, but her legs shimmer, her brows are shaped, and her armpits could pass for angel wings.

In the final room, her lashes and brows are tinted, her lips glossed with something rosy and subtle.

Then they wheel her to the salon section like a sacred offering.

Two stylists gasp. “Her hair is full!”

“Let’s do a steam treatment, deep condition, trim the ends, blowout, light curls,” the stylist rattles off like a plan for world peace.

Rahama blinks at her. “Will I still have hair after all that?”

One stylist leans in, all confidence. “You’ll have more.”

She says it like a promise from heaven.

The steam wraps around her head like a soft cloud. Fingers detangle with patient care, combs glide through strands soaked in conditioner. Warm air buzz as the dryer does its thing. Then come the curls, bouncy, soft, like her hair just fell in love with itself.

Lola gasps dramatically. “Enny is going to collapse like a folding chair.”

Rahama chuckles, but her eyes stay on the mirror. She doesn’t recognize this version of herself - and that’s not a bad thing.

Hands and feet get the royal treatment next—dipped in rose-scented bowls, scrubbed, massaged, shaped, polished. Nude toes. Coral-pink fingers. One nail with a tiny gold flower.

Rahama holds up her hand, wide-eyed. “How am I supposed to mop floors with these?”

Lola smirks. “Exactly.”

Someone hands her a sage-green jumpsuit. The fabric feels like butter and looks like wealth. Gold buttons at the shoulder. A cinched waist. She steps into it like she’s entering a new chapter.

Then she turns to the mirror.

Her hair frames her face in glossy waves. Her skin glows like she drinks coconut oil for breakfast. Her lashes flutter like they have their own script.

She’s not just pretty. She’s present.

She stares.

Lola appears behind her in the mirror, all smiles and satisfaction. “This is the Rahama Enny saw from day one,” she says softly. “Now the rest of the world can catch up.”

Rahama laughs, cheeks glowing as much as her skin. “I feel like a human cupcake.”

“A fine cupcake,” Lola corrects. “The kind in a black and gold luxury box with tissue paper and a handwritten note.”

Rahama exhales slowly. “Thank you.”

“Don’t cry,” Lola says, waving a finger. “You’ll ruin your lash tint and I didn’t come this far for streaks.”

They step out into the late afternoon sun. The city air doesn’t feel as heavy. Rahama glances at her reflection in the spa’s glass door.

No flinching.

Just a slow, quiet smile.

Read the previous chapter here

CHAPTER TWELVE

Rahama is in the breakroom, rummaging through the snack shelf like a woman on a mission. She grabs two packs of Krim Crackers, just as Peter strolls in.

“You’ve got a delivery,” Peter announces with a wink.

Rahama blinks. “Delivery?”

He gestures with his head. “Come and see.”

Curious, she follows him out, her snack forgotten in her hand.

Outside, a crowd has already formed. Staffs are circled around something - or someone - like it’s a celebrity sighting. Rahama edges closer… and gasps.

A bouquet.

No, a giant, outrageous, somebody-cannot-pay-rent-again bouquet.

It’s massive; like someone tried to stuff a botanical garden into one arrangement. Petals in blush pinks, fiery reds, lavender dreams, and creamy whites spill out like a Disney scene.

“It’s real o. Not fake,” Racheal says, leaning in to sniff.

“Ahhh! God, na when? When I no be pineapple?” Oritsejumi cries, clutching her head like the flowers personally betrayed her.

Rahama just stares, speechless.

Isn’t Mr Savage doing too much?

Yesterday, Mr Savage sent her breakfast, lunch, and dinner like he said he would. This morning? Same. Now this? An entire wedding bouquet without the wedding.

“If una see the chain wey that oga give Rahama yesterday, ehn...” Oritsejumi throws it in for the culture. “Rahama, abeg, lock that gbege for inside safe, I dey beg oh. You sabi how much that diamond dey cost?”

Racheal hands her the small note tucked inside the bouquet. Rahama takes it gently, her fingers lingering on the soft paper.

In the corner, Ifunanya watches, stiff, arms crossed. Her eyes are cool, but her tone warmer than yesterday. “Congratulations oh,” she mutters.

Rahama nods, offering a small, careful smile. “Thank you, everyone.”

Everyone’s still swooning and snapping pictures, but Rahama’s heartbeat slows as reality settles in.

The bouquet is beautiful: almost aggressively so. Too much. She can’t even pretend she has space for it.

Where will she put it? In her mother’s cramped two rooms in Somolu, where the fan barely rotates, and the table doubles as her brother’s study and the family’s dinner spot?

She presses the note to her chest alongside the Krim Crackers.

This - this simple note, whatever he wrote - is the part she wants to keep. Not the fuss, not the flowers, not the audience.

She’s never needed grand gestures.

She just wants to be seen. Softly. Quietly. Genuinely.

Rahama leaves the chaos behind, bouquet still the center of gossip. She tiptoes toward Mr Savage’s door, her grip tight around the Krim Crackers and that precious handwritten note.

She peeks in.

Omotayo’s eyes are glued to his screen, typing furiously, brows furrowed like he’s decoding nuclear codes.

“Mr Savage,” she calls softly.

He looks up and the transformation is instant. That serious work face softens like butter on hot yam.

“Rahama,” he says, standing up immediately. “Please come in.”

She steps in, half-shy, half-smiling.

He walks around to the guest chairs and pulls one out for her, careful to keep his distance, like it’s second nature.

Rahama sits, hugging her crackers like a secret.

Omotayo returns to his seat, eyes already back on her.

“How are you doing?” he asks, voice dipped in warmth.

“I’m fine.” She gives a small, blushing nod. “Thank you… for the gifts.”

“You’re always welcome,” he says with a smile that feels like a compliment.

Rahama presses her lips together, her fingers brushing over the folded note in her hand.

She wants to say the bouquet is too much, that it’s bigger than her mother’s entire kitchen space. But she doesn’t want to sound too Northern. Too practical. Too outdated.

Omotayo leans forward slightly, laptop now closed, arms resting on the table. His phone flipped over. His attention? All hers.

Her heart pounds. She should tell him about her mom’s message.

But this is Lagos, not Kaduna. Nobody gets engaged after a week here. That kind of talk could scare someone off.

So instead, she clears her throat and says, “I was thinking... maybe we could go out this evening. I want to buy you dinner.”

He freezes for a split second - just long enough for his brain to remind him: You don’t eat outside food, Tayo.

But then he smiles. “Sure.”

Sure?

Sure.

He’s going. He won’t eat, but he’ll go. He’ll put a handkerchief on the seat if he has to. Bring hand sanitizer if needed. She deserves more than being refused for the second time.

Rahama’s smile stretches wider, softening her whole face. At least tonight, they’d hold hands. Maybe brush fingers on the table. Dates are good for such sacred little intimacies.

Omotayo leans back in his chair, that playful glint back in his eyes. “My sister has been disturbing me to plan a meeting with you. She says she wants to ‘take you out on a girl’s date.’ Her words, not mine.”

Rahama laughs, the sound light and honest. “I’d love to meet her,” she says, eyes lit.

Omotayo's smile deepens, the kind that turns up at the corners and lingers. “So, when’s our date?”

Rahama stands, brushing her palm against her skirt, still holding the crumpled flower note and cracker like a nervous schoolgirl. “I’ll come back later. I need to finish an on-site job first.”

“Alright,” he says, watching her like she’s something delicate and rare.

She heads for the door, then pauses, turns back slightly. “And thank you. Again. For everything.”

Omotayo nods, warm. “I meant it all.”

Rahama steps out, her heart thudding.

She’s been overthinking it, hasn’t she? Wondering if he’s too much. Too extra. Too everything. But maybe he’s just… thoughtful.

She glances down at the handwritten note again and clutches it tighter.

Yeah. This is real. And maybe - just maybe - she deserves it.

Share

Omotayo pulls up in front of a restaurant and parks smoothly. He steps out, rounds the car, and opens the passenger door.

Rahama steps out gently, smiling like she’s still not used to this kind of soft. “Thank you,” she says, almost shy.

Omotayo gives a small nod, lips tugged up, his distance intact. “Go ahead. I’ll meet you inside.”

She raises a brow. “You’re not coming in with me?”

“I’ll be right behind you,” he says with a calm smile, already turning back to the car.

She nods slowly and walks ahead, side-eyeing him once before facing forward. The restaurant’s security man greets her with a toothy grin and opens the door. She smiles back politely, but her brain’s already busy.

What’s he doing in the car again?

Inside, Rahama joins the short queue and pulls out her phone. From the corner of her eye, she sees him finally walk in.

And then she sees it - gloves. Not leather. Not style. Disposable gloves.

One on each hand.

Folded white handkerchiefs and a tiny bottle of sanitizer in one hand. A travel-sized pack of wipes in the other.

She stares, blinking.

She coughs out a laugh before she can catch herself.

He joins her at the counter, entirely unbothered. “Have you ordered?”

“I’m getting rice and sauce… with chicken. And Fanta,” she says, still watching his gloves like they’re part of a science experiment.

He nods. “Nice choice.”

“What about you? Get anything. I’m paying today,” she says, voice lilting with pride.

Omotayo gives a patient smile. “Bottled water is fine.”

“Water?” she arches a brow. “Mr Savage, order any food. I can afford it.”

“I believe you,” he says softly. “But water is enough.”

The server places her tray on the counter. Rahama throws in another bottled water and makes the transfer.

“Bring it,” Omotayo says, reaching for the tray like it’s a sacred object.

His gloved hands cradle the sides like he’s holding evidence from a crime scene.

They reach their table. Omotayo carefully sets the tray down like he’s defusing a bomb. He steps back, pulls out the chair for Rahama with a gentleman’s grace. She slides into the seat.

Then he crosses to the chair opposite, pulls it out - and here comes the full ritual.

Two fresh handkerchiefs folded like a throne cushion, spread neatly across the chair. He pulls a disinfectant wipe from a sealed pack and starts wiping the edges of the chair, then the edges of the table.

Rahama watches, blinking. She knows he’s clean - obsessively so - but this? This is next-level.

“Mr Savage,” she ventures, leaning forward just a bit. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He looks up, smiles calmly and steadily. “Sure.”

With surgical precision, he peels off his gloves - careful not to touch a thing - and slips on a new pair.

He pulls the chair close, lowers himself gently onto the freshly laid handkerchiefs, then places two more on his side of the table. He even leans on one, gloved hand firmly planted.

Rahama’s eyes widen. The few other diners nearby glance over, whispering and giggling.

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat anything?” she asks, voice a mix of amusement and concern.

Omotayo shakes his head, his smile soft but unwavering. “I just want to watch you eat.”

She picks up her spoon, carefully nudges the bottled water toward him like a peace offering. Then she starts eating, slowly and carefully, under his gaze.

“You don’t like the restaurant?” she tries again, curiosity bubbling.

“No, it’s perfect,” he says simply.

Rahama glances at him mid-bite. His chair’s all handkerchiefs; his hands gloved. “Perfect” is definitely a creative word choice.

But then there’s that look in his eyes - the one that sends little butterflies fluttering in her stomach - and suddenly nothing else matters.

“Do you like your meal?” he asks, voice low.

She blushes, swallowing the bite.

“Feels like you’re the one treating me. I wanted to buy dinner for you, but here I am, the one eating.”

His smile widens, eyes warm. “As long as you’re happy, I’m full.”

Rahama laughs softly between bites. “You really do have a way with words.”

He smiles even more.

Her fingers twitch, itching to reach out, but how do you hold hands when his are both gloved like surgeons?

Rahama finishes the last bite, cheeks puffed slightly, her mind spinning.

This date was nothing like she pictured.

No spoon-feeding, no stolen glances over shared plates, no hands brushing - just him staring like she’s about to sprout germs.

She feels like a glutton, not a girlfriend.

Omotayo stands, moves with that same careful precision. He pulls out her chair, then gathers the handkerchiefs, dumping the pristine white cloths into the trash like sacrificial offerings.

Rahama blinks. Those were clean! Brand new! Why toss perfection away?

He opens the restaurant door for her like a prince with a sparkling armor of wipes and gloves.

At the car, he unwraps a new disinfectant wipe, gloves up, and opens her door. Then, after sliding into his own seat, he peels off his gloves, tosses everything into the nearby bin with ritualistic care.

Rahama watches him like he’s performing a magic trick she can’t quite believe.

“Are you alright, Mr Savage? Why all the waste? Wipes, gloves, handkerchiefs…” Her voice trails off, half-amused, half-concerned.

Omotayo smiles, the kind that’s a little too tight, like he’s hiding something big.

“I just don’t like dirt,” he says softly.

Her smile falters.

That’s it!

“Am I dirt to you?” Her voice is quiet but sharp, a sudden stab of vulnerability.

He freezes, eyes wide. “No! What? No, why would you think that?”

Rahama’s mind races back to his first day at the company, how he eyed her like she was some contagion. The way he dodged her, avoided even brushing fingers.

Now, dating him feels like living with a stranger - someone who treats her like a delicate artifact rather than a partner.

She forces a weak smile. “It’s fine. I’m joking.”

Too soon to fight, she tells herself. She’ll wait, watch, understand.

Omotayo nods, grips the steering wheel. But her words linger, no joke there. He can’t even reach out to comfort her, can’t cross the invisible barrier his fears have built.

I have to fix this, he thinks, eyes on the road but heart elsewhere. Maybe a doctor, maybe a miracle…anything.

For Rahama, for this fragile, confusing thing between them, he’ll find a way. No matter what it takes.

He’ll find a breakthrough…

He has to.

“Sir, I’ve drafted Rahama’s contract termination letter,” Peter says, holding his tablet like it’s a bomb about to detonate. He’s standing at a respectful distance, as always.

Omotayo looks up from his laptop, brows pinched. “Wait—what? Why are we terminating Rahama?”

Peter tries to hold back a smirk. “Sir, you said it yourself. A month ago. You called her a—” he scrolls and reads off the screen— “‘walking germ and a biohazard’ and said, and I quote, ‘Go out there and tell her… her services are no longer needed.’”

Omotayo blinks. “That was a month ago, Peter.”

“Yes sir, I remember. And I also remember saying we should wait till after her trial period. Well…” Peter flashes the screen. “Her one-month probation ends in two days.”

There’s a pause.

Omotayo narrows his eyes. “Are you for me or against me?”

Peter blinks innocently. “I don’t follow, sir.”

Omotayo shuts his laptop with force.

“When I was trying to avoid Rahama, you were dragging your feet. Now I want her here, and you’re slapping me with a termination letter?”

Peter shrugs. “I was just—”

“Don’t you know I’m in a relationship with Rahama?” Omotayo says, frustrated.

“Why would you bring a termination letter for the woman I’m trying to keep in my life?”

Peter raises a brow. “Oh. My bad, sir. I just thought I’d remind you. You did ask if her feet were glued to the company floor. You also said her presence gives you—”

“Get out.” Omotayo’s voice cuts through the room.

“Yes sir,” Peter says, grinning to himself as he turns to leave.

He’s not being wicked - he just needed to hold up a mirror. Omotayo’s heart has changed, and that’s all that matters.

Truth is, Peter has always rooted for Rahama. From the moment he saw her flailing in terror, trying to escape the office’s robot vacuum like it was a wild animal, he knew there was something… warm about her. Something everyone else overlooked when Ifunanya tossed insults.

People deserve a chance. Poor or privileged, Hausa or Igbo, clean or learning-to-be.

With the right support, anyone can become better.

Now, standing at the corridor, he stops short. Rahama is there, just a few feet from the door. Her face is stiff, her smile barely holding.

“Rahama?” Peter frowns. “How long have you been standing there?”

Did she hear anything?

“I came to see Mr Savage,” she says, trying to sound normal. The attempt fails.

Peter swallows. She heard everything.

He watches her turn away, heading towards the breakroom, and it hits him like a slap.

He tried to fix something, and only made it worse.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

Rahama lies curled up on the narrow mattress in the shared staff apartment, the thin bedsheet tangled around her feet like it’s trying to hold her together.

So it’s true.

Walking germ.

Biohazard.

She stares at the ceiling and frowns. “What does biohazard even mean?” she mutters to no one.

Oritsejumi stirs in the bed opposite, mumbles something about starch and owho soup in her sleep, then rolls over, snoring lightly.

Rahama exhales sharply through her nose.

Of all the girls in Lagos - cleaner girls, richer girls, girls who carry disinfectant wipes in their purses just for style - why did he choose her?

Why is he dating her?

Or is he not really dating her?

Her chest tightens.

Even Dawuda used to mock her hygiene back in Somolu, but this... this is different.

Hearing those words - walking germ - from Peter, it cut deep. And worse, it confirmed every fear she’d been trying to laugh off.

She turns on her side, face buried in her pillow.

This isn’t going to work. It can’t.

What’s she doing clinging to a man who can’t hold her hands? Who wipes chairs before sitting and holds the steering like she’s bacteria?

She can’t keep pretending everything’s okay

Tomorrow, she decides.

She’ll tell him it’s over.

She squeezes her eyes shut.

Not because she wants to.

But because she’s tired of feeling like a parasite in a love story that was never meant to include her.

New Chapters every Thursday and Friday 🤍

Read the previous chapter here

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Omotayo glances sideways - just a split second from the road to her.

“I was scared, Rahama,” he says quietly, his nose mask still intact. “You weren’t picking up. No updates...I thought something bad had happened.”

Rahama looks up from her phone, brows raised slightly.

“To think it was a dog that pinned you to a water tank…” He laughs under his breath, a nervous kind of chuckle.

“I know I probably sounded like a clown when I said I like you earlier this week. That’s why you laughed then, right?”

Her fingers pause mid-scroll. “Wait, Mr Savage… are you serious?”

He nods, his hand tightening on the wheel as he merges onto another lane. “Do I look unserious?” He throws her a half-smile.

“I guess I’m rusty. I haven’t asked anyone out in a while. Maybe I’m outdated.”

Rahama smiles, finally. “If anyone’s outdated here, it’s me. Mr Savage.”

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “You’re not outdated.”

She looks down, cheeks pinking slightly.

He glances again, softer this time. “And please, don’t drop your phone next time. You have no idea how scared I was.”

“Yes, sir,” she says with a smile, fingers fiddling with the hem of her top.

“Tayo,” he corrects, eyes still on the road.

“Sir?” she asks, puzzled.

He risks another glance, this time holding it a bit longer. “Call me Tayo. Or Enny, if you like.”

Rahama chuckles and shakes her head. “It’s not right. You’re still my boss, sir. I can’t.”

He sighs, half amused, half disappointed. So she’s still building walls.

Without a word, he lifts his phone from the dash and dials.

Rahama’s phone buzzes on her lap. She blinks at the screen. Incoming call

“That’s me,” he says, nodding at her phone. “Save the number. Please.”

There’s no playfulness in his voice now. Just quiet insistence.

Like someone who’s tired of pretending he doesn’t care more than he should.

She saves it.

As the phone slips back into her bag, so do her thoughts.

Is this real? Not a prank? Not one of those heartbreak setups that start like a fairytale?

He’d opened his car door for her. Told Tobechukwu to take the company car.

He asked her to sit in his car, something she has never seen Mr Savage do. Now he’s driving across the city to Somolu because she said she missed her family and was going home.

And he’d insisted. Even when she offered to get an Uber.

Even now, the soft Google Maps voice cuts through her thoughts.

“Turn left in 200 meters…”

“I could try dating you,” Rahama says softly as if the words slipped out before she could stop them.

Omotayo slams the brakes.

The car jerks slightly, and Rahama gasps, bracing the dashboard.

“Sorry—wait, what?” He turns to her fully, seatbelt locking against his chest. His eyes search hers like he’s not sure he heard right.

Rahama’s fingers twist in her lap, dusty and chipped from work. “I said I would date you.”

Omotayo just stares; like someone trying to process a miracle he didn’t think he deserved.

Then he smiles.

And then… he groans.

He places both hands on his forehead, leaning into the steering wheel like the weight of the moment might just knock him out. His eyes squeeze shut.

Rahama blinks. “Did I… say it wrong?”

“No,” he says quickly, still not looking at her. “You said it perfectly.”

He lifts his head again, the smile back, even bigger now.

“Oh my God. Rahama. Thank you.” His voice cracks—just a little. “I love you.”

She giggles, biting her lower lip like a child with a secret.

She’s never seen him this undone.

Mr. Perfect. Mr. Sanitizer. Mr. Can’t-Stand-a-Speck. Now looking like someone who could actually cry just because she said yes.

She looks down at her hands. Dusty. Faint streaks of grime under her nails from climbing down that water tank earlier.

So maybe that’s why he’s still sitting there like a statue.

A small part of her wants him to hold her hand, or at least try. Isn’t that what people do when they finally agree to be something more?

But instead, Omotayo stays rooted to his seat, breathing slowly, like he’s trying to calm a storm inside him.

And she understands. Even if it stings a little.

“I love you too,” she says shyly.

Omotayo looks at her, eyes soft. Lit.

“I love your voice,” he murmurs. “And your eyes. And how you hold your mop like it’s a weapon.” He grins. “I love everything about you, Rahama.”

She presses her lips together, glowing from the inside.

Her heart is bouncing all over the car seat.

Dawuda and Maria are not going to believe this. She now has a boyfriend now. Mr. Savage. Didn’t Dawuda swore she won’t get a man?

Let him hear this news and choke on it.

Omotayo finally shifts back to the wheel, pulling into the road gently.

Rahama watches him.

Too perfect. Shirt crisp. Hands gloved. Face masked. Dashboard spotless. Air smelling faintly of lavender and leather.

And for a moment, she wonders—does she fit in here?

She glances at her hands again. Dust still lingers in the creases of her knuckles.

He didn’t even try to touch her. Not a finger. Not a pinky graze.

And maybe it shouldn’t matter. Maybe it’s too soon. But still… a part of her feels like she’s standing at the edge of a very shiny world, wondering if she’ll be let in completely or always kept at a distance.

She sighs quietly and looks out the window.

She won’t ruin this. Not now. Not when her stomach still has butterflies. Not when she finally hears her name in his voice like a love song.

Later. She’ll think about it later.

For now, she lets herself smile.

As soon as Rahama waves goodbye, her family rush out.

Maria is the first out - hands planted firmly on her lower back, belly pushing forward like she’s leading a protest. Hafsat follows, wrapper flapping behind her, and then Dawuda, arms crossed, face twisted in suspicion.

From the next compound, neighbors peek through torn curtains and half-open doors, their curiosity louder than the murmuring chickens beneath the fruit tree.

“Who owns that car?” Dawuda asks, pointing like the Lexus ES just committed a crime.

Rahama grins and then blushes. “Mr Savage.”

Everyone freezes.

“You mean your boss brought you home in that?” Maria’s brows shoot up so high, they almost touch her hairline.

“Yes,” Rahama says, smiling like she just won a lottery. “Didn’t anyone miss me? I missed you all!”

She moves in for a hug, but Hafsat side-steps it like a soldier dodging a bullet.

“Wait first,” Hafsat says, eyes narrowing. “Me kike nufi da eh? Are you sleeping with your boss now? Is that what you went to Island to do?”

Rahama gasps. “Mama! Ah ah! Yesu ya hana! No! We just started dating, that’s all.”

Maria’s mouth drops. “Ahh? As how?” Her voice echoes down the street.

“You’re dating the man with that fine car?” she continues. “That car that doesn’t even have one scratch? Not even one?”

Rahama lifts her chin. “Yes.”

Hafsat’s mouth opens again, but this time she grabs Rahama by the wrist and pulls her inside.

Maria follows quickly, lowering herself into the worn-out chair like it’s front row at a theatre.

Dawuda leans against the rusted window frame, arms crossed, saying nothing but listening hard.

“Explain,” Hafsat commands. “What do you mean by just started dating? You’re dating one of those Lagos boys? Has he touched you already? Me ke faruwa?”

Rahama laughs softly. “Calm down, Mama. He hasn’t even touched my hand. Not once. There was just a small situation at a cleaning site, and he came to help me. He said he’d bring me home, and he did. That’s all. We just started dating this evening.”

Maria claps once. “So why didn’t he come down to greet your family, ehn? Hope he’s not into ritual things. You know these rich ones.”

Rahama’s smile falters a bit.

Truth is, she’d suggested he come down to greet her family - and he hesitated. Just like that. But she didn’t push. Not when he looked that nervous just parking the car.

She skips the first question.

“A’a!, Maria,” she says instead. “His parents are rich. He’s rich, too. Why would he need to do rituals? Even me, just three weeks at his company, I’ve saved forty thousand already. And I haven’t even collected salary—just tips and extra pay for overtime.”

Maria’s eyes widen.

Hafsat nods slowly, still digesting the forty-thousand-naira bomb Rahama just dropped.

But Dawuda isn’t letting it go.

“Wait,” he says, squinting at her like she’s trying to pull a fast one. “Didn’t you say the guy is very neat and that the both of you weren’t even close like that?”

Rahama chuckles. “We weren’t oh. But we’re close now. We’re dating now.”

She beams. “It’s because I didn’t come home last weekend to gist you. He brought food for me... and gave me Crocs.” Her eyes sparkle like she’s reliving the moment.

Dawuda blinks. “So, wait, food and footwear... that’s what he brought you with?”

Maria doesn’t miss a beat. “Yaya Rahama,” she says, placing a dramatic hand on her chest. “So because of food and shoe now, you jumped and dated your boss?”

Rahama throws her a look but can’t stop the smile tugging at her lips. “Haba! leave me, Maria.”

Hafsat raises a hand, silencing the room with the authority only a northern mother can carry.

“No problem, Rahama,” she says calmly in hausa. “Next weekend, he must come and introduce himself.”

Laughter bursts out, Maria snorts, and even Dawuda cracks a grin.

But Hafsat doesn’t laugh.

“I mean it,” she says, face stone serious. “By the time his hands start moving faster than his brain, at least you’ll already be his wife.”

Maria wheezes, fanning herself with the edge of her wrapper. “Kai, Mama!”

Hafsat ignores her.

“We are Hausa, Rahama. We don’t believe in this casual or never-ending dating. If he’s serious, he’ll bring his people and do the right thing. If not, you will end it and not go back there again.”

The room quiets. Even the wind outside seems to pause.

Rahama lowers her gaze, nodding slowly. “I understand, Mama.”

“I’m not saying he must throw money everywhere,” Hafsat continues in hausa, gentler now.

“I don’t care about his money. I care about commitment. Let him come. Let him show he’s serious. It’s not too much to ask.”

Rahama nods again, firmer this time.

She hears her mother’s warning, but in her heart, she’s sure.

Mr Savage may not touch dusty hands, but she’s seen the way he looks at her. Like she’s gold.

He’ll come.

She just has to talk to him.

He’ll say yes.

Share

Omotayo steps out of the bathroom, already dressed in a casual white roundneck and short, skin still damp despite the fourth scrub. Steam clings to him as he exhales. His gaze drifts to the window, to the car waiting outside.

Contaminated.

He doesn’t sit.
Doesn’t hesitate.

He heads straight for the utility cabinet, movements sharp, purposeful.

Mask - on.
Gloves - snapped tight.
Rubber boots - pulled up.

Disinfectant spray. Wipes. Microfiber cloths. Sterilized sponges.

All accounted for.

He retrieves the key from the porch and steps outside as though crossing into restricted ground.

The car gleams under the moonlight. Polished. Quiet. Almost innocent.

Almost.

Because she sat there.
Her fingers curled around the handle.
Her breath filled the space.

He starts at the driver’s side, working with rigid precision. Handle. Window button. Seatbelt latch. Spray. Wipe. Again. And again. Each motion exact, practiced, like he’s erasing evidence.

Then he reaches the passenger door.

Her side.

His pace slows.

“I would date you…”

Her voice slips back into him, soft and reckless. His hand hovers over the seatbelt she’d buckled herself into.

He presses his lips together, eyes closing for half a second too long.

Sitting beside her had taken everything in him. His body had gone still, alert. His heart, traitorous, had leaned in. He’d forced his thoughts elsewhere, anywhere, clinging to feelings instead of proximity, meaning instead of space.

She wanted him to meet her parents.
Just step out.
Smile.
Say hello.

But the second he pulled up and saw the litter-strewn street, the algae-colored puddle right beside the car, and the way the air practically stuck to his skin?

His chest locked.

He stayed seated.
Hands on the wheel.
Breath shallow.

He couldn’t step out. Couldn’t make his body move.

Omotayo dunks the sponge in the disinfectant bucket and scrubs the car door as if the metal itself has offended him.

“How do people live like that?” he mutters.

He pauses, jaw tightening, sponge clenched in his fist.

“And why,” he adds quietly, “does my heart beat for someone who does?”

He doesn’t have an answer. He only knows that it does.

And that no matter how much he tries to rationalize it, her laughter still replays in his head like a favorite song.

She makes him feel something beyond his clinical, controlled world. That scares him. And excites him.

He starts on the tyres, scrubbing like they insulted his bloodline. Even the water from car washes isn’t trustworthy. Only his own tools. His own hands.

When he’s finally done, he opens all the doors to air the car out. He stands back, arms crossed, mask off now.

He smiles.

He’s already counting down the days till he sees her again.

He should get her a gift.

A necklace? A pair of earrings? A bracelet? Something beautiful.

He pulls out his phone and types fast.

Lola:
Hey Lola. I need help picking a gift for my girl. Something that says “I like you”

He grins as he hits send, knowing Lola will call in the next minute.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

“Good morning, everyone,” Rahama chirps, her smile practically bright enough to power the whole office on this early Monday.

Her phone buzzed all weekend—Mr. Savage calling whenever he could. They talked through the nights and all day.

Mngohol clears her throat behind her, a suspicious edge in her voice.
“Good morning, Rahama.”

“Good morning, Rahama,” Racheal adds, eyes flickering.

Tobechukwu flashes a weird smile from his desk, one that reads “I know something.”

Rahama feels it; the air shifts. Like everyone’s suddenly looking through her, as if the secret’s already out.

Ifunanya strolls up, her smile fragile, almost forced.
“Good morning, Rahama.”

Rahama meets her eyes, steady. “Good morning, Ifunanya.”

Then, almost too casually:

“Can we talk after morning prayer?” Ifunanya’s voice is half-serious, half-warning.

Rahama nods, lips tight. No one officially knows, but is Ifunanya already piecing it together?

Suddenly, Samuel bursts in, breathing heavily.

“Mr Savage is coming!”

And just like that, the room flips - chairs scrape back, desks get wiped again, sleeves pulled down, hair adjusted. Even the already-scrubbed floor looks like it’s about to get a second chance at cleanliness.

But Ifunanya? She doesn’t bother with the mirror this time. What’s the point?

Her supposedly perfect man falls for the least hygienic girl in the company. She can stew on that.

Suddenly, the door swings open, and in walks Omotayo Enioluwa Savage, practically sanitized from head to toe. The staff circle around him, eyes wide as saucers.

“Hello everyone, how are we all doing?” His voice is warm, smooth, like he just stepped out of a commercial for cleanliness.

“Good morning, sir,” comes the chorus, including a blushing Rahama, cheeks blooming red.

His eyes scan the room until they land on her.

Rahama’s hair is neat now - no wild bun struggling for freedom - just tight cornrows pulled back, forehead proudly on display and her body well mosturized.

Omotayo’s breath catches, almost forgetting to blink.

He stares longer than intended.

Everyone else follows his gaze, and the room hushes. It’s all for Rahama.

Shocked faces mingle with knowing smirks. Some had suspected; others are downright stunned.

“Let’s pray,” Adeyemi says, breaking the silence.

Omotayo bows his head, and the room falls into quiet reverence.

Prayer ends. Omotayo steps toward Rahama, eyes soft but sure.

“Rahama, let’s go to my office,” he says low, that smile curling up the corners of his mouth.

The office buzz shifts instantly; tiny whispers, knowing glances. Ifunanya’s jaw tightens, eyes flashing fire.

Rahama flushes pink. “I’ll come meet you later,” she murmurs, trying to sound casual.

“No, babe. Let’s go together,” Omotayo insists, turning away but throwing a glance over his shoulder.

Rahama trails behind, shutting her eyes like that’ll drown out the office buzz trailing behind her like a storm cloud of gossip.

At the door, Omotayo gestures, “You first.” Polite. Gentle.

She slips inside, and he follows behind, keeping a short distance.

“Please, sit down,” he offers, gesturing to a guest chair. Rahama lowers herself carefully, feeling every pair of eyes on her from the hallway.

“You really shouldn’t say things like that in front of everyone,” she mutters as Omotayo pulls out disinfectant wipes and delicately cleans his chair and desk, all while grinning like he owns her heart.

“You are mine. It’s only logical everyone should know,” he replies, smooth as honey.

Rahama’s cheeks flame. Nigerian men and their sweet-coated words.

“How are you?” he asks, sitting opposite her, eyes crinkling with warmth. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you all weekend.”

Her heart does that embarrassing little flutter.

“I’m fine. I couldn’t stop thinking about you either,” she replies shyly.

He smiles wider, then slides a small velvet box across the desk like a magician revealing the final trick.

“For you,” he says gently pushing it towards her.

Rahama stares—then the box—then him—then the box again. Fingers trembling, she opens it.

Inside: a delicate sterling silver necklace with a tiny diamond shaped like a square. It catches the light and sparkles like a secret promise.

“This is too much,” she whispers, closing the box carefully.

He leans back, all charm. “Get used to it. I love pampering my woman.”

“And,” he adds, voice dropping just a notch, “from now on, all your meals here come from me. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, I’ve got you.”

Rahama’s heart does a triple somersault.

Who called Yoruba men demons? More like sugar-coated angels.

And how is it possible that Omotayo makes her heart race with just a few words?

She wants to argue, to push back - Yoruba men aren’t her type, she’d said.

But sitting here, with that smile lighting up the room, she’s starting to think Omotayo might be exactly her cup of tea.

“I should go. I have an on-site job by 10,” Rahama says, gently picking up the velvet box.

Omotayo nods, eyes warm. “Maybe I should tell Adeyemi to give you more free time.”

Rahama smiles, dipping her head in a quiet bow before slipping out of the office.

Wait—how did she forget to mention her mom wants to see Mr Savage? She grins to herself. Later. Definitely later.

As she steps toward the stairs, a sharp voice cuts through the air.

“Mrs Rahama Savage!” Oritsejumi calls, loud enough for half the office to hear.

Instantly, a cluster of curious faces surrounds her, buzzing like bees.

Rahama closes her eyes. Dating your boss? Yeah, this is the price.

“So you’re bad like this, Rahama?” Ifunanya saunters up, a sly smirk tugging at her lips.

Mngohol leans in, nodding knowingly.

“I’ve known for two weeks, don’t act surprised.”

“Mr Savage gave her crocs two weeks ago,” Mngohol adds with a cheeky grin.

“No wonder Mr Savage almost bit my head off when his ‘babe’ bumped her head last week,” Adeyemi jokes, flashing a playful smile.

Rahama looks around at the circle of teasing faces, her smile thinning just a bit.

“I don’t know about two weeks... we just started dating last Friday,” she murmurs, voice low.

Ifunanya lets out a sharp hiss and stalks away, arms crossed like a storm cloud.

Racheal steps forward, wrapping Rahama in a warm hug.

“Congratulations, girl! I don’t know what your relationship with Mr Savage will be, but I’m rooting for you.”

The others join in—laughing, hugging, teasing their new “boss lady.”

Rahama’s cheeks warm, but the grin stretching across her face is real.

After the playful storm settles, she heads upstairs, ready to tackle her day on-site.

New chapters every Thursday and Friday 🤍

Read the previous chapter here

CHAPTER TEN

The sizzling of onions in hot palm oil fills the kitchen with a sharp, smoky aroma. Omotayo stands over the gas cooker, stirring absently, a single glove on his right hand.

His brows are drawn together, not from the steam, but from the thoughts chasing each other in his head.

I should’ve just asked if she was okay.

He stirs again, too slowly.

Instead, he got frustrated. She got hurt, and he got angry.

Didn’t reach out. Didn’t even offer a proper word of comfort. Just anger in disguise.

He wasn’t angry that she got injured. He was angry that he couldn’t fix it.

Angry at the way fear crept into his chest at the thought of getting close. Angry at himself for wanting to hold her and knowing his body wouldn’t let him.

His eyes drop to the glove. This stupid glove.

How does a man want a relationship with someone he’s scared to even touch?

The thought of Rahama flashes across his mind; her head swollen. He hates that she’s in pain. Hates it even more that he’s helpless and useless.

What kind of boyfriend would I even be?

No hugs. No casual touch. No brushing of the shoulder or holding hands at the cinema. No cooking together. Not even that.

He adds the half-blended pepper to the onions, and the stew hisses loudly. He doesn’t flinch.

It’s one thing to fall in love. It’s another to know you may never feel it.

He sighs and lowers the heat.

His phone rings.

He doesn’t check the caller ID. He already knows. Only one person FaceTimes him without notice.

Lola.

He pulls off the glove with his teeth, wipes his hand on a towel, and props the phone against a row of spice bottles.

“Lola,” he mutters, switching his gaze between the screen and the bubbling pot. “What’s up with you?”

Lola’s face brightens the screen. “Happy Sunday, we just got back from church. Why don’t you ever call someone, ehn? If I don’t call, then it’s silence.”

He exhales dramatically. “But you called. Isn’t that the important part?”

She squints at him. “That’s not the point.”

He chuckles, shaking his head as he sprinkles seasoning into the stew. “I’ve been swamped. We had a big project. I even went to the office yesterday.”

“Ah! CEO of Luxetouch Cleaning Services,” she teases. “You’re balling now, oh. All these contracts, soon you’ll buy a beachfront property.”

He grins, brighter this time. “Are you calling to tease me? I don’t even know who to avoid right now; Dad, who outrightly calls me useless, or you, teasing me about how rich I am with my cleaning company.”

Lola props her phone against a bottle of nail polish and starts painting her thumb with all the concentration of a woman who just cornered juicy gist.

“So, what’s the girl’s name, Enny?” she asks casually, eyes not leaving her hand.

Tayo freezes mid-stir. “What girl?”

Lola lifts her head slowly, giving him the kind of look that says, You can lie to yourself, but not to me.

“You’ve changed, bro. You smile more. You joke more. That combo only means one thing; love is pinching you.”

Tayo snorts, rinses the new pot under the tap, and mutters, “It’s… sort of complicated.”

“So there is a girl,” Lola announces like she’s just solved a crime. “And here I was thinking you’d marry your hand sanitizer.”

Tayo chuckles, eyes flicking back to the burner. “I liked being alone. Until she came… along.”

Lola raises a brow, playful. “Awwnn!, Look at my brother turning into Shakespeare. So what’s she like? Or let me guess; clean, classy, subtle perfume, minimal jewellery...”

Tayo laughs, full and unexpected, like it surprised even him.

“She’s the opposite of all that. She’s…” he looks off, like he’s picturing her, “…a complete pain. Messy, confusing. Definitely not the kind of girl you’d pair me with.”

Lola leans closer to the camera. “She’s Hausa, isn’t she?”

Tayo freezes mid-pour, glances back at the screen. “Do you read minds now?”

“Nope,” she shrugs with a proud smirk. “You asked me about Hausa girls a week ago, remember? Out of nowhere. That’s when I knew something was either wrong or about to get wonderfully right.”

He smiles faintly, returning to the stew, then says,

“Her name is Rahama, she’s beautiful, Lola. Like… really beautiful. Full eyebrows, they deserve a museum. Hairy, like seriously hairy. And her eyes - she doesn’t even need to talk. Her eyes carry whole monologues. It was the eyes that got me”

Lola leans closer to the screen, already melting. “Oya, tell me everything. Where did you meet her? What does she do? Who’s her daddy?”

Tayo snorts. “She’s one of my new staff. And that’s part of the problem. I know next to nothing about her background. But I know she’s… messy.”

Lola tilts her head. “Messy how?”

Tayo glances at the stew like it holds the courage to speak the truth for him.

“She’s not neat. I mean, really not neat. Her clothes are faded, her slipper is a survivor of the Civil War, and her hair -” he shudders playfully, “ - is a whole ecosystem on its own.”

“Oh, please. You say that about everyone, you even said the Senator’s daughter was unhygienic because she wore acrylic nails.” Lola replies.

Omotayo laughs so hard he nearly drops the spoon, and Lola freezes, wide-eyed.

“Wait, is that a laugh? Enioluwa Omotayo Savage just laughed like a human being!”

He leans on the counter, still chuckling. “Honestly? I take it all back. Those girls were angels. Compared to Rahama? They were sterile hospital rooms.”

Lola bursts out laughing. “So it’s that bad?”

He nods as he stirs the pot again, adding the shrimp, roasted fish, and meat. A wistful smile tugs at his lips. “And yet… I love her. I think that’s the worst part.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m allergic to the very thing she doesn’t even try to hide. I nearly passed out the first time I saw her in my office. Her hair was all over the place, her skin looked like she hadn’t met Vaseline in months, and her gown had… patterns that didn’t come from a factory.”

He shakes his head, but there’s something almost tender in his voice.

“And still, she’s the only one I can’t stop thinking about. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. I fell for her eyes the moment I saw her... and got deceived.”

Lola finally stops laughing, her face sobering into something softer. “Sounds like love chose you this time, how do you plan to cope, Enny?”

Tayo exhales slowly, pouring rinsed beans into the boiling pot. The water sizzles in response.

“Yeah. And I don’t even know if I’m strong enough to hold it. I think about her all the time, but… I can’t reach out.”

“Why not?”

He turns, brow drawn. “Because it feels like craving puff-puff when you’re gluten intolerant. She’s no good for me. But my brain? My body? My heart? They’ve all resigned.”

Lola tilts her head, already scheming. “What if I pick her up next Saturday?”

Tayo narrows his eyes. “To do what?”

Lola rolls her eyes.

“A spa day. Full makeover. New wardrobe. Something light.”

Tayo stares at the phone, stirring his pot. “Don’t you always have fully scheduled Saturdays?”

Lola flips her hair dramatically. “I make time for transformation, thank you. Besides, she needs some sister-to-sister polishing. I’ll even be nice.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Nice? That’s rich. And I haven’t even asked her out yet. I don’t think she’d feel comfortable following a random woman.”

Lola grins. “So you’re scared to even ask her out?”

Tayo pauses, spoon hovering mid-air.

“I’m not scared to ask her out,” he says slowly, “I’m scared I won’t survive the relationship.”

The honesty hits the air between them like a dropped pin.

Lola watches him for a beat, her voice quiet now. “One step at a time, Enny. If it’s right… don’t overthink it. Just start.”

Tayo nods faintly, staring at the boiling pot but seeing something else. Someone else.

He hadn’t had a panic attack.

There’d been anxiety, yes. Distress, too…especially when he tried to protect her.

But nothing close to a full panic attack.

Not even when her hair brushed him under the desk. That had to count for something.

“Okay,” he finally says. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow. But she has to agree to go out with you. I don’t want her feeling cornered.”

“Deal.” Lola winks. “Though I’m charming, so I’m not worried.”

Tayo smiles and starts cleaning the counter.

“Oh, and call Mom,” Lola adds. “She said you’re behaving like a stranger.”

Tayo groans. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”

Lola giggles. “Good. Now go and finish cooking whatever it is you’re burning.”

They both laugh, and the call ends.

Tayo stands in the quiet of his kitchen, phone screen now dark. The smell of fried stew sauce and boiling beans lingers in the air.

For a moment, he doesn’t move - just stares out the window, thinking about Rahama. Her sweet voice. Her chaos.

Maybe Lola is right.

This is what he’s always wanted. A chance at something real. Someone to build awkward beginnings with.

Someone to love; flaws, frizz, faded clothes and all.

Share

The Monday prayer ends with murmured amens, and as staff begin to shuffle back to their desks, Omotayo does something no one expects.

He walks toward Rahama.

Heads turn. Ifunanya’s brows nearly fly off her face.

“Rahama,” Tayo says, voice calm but direct. “Can I see you in my office, please?”

Rahama lowers her eyes, biting back the heat still simmering in her chest. “Yes, sir.”

He nods once and walks away, not waiting to see if she follows.

The moment Mr Savage is out of sight, Ifunanya practically teleports to Rahama’s side.

“Rahama, biko, what’s going on between you and Nwoke m (My man)?”

Rahama shrugs, trying not to roll her eyes. “Maybe he needs help with something.”

“If it’s help, why’s he talking like a man calling his wife into his office?”
Ifunanya fans herself with her palm. “Omo, you people should not kill me in this office.”

“Maybe he wants to apologize,” Adeyemi pipes in, sipping from a steaming cup of green tea. “He shouted at both of us last Saturday. Remember? Called us incompetent. Maybe the guilt’s finally eating his conscience.”

Everyone nods. That tracks.

Rahama doesn’t reply. She turns and walks toward his office, expression unreadable, heart not as calm as she pretends.

She knocks lightly. “Good morning, sir.”

He stands up.

She freezes.

Then he pulls out a chair - the one right in front of him - and gestures for her to sit.

Her brows draw together. That seat? The sacred seat no one dares sit on?

“I’m fine standing,” she says, arms folded.

“I insist, Rahama. Please.”

She stares at him a second longer, then exhales like he’s asking her to take a bullet. She sits, arms still folded, tension evident.

Tayo sits across from her, leans forward slightly. “I’m sorry about last Saturday. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”

She nods, slowly. “I’m fine.”

He watches her for a moment. Then, without a word, he reaches beside him and pushes a white nylon bag across the table. “I got you something. Medication. And food.”

Rahama blinks, confused. She’d seen the nylon in his hand when he walked in. She’d assumed it was for himself - of course it was. Why would it be for her?

“I’m okay, sir,” she says, sitting a little straighter. She’s not about to fall into one of his confusing mood swings again.

“I’d like to take you out. On a date,” he says suddenly.

Rahama stares at him.

A date? From Mr Savage?

She lets out a short, startled laugh. If he’d said he bathed in gutter water last night, it would’ve sounded more believable.

“Sir… It’s me you’re talking to, oh. Rahama,” she says slowly, like maybe he’s mixed her up with someone else.

Each week, this man reveals a new personality like it’s part of a slow-release medication.

Week one? Cold shoulder and silent prayers for her resignation.

Week two? Awkward generosity with a side of suspicion.

Week three? Date proposal over paracetamol and breakfast?

She shakes her head slightly.

This is Lagos. Where men are either deceitful or dangerously unserious.

Or both.

“I know, Rahama. And I like you,” Omotayo blurts out, voice low but steady.

Rahama freezes mid-blink.

Did she just hear wrong? Or is Mr Savage suddenly auditioning for a telenovela?

How? Why? Different worlds: different tribe, different language, different everything.

Then it hits her.

TikTok challenge. A prank. Just like the ones Dawuda always talks about. Mr Savage is testing her, seeing if she’s interested.

She can’t help the smile tugging at her lips. Everyone’s on TikTok these days, doing funny and weird things.

“Sir, I know this is a prank. But I’m not interested.” Rahama says, proud as ever.

Thank God for Dawuda and his TikTok tutorials. Without that, she might have fallen for the whole thing.

Omotayo stares at her, stunned.

How did it get to this point?

Why does she think asking her out is a joke? Did he somehow give off a clown vibe?

He always thought mysophobia was the weirdest thing about himself. Now, it’s falling for Rahama.

“I’m serious. I want a relationship with you. I think about you all the time. My heart beats for you.”

Ba abin da ba za a gani ba. (There’s nothing one won’t see.) Rahama’s thought bubbles into a quiet laugh.

“Are my words funny?” Omotayo asks, eyes searching hers.

“No, sir. But even if you’re serious… I’m not interested.” Rahama replies, steady and clear.

Omotayo’s chest tightens.

“Why?”

Because you’re unstable. Too proud. Always with a sanitizer and a nose mask…always way too clean.

“Because I don’t like you, sir.”

He nods slowly, swallowing the sting. No forcing feelings here; that’s a workplace nightmare waiting to happen.

“It’s fine,” he says, voice steady but gentle. “But I like you. And if you ever feel the same, I’ll be here. Waiting.”

Rahama nods, stands up.

“Oh, and take this,” he adds, holding out the bag of food and medicine, arm extended, careful not to make contact.

She hesitates, like she wants to refuse, but then takes it anyway.

“Thank you, sir,” she says, turning to leave.

Omotayo exhales, alone in the quiet office.
It’s going to be harder than he thought.

But if he can live without touching germs, maybe he can survive this too.

And why is she laughing?

He smiles softly. Mysophobia is one thing.

Falling for Rahama? That’s a whole new kind of wild.

The week zips by. Rahama’s buried in work. Omotayo’s buried in... Rahama.

From his office window, he watches her like a man waiting for rain in dry season: hopeful, hungry, almost convinced it’ll fall.

She doesn’t return. Not her words. Not her feelings. Not even a glance that says “maybe.”

Still, he waits.

Every on-site report lands on his desk with her name circled in his mind. He assigns Adeyemi to babysit her on the big gigs, not that he says that out loud.

“She’s promising,” he tells himself. “And promising people need guidance.”

Guidance... and constant personal tracking, apparently.

Lola calls midweek and gasps dramatically over the phone.

“She said no? As in capital N and O?”

“Yes,” he mutters.

“She laughed?”

“Twice.”

Lola wheezes. “This is gold. Can I call her? Just to understand what’s going on?”

But Omotayo refuses.

He should totally respect her decision.

Rahama’s performance gets sharper. Her confidence steadier. She’s growing, and he knows deep down, whether she’s sunshine or a sandstorm, he wants Rahama around. No reason. Just her.

It’s 4:11 pm.

She’s still not back from an on-site job. A basic house cleaning with Tobechukwu that should’ve taken, what, three hours max?

His eyes dart to the clock again.

Four. Twelve.

He checks his phone. Rahama’s number…again. Not reachable.
Tobechukwu? Switched off.

No one switches off their phone. Not without something being wrong.

He paces. Once. Twice. Five times. His chest tightens. Not from germs. From worry.

He grabs the intercom and dials fast. “Peter?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need you to track Rahama and Tobechukwu’s location using the smartwatches they’re wearing.”

A pause. Then the sound of a keyboard tapping on Peter’s end.

“Sir?” Peter’s voice edges in, hesitant. “Is everything alright?”

Omotayo doesn’t even realize how fast he’s breathing. Or that he’s clutching his car key like it’s the only thing tethering him to sanity.

“Just send the address to my WhatsApp. Please.”

“Yes, sir,” Peter says and hangs up.

Omotayo doesn’t wait for the message to land. He grabs his gloves, hand sanitizer, and face mask and is already out the door.

Rahama better be fine. She has to be.

Because if something’s happened…

No. He won’t think about that.

Not today. Not ever.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

Omotayo grips the steering wheel tighter than necessary, eyes darting between the traffic ahead and his phone on the passenger seat. Still no service. Still no word from Rahama.

4:34 pm.

He’s not the dramatic type. But his gut’s in a knot. It’s just a basic residential cleaning gig. She should’ve been back hours ago.

His phone buzzes. A WhatsApp message from Peter:

“Mr Bello’s address: 13B Rockview Estate, Lekki Phase I”

Omotayo taps the message to open Google Maps and presses harder on the accelerator.

Ten minutes later, his car screeches to a stop in front of a modern duplex. The gate stands slightly ajar: tilted, like it’s confused. He frowns.

Something isn’t right.

He pulls on his gloves, fixes his nose mask, and grabs disinfectant wipes from the car. He steps out, locks the door almost as an afterthought, then pushes through the gate.

Then freezes.

There, right in the middle of the compound, is Rahama… perched on top of a large black water tank, her cap barely hanging onto her head, hair frizzed like she fought with wind. One sneaker dangles from her foot. And in her hands? A mop. Gripped like a battle spear.

Below her, a massive German Shepherd patrols the base of the tank with the satisfaction of a dog who’s found a new chew toy—in human form.

Its tail wagging dangerously, not friendly wagging. More I’m-having-fun-keeping-you-there wagging.

Omotayo blinks twice. Did he enter a movie set?

“Rahama?” His voice comes out cautious, confused.

She whips around, her eyes wide. “Mr Savage?! Why are you here?!”

He stares at her, stunned. “I should ask you the same thing! Why are you… on a water tank?!”

“That beast chased us from the sitting room!” she yells, jabbing her mop toward the dog like she’s fencing.

Omotayo’s gaze sweeps the scene. There’s a single sneaker by the gate, a bottle of disinfectant rolling near a car tyre, and—wait—is that Tobechukwu?

Tobechukwu sits miserably on the veranda steps, cradling his ankle like he’s waiting for last rites.

“What happened?” Omotayo asks, slowly losing the ability to process any of this.

Rahama sighs like she’s been through war. “Mr Bello said his dog is friendly. He lied.”

“Rahama kicked the mop bucket,” Tobechukwu calls weakly.

“The dog thought it was a toy. It chased us like we owed it rent. I twisted my ankle. She climbed the tank. We’ve been trapped here for two hours!”

Omotayo presses his gloved fingers to his temple. “And you didn’t think to call?”

“Sir, my phone fell when the dog jumped,” Rahama says. “You think I was going to come down and pick it?”

There’s a pause. Omotayo looks at her - hair frizzy, dust on her cheek, one eyebrow defiantly arched from atop the tank like some reluctant warrior princess.

Then the laugh escapes him before he can stop it.

A real one. Loud. Unexpected. Beautifully human.

Rahama scowls from her perch. “Sir, it’s not funny!”

“It’s not,” he agrees, hands up. “Truly not. It’s just... you and a mop, facing down a dog from the top of a water tank, is something I didn’t know I needed today.”

She squints. “Sir, you’re enjoying this too much.”

“Just a little.” His smile softens. “But I’m glad you’re okay.”

Their eyes meet accidentally, lingering longer than either planned.

Omotayo clears his throat. “Let me talk to the security man. The dog clearly needs to be caged.”

“Thank you, sir,” Rahama mutters, but her lips twitch too. She’s smiling now, even if she tries to hide it.

From the top of a dusty water tank, hair wild and sneakers askew, she still shines.

And just like that, Omotayo knows it again; clear as sunshine after rain:

He’s in deep.

The heart kind.

The Rahama kind.

Share

Tobechukwu strolls into the reception like someone carrying federal gossip clearance.

He spots Ifunanya packing her handbag and adjusting her wig, clearly ready to clock out.

He leans against the counter with a smirk. “Are you sure Mr Savage and Rahama aren’t dating?”

Ifunanya freezes mid-lip gloss swipe, then hisses like he just insulted her lashes.

“From where to where nau, Tobechukwu? Do you have any sense? If you said she delivers lunch to his real girlfriend, I’d nod. But dating? That one no balance abeg. Say something believable.”

She smacks her lips, satisfied with the shine, then tosses the gloss into her bag like she’s sealing the matter.

Tobechukwu shrugs. “Okay, oh, I’ve said my own. But guess what? Something happened today on-site.”

Ifunanya doesn’t respond, but one eyebrow lifts - just enough to say, I’m listening, continue before I change my mind.

“There was a little drama. Mr Savage showed up out of nowhere. Not a call, nothing. Just appeared. And guess what again, he insisted Rahama follow him back in his car.”

That gets Ifunanya's full attention.

She straightens. “Wait. Wait. Are you serious serious, or is this one of your usual attempts to make Mr Savage look like a Yoruba demon?”

“I wish,” Tobechukwu says, dramatically placing a hand on his chest. “But I saw it with these two eyes God gave me. The man looked really worried.”

Ifunanya’s lips part slightly.

Mr. Savage? Asking someone to sit inside his car? The same car he never shares?

She swallows. “And where are they now?”

Tobechukwu grins wider. “Still not back. Maybe they branched somewhere… you know. Small soft life. Because everyone’s seen the way Oga has been eyeing her lately. No be secret again.”

Ifunanya blinks. Once. Twice. Then freezes like someone’s paused her remote.

Mr Savage calling Rahama into his office every other minute.

That one time, she caught him smiling at her through the blinds. Now this?

It feels real. Too real.

She suddenly gasps.

“Ewoo! My enemies have succeeded! Rahama and Mr Savage? Tufiakwa!” She clutches her chest like she’s auditioning for a Nollywood monologue.

“What does he even see in her? Why are Lagos men like this? Just when you think you’ve positioned yourself…”

Tobechukwu laughs. “You see? Mr Savage has finally… Savaged your feelings.”

“I bu onye nzuzu!” she spits angrily, shooting him a murderous glare before snatching her bag and storming out the door.

Tobechukwu watches her go, still smiling.

Let her get furious, he thinks. Let it all burn beautifully.

Because if Mr Savage ends up with anyone but Ifunanya?

That, to Tobechukwu, is the true victory of love.

Read the previous chapter here

This bonus chapter is for you, . The love you showed me ehn… plus the way you kept track of time 😂, you’re honestly the best. Thank you for waiting till today.

Love you 🥰

CHAPTER NINE

“Rahama, Oritsejumi,” Mr Adeyemi calls out just after morning prayer, still holding his tablet. “Can you both stay back on Saturday? There’s a post-construction cleaning gig—full estate. Big one. We’re short on weekend techs, so we’re calling in some of our weekday stars.”

Rahama adjusts her belt bag and shifts her weight, already dressed in Luxetouch’s white-and-grey uniform, sneakers on, face cap snug. The sharp scent of antiseptic still lingers from the supply room.

Adeyemi adds, “We’ll pay for the extra hours, of course. No pressure if you’re busy, we can always hire part-timers for the weekend.”

Rahama smiles, nodding. “I’m available, Mr Adeyemi.”

Extra cash is always a win, plus she can hit Somolu Saturday evening and be back by Sunday night.

Oritsejumi grins from the side, “Abeg, count me join body!”

Adeyemi beams. “Good, good. When you get back, I’ll give you a quick briefing.”

They bow slightly and head for the waiting company vehicle, Rahama ducking into one side, Oritsejumi hopping in from the other.

“Last weekend job, I swear, I knack thrift jackets for everybody wey dey my compound,” Oritsejumi says as she fastens her seatbelt. “But no be small work oh. We clean like five houses each, five, Rahama! I nearly see my ancestors. My back still vex for me till now.”

“As long as the pay’s good, I’m in. Plus, it’s a new building. Empty spaces don’t hide the dirt like old ones.” Rahama replies, shifting her bag to her lap. “Besides, I’ve been cleaning since I had baby teeth. It’s in the blood.”

“Na so! Me too. Anything wey dey bring money dey my DNA. And you know as e be—Warri no dey carry last!” Oritsejumi strikes an invisible drum on her thigh.

Rahama laughs, the sound light and easy.

She likes this part: the ride, the banter, the way the company feels like a crowded family compound. Each staff member has their own flavour.

Oritsejumi is loud and proud with her “Warri no dey carry last!” chants, always the first to crack a joke.

Peter’s the gentle one who never raises his voice, except with Ifunanya, calm but with quiet authority.

Racheal, calm as a Sunday morning.

Ifunanya? Drama queen deluxe, loud and allergic to silence.

Mngohol, who speaks maybe twice a day.

And then there’s Tobechukwu: Mr I-won’t-give-up-until-you-laugh.

It’s been just over a week, and yet the company is starting to feel oddly like home. Well... almost everyone likes her. Ifunanya still watches her like she’s expecting Rahama to break a chandelier.

How does one company fit all this? she thinks, smiling to herself.

If only the office wasn’t strictly professional, it’d be a sitcom waiting to happen.

She thinks of Mr Savage’s bold move; hiring people from all tribes, all backgrounds. No wonder they call Lagos “no man’s land.” Here, it feels like everyone’s land.

Rahama’s lips twitch into a smile at the thought of Mr Savage.

He is still that archangel she met at his house, the one who probably irons his socks and probably alphabetizes his spice rack.

Tall, broad-shouldered, warm caramel skin that somehow looked like it belonged in a fancy perfume ad.

If he’s an archangel, she decides, he’s definitely Michael.

Not the laid-back Gabriel type.

No, Michael: strict, no-nonsense, and so ridiculously neat it hurts her inside.

How does someone stay that neat? His office looked like a showroom.

He hasn’t scolded her this week, though. Maybe she’s finally blending in. Or maybe he’s waiting for the next mistake. Either way, she’ll stay sharp.

Still… why does her chest feel light every time he passes?

She turns to the window, watching the Lagos traffic blur by.

She’s not supposed to be thinking about men. Not at this point in her life. She needs to hustle, save, and stand on her own two feet.

Then marry a decent Hausa man. Someone stable, simple, who understands her and speaks her language. Honest and kind.

Not like those “Yoruba demons”. Smooth talkers, too cunning, too modern, always chasing something shiny but hollow.

Sure, some Hausa men can be bad eggs, but the Yoruba guys? Too much. Too flashy. Too slick. Plus, most are used to “modern” ladies who wear confidence like a crown.

Yoruba and Igbo people always come in looking like they just stepped out of a fashion magazine. Sometimes, she envies them.

She wishes more Hausa people had that kind of style, that kind of… polish. Maybe one day all tribes would have an equal chance to shine.

“Ladies, we’re here.” Leke, the company driver, calls from the front seat.

They thank him and hop out. Rahama’s thoughts vanish like steam under the sun.

Time to scrub tiles.

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Oritsejumin and Rahama step into the company’s open workspace, still dusted with fatigue from their on-site job.

The scent hits them first: jollof rice, grilled chicken, pastries.

Then the sight at the relaxation area: a crowd gathered around a mountain of food packs from Myfood by Hilda, no less. Easily thirty of them, glistening in branded nylon bags like treasure.

“Ah-ah! Who dey run package for here? Who we dy sing birthday song for?” Oritsejumi asks, dropping her cleaning bag with a dramatic thud on the desk.

“It’s Mr Savage o,” Ifunanya announces like she just broke the internet. “Ihe ịtụnanya agaghị akwụsị! Wonders, they say, shall never end.”

“What?” Rahama blinks.

“To think Mr Savage is capable of being this generous?” Tobechukwu adds, arms crossed like he’s analyzing a crime scene.

Mngohol peeks into one of the nylon bags like it might explode. “I swear, this man is acting suspiciously. Who possessed him with the spirit of hospitality?”

Oritsejumi moves closer with Rahama, eyes wide. “You dey whine me? Na Mr Savage order correct Hilda Baci food… for we? As in, we we?”

“For all of us, o,” Tobechukwu nods. “Food, snacks, even drinks, straight from Hilda Baci. And you know her food na premium stuff.”

“But it’s not even the food that’s shocking me,” Ifunanya interjects, waving a pastry bag for emphasis.

“It’s that he said we can eat it here, inside the office! The same man who once gave a full lecture because a former staff left chin-chin crumbs on a chair.”

“For the first time in my life, Ifunanya,” Racheal says, dramatically placing a hand on her hips, “I agree with you.”

Peter folds his arms, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “He’s been… different these past few days.”

“Yesterday, he actually walked to my desk,” Peter adds, like he’s recalling an alien encounter.

“Oh!” Racheal’s eyes light up as she takes two packs. “Maybe he’s dating someone now. Falling in love softens even the hardest Lagos men.”

“Biko, wait, wait!” Ifunanya snatches the food packs from Racheal’s hand. “We’re not doing anyhow here. We’ll share it equally. Order, please.”

“And please,” she adds with a dramatic hair flip, “my Odogwu is not dating anyone. If love is knocking, it’s knocking at my gate.”

“In your dreams,” Mngohol mutters.

“Let me just share it before people fight,” Peter says, stepping in with the calm of a peacekeeping UN officer. He starts handing out nylons, two per person.

“These are for Adeyemi, Ebira, Samuel, and Wura,” he says, setting some aside.

Then he turns to Rahama with a small smile.“Rahama, take these to the drivers. Two each. And take yours too.”

Rahama beams, cradling the packs like precious cargo.
“Thank you, Peter.”

Her stomach growls in agreement. The timing couldn’t be better; she’s running on fumes and bottled water.

As she heads toward the door, the laughter and chatter behind her feel like something warm and sticky, something family.

From the corner window of his office, Omotayo Savage watches the scene unfold, brows furrowed.

The staff lounge looks like a casual restaurant now: bean bags claimed, food everywhere, drinks uncorked. Everyone is laughing.

Which he is now blaming himself for.

How did he think this was a good idea, especially when just the day before he’d sworn to bury his feelings?

Now, not only has he bought food for the entire staff, but they’ve turned the workspace into a restaurant.

And Rahama?

She’s outside. Balancing food packs like an unpaid delivery agent while the others dig in.

He leans closer, nose almost grazing the glass.

Why is she the one distributing food?

He didn’t order thirty packs of lunch so she could play “catering logistics”. He did it, for the team, sure. But mostly… for her.

She’d looked off this morning. Not just tired, but that tired. The kind that sinks into your bones and makes you rub your own shoulders.

The kind that makes him want to… do something. Anything.

And now she’s out there in the sun again while Peter stands smack in the center of things, pointing too much, issuing instructions like someone crowned him office prince.

Why is he always assigning her things? Why does she never push back?

Omotayo’s jaw ticks.

Is there something going on with both of them?

No. Can’t be. Still…

He steps back from the window like it’s betrayed him.

Then flops into his chair, spinning halfway before stopping himself with a soft thud of his shoe against the floor.

He leans back, fingers steepled beneath his chin.

He doesn’t get it. This odd tightness in his chest when she cries. The quiet flutter when she smiles. The irrational rage when someone else gets to see her laugh before he does.

All he knows is this:

He wants her fed.
He wants her safe.
He wants her seen.

And maybe, if the universe would stop being so loud for just a second, he wouldn’t mind being the one to give her all that.

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“Rahama, please come to my office,” Omotayo says after the morning prayer, already turning toward his door before she can even respond.

She blinks.

Without a word, she trails behind him, side-eyeing Oritsejumi, who raises both brows dramatically.

Rahama shrugs. She’s just as confused as she was about the free food two days ago.

She hasn’t had a proper breather since Monday. Tuesday to Thursday have been a blur of cleaning, bleach, mops, and narrow staircases.

She pauses just outside Mr Savage’s office as he steps in and begins his usual ritual.

Disinfectant spray.
Sanitizer mist.
Wipe-downs like the desk personally insulted him overnight.

Rahama watches from the door, arms folded.
Why won’t this man let anyone else clean here? She wonders. This isn’t neatness. This is spiritual warfare against invisible dirt.

Finally, after what feels like the opening ceremony of a hospital ward, he gestures.

“You can come in.”

She tiptoes in like a visitor at a museum, careful not to breathe too loudly.

She stops three steps in—like everyone knows to do.

Nobody crosses that imaginary line unless they have a guest pass or a job termination wish.

Omotayo sits. His eyes meet hers briefly. Then, without a word, he pulls out a white nylon from under the desk and drops it gently on the surface between them.

“Here,” he says.

She leans forward, cautiously picking it up.

A white Crocs.

Her eyes narrow slightly.

“What should I do with it, sir?” she asks, peering into the bag like it might contain a hidden camera.

“I just thought to give it to you,” he says, voice quiet, almost casual. There’s the tiniest tug at the corner of his mouth.

A smile, but not the usual tight-lipped, PR type.

Rahama blinks, her confusion deepening.

He thought of giving her his Crocs?

“Why, sir?” she asks, holding the crocs like they’re made of glass.

“No reason,” he shrugs, avoiding her gaze now. “You need it more than I do. It’ll keep your feet warm. Protected.”

Her lips part. Then press together again.

She’s not sure what’s stranger: that he gave her something personal… or that it’s coming from the same man who acted like her existence offended his airspace last week.

“Okay, sir… thank you,” she says softly, not sure if she should smile or salute.

He nods.

That same small smile again.

A rare one. The kind that almost softens his sharp edges.

Rahama steps back and gently lets herself out of the office, the crocs clutched against her chest like a secret. Her thoughts are louder than her footsteps.

Maybe Racheal was right. Maybe he did fall in love.

Rahama barely makes it to the base of the stairs when Mngohol appears beside her like a silent ninja.

“Rahama,” she calls softly, eyes sharp, lips already twitching.

“What did Mr Savage say?”

Rahama blinks. Mngohol? Asking questions?

She tilts her head slightly, confused. “Why?”

“I just want to know,” Mngohol says, pretending nonchalance but failing. “You know… in case it’s work-related. I can help.”

Rahama lifts the nylon slightly. “He gave me Crocs.”

Mngohol leans in as if the white crocs are a rare diamond. “Wait. Gave you? As in…gifted?”

Rahama nods, watching her carefully. “Yes. He said I need it more than him.”

Mngohol tries to keep her expression neutral, but the way her lips stretch says otherwise. Her cheeks rise slowly, like a secret blooming into a smile. She crosses her arms, doing her best to act unaffected.

“I knew it,” she mutters under her breath.

Rahama frowns. “Knew what?”

But Mngohol is already backing away, her grin wide now. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Rahama watches her suspiciously. “Why are you smiling like that?”

“No reason,” Mngohol says, almost skipping away. “Enjoy your crocs.”

Huh? Since when does Mngohol smile like that? Or care who goes into Mr Savage’s office?

Rahama narrows her eyes as she climbs the stairs to the staff quarters, the crocs held tightly to her chest.

She needs to keep them safe. Maria and Dawuda must see this. They’d never believe her otherwise.

Still… something feels off. Not bad, just strange.

Since when does Mr Savage give out things he’s touched, let alone worn, something this neat and new?

And why does Mngohol suddenly look like a matchmaker with receipts?

Rahama sighs, letting herself into the staff room.

This job is becoming more unpredictable than Lagos traffic.

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Rahama flops onto her bed in the staff apartment, phone in hand, thumb hovering over the voice note button. Oritsejumi is already snoring softly beside her, completely out cold.

“Dawuda, Yaya kowa?” Rahama whispers into the mic, “I might not be coming home this weekend.”

She pauses, sighs. “We got a job tomorrow, big one. Team lead says it’s fifty buildings in a new estate. They’re making us cover the whole weekend.” She taps send.

A beat, then another note:

“Help me greet Aisha, Mariam, mama, and baba oh.”

She presses record again. “Thought I could sneak home after tomorrow, but no chance. Most of the cleaners who live far are staying here too. Looks like I’m stuck.”

Send.

Rahama smiles softly as the little “recording” bubble pops up—Dawuda’s responding.

Her thumb pauses over the speaker, then presses play.

“Yaya Rahama, lafiya lau? No wahala, just do your work. Aisha is already sleeping, but I will tell Maria to greet you.”

Her heart warms at Dawuda’s voice, full of home and comfort. Rahama presses play on the next voice note.

“’Yar’uwa Rahama, yaya kowa? How’s your oga? I hope he’s not too hard on you oh. Don’t stress yourself too much, if wahala too much, just come home.”

Maria’s voice is like a soft hug. Rahama laughs quietly to herself.

Even if Mr Savage is not friendly, she’s sticking it out here. The pay is good, the chance to learn is better, and besides, she’s finally starting to feel like she belongs.

She hits record one last time, grinning tiredly.

“Okay, nah, Maria, Dawuda, take care. Make sure you greet everyone for me. I need sleep now; tomorrow’s going to be a lot. Even my roommate is sleeping already”

She switches off her data, remembering Maria’s advice to save on airtime.

Rahama closes her eyes for a moment, the weight of the day pressing on her but beneath it, a tiny flame of hope.

Life here might be tough, but it’s slowly becoming home.

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Rahama steps out of the Ford Transit van, stretching her stiff neck as the other hygiene tech team members spill out around her; fourteen of them in total, all in navy-blue overalls and ready-to-go energy.

She looks up and freezes.

Lined up like little luxury pastries on both sides of the wide tiled road are rows of one-bedroom maisonettes, each with pastel paint, tall glass windows, and shiny chrome railings. There’s a clean-cut swimming pool to the left, a sleek mini-mart to the right, and a full basketball court dead-center.

“Lagos is rich,” Rahama mutters under her breath, eyes wide.

“Team!” Adeyemi’s voice cuts through the admiration.

“Quick reminder: two people per building. It’s a one-bed maisonette, so, good news is we can clean fast. Bad news; we’re doing all fifty before nightfall.”

Rahama exhales slowly. Fifty.

“Pick your partners, I’ll assign buildings.”

Mngohol dashes to Rahama like it’s a 100m sprint. “Let’s pair up”

Rahama chuckles. “Deal.”

They fist bump, grab their assigned gear, and Adeyemi begins shouting out building numbers like a game show host.

Fast-forward six hours. Sweat clings to Rahama’s neck as she relaxes in the air-conditioned van during their 30-minute break.

Lunch is rice, stew, and one glorious piece of fried meat that makes her close her eyes in gratitude.

By 3:50 p.m., they’re back at it; two buildings left for each pair. Home stretch.

Rahama’s halfway up the staircase of Building 29, humming a tired remix of a church chorus, when her foot catches the edge of a wet tile. In a blink, she loses balance.

The bucket flies. Water splashes across the stairs like a tiny flood.

Then…thud.

Her forehead slams into the sharp concrete edge of the top step. Pain explodes in her skull.

She gasps, eyes squeezed shut. A slow warmth begins to trickle down her temple.

Steps thunder up behind her.

“Rahama!” Mngohol’s voice cuts through the silence like sirens.

“Are you okay?! What happened?!”

Rahama’s already sitting up, wincing. “This staircase just tried to wound me.”

She touches her forehead. No blood, thank God, but the pain is pulsing, and a hot swelling is already forming. A brown, angry line sits just above her brow like a mini tiara of shame.

Mngohol crouches beside her, examining her face with horror.

“Ah! Rahama, your forehead is swelling. We need ointment”

Rahama gives a lopsided smile. “I’ll survive. We’ve got one more building to go. Let’s not get delayed because of my staircase fall.”

“Rahama,” Mngohol says slowly, “you just headbutted a house.”

“And I won,” Rahama replies with a smile, trying to stand but groaning.

“We’ll clean fast. I’ll apply balm in the van. No need to go all the way back now.”

Mngohol grabs the bucket, nodding reluctantly. “Fine. But if anything happens, I’m calling Mr Adeyemi.”

Adeyemi stands just outside the bus, arms folded, his brow already furrowed as the team trickles back in, one by one, sweaty and exhausted.

Then he spots her.

“Wait, what’s wrong with Rahama?” he asks, eyes narrowing at the sight of her forehead, which now looks like she’s smuggling a golf ball under her skin.

“She hit her head on the stairs,” Mngohol says, fanning Rahama with a file as they walk closer. “It’s not small oh.”

Adeyemi blinks. “You should have told me immediately.”

“Mngohol wanted to,” Rahama says, climbing into the bus slowly, “but I told her not to. There was still work.”

“And now there’s still swelling.” He follows her into the bus, already reaching for the glove box above the front seat. “Sit down. Let me apply something.”

Inside, the team buzzes with curiosity, eyes wide, sorries floating around.

“Rahama, sorry! You sure you're okay?” Tobechukwu asks, passing her a water bottle.

Rahama tries to smile but winces. “Yes, thank you.”

The engine revs to life. Outside, dusk settles over the estate.

Inside the bus, Rahama leans back, eyes closed, forehead throbbing.

Adeyemi stands by the company bus, waving as the team climbs out and pulls away.

When the last cleaner disappears down the road, he turns and heads back inside. At Omotayo’s office, he pauses just past the doorframe and dips into a quick bow.

“Good evening, sir.”

Omotayo doesn’t look up. Papers shift on his desk. A pen taps once.
“The team’s done? Client satisfied?”

“Yes, sir.” Adeyemi’s mouth curves into a brief smile. “Everything’s clean. The client is pleased.”

Only then does Omotayo lift his head. His gaze settles on Adeyemi, sharp and searching.
“And Rahama? How did she do this time?”

Adeyemi nods. “Her work was thorough, sir. She did sustain a minor injury, but—”

Omotayo’s head tilts. The room tightens.
“An injury?” His voice cuts in, thinner, sharper than intended. “What kind of injury?”

Adeyemi blinks. “Mngohol said she slipped on the stairs and hit her head while cleaning. I applied ointment—”

Omotayo’s brows draw together. Really?

“She hit her head on the stairs?” His chair shifts back slightly. “Is that how you run your team? Go and get her.”

Adeyemi bows again, pulse jumping, and turns on his heel.

Less than two minutes later, Rahama steps in beside him. She keeps her usual distance from the desk, hands folded, shoulders careful. Omotayo’s eyes go straight to her forehead.

The bump is impossible to miss; swollen, red, angry.

“What happened to your forehead, Rahama?” His tone is firm but controlled.

“I slipped on the stairs, sir.” Her voice stays steady. “The floor was slippery.”

Omotayo exhales through his nose.
“Why are you always in one mess or another?” His gaze hardens. “Careless, isn’t it?”

Rahama blinks.
Is he angry… because I fell?

“I thought you said you had extensive cleaning experience,” he continues. “So what’s going on here?”

His eyes flick to Adeyemi.
“From now on, every one of Rahama’s on-site jobs - deep cleaning or basic - comes to me first.”

Adeyemi swallows. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir. I should have supervised more closely.”

Omotayo’s voice drops. “Same excuse as last time. If you can’t manage your team properly, perhaps we need to rethink your position.”

Rahama steps forward before she can stop herself. Her voice is gentle, but it doesn’t shake.
“Sir, it’s not Mr Adeyemi’s fault. He was supervising several of us. It was just a fall. I’m fine. He already helped apply ointment.”

Omotayo folds his hands, unmoved.
“A fall?” His eyes return to her forehead. “And it looks like you went a few rounds in a boxing ring. Adeyemi’s priority is the safety of his team.”

Then, flat and final:
“You can leave now.”

Rahama nods. Her smile holds for exactly as long as it has to. She turns and walks out.

The tears come later. Sharp, insistent, blurring her vision even as she refuses to let them fall.

No matter what she does, Mr Savage only sees the mistakes. It’s as if an invisible stamp hovers over her head, incompetent, glowing bright.

And Adeyemi… she can almost hear the sighs he swallows, the apologies he’s forced to make because of her.

Does he want Adeyemi to hate me? The thought curls bitterly in her chest.

She presses her fingers gently to the swelling on her forehead. It’s just her skin. Not a broken nameplate. Not a ruined job. Why does it feel like such a crime?

In the break room, she grabs a bag of ice and holds it there.

The cold bites sharp, grounding. The only relief she gets today.

As she heads upstairs, she lets out a slow breath. Her chest feels heavy.

Just when she thought Mr Savage might be softening just a little, he proves her wrong.

True colors, in full technicolor.

Happy New Year 🥳
Thank you for choosing to be here with me. I don’t take it lightly, and I’m deeply grateful for you already.

Here’s to a new year filled with beautiful stories, shared moments, and all that God has in store for us 💜

Read the previous chapter here

CHAPTER EIGHT

— Ikoyi, Lagos-Island, Nigeria. —

Omotayo steps into the office, his shoulders squared, his gaze calm but calculating as always. Ifunanya swoops in with her usual high-pitched “Good morning, sir,” laced with sugar and suggestion.

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t flinch.

He glances around the open workspace, doing his usual quick scan. Everything seems as it should be, until his eyes land on her.

Rahama.

Same as last week: thick hair in buns that look like they lost a battle to the wind, strands staging a daring escape around her ears and hairline.

Her faded clothes and still that same slipper, champions of every war zone they’ve ever survived, are still holding their ground…but her skin has a sheen.

Her nails don’t look like she’s been clawing cement. She even looks... moisturized?

Tayo doesn’t mean to stare. He just... notices.

He’s been noticing a lot lately.

She’s in his head more than he likes.

All weekend, he kept seeing flashes of her face. That scared, scattered expression under his desk; that hair explosion. He’d almost screamed. But after the initial fright, he remembered thinking... this girl is definitely hairy…and weird.

Tayo exhales softly through his nose, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips before he catches himself and shifts his gaze. Just in time too, Adeyemi starts the morning prayer.

Rahama bows her head, but her thoughts are spinning.

Did Mr Savage just… smile at me?

He looked right at her, longer than usual. Something warm bubbles in her chest.

She’s going to make this week count.

“Aww, Rahama” Ifunanya leans close after the prayer, her voice sticky-sweet. “Happy new week and welcome back.”

Rahama straightens a little, unsure if it’s a compliment or a jab.

“I honestly thought you’d be gone by now,” Ifunanya adds with a chuckle. “Guess you dodged last week’s bullet.”

Rahama opens her mouth but doesn’t say a word.

Tayo, halfway to his office, pauses. He hears the tone. That little dig. His jaw tightens.

He turns back.

“Ifunanya,” he says, voice smooth but sharp.

“Isn’t it a bit too early for office gossip? Check the company mail and our communication channels. Clients usually place new week orders by now.”

Ifunanya freezes, blinking. “Yes, sir.”

Hold on… that’s a first. Mr Savage actually being bothered about me?

Tayo turns and continues to his office, silent, composed.

“Thank you, Mr Savage!” Peter blurts from the corner. “We’ve had enough of her acting like HR and boss combined!”

The room breaks apart quickly, everyone scurrying to their desks.

Rahama’s footsteps echo softly as she climbs toward the staff quarters, her heart light, a smile playing on her lips.

Behind her, Oritsejumi catches up easily, her arm linking with Rahama’s in a playful gesture.

“Ayy, see as you fine!” Oritsejumi drawls, giving her a sideways glance full of sauce. “No gree that Ifunanya babe tension you oh. That one no sabi hype person unless she don first throw one small insult inside.”

Rahama laughs, her shoulders shaking slightly from the warmth of the compliment. “Thank you,” she replies, a little too brightly, as though she’s still not entirely sure she believes it herself.

Oritsejumi side-eyes her with full Warri suspicion.“But wait, why you dey always mute when she yarn dust? If na me ehn, omo, she go hear am like Band A NEPA charges!”

Rahama shrugs, keeping her pace steady as they ascend. “I’m not angry, honestly,” she says with a soft smile. “I have a younger cousin who’s just like her; blunt. So, I’ve heard it all before, especially at home.”

“Serious?” Oritsejumi arches a brow, already grinning. “Your brother get mouth like that too?”

Rahama’s face brightens with a fond laugh. “Yes oh, If he thinks my breath smells, he’s not shy about saying it. ‘Go brush your teeth!’ he’ll shout, like it’s a public service announcement. And if I, uh, fart, he’ll say something like, ‘Rahama, your fart could’ve woken up Lazarus before Jesus even got the chance!’” She shakes her head, still smiling at the memory.

Oritsejumi stops, bends slightly with laughter.

“Ah! Omo, your brother na premium shade dispenser oh! Ifunanya go dey learn work for him hand!”

“Exactly,” Rahama says, shaking her head. “It used to get on my nerves when we were younger, but now, I just laugh. If I act all hurt, it just makes them go harder. But, over time, it just bonds us more, you know?”

Oritsejumi wipes her eyes, still giggling. “Ehn na! Hausa people sabi dey soft until you play with dem feelings too long. Una get respect and una dey hold family strong.”

Rahama smiles to herself, the warmth of her family memories filling her up.

Share

“Ụtụtụ ọma, Omalicha nwa!” Tobechukwu greets Ifunanya as he strides toward her in the reception area, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Tomato Jos! See fresh pepper! Chineke mee eeh! Your beauty is doing me like hot jollof!” He laughs, spreading his arms in exaggerated admiration.

“Tomato Jos kwa? Biko, shift!” Ifunanya rolls her eyes, giving him a playful side-eye. “No be only Tomato Jos, na Enugu tomato!” She flicks her hand dismissively.

Tobechukwu smiles, unfazed, but Ifunanya isn’t done yet. She throws her hands up dramatically, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Why does God keep sending me the wrong man’s attention?” she sighs, clearly enjoying her own melodrama.

“See Mr Savage there, even the way he corrected me moments ago, so romantic. But you, even with your sweet mouth, it still sounds sour in my ears.”

Tobechukwu chuckles but leans in with mock seriousness.

“So you’re telling me that you’re obsessed with someone who can’t even be bothered to shake hands with people? You just got here, and you’re already fantasizing about him. What exactly do you see in that man?” He gestures toward Mr Savage, his tone half-sincere, half-amused.

Ifunanya arches an eyebrow, crossing her arms with defiance.

“He’s ten times the real Odogwu compared to you. It’s levels, Tobechukwu. You’re a cleaner. He runs almost half of a big telecom company,” she says, smirking.

“This place na small chops compared to his father’s business. His father’s company is one of the top fifty in the country. Can you beat that?” Ifunanya adds proudly.

Ifunanya smirks, eyes narrowed. “As a customer care rep, if I want to do office romance, I’m going for someone high. Someone who knows how to move.” She shrugs.

Tobechukwu looks exasperated, realizing this conversation is going nowhere.

“So you want Mr Savage because he’s high up, not because you like him, huh?”

Ifunanya doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m an Igbo girl, Tobechukwu. I like money. Ego, Ego ukwu!” She strikes a dramatic pose, clearly proud of herself.

“All this my beauty, do you think I achieved it with stones? Money is involved, my friend.” She says this with a wink, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world.

Tobechukwu raises his hands in mock surrender, laughing. “So you’re just after money, huh?”

“Yes,” Ifunanya responds nonchalantly, like she’s already explained it a hundred times.

“And unless you’re coming from a multi-millionaire family and disguising yourself as a cleaner to find love like those Nollywood movies, if that’s the case, then I’m the one for you, if not, please, leave me alone, let me see better man, E nwere m class, I’ve got class!”

Tobechukwu pauses for a moment, then steps back slightly.

“Your reason for wanting Mr Savage is wrong so it won’t work. I may not be rich, but I’ll have you, Ifunanya. I will.”

Ifunanya scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Have yourself first with your less than two hundred thousand naira salary, after tax and transportation. Nwoke nzuzu” She shakes her head with a mock pout before sitting down at the desk, quickly turning her attention to the company’s mail and social media.

With a decisive swipe on the computer, she mutters under her breath. “I’ve got to make sure Mr Savage claims me soon. It’s bad luck, especially on a Monday morning, dealing with guys like him.”

She taps away with an air of determined confidence. “If Mr Savage claims me, he’ll know his boundaries.”

“If I had known you would turn out this useless, I would have given birth to another son.”

Tokunbo’s voice cracks through the phone.

Omotayo presses it tighter to his ear and leans back in his chair, rubbing his forehead as if he can physically push the words away. His office is quiet, too quiet, the sound of the air conditioner the only thing steady enough to hold on to.

Useless.

He’s heard it too many times to count. A word his father throws around like a verdict.

“Is it too late?” Omotayo says evenly. Too evenly. “You and Mum can still try, can’t you?”

There’s a sharp pause.

“So you admit it,” Tokunbo snaps. “You admit that you are useless.”

Omotayo exhales through his nose, fingers tightening around the arm of the chair. “Dad, please. I don’t have time for this on a Monday morning.”

“That’s all you ever do,” Tokunbo fires back. “Run. You run from germs, you run from responsibility, you run from this family. A coward.”

The word lands hard.

Omotayo stands abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor. He paces the length of his office, jaw clenched, counting his steps the way his therapist taught him.

His father’s words always cut. Still, he swallows every response that rises to his tongue.

What would it change?

“I have to go,” he says finally, voice flat. He doesn’t wait for permission. He ends the call.

The silence rushes in.

He stops pacing, hands on his hips, chest tight. His father isn’t entirely wrong. He does run. He always has.

Not because he wants to.

Because he has to.

He’s asked the doctors too many times. Searched for cures, shortcuts, something clinical and clean that would make it stop. There is none. Just exposure, they say. Face it. Again and again.

He’s tried. And still, his body betrays him every time.

Omotayo turns toward the window, needing air, distance, anything.

That’s when he sees her.

Rahama.

Through the half-open blinds, she’s bent over a desk, napkin in hand, wiping slowly, carefully. She moves a stapler aside, lifts a laptop, cleans beneath it, then returns everything to its exact place.

His gaze lingers longer than intended.

There’s something grounding about the way she works, as if order is something she builds with her own hands, one small action at a time.

And for the first time that morning, his chest eases. Just a little.

A small smile tugs at the corner of Omotayo’s lips before he even realizes it.

Why can’t he stop looking at her?

He watches the way her eyes scan each desk. It’s Monday morning. His inbox is full. Yet here he is.

The scrape of a chair breaks his gaze.

Peter walks over and drops into the chair at his desk, just across from Rahama. He flashes her a friendly smile.

“Rahama, aren’t you going on-site today?” he asks, opening his laptop.

She looks up and returns the smile. “Not yet. Mr Adeyemi hasn’t given me any task this week.”

Peter nods, fingers paused mid-type. “Makes sense. Mondays are usually light, and most of the hygiene team’s out already. Maybe he’s just giving you a breather.”

Omotayo’s brow twitches.

He steps back from the window, but not before glancing once more.

Rahama is laughing softly at something Peter just said.

He doesn’t even know she laughs like that.

Are they… really as close as he’s always thought?

He frowns.

Maybe Peter is dating Rahama? That would explain why he’s been so supportive of her.

He looks away, jaw tightening.

Peter leans forward slightly, resting his arms on the desk.

“How was your first week? Still surviving?”

Rahama wipes down the edge of the desk, then glances up at him. “Yes, you and the rest of the team saved me more times than I can count. Na gode, Peter.”

Before Peter can reply, a voice cuts in, smooth but unexpected.

“Hello, Peter.”

Peter looks up, startled. Mr Savage stands there, hands at his sides like he isn’t entirely sure what to do with them.

Rahama straightens and steps back quickly. “Good morning, sir.”

Omotayo nods at her briefly, then turns back to Peter.

Peter blinks.

Mr Savage... here? In the open office? Voluntarily?

“Sir?” Peter says, rising to his feet on instinct.

Omotayo hesitates.

“I need last week’s performance reports sent to the company mail,” he says, voice steady, expression unreadable.

Peter blinks again. That’s it?

“Uh… yes, sir. I’ll send it in the next thirty minutes.”

Rahama resumes her cleaning.

“Good,” Omotayo replies with a nod, but makes no move to leave.

Rahama bends beneath Racheal’s desk, dusting the legs and cable space. As she shifts, her head swings dangerously close to the desk’s edge.

Omotayo’s body moves before his mind catches up. He steps closer, one hand bracing the table’s edge, instinctively guarding her.

She doesn’t notice. Peter doesn’t either.

Omotayo keeps his hand there anyway. Just in case.

Once Rahama sits up again, brushing invisible dust from her skirt, Omotayo quickly steps back.

“I’ll be expecting the report,” he says, voice more clipped now.

Peter nods, still slightly confused. “Of course, sir.”

Omotayo nods again. No other words. No more excuses.

He turns and walks away without looking back.

Peter watches Mr Savage walk away, calm on the outside, but his brows knit slightly.

That was... weird. Performance reports?

Since when does Mr Savage walk down here to ask for them?

He has Peter’s extension. He has an email. He has an office intercom.

Peter looks at Rahama, still wiping down the desk like nothing had happened.

“That was… different,” he mutters.

Rahama glances up. “Hm?”

“Nothing.” He waves it off quickly, unsure whether she caught the awkward standoff.

If it were Ifunanya, by now she’d have already side-eyed him, mouthed ‘Talk!’, then dragged a whole gossip session out of him.

For a moment, Peter smiles at the thought.

Ifunanya, with her loud lip gloss and even louder opinions.

He actually kind of misses her.

He straightens, stretches, and grabs his ID card from the desk.

“I’m off to the front desk to meet Ifunanya. She’s probably scolding someone for breathing near her stapler.”

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

The sink runs. Omotayo scrubs his hands like he’s trying to erase a memory.

The office bathroom around him is pristine: walls white as snow, the sink spotless, bottles of disinfectant lined up like soldiers ready for duty. There’s not a single speck of dirt anywhere.

But it doesn’t feel clean enough.

He glares at his own reflection. “What were you thinking?”

His fingers dig harder against each other. The memory loops on repeat;

Rahama crouching to clean, her hair bouncing lightly as she moved. His hand, acting before his mind could stop it, bracing the desk like a human barrier.

No sanitizer.
No gloves.
Nothing.

His eyes narrow.

What if her head had brushed his hand? Or her hair?

Her hair?

He flinches at the thought.

This isn’t him. He doesn’t do spontaneous.

He doesn’t do close contact. And he definitely doesn’t do unfiltered human emotion.

And yet… twice today. Twice, he’s acted like someone else.

He protected her. Like it was nothing. Like his body forgot who he was.

Omotayo blinks down at his still-scrubbing hands.

He’s gone on dates with women who were clean, polished, manicured to the bone—and still couldn’t bring himself to shake their hands.

But Rahama? He shielded a desk. For her.

He stares at his pale, fragile hands like they’ve turned against him.

What’s going on?

His laptop dings. Then his phone rings. And now they’re both ringing at once.

“Great.” He pulls a hot white towel from the wall-mounted sanitizing dispenser.

The machine susurrate as it releases the freshly steamed fabric.

He wipes his hands thoroughly, each finger, between every nail, then tosses it into the laundry chute, and exits the bathroom.

The incoming WhatsApp video call flashes across both screens.

Lola.

His whole family seems determined to remember him today.

“Lola, what’s up?”

Her face appears instantly, hair neatly pulled back, sharp blazer on, brows raised just enough to tease.

“You finally picked up! I’ve been calling for like forever. What were you doing, santizing your office?”

“I was washing my hands.”

She squints. “Again? Enny, don’t peel them off oh. Remember what your doctor said. No more chemical warfare on your skin. Those hands have suffered enough”

He smiles faintly, sliding into his chair. “I’m being careful.”

She gives him a look. The one that says you always say that, and next thing, you’re wearing gloves to bed.

“So?” he asks, already bracing himself. “Why are you calling?”

Lola doesn’t waste time. “Mom wants you to come to dinner this weekend.”

“No.”

“Wait first—” she lifts her hand like she’s stopping traffic.

He keeps shaking his head. “Absolutely not.”

“I spoke to Dad last night, Enny.”

“You always speak to Dad. He never listens.”

“This time he promised—”

“The last time he promised, he called me a fragile disgrace, remember?” Omotayo cuts in. “And we literally just finished another debate about how useless I am minutes ago. I guess he hasn’t updated you.”

Lola winces. “You both talked this morning? He should—”

“And two weeks ago, I got home with a migraine and a panic attack,” Omotayo cuts in again. “So forgive me if I’m not jumping at another round of family dinner.”

Lola sighs deeply, the kind that says I’m tired too, but this is family.

“I get it, Enny. I do. But don’t you get lonely? Don’t you ever just… want to feel like you belong somewhere? With someone? With us?”

Omotayo leans back. There it is. The question he avoids like a door handle in public.

“You don’t have friends,” she continues softly. “At least we, your family, want you around. Just come sometimes. Don’t mind, Dad. You should be used to him by now.”

Used to him?

Omotayo looks away.

He has tried to be used to him. Tried his best.

How much more trying is he supposed to do?

He’s tried dinners. Dates. Social events. Every time, he comes out with a headache and a deeper urge to disinfect his soul. Nothing ever works.

And Rahama?

She’s a walking bacteria buffet, and yet somehow… he didn’t flinch. He didn’t calculate the odds of infection. He helped her. Like some kind of barefoot superhero.

It’s not logical. Which makes it worse.

How did his thoughts drift to Rahama?

“I’m not lonely, Lola,” he says at last. “I’ve got books. Movies. Social media. And Alexa speaks back when I talk.”

Lola’s lips twitch. “So now Alexa is your family?”

“It listens more than most people.”

Lola sighs again. “It’s fine, Enny. Come home whenever you feel like. You know it’s still your house. Even more than mine.”

Omotayo nods slowly. His chest tightens a little. He knows she means it.

A beat passes. Then, impulsively, he asks, “What do you think about Hausa girls?”

Lola’s eyes narrow like he just suggested licking the floor.

“What?”

Omotayo shrugs, too casually. “Just… curious. What’s your opinion on them?”

“I… don’t think I have an opinion? I’ve never really been close to any Hausa girl. Why?”

“No reason. Just a random thought.”

She stares at him like he’s sprouted cat ears. “Enny. Where is this coming from?”

“Nowhere. My brain just… drifted.”

She folds her arms, eyes sharper now. “You’re acting weird. Is this about someone?”

“No.” (Yes.) “Don’t worry about it.”

Lola narrows her eyes. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She studies him a moment longer, then sighs. “You do know Dad loves you, right? He just… expects more from you. Every parent does. Even though his own expression of love is…” she gestures vaguely, “...harsh.”

Omotayo exhales, eyes flicking away. “I can’t feel that love. And I’m his child, not his project. I’m not something he can reprogram into his dream version. I have my own life. Something I’m building. Something I care about.”

“I know, Enny.” Her voice softens. “I hope he realizes that too. That your dreams might not look like his.”

He grins, a little crooked. “Let’s pause this TED Talk, abeg. I’ve got work. Can I call you later?”

Lola snorts. “Aren’t you always working? And you always say you’ll call back, but ghost me.”

He chuckles. “You’ll survive. And hey…thanks. For checking in.”

She waves him off. “Just remember, you can come home whenever. It’s still your home.”

“Noted. Later, Lola.”

“Later, Enny.”

The call ends.

Silence folds around him again.

Tayo slumps back into his chair, eyes drifting to the untouched tabs on his laptop. Then they stray.

Rahama.

His brow furrows.

He’s not tribalistic. Never has been.

But he’s also never pictured himself this intrigued by someone so... her.

So unapologetically messy. So defiantly different. So everything his immune system is supposed to fight off.

And yet, his heart does that ridiculous flip at the thought of her wild, thick hair and those beautiful eyes.

It’s foolish. Irrational.

He would give it time.

Maybe with time, the feelings would crash and burn.

He shouldn’t be close to someone like her.

They’re too opposite to survive a relationship. She is his phobia.

How would he try a relationship with someone he’s afraid to touch?

And when he eventually does touch her, he would have to scrub and peel his hands raw.

Read the previous chapter here

CHAPTER SEVEN

Tayo paces the length of his sleek living room like a man plotting a coup.

He’s wearing lounge slippers, still in his office trousers, the blazer still on. The AC whispers softly, but his thoughts are louder.

Why does everyone keep defending Rahama?

She’s barely three days in, already wrecked a nameplate, and somehow turned into the staff favourite?

He stops pacing and rubs his forehead.

He’s tried professionalism.

He’s tried warnings.

He’s even tried firing her, firing her, for goodness’ sake, and they all looked at him like he kicked a puppy.

He exhales and slumps onto the couch.

“What’s the next strategy?” he mutters to the ceiling.

Then his eyes drift to the corner of the room—right there on the shelf, still in the box, is the Amazon Echo Dot he impulsively bought during Black Friday because the influencer said it would change his life.

Well. Maybe it finally can.

An idea sparks, wild and ridiculous, but also kind of perfect.

He straightens.

What if he uses the Echo Dot… connects it to the Alexa app… and sets it to play creepy sounds from YouTube?

Nothing violent. Just unsettling. Like ghost whispers. Maybe a low moan. A spine-chilling “get… out…of…here”

He could sneak into the office at night, hide the device somewhere behind the AC vent or under his desk, and let Alexa do the haunting.

His office is directly under the staff quarters. Rahama’s bunk is practically above his swivel chair.

If she thinks the building is haunted, she’ll quit.

Tayo grins slowly.

Mature? Not really.

Petty? Maybe a little.

Effective? Almost definitely.

It’s not like he wants her to suffer.

He just… needs his space back.

Besides, if her roommate leaves too, that’s just collateral damage. He’ll miss Oritsejumi’s cleaning speed, but this is war.

They’ve shielded her from every reasonable attempt to get her out.

Now he’s bringing in the ghosts.

“Alexa?” he says, testing the waters as he opens the box and plugs in the Dot, “how do I chase a woman out of my space… something mischievous, with Bluetooth?”

The device lights up. “Hmm, Mr Savage, I’m not sure about that. But here’s something I found on YouTube: 10 HOURS OF HAUNTED HOSPITAL SOUNDS.”

Tayo chuckles.

“Oh, Rahama. You’re going to dislike it here.”

Omotayo pulls his car into a dimly lit street two blocks away from his office. He’s practically a ninja, except for the fact that his outfit looks like a bad Halloween costume.

Black pyjamas? Check. Face mask? Check. A black cap that makes him look like he’s about to rob a bank? Absolutely.

“Let’s do this,” he mutters under his breath, adjusting the white Crocs like they’re a badge of honor. He’s never felt more ridiculous in his entire twenty-nine years of existence.

He looks at the disinfectant, sanitizer, and wipes in his hands. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d be sneaking into his own company in the dead of night with a creepy Amazon Echo Dot.

This is a new low, even for him. Thanks to Rahama.

He waves at the security guard, who squints at him through the window, clearly puzzled.

“Quiet,” Omotayo whispers, as though the guard might actually listen and believe he’s up to something normal.

The door opens automatically—thank God for high-tech, silent entrance doors.

He steps inside, grateful that his sneaky mission is off to a quiet start.

But, of course, the atmosphere is thick with suspense. It’s almost too quiet. He could hear a pin drop, if anyone were to drop one.

He moves cautiously toward his office, each step deliberate. The dim light from upstairs illuminates the hallway, probably from one of the staff quarters. Rahama’s room, no doubt.

The thought of her being up there sends an odd shiver down his spine. Not the good kind.

His office is just ahead. He doesn’t want to turn on the lights—nope, that would be too obvious.

With a deep breath, he opens his office door—slightly ajar, just how he left it. It’s dark, which suits him just fine. He doesn’t want to wake anyone. Or rather, he doesn’t want anyone to see him like this.

Sitting in his chair, he pulls out the Echo Dot from his bag. It’s stupid. It’s petty. But... It’s his last move.

He crouches down to hide the device under his desk, and—thud. He kicks something.

“What the—?” Omotayo mutters under his breath, nudging the object with his foot. It doesn’t budge. He kicks it again. It’s like it’s glued to the floor.

What in the world is that thing?

He leans further, pulls out his phone, and shines the flashlight under the desk.

And that’s when he sees it.

Dark, thick, and—wait, what the?

Before he can fully process it, a voice pierces the silence.

“Jinin Yesu!”

Omotayo’s heart nearly stops. He flicks his phone’s flashlight on.

There, under his desk, is Rahama.

Her hair is everywhere, loose and wild, like she’s just rolled out of bed, or like she’s been hiding there for the past forever.

The room goes still for a beat.

Both of them freeze, eyes wide, breaths caught.

“Ahhhhhh!” they scream again in unison, completely forgetting the whole “we’re supposed to be sneaky” thing.

Omotayo jerks backwards, trying to make a run for it. But—wham—he slams his head on the edge of his desk.

“Ouchhh!” he hisses, rubbing his forehead.

Rahama scrambles to grab him, clearly just as disoriented as he is.

How is she this close to him? And why—dear Lord—is she holding his arm like they’re in a romantic drama scene gone wrong?

Tayo jerks back under the desk, banging his shoulder in the process, and finally scrambles out with a breathless grunt.

He makes a beeline for his chair, his heart racing like it’s trying to win a medal.

He fumbles for the light switch beside his seat and flips it on. Warm light spills over the room, confirming the horror: he’s not dreaming.

Rahama’s still under his desk.

Well, was.

She’s now crawling out like some barefoot bush baby, her loose hair wild, her eyes wide and... is she smiling?

Tayo drags his chair away from her with a loud screech, giving her space like she might suddenly bite.

She straightens up slowly, adjusting the hem of her faded gown like this is just a normal Wednesday night.

“What,” he begins, holding his tone together with threadbare patience, “were you doing under my desk?”

“I was scared, sir,” she says, offering a small, sheepish smile, “so I hid.”

He blinks. “You were… scared. Under my desk?”

Rahama nods like it makes perfect sense. “I heard the front door open. Thought it was armed robbers or kidnappers. So I hid.”

Tayo raises a hand to his chest, willing his heartbeat to stop behaving like he just finished a marathon. “Why were you in my office in the first place?”

Her eyes flick toward the far end of the office, where a mop, a bucket, and an exhausted bottle of all-purpose cleaner sit like guilty witnesses.

“Sir, I wanted to surprise you,” she says softly. “Clean your office. You know… as a thank-you for not firing me after I broke the nameplate.”

He stares at her, baffled. That wasn’t a mercy; it was peer pressure from every sentimental staff member in this building.

He didn’t fire her because they ganged up on him with a collective guilt trip.

“You wanted to clean my office,” he repeats.

“Yes, sir.” She nods again, hands clasped in front of her like a repentant Sunday school student.

“To show I’m sorry. I know I haven’t been… I mean, I haven’t exactly impressed anyone since I started. So I thought maybe if I did something nice, I’d feel better.”

He eyes the clutter she brought in, then eyes her again. Her gown is rumpled, her feet bare, her hair like it fought a war and lost.

Clean his office?

Tayo side-eyes her from across the room.

If anything in this entire company needs scrubbing, disinfecting, and possibly fumigating; it’s her.

“I heard a sound… and the door opening,” Rahama says, voice soft like a kid explaining why she colored on the wall. “I thought it was a thief, so I turned off the light and hid under your desk.”

“Offed the light?” he mutters, rubbing his temple. “Are you sure this isn’t a cooked-up story? Or are you the thief?”

Her eyes widen in horror. “God forbid! Me ke? I don’t steal. Never.”

Oddly, he believes her.

Against logic, protocol, and his better judgment, he believes her wide, barefooted, wild-haired self.

“I don’t think my office needs cleaning,” he says, standing straighter now, regaining some control. “And even if it did, you’re definitely not the right person to clean it.”

Rahama nods slowly, like she’s been expecting that. “I just wanted to surprise you. Do something nice to clear my conscience.”

Tayo folds his arms. She’s not wrong. Her time in this company so far has been a human highlight reel of disasters.

But before he can say anything, she squints at him. Her brows pull together, eyes scanning him head to toe like she’s just now realizing he’s not exactly dressed for the office.

“But sir… what are you doing here at this time?” she asks, her voice filled with suspicion.

“And what’s with the… night gown?”

Tayo nearly chokes.

“It’s not a night gown. It’s called night wear,” he corrects quickly, as if the right term will magically make this situation dignified.

Rahama tries to hold back a smile, but her eyes give her away.

“Night wear,” she echoes with a small chuckle. “Okay, sir.”

He clears his throat, straightens his face cap like it’s part of a SWAT uniform. “I just came to, uh… check something.”

There’s no way he’s telling her he snuck in here dressed like a shy burglar to plant a tiny device that makes high-pitched noises designed to scare pests, and possibly one Rahama.

Tayo coughs. “Anyway, you can go now. And please… don’t clean my office.”

“Okay, sir,” she says with a salute, picks up her bucket, and trots out like she didn’t just give him a mild heart attack.

The door shuts behind her. Silence again.

Tayo lets out a long, tired sigh.

He grabs his disinfectant spray like it’s holy water, sprays the air in aggressive circles, then pulls out the sanitizer and wipes every possible surface she could’ve touched.

Desk. Chair. Doorknob. Even the poor mop.

Two hours later, he’s drenched in sweat, surrounded by the scent of antiseptic and lavender, and still not over the fact that Rahama’s been in his sanctuary.

He stares at the tiny noise device in his hand.

Well… might as well plant it. It could still come in handy.

Just in case she gets any more bright ideas.

Omotayo is five.

He’s on the estate playground, laughing, legs covered in sand, tiny palms packed with dirt like he’s discovered treasure.

Then—thunder.

Not the sky. His father’s voice.

“How many times have I told you not to play like those children?” Tokunbo Savage storms across the playground like he owns the soil too.

“You are Omotayo Enioluwa Savage! Why are you playing with sand and dirt?”

Tayo barely has time to blink before the sharp sting of a slap lands on his arm. His laughter evaporates.

He’s dragged back inside, past the silent security guard and the marble staircase, straight to the bathroom where the industrial-sized antibacterial soap lives.

His father turns on the tap like he’s about to scrub sin off his skin.

Tokunbo hunches over him, hands rough and relentless.

“You are not a lowlife, Tayo. You are the heir to the Savage. You don’t play in dirt. Dirt is for children born in chaos. You—” he scrubs harder—“were born for boardrooms and brilliance.”

Tayo sobs. “But I like the sand, Daddy. And the kids. It’s… it’s fun.”

Tokunbo stops scrubbing, just for a second.

Then he grips his son’s cheeks, forcing his face upward.
“That kind of fun is for poor people,” he says. “You don’t stoop, Tayo. You stay clean. Always.”

Tayo jerks awake.

Chest heaving. Skin damp.

It takes a second to realize he’s not five anymore. He’s not in that cold bathroom. He’s in his bedroom: his adult, sterile, hyper-sanitized bedroom.

Still, the air feels heavy. Familiar. Like guilt soaked in Dettol.

He slips his feet into lounge slippers and pads downstairs, avoiding the faint creak on the fifth step; old habit.

The kitchen is spotless, of course. Chrome appliances, lavender-scented counter wipes, and a fridge that holds more bottled water than food.

He grabs one, unscrews the cap, and gulps half of it like his body’s begging for something clean to hold onto.

The dream lingers.

His father’s voice echoes in his head louder than the fridge hum.

The same man who punished him for being too soft, too curious, too… normal. And later accused him of being too weak when the doctors said mysophobia.

Fear of dirt? Tokunbo had scoffed.

Tayo drops the bottle on the counter, rubs his eyes with the heel of his palm.

He could never win. Not as the child who liked dirt, or the adult who feared it.

He exhales slowly.

And then—Rahama.

She slips into his mind like a glitch in his mental antivirus.

That hair. That wild, lion-mane hair. That scream. Her arms clinging to him like a baby monkey in a storm.

He chuckles. Actually chuckles. In the middle of his trauma spiral.

They both screamed like they were in a horror film.

But what gets him, what really puzzles him now, is—

Why didn’t he panic?

He was under a desk. With Rahama. Who likely hadn’t touched antibacterial soap in days. Her breath hit his neck. Her gown brushed his arm. And still, no dry throat. No itching skin. No sudden urge to bleach his soul.

Was he so scared that his mind forgot how to panic?

Maybe.

He glances at his clean hands.

And for the first time in a long time, they don’t feel like the enemy.

The smile stays on Tayo’s lips longer than it should.

He catches himself in the kitchen window reflection, smiling like a man who has just found peace in a plague. Unbelievable.

He sighs, runs a hand through his neatly trimmed hair.

At this point, germs are easier to manage than Rahama Sani.

She’s not just in the company.

She’s in the company.

Her presence? Sticky. Persistent. Like glitter after a birthday party.

And Tayo?

He has two options.

Fire her and become the villain in everyone’s office group chat. “Wicked boss sacks calm girl.”

Or… endure her from a safe, sanitized distance. Hazmat his emotions. Set internal boundaries. Install a metaphorical firewall.

Yes.

That’s the wiser option.

Professional. Civil. Distant.

He takes another sip of water and nods to himself.

Keep his space. Keep his cool. Keep Rahama out of both.

Simple.

“Thank you so much for yesterday, Mr Adeyemi, Mngohol,” Rahama says, her voice bubbling with gratitude as she descends from the staff quarters. She gives a small bow, her smile radiating brighter than the morning sun.

She’d caught a glimpse of Mr Savage’s smile last night, right before she’d scurried out of his office. A little crack in his icy façade. That smile? Priceless. She’s still riding high on that energy. Her morning has been nothing short of a mini celebration.

“You’re welcome, Rahama. Just... be careful next time,” Adeyemi says, dropping his bag on his desk. He raises a brow, his tone gentle but the kind of extreme caution that only an elder brother figure would possess.

Rahama nods, still floating a little from last night’s interaction.

“I will, I will!”

Mngohol glances up, her eyes crinkling into a grin. “Guess you had a nice rest?” she teases.

Before Rahama can respond, Ifunanya appears like a storm cloud over a sunny picnic, giving her a once-over from head to toe. “How come you’re still here, this girl?” she asks, her voice dripping with judgment.

Rahama winces but forces a grin. “Morning, Ifunanya. I—”

“…heard you broke something at Mr Savage’s father’s company,” Ifunanya interrupts, giving her a sharp, narrow-eyed look.

“Oh, here we go again,” Racheal chimes in from behind, her tone as smooth as honey but with a hint of sarcasm. “Ifunanya, do you live for gossip?”

“Ifunanya, how is this your business this early in the morning?” Racheal adds, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Maybe focus on your cup of tea instead of someone else’s drama.”

“If you all weren’t so busy being her personal cheerleaders, you’d see that Mr Savage doesn’t like Rahama here,” Ifunanya sneers, crossing her arms with a look of disdain.

“And we all know that about him. He’s obsessed with cleanliness, and she—well, she’s like a walking mess. We can’t ignore that.”

Rahama’s smile falters, but she refuses to let Ifunanya’s words sting too deep. “It’s okay, I know I’m not perfect,” she says, trying to keep her voice steady, “I’m working on it. Give me time.”

Ifunanya snorts in mock laughter.

“Oh, we’ll wait. We’ll all wait... forever.”

“You’re always so dramatic,” Racheal mutters under her breath, clearly over Ifunanya’s act.

The air feels tense for a beat, but then Adeyemi clears his throat, redirecting the conversation before it spirals too far. “Is Tobechukwu here yet?” he asks, as if nothing just happened.

Mngohol shakes her head. “Not yet,” she says, still cleaning her desk.

“Mm,” Adeyemi murmurs, unfazed, as he sorts through some papers.

“Mr Savage is here!” Peter’s voice cuts through the office like an alarm siren. In seconds, the staff scatters like ants under a boot: papers shuffle, chairs snap to place, already-clean desks get one more wipe just for good measure.

Ifunanya, as always, makes a beeline for her compact mirror. She checks her reflection like it holds the key to the universe—teeth, hair, outfit, pose.

Everything’s still flawless. She smooths her blouse, pops a smile, and whispers to herself, “Seriously, how does this man resist me?”

The glass doors whoosh open.

Omotayo Enioluwa Savage steps in like a germaphobe James Bond, disinfectant misting through the air with each step he takes. The room falls into a reverent hush.

“Good morning, Mr Savage,” Ifunanya says, her voice sugar-dipped as she glides two steps closer than necessary.

Tayo nods. No words as he takes two steps backwards too.

His eyes sweep the room, and then land—pause—on Rahama.

Her hair, now tamed into a bun, isn’t flying wild like last night. Her slippers? Still tragic. Her clothes may be faded and slightly stained, but her smile? Ah. It’s unsettling in a way that makes his chest do a weird flutter thing.

He lingers.

Too long.

Then looks away.

“Good morning, everyone,” he says coolly.

“Good morning, sir,” they chorus.

“Let’s pray,” Adeyemi announces.

Heads bow.

Even Tayo’s.

Though, as usual, he takes one subtle step back from the circle: just enough to breathe filtered air.

But something’s changed. He closes his eyes this time, and shockingly, doesn’t panic.

Rahama’s been breathing around here for four days, and he hasn’t keeled over or developed mysterious rashes. And last night? Trapped under a desk with her? He should’ve felt immediate discomfort.

But he isn’t.

And that’s... unsettling too.

Prayer ends. People scatter again.

Tayo retreats into his office.

He sanitizes everything: chair, desk, laptop, mouse pad, even the space between the keyboard keys—because rituals matter.

Yet, the smile that creeps onto his face as he sits down? That has nothing to do with hygiene.

He remembers last night.

Rahama.

Under the desk.

Hair like something from a Yoruba horror movie, breathing way too close to his face. And somehow... he survived.

It’s been years honestly, since before puberty, he was that close to a woman. And Rahama, of all people?

He shakes the thought off and opens his MacBook.

Client feedback forms.

Right.

But just as he dives in, the screen flashes.

WhatsApp Video Call: Lola.

Of course. His sister? Audio call? Too basic.

“Big sis,” Tayo answers, voice flat but his grin giving him away.

“Big sis?” Lola arches a brow, reclining like a queen on her office throne. Her look is crisp—of course it is. Lola doesn’t know how to be average.

Tayo nods. “Aren’t you?”

“With this smile and a ‘big sis’ at 9:23 a.m.?” she counters, arms folded.

“Did you land a billion-naira cleaning contract or finally get the governor to buy your disinfectant?”

Tayo groans. “Seriously, Lola?”

“I haven’t seen this particular smile since you discovered industrial-strength bleach in university,” she fires back, her grin all teeth.

He tries to glare. Fails.

“Why did you call?” he asks, already suspicious.

She adjusts her camera like she’s setting a trap and turns the phone to reveal a Google Slide deck.

“Can you look over this pitch? Just slides 7 and 10. Please. I’d send it to your mail but I need your eyes now-now.”

Tayo blinks. “Really, Lola? Why are you sneakily outsourcing your job to me?”

“You’re the only man I trust with Savtel documents,” she says, flipping the phone back with practiced flair. “Besides, isn’t that your sweet spot? Data analysis? Business process clarity?”

He sighs, long and dramatic, like the poster child for overworked younger brothers. “Fine. Send it over and let’s end this emotional blackmail.”

She lifts her phone like she’s demoing a limited-edition item on QVC. “Now you see why I call you. Efficient. Honest. Hardworking. Savtel’s behind-the-scenes genius.”

Tayo rolls his eyes. “You’re the main one when it comes to Savtel, Lola.”

And he means it. While he ran off to start a cleaning company, Lola stayed. Interned during holidays. Sat through board meetings she wasn’t invited to. Climbed the ladder with manicured nails and sharp elbows, now she’s Head of Business Development and Strategy. All earned.

Lola beams. “I hear you. Just help me with this pitch, abeg.”

She chuckles as the call ends.

Tayo exhales, eyes still on the dark screen.

And then, he smiles again.

— Somolu, Lagos-mainland, Nigeria. —

“Aisha!”
Rahama drops her polythene bag and practically flies toward her little niece playing in the dusty front yard.

Aisha giggles and runs straight into her arms, both of them spinning into a tight, joy-filled hug.

“Yaya kike?” Rahama asks in Hausa, settling Aisha onto her right hip.

“Lafiya, Kaki Rahama,” Aisha replies with a shy grin, arms still wrapped around her aunt’s neck.

“Good, good,” Rahama murmurs, her smile soft.

She grabs her bag with her free hand and hands Aisha the Gala and Fanta she picked up in traffic. Aisha squeals with delight, clutching both treats like prized possessions.

Still clinging to her like a baby monkey, Aisha giggles all the way into the house.

The small living room greets her with the familiar scent of pepper stew and worn-out furniture. On the sunken armchair, Maria snores gently, her heavily pregnant belly rising and falling beneath a faded wrapper.

“Maria!” Rahama calls out, loud enough to startle sleep.

Aisha wriggles down immediately and darts back outside to resume her play.

Maria groans, flutters her eyes open, and blinks.

“When did you get here?” she asks, struggling to sit up and fixing the wrapper behind her back.

“Just now,” Rahama says, plopping onto the wobbly wooden center table.

“I’ve missed you people. As soon as I finished cleaning today, I bathed, packed my things, and took the next bus home.”

Maria yawns and rubs her face. “So... how was your first week?”

Rahama exhales deeply and crosses her arms. “Hmm. I almost got fired.”

Maria jolts upright, wide-eyed. “Fired ke? First week?!”

Rahama winces. “I broke a glass thing... They said it was called a nameplate. I didn’t even know it had someone’s name on it o.”

Maria’s hand flies to her chest. “Yaya, Rahama!”

“I know! I know,” she says, holding up her palms in surrender. “Oga said, ‘You’re fired,’ just like that. My heart fell. But the others helped me beg.”

Maria slumps back. “Yaya Rahama...”

“But yesterday and today were better. His attitude changed small-small.”

Maria narrows her eyes. “Changed how? Didn’t you say he wanted you gone? Why would he now change?”

Rahama’s lips curl into an awkward, secretive smile. “Well... we kind of got stuck under his desk.”

Maria sits up straight again. “Stuck under his what?”

Rahama fumbles. “It’s not what you think—”

“You’ve already slept with your boss?! Rahama!” Maria’s eyes nearly pop out of her face.

“Kai! God forbid! No nau!” Rahama gasps, waving her hands frantically. “I mean... we literally got stuck under his desk.”

Maria squints. “You and your Oga? Under a desk? Together?”

Rahama nods, cheeks burning. “It’s a long story.”

“Well, I’m not cooking, I’m not going anywhere. Spill it.”

Rahama scoots forward, legs crossed on the center table like it’s story hour, her voice dropping to a dramatic whisper.

“Okay... so Wednesday night...”

And Maria leans in, eyes wide, ready for all the tea.

“Yaya Rahama!”

Dawuda’s voice booms from the doorway just seconds before he strides in and wraps his arms around her from behind.

Rahama lets out a tiny yelp and laughs.

“I heard your voice from outside,” he says, still hugging her like she’s the only person in the world. “So the Island hasn’t changed you one bit, I see.”

“But you smell nice sha,” he adds, sniffing playfully.

Rahama turns around with mock offense. “We’re commenting on smells now?”

Maria lifts her brows and crosses her arms with interest.

Dawuda shrugs with a grin. “It’s a compliment nau. You smell like someone that owns soap now.”

“Well, thank you very much,” Rahama says, flipping her imaginary weave. “Our oga likes everything neat. Since Wednesday, I’ve been bathing daily.”

Maria chokes on laughter. “Daily?!”

“It’s true,” Rahama says, chin up, full of pride. “I can’t be looking like I came from a dustbin while working for Mr Savage.”

Maria eyes her with suspicion.

“Kai! So you’re bathing because of him now?”

“No, I’m bathing because I want to be professional,” Rahama defends, placing extra weight on the word like she’s just discovered it.

“And maybe... maybe if I keep being clean and serious, he’ll start liking me. Like the rest of the staff.”

Dawuda steps back and stares at her like she’s grown an extra head. “Wow. I’m impressed. You’re intentionally trying to grow?”

Rahama nods with a dramatic flourish. “I am now a full Lagos babe.”

Maria and Dawuda laugh.

“We’ve missed you sha,” Dawuda says, grabbing a plastic stool and dragging it beside Maria. “And your juicy gist.”

“She was just telling me about her oga when you came in,” Maria says, side-eyeing Rahama with a smirk.

“Oh, really?” Dawuda perks up, rubbing his hands together. “I’m fully settled now. No distractions. Start from the beginning, Yaya. I want to hear everything.”

Rahama grins, crosses her legs like a village town crier preparing to spill tea, and leans forward.

Read previous chapters here

CHAPTER SIX

“Adeyemi, Savtel chatted us up. They need our Hygiene tech team first thing tomorrow,” Ifunanya announces the moment staff prayer ends, and Mr Savage disappears into his lemon-scented fortress.

“Alright, Ifunanya.” Adeyemi stretches his neck slightly, scanning the remaining hygiene techs like a coach picking the final players for a crucial match. Half the team’s already booked for off-site work the next day.

His gaze lands on Rahama, Mngohol, and Samuel, standing off to the side. Free. Available.

“I’ll go with Samuel, Mngohol and Rahama,” Adeyemi says with a nod, already walking toward them.

If he’s heading to Savtel—Mr Savage’s father’s company—he needs to be on deck. No mistakes. Not even a smudge.

Meanwhile, Omotayo Enioluwa Savage settles into his office chair, breathes in the lemon-scented air—his personal diffuser working overtime—opens his laptop, and exhales slowly like he’s preparing for battle. Because in a way… he is.

Rahama.

This is it. Day One. Operation Get-Rahama-Out is officially underway.

She’s still here. Breathing his air. Walking through his space. Existing with those cracked heels and mysterious hair texture.

He grabs up the intercom.

“Hello, Ifunanya,” he says calmly, “can you send Rahama over?”

The plan today is simple: Burn Her Out.

He had walked into the office—again—and she’s shown up looking like a walking “before” photo in a makeover ad: blouse faded beyond its original color, skirt rumpled like it slept beside her, hair still in a confused tangle, and skin dry enough to start a fire with friction, and lips as pale as uncharged Wi-Fi.

No lip balm. No lotion. No effort.

When he asked why she wasn’t in uniform, Racheal had mumbled, “She doesn’t have any field work today.”

Which, apparently, meant she could loiter in his workspace with her germs jumping on every surface.

Not on his watch.

Rahama appears less than two minutes later, stepping into the office with the same unbothered smile she wore yesterday.

“Hey—hey hey hey! Stay back, stay back!” Tayo flinches, lifting both hands like she’s radioactive. “Don’t come any closer.”

Rahama freezes mid-step, smiles politely like she’s used to this level of drama. She’s dealt with worse in her mother’s cleaning gigs. Men who thought shouting added to their masculinity.

Tayo studies her from a distance. The white crustiness of her elbows. The flaked skin around her ankles. The tragic condition of her fingernails—God, does she dig sand?

“I was told you’re free today?” he asks, voice flat, judgment thick.

“Yes, sir.” Her voice is calm, her Hausa accent softening the words like warm butter.

If he were blindfolded, he might actually enjoy the sound. A smooth, low lilt, touched with a Hausa rhythm. But no, he can see her, and that ruins it.

“Okay, then. I have a job for you.” He pauses. “Actually, a lot of jobs.”

Rahama nods without blinking. Still smiling. Still calm.

Tayo freezes for a second. He hasn’t even planned this part. He scrolls through mental folders for something suitably confusing and exhausting.

Think, Savage. Think.

Then he smirks.

He clears his throat. “Go sanitize the reception shelves.”

“Okay, sir.”

“But don’t move anything.”

“…Okay.”

“Also, remove everything and dust it.”

She blinks.

“Just not the confidential files.”

“Sir?”

“Use alcohol-based disinfectant,” he adds with a wave. “Except on the wood. For that, use bleach. But only a non-scented kind.”

Rahama’s eyebrows inch up. Her lips part slightly, not in rebellion, but pure confusion.

“Sir, I… don’t understand.”

Tayo lifts a hand in dismissal, already pretending to be too busy to clarify. “Just do what I said. You may go.”

She stands there for a beat too long. And then she nods slowly, turns, and walks out without another word.

Tayo watches her from the corner of his eye until she is out of sight.

And then, finally, he leans back and exhales in satisfaction.

“She’ll mess it up,” he mutters under his breath. “One tiny error, and I’ll personally inspect it.”

Nobody can get that kind of vague instruction right. And when she does, he’ll write her up.

Tayo smiles.

Operation Burnout Rahama is off to a glorious start.

One hour later

Tayo pulls on his gloves like a surgeon preparing for open-heart surgery.

Nose mask? Secured. Pocket-sized sanitizer? In one hand. Mini spray disinfectant? Holstered like a weapon.

Operation: Look for Rahama’s mistake.

It’s lunchtime—perfect. Fewer witnesses.

He steps out of his office with slow, careful strides, like a detective on a crime scene. The reception area is quiet. He approaches the shelves.

Tayo bends slightly, scanning every corner. No dust. No stray paper. No fingerprint smudges. He even checks behind the shelf, gripping it with his gloved hands. Still clean.

No hair strands, no damp patches, not even a forgotten pen cap.

Tayo frowns. That’s not possible.

He squats, pulling out a file, inspecting the edges, sniffing for any lingering Rahama-scented negligence.

Nothing.

Omotayo starts sweating. Under the air conditioner.

“Mr Savage?”

Tayo jerks upright, nearly hitting his head. He stumbles backwards, disinfectant held up like a weapon.

Ifunanya stands a few feet away, blinking. “Are you… looking for something, sir?”

“Yes. No. I mean… no,” Tayo says, attempting a smile.

It looks like a nervous tic.

Ifunanya grins, not buying it for a second. “Or did you come to see me, sir?”

He stares at her. Blink. Blink.

Why would she think that? How much confidence does this girl have in her romantic destiny?

“I’m just strolling.” He says it like it’s the most logical thing to do—stroll around a reception shelf while bending awkwardly in gloves and a mask.

Ifunanya raises a brow. “Around the shelves… crouched?”

Tayo frowns. She’s a side quest. He needs to focus on the boss level: Rahama.

Tayo is about to turn away when something catches his eye. Right there, on the edge of the second shelf from the bottom. He smiles for the first time in the last thirty minutes.

He steps closer. Squints.

A torn sticker. Or rather, the half-peeled remains of one.

Just sitting there, mocking him with its uneven edges and old, gummy residue.

It must’ve once held a label, but now it’s nothing but a disgrace to surface cleanliness.

Tayo’s eye twitches.

He bends down slowly, dramatic as ever, nose mask fogging up with every breath. His gloved finger hovers over the spot, but he doesn’t touch it. Of course not. Who knows how long it’s been there? Who put it there? More importantly, why didn’t Rahama see it?

“Where is Rahama?” he asks, practically giddy as he stands upright.

Ifunanya tilts her head, confused.

“She’s in the staff room upstairs. On break.”

Tayo’s smile falters. “Break?”

The one word he doesn’t want to hear: Rahama on a break?

“Yes, sir,” Ifunanya shrugs. “She uses the staff accommodation. I think her house is far, so she says she would be going home only on weekends.”

Tayo freezes. Accommodation? In his company?

He blinks. “She lives here?”

“Yes, sir.” Ifunanya watches his smile vanish like someone just deleted it manually.

Tayo clenches his jaw. “Go and call Rahama and Peter. Tell them to meet me in my office. Now!”

He doesn’t wait for a response. He turns and storms off.

Ifunanya watches him leave, shaking her head. In just five minutes, Mr Savage has smiled, frowned, jumped, and flinched. And all because of one girl.

She grins and turns toward the stairs. “Rahama, your village people didn’t waste time oh, they have show up to send you off properly!”

“How come I’m just finding out Rahama lives here?” Tayo asks, leaning forward in his chair like he’s cross-examining a witness in court.

Peter and Rahama both stand at a respectful distance across from him.

“Sir, you approved it. It’s in her employment file, the one I showed you. The contract. And since accommodation is automatically part of the employee benefits if they request it, I didn’t think I needed to emphasize it.”

Tayo narrows his eyes. “When?”

“When I brought her file to your office. You asked if I had her contract in hand and signed it. It’s in the company’s e-files. You can check, sir.”

Tayo blinks like Peter just accused him of adopting a goat without realizing it. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir.”

There’s a pause.

Then Tayo, arms crossed, squints at Peter. “Is there something going on between you and Rahama I should know about?”

Peter’s face remains neutral.

“No, sir. You made all the decisions regarding her employment. Everything.”

Right. Of course he did. Employed a walking germ. Approved her stay in the staff quarters above his office. Practically invited chaos into his sterile kingdom. He’s the architect of his own downfall.

Rahama watches silently from the side, eyes moving between both men as they toss her life back and forth like it’s a poorly planned spreadsheet.

She’s confused. Is Mr Savage just proud and snobbish… or does he genuinely hate her?

She had assumed Mr Savage was kind. Quiet. Even sweet, from the one time she cleaned his home. He’d seemed fragile in a well-mannered sort of way.

But now? The constant irritation, the weird instruction, the look he gives her like she’s a virus in a human costume, maybe it’s because she’s Hausa. Some people do.

They smile in your face but see you as lesser.

“Rahama,” Tayo snaps, his voice sharp. “I told you to clean the shelves. So why is there still a half-peeled sticker on the middle one?”

Rahama blinks, caught off guard. “Sir, I was going to clean it. But Mr Adeyemi asked me to buy stamp pins. He said he’d assign Mngohol to finish the shelf.”

Tayo frowns. “So Mngohol cleaned the shelves?”

“I think so, sir. But I didn’t. I explained to Mr Adeyemi how you said I should clean it: ‘remove everything, don’t remove anything.’ So he handled it.”

Peter glances at Tayo, then at Rahama, and back again. A slow, knowing smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

Tayo doesn’t miss it.

Peter knows exactly what’s going on.

Tayo’s trying to trap Rahama with vague instructions.

“It’s fine. You can go.” Tayo waves Rahama off, suddenly feeling too exposed, too ridiculous in front of Peter.

Rahama nods once, silent, and slips out of the office.

Tayo turns to Peter with a deep sigh.

“Is there anything else I’m missing about Rahama? Aside from accidentally hiring her and somehow approving her to live on-site?”

Peter shakes his head. “No, sir. Only that she leaves on Friday evenings and returns Sunday nights. She goes home for the weekend.”

Tayo exhales like that tiny detail was meant to comfort him. It doesn’t. Not one bit.

He waves Peter away. “Go.”

Peter nods and leaves.

Tayo stares at the door for a long moment. His skin itches. His thoughts spiral.

Rahama is a health hazard. A living, breathing danger to his immune system. He knows how his body reacts to germs, one wrong exposure and his sinuses revolt like a coup.

And now she’s here. In his orbit. At his workplace. Sleeping one floor above him.

There has to be a way to get rid of her.

But what and how?

Rahama lies on one of the twin beds in the staff quarters, staring up at the patterned POP ceiling like it holds answers. The light from the low-hanging bulb casts soft yellow shadows around the room.

Across from her, Oritsejumi, her roommate and fellow hygiene technician, sits cross-legged on the second bed, eyes glued to her phone, earbuds in, lips twitching now and then at something unseen.

What is wrong with Mr Savage?

Just when she thought he might be a decent boss, possibly even a literal angel in business-casual wear but he’s been acting like her presence alone triggers him.

First, the vague instructions.

Then the disapproval practically dripping off his voice. And now this strange tension, like she’s trespassing on sacred ground just by being here.

Does he hate her?

Is it tribal?

But no, Rahama shakes her head slowly.

That can’t be it.

Mr Savage might be many things, but a tribalist? She’s seen more than five different tribes in the company.

Her roommate Oritsejumi is Itsekiri. Ifunanya, Igbo. Mngohol, Benue. Then there’s Yoruba, Edo, and even someone from Gombe, even the security guard is Hausa.

So why her?

She glances at Oritsejumi, wondering if she should say something, but the girl’s AirPods make her a lost cause.

Maybe she should just… ask him. Find out what she’s doing wrong.

But then again, she’s been paying attention.

Mr Savage barely talks to anyone. He communicates with Peter and Mr Adeyemi: likely because they run the show. Everyone else? He avoids. He doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t linger. Doesn’t even make eye contact unless absolutely necessary.

But there’s something different about the way he acts with her.

It’s not just distance. It’s tension. Sharp. Odd. Personal.

Still, maybe, just maybe, if she’s kind, he’ll soften up. Maybe he’s just misunderstood.

Rahama nods to herself, lips tightening with resolve.

Tomorrow, she’ll try being nice. Really nice, maybe even clean Mr Savage’s office.

Across town, Tayo sighs heavily as he scrubs a bunch of scent leaves in the sink like he’s giving them a second baptism. He’s wearing elbow-length gloves—mint green, hospital-grade—and scrubbing with surgical precision.

If Peter hadn’t worked with him for over two years, he would’ve suspected sabotage.

But no. It’s all on him. He signed the contract. He gave the nod. Approved Rahama’s file.

Without seeing her in real-time.

Without seeing the messy bun, the dry lips, the unmoisturized elbows, or the dust-coated slippers that look like they’ve been on pilgrimage.

He rinses the sink twice, then starts on the pepper. There’s pounded yam on his mind tonight, and he’s determined to eat it with clean hands and a clean conscience.

But his thoughts are anything but clean.

Rahama.

Everywhere he turns, she’s in his head.

On his company records.

In his office.

Living in quarters he signed off on.

He feels out of control… and he hates that.

She could’ve at least tried, he thinks, scrubbing a tomato like it personally offended him.

She could moisturize. Fix that frizzy hair. Buff the soles of her feet. Cut her nails. Use lip balm. Something. Anything.

How can one person be this… untouched by a moisturizer?

Tayo exhales sharply and shuts off the tap. The water drips into silence.

No. He’s not letting her stay past Friday. He doesn’t care what kind of HR language he has to draft. He will find something.

Anything. Even if he has to call her out…

Rahama must go.

Next Day

Rahama stands before the towering glass behemoth, the Savtel building, with its twenty-plus floors, and can’t help but feel tiny.

Who owns this kind of building? she wonders, her eyes tracing the sleek glass façade.

She’s holding a bag of cleaning solutions. Lagos is holding her breath.

Her cleaning equipment feels a little less significant in her hands now, as if it’s not enough to wipe away the wealth oozing from every corner of this place.

Adeyemi, Samuel, and Mngohol move toward the entrance, but Rahama’s still stuck on the view.

The security guard bows as the automatic doors glide open with a swoosh straight out of a sci-fi film.

The lobby hits her like a punch to the stomach, grand but sleek.

To the right, two receptionists in sleek black polos type away with robotic precision. To the left, plush couches host a parade of polished guests scrolling on iPhones. Far ahead, the glass elevator glides down with execs inside looking like models on a Vogue business spread.

Adeyemi approaches the receptionists, exchanging greetings that feel more like an old friendship than a professional transaction.

Rahama can’t help but notice how at ease he is here, like he owns the place. Then, with a quick nod, Adeyemi gestures for them to follow, and she snaps back to reality.

Inside the elevator, he presses 12, 17, and 21.

The elevator ride is a spectacle in itself. They pile inside, and as it starts rising, Rahama watches the ground floor shrink beneath them, everyone down there suddenly looking like little ants. She feels like she’s ascending into another universe.

“So,” Adeyemi, the ever-organized chief hygiene officer, begins, casual but firm, “like I explained in the car, we’re doing deep cleaning for the executive offices and the main boardroom.”

Everyone nods.

“Rahama, since you’re still new, you’ll be with Mngohol. She’ll guide and supervise.”

“Okay,” Rahama says, already nervous.

“Samuel, take the boardrooms on 17. I’ll handle the executive suite on 21. Mngohol,”—he turns—“you and Rahama handle 12 and 15. Then meet me at the CEO’s office.”

Mngohol nods. Rahama nods too, tighter this time.

Two hours later, 12 is sparkling. Mngohol grins mid-vacuum.

“You’re fast, I like that. And you wipe properly, unlike some people.”

Rahama chuckles, loosening up. Her hands ache, but it’s satisfying, this work. This progress.

They step out on 15. This floor is another level. The walls are lighter, the marble shinier. Even the secretaries wear silk scarves and a little too much confidence.

Inside one of the executive offices, Rahama polishes a large, dark walnut desk, careful around the sleek décor.

But as she wipes beneath the custom nameplate—Martins Daniel, Head of Finance—it slips.

Crack.

The sound echoes.

She freezes. Glass shards scatter across the polished tiles like glitter gone wrong.

“Rahama!” Mngohol rushes in, vacuum abandoned, eyes wide. “What happened?!”

“I—I didn’t mean to,” Rahama stammers, crouching beside the mess. “It just slipped, I was wiping and—”

“It’s okay,” Mngohol says, though her tone says this is bad. She crouches too, eyes scanning the broken pieces.

It’s a custom glass nameplate in Savtel.

Mngohol’s stomach drops. Oh no. Mr Savage had warned them. No mistakes. No embarrassments. Not in my father’s building.

“I’ll call Adeyemi.” Mngohol’s voice is calm now, too calm. The way people sound when they’re trying not to panic.

She steps aside and dials. Rahama can hear just enough to know it’s not going well. Even Adeyemi’s deep voice sounds clipped.

This was supposed to be the beginning of her fresh start.

Now, she’s standing in broken glass.

Hours later

Tayo leans back in his leather chair, arms crossed, his jaw tight enough to snap. The diffuser whirs softly beside him, but even the lemon-lavender mist can’t unclench the mood.

“Mr Daniels called,” he says, voice low but firm. “Said one of my staff broke his nameplate.”

A chill settles over the room. Samuel shifts awkwardly. Mngohol looks like she wants to disappear. Rahama keeps her eyes glued to a spot on the tiles like it holds the secrets of heaven. And Adeyemi, ever the team lead, stands tall but tense.

Tayo’s eyes narrow. “How did that happen, Adeyemi? I’ve said it over and over, Savtel is not just any client. It’s my father’s company. Do you know the pressure I’m under already?”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to.

It’s bad enough that his father thinks he is some… incompetent invalid, and now his team went over there, and they start breaking things like it’s a demolition job

A long silence.

He scans their faces. “So who did it?”

Everyone shifts again.

“This can’t be your first time cleaning an executive office,” Tayo says, eyes darting from one face to the next. “You know the nameplates sit at the edge. You know to be careful.”

“It was a mistake,” Mngohol says quietly, stepping forward. “Rahama didn’t know. We’d cleaned other offices together. I thought she had it. I asked her to handle the desk while I worked the floors.”

Tayo turns slowly to Rahama.

“You?” His tone slices. “Three days in. Just three days. And you’re already destroying client property?”

Rahama lifts her gaze for a second. That’s all it takes.

He sees it: guilt, shame, the tremble in her bottom lip.

She nods.

For a moment, something flickers behind his eyes.

In his chest.

But he blinks it away.

“Sir,” Adeyemi cuts in, firm. “I was in charge of supervision. This is on me. Don’t take it out on her.”

Tayo ignores him. His voice comes out colder this time.

“You’re fired, Rahama.”

And just like that, her whole body stiffens. She doesn’t plead. Doesn’t argue. Just stands there, small and still, as the words hit her like rain in the middle of nowhere with no roof in sight.

She blinks once.

A tear falls, silent and sharp.

So much for getting out of Somolu.

So much for this being her big break.

Adeyemi clears his throat and steps forward like he’s about to walk into gunfire. “Sir… I really don’t think it’s entirely Rahama’s fault.”

Tayo doesn’t blink.

“I should’ve supervised her more closely,” Adeyemi adds. “It was her first time deep-cleaning an executive office. I dropped the ball.”

Tayo tilts his head, still unsmiling.

“So now we’re offering excuses?”

“No, sir,” Adeyemi says quickly.

“I’m offering accountability. I can pay for the damages out of my salary. Or Rahama and I can split it. But… maybe firing her is too extreme.”

Mngohol chimes in, voice small but sincere. “Please, sir. Rahama’s been trying. She’s a fast learner. She just… messed up. We all do sometimes. I’ll put part of my salary in too if it helps.”

Silence.

Tayo stares at them like they’re speaking a language he doesn’t understand. Why is everyone acting like this is a fairy tale?

He crosses his arms. “Anyone else want to chip in? Samuel? Maybe we should open a GoFundMe for her while we’re at it?”

Samuel coughs awkwardly. Adeyemi presses his lips into a line. Even Rahama doesn’t raise her head.

Tayo’s eyes land on her again. And that’s the real problem, isn’t it?

Because somehow, this one girl—this walking mess of unwashed hands and beautiful eyes—is slowly becoming a glitch in his well-controlled system. One that santizier can’t fix.

He feels it rising in his chest: A burn.

That mix of anger and something softer he’s trying so hard to kill.

So, so hard to kill.

They don’t get it.

They don’t know what he’s been fighting every single day.

The pressure to prove himself in a company his father treats like a joke. The backhanded compliments. The “That’s nice, you run a cleaning company… what else?”

They don’t know that every time he sends his staff to Savtel, it’s like going to battle, with his father’s opinion of him, with the legacy he didn’t ask for, and now... with Rahama’s clumsiness making it all worse.

She didn’t just break a nameplate.

She broke the last thread of credibility he’s hanging onto in front of the man who thinks he’s a walking disappointment.

“Just leave,” he says at last. His voice is tight. Quiet. Dangerous. “I’ll decide before the day ends.”

They hesitate, just for a beat and then file out one after the other.

He exhales heavily and sinks back into his chair, rubbing his temple.

Rahama is turning out to be a full-blown migraine. A stubborn one. One of those ones Panadol can’t touch.

He picks up his phone and dials his father.

It rings.

And rings.

And finally connects.

“Hello o, Tayo,” his father’s voice booms like he’s already disappointed. “Calling to explain how your staff are breaking things in my building?”

Tayo shuts his eyes.

Here we go.

Read previous chapters here

CHAPTER FIVE

— Ikoyi, Lagos-Island, Nigeria. —

“Mr Savage is coming!”

Tobechukwu practically flies out of the breakroom, his voice slicing through the buzz of conversation.

“Ifunanya, stop commenting on Rahama’s gown. Focus! Mr Savage is in the parking lot!”

He hurries to the front desk, sweeping pens and files into place with lightning speed.

Samuel adjusts the blinds like the sunlight offends Mr Savage’s retinas.

Peter straightens every chair in sight. Racheal disinfects the countertop like it’s being prepped for surgery.

The four newly hired Hygiene Technicians stand in the middle of the chaos, frozen like deer in headlights.

Ifunanya glances at her reflection in her phone camera, tilting her head.

“Do I look okay? My lipstick’s fine, right? I just need him to notice me today. Just once.”

Rahama says nothing. She just blinks.

A few days ago, her whole house had erupted in celebration over the job offer.

Her mother cried and prayed all at once, then worked overtime just to buy her four thrifted blouses, two skirts, and five slightly-used gowns from the market.

Dawuda had spent all weekend teaching her how to operate a smartphone without accidentally posting a voice note to her WhatsApp status.

Racheal leans over and gently plucks a loose strand of hair from Rahama’s bun.

“Try to tuck this in. Mr Savage doesn’t like flyaways.”

Rahama nods quickly. “Thank you.”

She has no idea how everyone else looks this polished. The other three new hires look ready for a photo shoot. And then she looks… like someone who had to run to catch a bus in the rain.

Everyone drifts toward the glass doors, waiting.

Then, they slide open.

Enioluwa OmoTayo Savage steps in.

It’s like someone pressed the mute button. The air stills. The room holds its breath.

He walks in with quiet confidence, suited to perfection, holding his signature mist bottle. He sprays the air twice—once to the left, once to the right, then strolls in like royalty arriving at court.

“Good morning, Mr Savage,” Racheal says politely.

Ifunanya immediately positions herself near him, smiling just enough to be noticed, hands at her sides like a well-trained contestant.

He sidesteps her without breaking stride.

His eyes sweep the room—assessing, inspecting, memorizing. Then they land on her.

Tayo freezes.

Her gown has a stain on the hem—faint, but there.

Her thick bun is puffed up and slightly lopsided, with strands of hair rebelliously framing her face. Her slippers look like they’ve been through several Lagos roads and back.

Her knees are dry. Her nails are unfiled and dirty.

Everything about her clashes with his carefully curated, germ-free, lint-free world.

He blinks. Once. Twice.

“Racheal,” he says quietly. “Who is that?”

Racheal doesn’t even flinch.

“Rahama, sir. One of the new Hygiene Technicians.”

Tayo stares at her like he’s just seen a sanitation hazard come to life.

A hygiene technician? he thinks. She looks like she needs one.

He remembers her eyes from his house—beautiful, warm, gentle.

Now, in full daylight, without her cap and face mask?

He’s not sure if it was the flu that blurred his vision then… or if he’s hallucinating now.

“Good morning, sir,” Rahama says, offering a polite smile.

Another jolt.

Tayo freezes.

What… is that in her teeth? A speck. Tiny. Red. Pepper? Maybe from breakfast. Maybe from last week.

Her voice is calm—actually nice, if he’s being honest—but who cares about vocal tone when her entire existence is a bacteria buffet?

There is nothing good about this morning. Nothing!

She is a walking germ. A full-on contamination risk. His worst-case scenario in human form.

“Let’s pray, everyone,” Adeyemi jumps in quickly, sensing the rising tension and doing his best to smooth the edges.

Everyone bows their heads. Except Tayo.

Tayo takes three silent steps back. Just in case.

He keeps one eye cracked open during the entire prayer. He doesn’t trust anyone in this building right now, least of all the girl with questionable hygiene and flaking slippers. What if she breathes in his direction? What if she touches something?

The prayer ends.

Tayo practically bolts from the reception, spraying disinfectant in his wake like a one-man fumigation squad.

He reaches his office, kicks off his shoes like they’re radioactive, and drops them in the “contaminated” corner he keeps for emergencies.

Then he starts cleaning.

Desk. Chair. Pen. Desk again. His palms. His phone. Desk again. Just to be sure.

He’s on his third wipe-down when he snatches the intercom.
“Ifunanya. Get Peter in here. Now.”

His voice is clipped, sharp, almost dangerous.

He doesn’t even sit down properly. Just stands behind his chair, arms folded, pacing slightly as he waits.

She has to go.
She can’t stay here another minute.
What were they thinking? What was Peter thinking?

He has a list of phobias, and “Rahama Sani” now tops that list in bold capital letters.

“Good morning, sir,” Peter says, stepping into Tayo’s office with visible caution.

He keeps a healthy distance, like one would from someone who sprays disinfectant.

His eyes drift to the floor.
Tayo is in socks. Black socks.
Where are his shoes? Peter wonders.

Tayo paces like a CEO on the edge of a breakdown.

“What’s good about this morning, Peter?” he asks, voice tight, like he’s holding his sanity in place with masking tape.

Peter blinks. “Uh… sir?”

“How—how did that lady end up here?” Tayo gestures wildly.

“Who hired her? Who let her pass the interview?” He lowers his voice like the word Rahama might trigger a relapse in his immune system.

Peter looks completely lost. “Who, sir?”

Tayo stops pacing, turns, and stares at him like he just asked what 1+1 is.

“Rahama. She’s a walking germ, Peter. A biohazard.”

Peter’s face does a little shuffle—surprise, confusion, diplomacy.

“Sir, you asked me to employ her.”

Tayo stops mid-stride.

“No, Peter. I asked what you thought about her. You said—your exact words—you said she was experienced.”

Peter nods slowly, as if replaying the moment.

“Yes, sir. I interviewed her, and she has extensive experience. She’s been cleaning since she was young. And you said you thought so too. That she was composed and did a good job.”

Tayo throws his hands in the air.

“She was masked up! I couldn’t see anything. You were supposed to warn me if I was wrong!”

Peter gives a small bow of apology.

“Sir, I thought you were comfortable with her. You seemed impressed.”

Tayo exhales, slow and dramatic. He’s been deceived.

For the first time in his twenty-nine years on this chaotic planet, a beautiful Hausa girl’s eyes and her thick eyebrows tricked him.

He rubs his temples. “It’s fine. It’s okay. We all make mistakes. I made a mistake.”

A beat.

“Go out there and tell her… her services are no longer needed. We can compensate her.”

Peter hesitates. Then speaks in a tone barely above a whisper.

“Sir… that might not be possible.”

Tayo spins to him like a scene from a slow-burn thriller.

“Why? Is she glued to my company floor?”

“She’s already signed the one-month trial training contract, sir.”

“And? So?” Tayo snaps. “Don’t we terminate people mid-trial all the time?”

Peter nods slowly. “Yes, sir. But only when it falls under specific terms: breach of agreement, lack of skills, misconduct, poor performance…”

He lifts a hand.

“…and she hasn’t done any of those yet. She literally just walked in.”

Tayo stares at him like he’s just grown two heads.

Peter clears his throat. “Also, sir, the contract states what isn’t allowed as grounds for termination. Discrimination… or false accusations without evidence.”

Silence.

Tayo goes still. Processing.

Remembering the contract he personally helped design to make the company more “ethical” and “transparent.”

Ugh.

Peter continues gently, “Everyone you’ve dismissed before met the criteria. But this is… new. There is no professional reason to dismiss her”

No professional reason? She’s dirty, Tayo thinks.
Then immediately corrects himself. But then that isn’t a professional reason.

“You should’ve told me before you let her sign,” Tayo says tightly.

“We needed the hygiene team to leave for an on-site job,” Peter replies. “I didn’t want her left behind.”

Peter folds his hands, speaking like a man begging a lion not to roar.

“She’s not a full staff yet. After the trial, if she doesn’t meet the standard, we can let her go.” Peter says quietly.

Tayo stares at him.

How does he survive this?

A walking germ. In his building. His airspace.

Rahama might be harmless to others—but to him, she’s a walking biohazard.

Everything he avoids. Everything he sanitizes against. Everything he fears.

He exhales, presses his back against his polished office wall, and stares blankly at the ceiling like divine help might drop from the vents.

And then, like a lightbulb flickering on during a blackout, an idea strikes.

She just has to break the contract.

Yes. That’s it.

If he can’t fire her over hygiene—which should be a crime, in his opinion—he can find something else. Something legally justifiable. Something in the fine print.

Misconduct. Lateness. Dishonesty. Poor performance.

Even breathing too loudly if he frames it right.

He doesn’t even have to dig. She’ll mess up. People like her always do. He just needs to watch.

Closely. Like a hawk.

His mouth slowly stretches into a smile, the kind that makes Peter take one cautious step back.

Tayo straightens, wipes invisible dust from his sleeves, and says with a newfound calm, “You can go now, Peter.”

Peter blinks. “Sir?”

Tayo waves dismissively. “Thank you. You’ve done enough damage for today.”

Peter nods slowly, unsure if he’s being thanked or insulted, then slips out of the office like a man dodging landmines.

The moment Peter is out of sight, Tayo claps his hands once and whispers to himself, “She won’t last the week.”

He rolls up his sleeves and reaches for his notepad: the one usually reserved for productivity plans and strategy sprints.

Today, it’s for something far more personal.

At the top, he writes in all caps:

RAHAMA’S MISTAKE LOG.

Then underlines it. Twice.

If she so much as blinks suspiciously, he’ll note it.

If she uses the microwave without a cover, recorded.

If she shows up even a minute late, termination evidence.

Tayo leans back, satisfied. The war has begun.

And he intends to win it: sanitized, documented, and fully HR-approved.

“I know Mr Savage very well,” Ifunanya says, flipping her hair like it holds magical powers.

“That Rahama girl doesn’t stand a chance. If not for Peter’s support today, Mr Savage would’ve thrown her out faster than his hand sanitizer dries.”

She plucks another piece of chin-chin from the paper napkin on her lap, crunches like she’s biting into victory, and adjusts the hem of her white round-neck tee as she settles deeper into the bean bag.

“Even me—fine girl like me—he hasn’t looked at me twice,” she adds with mock heartbreak. “I give her three days. Tops.”

Mngohol squints at her.

“Rahama’s fine too. Just like every woman in this office. She just doesn’t come from the same kind of privilege.”

Ifunanya scoffs. “Who bring this Tiv babe come Lagos sef?”

“And who bring this Igbo babe here?” Mngohol shoots back, lips pressed into a smirk.

“Lagos is no man’s land,” Ifunanya declares, chin high.

“Nope. Lagos is a man’s land,” Adeyemi chimes in, not looking up from his phone. “I’m from Lagos. Born and bred. Just the way you’re from Owerri.”

“Why are both of you fighting my one and only?” Tobechukwu grins, eyes shifting dramatically from Mngohol to Adeyemi.

Ifunanya narrows her eyes. “Your what? Hope you’re not referring to me?”

“Of course, it’s you. Does he have another ‘one and only’ in this office?” Mngohol laughs, poking Tobechukwu’s side.

“I’m for Mr Savage only,” Ifunanya says with a dreamy sigh. “My Odogwu. My Eze. My Obim otu. My Yoruba demon—”

“Customer service rep. by day, poet by mouth,” Peter interrupts dryly, stepping into their circle.

“Adeyemi, one of our VIP clients, Mr Raymond just called. He needs some hygiene tech for post-construction deep cleaning. Urgent.” Peter adds.

Adeyemi nods, already standing and instructing.

“Mngohol, Tobechukwu, go with Oritsejumi. Tell Ohunene to drive. It’s on the mainland.”

“Okay,” they both echo, grabbing their kits and disappearing quickly.

Peter’s gaze shifts to Ifunanya. Sharp. Annoyed.

“Ifunanya, I’m sorry, but you’re the most idle person here. I attend to customers while you sit here gossiping and crunching chin-chin like it’s your full-time role.”

She straightens. “I’m on lunch break.”

“At 11 am?”

She blinks.

“Even Rahama, the same person you’re mocking, has gone out for fieldwork,” Peter says, his tone neutral but cutting.

“Meanwhile, our customer service rep. is chilling on beanbags like she’s at Landmark Beach.”

“I’m not a cleaner, Peter,” she snaps. “She is. That’s why she’s out.”

“And you’re a receptionist, abi? So do your job.”

He doesn’t wait for her response, just turns and walks off with all the energy of someone who’s done babysitting adults.

Ifunanya stares after him, jaw tight. One day. One day, Peter will regret this.

When she becomes Mr Savage’s girlfriend—the boss’s babe—she’ll promote herself, demote Peter, or worse, make him clean toilets in Rahama’s uniform.

She smiles to herself, imagining Peter bowing, begging her for mercy.

“Madam Ifunanya,” he would say, voice trembling. “Please forgive me.”

Oh, she will. Eventually. But first, payback.

With a final hair flip, she struts off to the reception desk like it’s a runway and her revenge plan just walked the first step.

Share Abimbola’s LoveStack

Tayo rolls to the other side of his bed, for the fifth time tonight. Sleep refuses to come. Peace refuses to stay. And it’s all because of her.

Rahama.

The walking germ. The breathing bacteria. The clutter in his organized life.

He stares at the ceiling like it’s hiding solutions. There has to be a way to chase her out—cleanly. Legally. Politely. Without sounding like a tribal bigot or a hygiene fascist.

Because people talk.

“It’s because she is Hausa,” they’d whisper.
“She didn’t even do anything wrong.”
“Mr Savage is just wicked.”
“Abi she rejected his advances ni?”

No. Tayo shudders at the last one. God forbid!

And the worst part? Rahama looks like the type people would help to post a three-slide Instagram story out of pity:
Slide 1: “Let me tell you how I lost my job for being Hausa 😩”
Slide 2: A crying boomerang. 😭
Slide 3: A long thread tagged: #SayNoToDiscrimination #WorkplaceBias #LuxetouchCleaning

That’s the kind of PR crisis he cannot bleach away.

He’s asked Adeyemi how her fieldwork went today, secretly hoping for a poor report.

Maybe a missed corner or a customer complaint. Something.

But no. Adeyemi had said—and Tayo still hears it like a curse: “She’s thorough, sir.”

Tayo groans and rolls again.

Why is this woman ruining his life in less than 24 hours?

There must be something she’s bad at. Something worth firing for. Sloppiness? Lateness? Poor communication?

He grabs his phone from the nightstand and opens his browser. Fingers fly over the screen.

Search: how to make a staff quit in one week.

Articles pop up.

“Call employees out in public.”

“Give vague instructions.”

“Refuse breaks.”

“Ignore boundaries and burn them out.”

“Disregard their concerns.”

He blinks.

“Who wrote this wickedness?” he mutters.

But he keeps scrolling. Because… useful is useful.

He exhales.

Maybe he can do this. Push her out quietly. Gently sabotage her soul and beg God for forgiveness later.

“Lord,” he whispers, eyes closed, “I promise I’ll do a Thanksgiving once she’s gone.”

Because this isn’t a small issue. This is his mental health. His peace. His safe space.

How is he supposed to work with someone whose knees are white?

Who walks around with bread crumbs and pepper on her teeth like she’s saving them for later? Whose hair looks like it lost the will to live somewhere in 2020? When was the last time she washed that hair?

He shudders.

Her clothes are stained. Faded in all the wrong places.

And her slippers? Don’t even get him started on those cracked soles and backless things flapping like broken wings on the tiles.

Tayo exhales sharply and pulls his duvet over his head.

Then flings it off again. Too hot.

He turns again. Flips his pillow.

Why can’t he stop thinking about Rahama?

She’s already ruining his sleep, his airspace, his chi alignment and tomorrow will be worse.

Tayo sits up.

He needs a strategy.

Tomorrow is Day One of Operation Evict Rahama.

Let the mischievous wisdom of Google begin.

Discussion:

Should I be honest with you all?

I’m siding with Tayo on this one, I completely get him 🤣

And Rahama? Hmm… she’s really putting him through it 😭

What would you advise Tayo to do? Is he being inconsiderate? 🤔

Let’s talk.

A Merry Christmas once again, loves 🥰

Merry Christmas, loves 🤍🎄
May this season slow you down just enough to remember that love - gentle, patient, and true - is God’s gift to us all.
Thank you for walking this journey with me and for all the love you’ve poured back. I appreciate you more than words can say 🥰

Read previous chapters here

CHAPTER FOUR

—Somolu, Lagos-mainland, Nigeria —

“Dawuda!” Rahama rushes toward him, breathless and barefoot, nearly tripping on the loose stone at the edge of the compound.

Dawuda, still in his slightly dusty NYSC khaki, stands near the water drum, sipping sachet water like life’s normal. He straightens when he sees her, brows raised, smile ready.

“How was the interview, Yaya Rahama?” he asks, eyeing her flushed cheeks.

She grabs his wrist like it’s urgent. “Oh my God, Dawuda, going there was a big mistake.”

“Ehn? What happened?” He lets her drag him to the old two-sitter couch near the compound entrance, its foam peeks through tears like a wound that refuses to heal. They sit.

Rahama throws her hands up dramatically. “Have you seen an—” She squints, thinking. “Wait, what did he call it again?”

Dawuda blinks. “Who?”

She waves a hand. “That man. Peter. The one with the model face. Ehn ehn—automated cleaning assistant!” she declares, eyes wide, like she’s just discovered electricity.

Dawuda tries not to laugh. “You mean robot vacuum?”

Her head jerks toward him, half-insulted. “You’ve seen one before?”

He shrugs. “Not live, just online. Instagram reels and tech videos.”

Rahama’s pride puffs right back up. “Then you better respect me, Dawuda, because I saw it with my God-given eyes today. In action. Not on your TikTok.”

She laughs loudly, tossing her scarf over her shoulder like a millionaire.

“Keep your voice down,” Dawuda says with a grin, glancing at the neighbor’s window. “Do you want Mama Shaki to hear you and start another gossip meeting?”

Rahama leans back, unbothered. “Even Mama Shaki has never seen what I saw today.”

Dawuda chuckles. “So what exactly did you see, Yaya Rahama? And how was the interview, really?”

Her smile wobbles. She exhales. “I don’t know, Dawuda. Those people… they don’t even need a cleaner.” She pauses. “Sorry. Not cleaner. They don’t say that there.”

“Really?”

“It is a hygiene technician.” She says it like it’s an international passport. “Everything is spotless. They have machines. Robots. Their mop probably costs more than my phone.”

Dawuda nods, pulling off his boots.

Before he could reply, Maria waddles out of their room, cradling her belly and her lower back at the same time.

“Yaya Rahama!” she groans. “I could hear your voice from my sleep. How was the interview?”

“Fine,” Rahama mutters, scooting over to make room. They shuffle awkwardly, three grown bodies on a couch made for two.

“Tell us now,” Maria says, settling in. “We want to hear everything before your pride wakes the entire compound.”

Rahama folds her arms with fake drama. “Even if they don’t call me back, let me say what my eyes see today. First of all—the office!” She leans forward.

“It doesn’t even look like where someone will come and carry mop. It looks like an expensive hotel. Stairs, soft chairs, glass doors.”

Dawuda whistles.

“And the workers?” Maria prompts, raising a brow.

“Ehn, one girl was doing like she owns the place. Her name was—” she frowns, thinking hard. “Funama? No. Ifunanya. Yes. She had that Igbo face and a sharp mouth. But the others were nice. Peter, the one that interviewed me, and Racheal.”

She sighs, almost dreamily. “It wasn’t like a cleaning job.”

“So will they call you?” Dawuda asks, gently.

Rahama sighs, eyes darting between Maria—who’s adjusting her wrapper—and Dawuda, now bent over massaging his tired feet.

Rahama shrugs, her voice softening. “I don’t know. Maybe not. But I’m glad I went. Today, I saw something different. Something… bigger, you know?”

“The office is big,” she says, hands flailing as if the air could help her explain. “They said the cleaners had gone out to work, and the ones around looked like officers, Fine people. Neat people.”

She gestures so wildly, Maria has to dodge her elbow.

Dawuda raises a brow. “But how was the interview?”

“I’m getting there,” Rahama says, reaching over to pat his chest like he’s an agitated goat. “Calm down, Kai.”

“Yaya Rahama, did you even get to do the interview?” Maria asks, belly rising and falling as she tries to find a comfortable sitting position.

Rahama throws her arms up. “Can you people let me gist you? I saw a lot today oh.”

Maria sighs like someone accepting her fate. She leans back again, rubbing her lower back with one hand. Dawuda rests his cheek on his palm, elbow propped on the armrest, eyes fixed on Rahama like he already knows he’s in for a long talk.

Rahama, completely in her element now, straightens.

Her eyes light up, voice full of color. “So, as I was saying... they said they needed someone for the oga’s personal house. The man is sick, very private, and they needed a cleaner urgently. So they picked me. Me!”

“Wow,” Maria says, her voice softening in surprise.

“That’s not even the gist. They showed me the staff room—upstairs o!—and that place is bigger than our whole house. I’m not joking. The toilet alone has two showers. Two! And they flush, I press it and it flushed.”

Dawuda snorts. “It’s water closet, Yaya.”

“You don’t know anything,” Rahama fires back, grinning. “Even their sink has light. LIGHT. As I was saying, I freshened up there, then wore the uniform.”

“They gave you a uniform?” Maria asks, impressed.

Rahama gasps dramatically. “Not just any uniform. White and gray. It even has a badge.”

Maria laughs as she tries to stand, her belly nudging her forward. “Yaya, if I stay here listening to you, Mama will be angry, she is waiting for me at the market. Aisha is already there waiting for me too.”

“Ki zauna,” Sit down. Rahama says, grabbing her hand and tugging her back down.

“Then at least skip to the main point,” Dawuda says, groaning. “You’ve spent ten minutes describing toilet.”

Rahama folds her arms. “If you both don’t want to hear, then I won’t talk again.”

“Yi haƙuri” Oya, sorry. Dawuda waves his hand dramatically. “Continue. We’re listening.”

She beams, instantly recharged. “To cut the long story short…”

Maria and Dawuda exchange a knowing look. Whenever Rahama says that, the story’s only getting longer.

She dives into the details with glee, how she was escorted to Mr Savage’s house, how shiny and disturbingly quiet it was, how he’s not just neat but “fine like filtered water,” how she wasn’t allowed to bring any personal cleaning items inside, and had to use only his custom, imported equipment.

She tells them she was made to wear a full disposable suit, like she was entering an operating theatre. And how—despite the place being spotless—she still cleaned because they told her “cleaning is about maintaining, not correcting.”

“So how was the interview?” Dawuda asks again, leaning forward like a man who’s just survived a long war of narration.

Rahama’s smile flickers. “I don’t think they’ll call me back.”

Just like that, the air shifts. Maria looks at her the way one watches a balloon slowly lose air.

After all Rahama’s excitement and animated gist, the sudden drop lands heavier than expected.

“Why do you think so?” Dawuda asks, his voice gentler now.
“The boss wasn’t impressed?”

“He was too sick to notice anything,” she says. “And his house was already so clean—it felt like I was cleaning air. He didn’t say anything bad, but…” She pauses, tugging at the hem of her wrapper. “That place isn’t for people like me. Ifunanya was right. And Peter—the one who interviewed me—he’s nice, oh, but he didn’t really look impressed.”

Dawuda shakes his head slowly. “You know nothing is impossible for God, right?”

Rahama nods, lips pressed together.

“We’ll put it in prayer, abi, Maria?” he adds.

Maria nods in agreement.
“I should go and meet Mama at the market,” she says after a moment, pushing herself up with a hand on her lower back.

“Careful, Maria,” Rahama calls after her.

Maria laughs and disappears down the corridor.

As soon as she’s out of sight, Rahama turns back to Dawuda.
“Do you think they might still call me?”

He grins, rubbing his chin. “If I’m being honest? With this your ‘I won’t bath today since I’m not going out’ lifestyle—and everything you just said—you don’t really stand a chance.”

“Really?” she says, giving him a light knock. “Between you and that rude Ifunanya girl, I don’t know who’s worse.”

“But you know I love you, right?” he says, pulling her into a hug before she can hit him again.

“Leave me,” she mutters—but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she leans in, her arms resting loosely around him.

He inhales playfully. “You smell nice today.”

“I bathed with rich people’s soap,” she says, lifting her chin with mock pride.

Dawuda laughs, still holding her. Then his smile softens as he studies her.

Maybe she really can change.

He says nothing. Just rests his chin lightly on her shoulder and prays quietly.
That they call her back.
That something finally breaks open for her.
That she gets a life that lets her breathe—and be clean, not just on the outside, but all the way in.

She deserves it.

— Ikoyi, Lagos-Island, Nigeria. —

“So, what do you think about the woman from two days ago—the one who came to clean my place?” Tayo asks. He doesn’t look up immediately as Peter steps into the office, an iPad clutched to his chest like armor.

Peter pauses a few feet from the desk. His steps slow, deliberate. Calculated.

“Ms Rahama Sani?” he asks.

“Yes. Rahama.” Tayo leans back in his chair, fingers tapping lightly against the desk.

An unusual name. An unusual woman.

It isn’t every day he interviews a Hausa applicant—let alone one with striking eyes in his personal space.

Peter nods slowly, lips pressed together.

“She’s… experienced, sir,” he says carefully.

Tayo’s brows lift. “Right? I thought so too. She was composed. Professional. And she did a good job.”

Peter blinks. Composed?

He bites back the laugh clawing at his throat.

Mr Savage definitely didn’t see her properly.

Still, he nods. “Yes, sir.”

“There were a lot of candidates,” Tayo continues, reaching for his laptop, “but she’s the only one who did a full practical. That speaks volumes.”

Peter fights the urge to say: Sir, the lady wore house slippers to the office. Her hair looked like she fought with a ceiling fan and lost.

Instead, he smiles and nods. Again.

“Yes, sir.”

“Let her, and the other two I approved, resume on Monday,” Tayo says, making a quick note. “We’re short on hygiene technicians, and client numbers are increasing. Also, review the last batch of applications. I want to conduct proper interviews with them.”

Peter nods again, this time with a quiet sigh.

If this man sees her without the cover-up, it’s over. But who is he to stand in the way of Grace? Maybe Rahama deserves this chance.

“Got it, sir.”

“Oh,” Tayo adds, glancing at the iPad in Peter’s hand as though it might be contaminated, “the employment contracts?”

Peter steps forward carefully. “They need your signature.”

Tayo picks up his sanitized stylus from a sleek silver case, hovers, and signs on the screen like a surgeon avoiding infection. He doesn’t touch the iPad.

“Also, call Adeyemi,” Tayo says as the pen clicks back into place. “A VIP client wants a private cleaning session. Specifically requested him.”

“On it, sir.”

Peter turns and walks out of the office, closing the door behind him.

— Somolu, Lagos-mainland, Nigeria. —

“Which yoghurt you wan buy?” Rahama asks, squinting at the little girl standing in front of the truck, her voice raised over the chaos of clinking pans, shouting traders, and the distant honk of a commercial bus. Her father has gone home to eat, so she’s holding the fort.

She lifts the cooler lid, icy fog rising to kiss her sweaty face. “Aunty, SuperYogo dey?” the girl asks, eyes hopeful.

“Yes nau. He cold sef,” Rahama says, rummaging through the plastic bags until she finds one.

She exchanges it for two hundred naira and flashes a grin that somehow still manages to charm, despite the fact that her entire face is glistening like fried plantain.

She grabs the napkin tucked into the truck’s corner, dabs her forehead, and fans herself with her palm. Sun is beating like it’s collecting debt.

Then she sees him. Dawuda.

Walking toward her, cutting through the crowd like a man on a mission. That’s strange. He usually heads straight home after his teaching at the primary school, always avoiding the sun like he’s allergic to heat and hustle.

“Me ke faruwa?” What’s happening? she calls out, squinting at him.

“Here, read this, Yaya,” Dawuda says, breathless and grinning as he hands her his phone.

Rahama frowns, shifts the yoghurt towel from her shoulder, wipes one nostril with her hands absentmindedly, and scrolls through the message:

Job Offer – Hygiene Technician Position

Dear Ms Rahama Sani,
I hope this message finds you well.
Following your recent practical session at Mr Savage’s residence, we are pleased to inform you that you have been selected to join our team as a Hygiene Technician at LuxeTouch Cleaning.
Your resumption date is Monday, and you are expected to report to the main office by 8:00 a.m. for onboarding and deployment instructions.

We look forward to having you on board and believe you will be a valuable addition to our growing team.

Warm regards,
Peter Oladele.
Admin Officer.

Rahama blinks. Then she screams.

“Yeeeeee! Nagode, Yesu!”
Her joy pierces through the market noise. Heads turn. Hawkers pause. The puff-puff woman holds her spoon mid-air to watch her.

She jumps, holding the phone like a golden ticket, flapping her hand in disbelief. “They choose me? Me?! Rahama Sani?! A wannan rayuwar?”

Dawuda laughs, stepping back so she doesn’t accidentally slap him mid-celebration.

“I got the email during class,” Dawuda says between smiles.

Rahama’s eyes are shiny now, overwhelmed, hopeful, grateful. She glances around and spots her father’s friend across the road.

“Don Ubangiji, ka duba min wannan!” she yells, pointing at the truck. “Please watch this for me!”

Before he can respond, she grabs Dawuda’s wrist. “Come! Let’s go home!”

They take off running home to share the good news.

It’s Christmas, so I added two chapters today. Another chapter is coming later this evening. Enjoy, my loves 🤍🎄

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This bonus episode is all for you, @adesinaeniolaabigail! 🎉

The fact that you’ve been so amazing and engaged with my book, even though we’ve never met, honestly makes me feel like the luckiest person alive! 😊

Your support means more than words can say.

So, here’s to you; may this episode bring you as many smiles as you’ve brought me. 😊 Keep shining, because you are truly special! 🤍

Read previous chapters here

CHAPTER THREE

— Ikoyi, Lagos-Island, Nigeria. —

Rahama Sani steps out of the Uber, clutching her small nylon bag to her chest like a lifeline.

The bag contains everything she owns, her new Samsung phone and the small sum of money her parents had given her for the day. She isn’t taking any chances.

This is Lagos, and it’s a new side of Lagos she has never been to.

Thanks to Dawuda’s help—and his stubborn insistence—she wears a new gown. He’d argued that she needed to look presentable, even if she was only applying for a cleaning job.

He also styled her thick hair into a neat bun, making sure she moisturize her skin and lips.

After escorting her to Obalende, he’d booked and paid for an Uber, arguing it was safer and less stressful than taking one of Lagos’s chaotic yellow buses.

As the Uber disappears down the road, Rahama pulls out her new smartphone, another thing she owes to Dawuda.

He’d been patient, teaching her how to use WhatsApp voice notes and calls, saving his number, and even sharing her location with him before she left.

She glances up at the towering building in front of her. The area is clean, modern, and surprisingly quiet. But the overwhelming unfamiliarity of it all hits her. A wave of doubt creeps in.

Maybe I should call Dawuda and ask him to arrange another ride home?

Her thumb hovers over the voice note icon on her phone.

He promised he’d do that if I changed my mind.

But as she prepares to record the message, a uniformed security guard approaches her. His shoes click against the pavement, the sound unexpectedly crisp in the otherwise quiet surroundings.

“Hello, who are you looking for?” he asks, his voice polite but firm.

Rahama instinctively tightens her grip on her bag.

In Lagos, trust is a luxury she hasn’t had the privilege to afford just yet.

The guard, sensing her hesitation, offers a friendly smile.

“Ke Bahaushiya ce?” Are you Hausa?

Relief floods her chest like a burst of fresh air. She nods and returns the smile. “Ee.”

Now that she’s looking at him properly, he seems to be in his late forties, with a round build and a calm, approachable demeanor.

“Bari in taimake ki.” Let me help you.

He gestures toward the building, and Rahama feels a slight easing of her tension.

“I came for a cleaner interview,” she explains in Hausa. “My cousin sent me the location and told the driver where to drop me.”

The guard studies her for a moment, as though debating whether to say something, then finally nods.

“It’s here,” he confirms in Hausa, pointing toward the main building.

Rahama hesitates, still unsure whether to take the step forward. She looks at the security guard, waiting for some kind of approval, and his reassuring nod finally gives her the push she needs.

“You can go in,” he says, then adds, “Hope your English good?”

She straightens her shoulders, her heart thudding in her chest.

“Yes,” she responds in English, her smile bright, her teeth a flash of hope. Dawuda had made sure of that; patiently teaching her every time he came home from school, from his secondary years to university.

The guard grins, stepping aside.

“Good, go in. Good luck.”

Murmuring a quiet prayer to herself, Rahama takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and walks toward the glass doors, the sleek reflection of the modern building casting back her uncertain image.

Rahama steps into the building, her breath catching in her throat.

It’s enormous.

A reception desk sits in one corner, sleek and minimalist.

Nearby, a long office desk stretches across the room, dividers splitting it into six sections, each with a laptop and neatly arranged office supplies.

To her right, a cozy sitting area invites visitors to relax, while a corner dedicated to downtime boasts bean bags, a couch, and even a chess game waiting on the center table. Everything gleams bright, polished, almost... imposing.

Her stomach tightens.

A cleaning company, she had imagined, would be simple. A place for scrubbing floors, wiping down surfaces, maybe a spot to earn a living. But this?

This feels like a company: slick, corporate. What kind of cleaning job requires this level of sophistication?

“Hello there.”

The warm voice cuts through her thoughts. A young woman approaches, her smile wide and inviting.

Rahama stands straighter, offering a slight nod. “Hello, ma,” she says, her bow a little too deep, a reflex of respect she’s been trained to show.

The woman’s outfit catches her attention first: a crisp white blouse, paired with fitted blue jeans that hug her frame.

Her neatly braided hair packed into a ponytail, her complexion glowing with just the right touch of makeup.

Effortlessly beautiful. She looks like she belongs in a fashion campaign, not in a cleaning service.

Ifunanya’s gaze slides over Rahama, a flicker of amusement flashing in her eyes before she schools her expression.

A Hausa girl? Here? The thought teases at the edges of her mind, but she keeps it hidden behind a polite smile.

“How can we help you, ma’am?” she asks, her tone smooth, but there’s a sharpness in her eyes that Rahama can’t ignore.

Rahama shifts, feeling the weight of the moment. “My cousin saw an opening online and applied for me. I’m here for the interview,” she explains.

Before Ifunanya can respond, another woman steps up.

“Hello, ma’am.” Racheal greets Rahama with a wide, friendly smile, her caramel skin glowing under the soft overhead lights.

She’s a bit shorter than Ifunanya, a little softer in appearance, but her warmth fills the room, instantly putting Rahama at ease.

“How can we help you?” Racheal asks, her voice open and inviting.

“She came in for an interview,” Ifunanya cuts in, her words tinged with sarcasm, the amusement in her tone barely masked.

Racheal gives a small, knowing smile but doesn’t rise to the bait. She turns back to Rahama.

“Welcome to LuxeTouch Cleaning. Follow me, please.”

Rahama’s relief is almost palpable. She nods, clutching her bag a little tighter.

She trails behind Racheal, her eyes roaming over the polished space.

Unlike Ifunanya’s fair skin, Racheal’s deep caramel hue catches the light in a way that feels like warmth itself. Rahama stands at the same height, but in comparison, her own complexion feels dull, tired.

She can’t help but notice the lack of her skincare routine. Black is beautiful, yes, but hers feels weary.

“Have a seat,” Racheal says, gesturing toward a sleek couch near the reception.

Rahama mumbles a soft “Thank you,” then lowers herself carefully into the cushion like it might bite. Her bag stays glued between her lap, gripped tight.

“I’ll get you a form to fill,” Racheal adds, already moving toward the desk with confident steps that click against the polished floor.

And just like that, Rahama’s alone with nothing but her thoughts and the deafening thump of her heartbeat.

She shouldn’t have come.

Everything around her whispers luxury, from the sparkling tiles to the designer furniture.

Even the air smells expensive, like imported air freshener and ambition. The cleaners—if that’s what they are—look like they have Master’s degrees. They carry themselves like bankers, not bucket-and-mop people.

Her eyes wander. A grand staircase curves upward like something out of a mansion.

Sunlight spills in through massive floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off shiny surfaces with zero dust in sight. Not even a forgotten smudge.

If this is what cleaning looks like in Lagos Island, she might be in the wrong location.

Her grip tightens on her bag like it’s a lifeline, like the thin plastic polymer can ground her before she floats straight out the door.

Then something brushes her leg.

She leaps up, yelping, “Yesu!” Her scream echoes louder than she intends.

Her chest heaves. Her eyes dart to the floor—and there it is.

A robotic vacuum glides smoothly across the tiles, swishing with a mop and scrubber spinning underneath like it’s on a mission from heaven.

Rahama stares in total shock. The thing beeps, pauses for dramatic effect, then backs away like nothing happened and returns to work, whirring silently along the spotless floor.

She clutches her chest. What’s that?

Before she can gather her thoughts, a voice cuts in.

“Is everything okay, Miss?”

Peter strolls toward her, tall and lean with skin the color of midnight and dreadlocks pulled back into a neat low ponytail. He wears a crisp white shirt, loose dark jeans that fit too well, and sneakers so clean they reflect light.

Rahama blinks at him.

Are they hiring models here too?

She points stiffly at the robotic creature still swerving confidently under the table. “That thing touched me. I thought it was…I didn’t know…”

He chuckles, smooth and unbothered.

“It’s fine. It’s just our automated cleaning assistant. You’ll see a lot of them. Helps us keep the place running round the clock.”

She nods slowly, like her brain is still rebooting. Her fingers tighten around her bag like it might run off. Nothing here is normal.

“So, how can we help you, Miss?” he asks with an easy smile that probably wins people over for a living.

She clears her throat. “I came for the interview. For the cleaning job.”

His smile doesn’t falter. “Ah. You’re early. That’s good.”

Her gaze drops to his hands. Clean. Nails trimmed and filed like he just stepped out of a spa. Not even a trace of dust or detergent.

If she saw him outside, she’d think banker. Or a Nollywood actor. Anything but cleaner.

The question slips out before she can stop it. “Sir, are you… are you a cleaner here?”

He laughs, warm and amused. “Not quite. I’m the Office Administrator.”

Her mouth parts. She blinks again.

Office Administrator?

An Office Administrator in a cleaning company?

“Has someone attended to you yet?” Peter asks, voice warm.

“Yes, sir,” Rahama replies quickly, then winces. She doesn’t even know the names of the people she’s met so far.

She clears her throat. “I’m Rahama…Rahama Sani.”

“I’m Peter,” he replies with a nod.

“Here.” Racheal’s voice cuts in, drawing Rahama’s attention. She turns to see Racheal holding out a clipboard with a form and a pen.

Peter gestures toward her. “Looks like you’ve met Racheal too. She’s our Operations Manager.”

Rahama’s eyes snap up.

“Operations Manager?”

Her lips part slightly. She really is in the wrong place.

Peter chuckles knowingly. “I know that look. She handles staff schedules, client communication, and makes sure the whole place doesn’t fall apart.”

Rahama exhales, relieved. For a second, she thought ‘Operations Manager’ was just another fancy title for ‘Senior Broom Holder.’

“Rahama.” She turns back to Racheal and manages a nervous smile.

Racheal returns it with a soft one of her own. “You can sit and fill this out. Our boss isn’t in yet. He’ll conduct the interview and go over company policies once he arrives.”

Rahama nods and sinks back onto the couch, the clipboard now feeling like it weighs five kilograms.

This whole place feels like a TV show she accidentally walked into, the kind where cleaners would probably wear perfume and the reception smells like vanilla, not bleach.

Peter looks across the room and waves someone over. “Ifunanya, come here for a second.”

Ifunanya strides over, chin up, heels clicking, brows arched like they’re permanently unimpressed. She walks like she owns the office, or wants to.

“Ifunanya, this is Rahama. Rahama, meet Ifunanya, our customer service representative and receptionist,” Peter says, his voice easy.

Ifunanya barely looks at her before her face twists in irritation.

“Why are you introducing her?”

Peter blinks. “Because… she’s here for the interview?”

Ifunanya folds her arms tightly across her chest.

“And? She hasn’t even gotten the job yet. Look at her. There are way more qualified applicants. If Mr Savage lays eyes on her, she’ll be back on the road before she can say ‘Jack.’”

Peter opens his mouth, but Racheal beats him to it.

“Ifunanya,” she says firmly, her voice low but loaded with warning.

Ifunanya doesn’t flinch. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. She doesn’t fit the company image. We know our boss. He’s picky.”

Her eyes sweep Rahama slowly, like peeling off a sticker she didn’t want to see.

“She probably heard about the quarter-of-a-million naira salary and came running from... wherever she crawled out from,” she sneers. “Look at her hair, her skin is so dry. And slippers? Who wears Slippers to an interview?!”

Rahama stiffens, but says nothing. Her hands grip the clipboard tightly. Her lips press together. Her face remains calm, but something in her eyes shifts.

“And what are you? Hausa?” Ifunanya’s voice cuts the air like a slap.

The room stills.

Not a whisper. Not a breath.

Peter’s brows knit.

Even Racheal is quiet now, lips tight, jaw working.

Ifunanya scoffs, throwing a dramatic hand gesture toward Rahama.

“Let’s be real. We all saw that Instagram post—‘no degree required’—but a Hausa girl from the slums applying here? For this kind of job? In this kind of place?”

She takes a step forward, like she’s presenting evidence in court.

“She’s going to waste the form. Mr Savage won’t even let her stand in this office, let alone clean it. Her nails are filthy!”

“That’s enough!” Peter’s voice slices through the air like a blade, sharp and steady.

Ifunanya flinches, blinking like she wasn’t expecting resistance.

Peter steps forward, jaw tight. “Why are you being so rude?”

Ifunanya shifts back, blinking fast. “I just—”

“You walked in here barely two months ago,” Peter cuts in, voice low but firm. “And we all welcomed you without judgment.”

He gestures lightly between them.

“You’re Igbo. Racheal’s Edo. I’m Yoruba. We even have Nupe and Tiv staff on our hygiene team. No one asked if you were ‘qualified’ based on your tribe.”

His gaze narrows, locking on hers with quiet disappointment.

“So what if she’s Hausa? What does that change? Since when did we start measuring human worth by tribe... or slippers?”

Racheal folds her arms, nodding slowly. “Exactly.”

Peter keeps going, his voice softening but not losing strength.

“We’re one Nigeria. Different tribes, same heartbeat. The least we can do is treat each other with some basic human decency.”

Ifunanya huffs, looking away. “I’m sorry, but—”

“No buts,” Peter snaps, and this time, there’s a flick of real heat beneath his calm exterior.

“You owe her an apology. Even if she never gets this job, she still deserves respect. Her nails? She can clean them. Her hair? She can do it tomorrow. But your attitude? That one’s harder to fix.”

Silence.

Ifunanya exhales through her nose like a dragon holding back fire. “Sorry, oh,” she mutters, the words dripping with sarcasm.

Peter’s phone buzzes. He fishes it from his pocket, glancing at the screen. “Mr Savage,” he mouths to Racheal.

She straightens.

Peter presses the phone to his ear. “Hello, sir,” he says, voice instantly dipped in respect.

A pause.

“I’m fine, sir. Everyone here is, too.” Another pause.

Peter’s brow creases. “Sick? What happened?”

He listens, eyes darkening slightly. “Oh. Adeyemi and all our hygiene techs are already on-site.”

He glances at the wall clock, then back at the people in the room. His eyes land on Rahama.

“There’s a lady here,” he says carefully.

“She came for the on-site hygiene technician interview.”

Rahama shifts slightly in her seat, pressing her lips together.

Hygiene technician. That’s what they’re calling it? She almost lets out a chuckle.

Sounds like something you’d study for in a university.

Peter listens again, then blinks. “Really, sir? Are you sure?”

Another pause.

“Okay, sir. I’ll speak with her now.” He ends the call.

Ifunanya leans forward, arms still crossed, but curiosity creeping into her expression. “Boss is sick?”

Peter nods slowly. “Yes. Food poisoning. He said he can’t sit in his house another minute without someone disinfecting it top to bottom. I told him our hygiene technicians are already deployed for the day.”

His eyes return to Rahama, this time lingering.

“I told him someone came in for the job,” Peter continues, almost thoughtful now.

“He says if you’re willing, you can go over and help,” Peter says, voice even, like he’s reading off a neutral script.

“Even if you’re not officially hired yet, he’ll still pay for the day. Think of it as a... practical interview.”

He leaves the sentence hanging like a soft toss: easy to catch or walk away from.

Rahama opens her mouth—

“I’ll go!” Ifunanya blurts, practically leaping forward.

Peter blinks. Once. Then again.

“Since when are you a hygiene technician, Miss Ifunanya?” he asks, voice so dry it could crack glass.

Ifunanya straightens, clutching her imaginary pearls. “Well, it’s the boss we’re talking about. I just thought maybe—”

“Who’s handling customer support while you’re off pretending to be Mary Maid?” Peter interrupts, arms now crossed like a disappointed father.

“I just thought—”

“No,” Peter says, sharp but calm. “You’re constantly distracted with what doesn’t concern you. Stick to your lane. Complaints. Requests. Calls.”

Ifunanya’s arms fold tighter.

“Why are you picking on me now?” she whines, her voice pitching up a notch.

“I’m not picking on you,” Peter says, sounding tired now. “We have roles here. And respect comes from knowing which one is yours.”

His eyes flick toward Rahama. “If anyone’s doing the cleaning, it should be her. She’s the one applying for the on-site technician position. Not you.”

Ifunanya glares between them, lips tightening, nostrils flaring.

Then she spins on her heel and stomps off, sneaker soles slapping the tiles like a warning shot.

Peter exhales. Then turns back to Rahama.

“Are you okay with working today? I know it’s technically still your interview.”

Rahama glances at Racheal, then back at him. Her palms are sweaty on the handles of her nylon bag, but she manages a steady nod.

Peter gives a short nod in return. “Good. You won’t be going alone. Normally, our hygiene techs work in pairs, safety reasons. Since the rest of the team is out, I’m assigning Racheal to go with you.”

His eyes drop to the nylon bag Rahama still clutches like it holds all the dignity she has left. “Do you live nearby?”

“No, sir,” Rahama says, adjusting her grip. “My cousin mentioned the optional staff accommodation. I was hoping to stay there during weekdays if I get the job.”

Peter hums in acknowledgment.

“Alright. Racheal, take her to the staff quarters, second room on the left. It’s free. She can change into the company uniform.”

Racheal nods once.

Peter turns back to Rahama. “It’s an en-suite. You can freshen up, get into the uniform, and prep for the job. You’ll be using one of the company cars.”

Rahama gently places the half-filled form on the armrest of the couch and rises to her feet, her posture straighter now. Determined. Or trying to be.

“And Racheal,” Peter adds as he starts walking away, already dialing, “Tell Leke to prep one of the cars. He’ll drive you both to Mr Savage’s place.”

As Peter disappears down the hallway, Racheal gestures with her chin. “Come on.”

They head upstairs.

Halfway up the steps, Racheal leans in a little. “You’re lucky,” she says, almost like a secret.

“The boss? He doesn’t let just anyone clean his house. He only uses the best of the best.”

Rahama gives a small smile, more nerves than confidence.

Racheal didn’t say it out loud, but Ifunanya—rude as she was—had a point.

Rahama wouldn’t last a day. Still, it wasn’t her place to be pessimistic.

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Rahama presses her forehead lightly against the window as the Toyota Hilux weaves through Ikoyi’s clean, bougie streets.

Outside, the world gleams: wide roads, trimmed trees, not a single pothole in sight.

Beside her, Racheal lounges in her crisp white LuxeTouch tee and jeans, her posture relaxed.

Rahama glances down at her lap. Her fingers are still clenched.

Ifunanya wasn’t wrong. Nothing about this feels normal.

The room they gave her earlier? It’s bigger than the entire two rooms her whole family shares back in Somolu. Two twin beds—clean, smooth, and made like a hotel commercial. A dressing table that actually has a mirror, not just a scratched piece of foil glued to wood. And the bathroom?

She had stared at the toilet like it might talk.

It flushes with a handle. No fetching water.

No shouting “Is someone inside?” before entering. Just flush—whoosh—and everything disappears like her problems should.

And the bathroom is stocked.

A pair of brand-new toothbrushes. A tube of toothpaste so fat it could last her till next Christmas. Lotions and shampoos in matching bottles labeled LuxeTouch, but they look more like what actresses use in commercials.

Who puts rose oil in a cleaning company’s shower gel?

When Dawuda said “cleaning job,” she thought: mop, bucket, sweat. Maybe some back pain if the clients are nasty.

But this?

This is “Hygiene Technician”, capital H, capital T. Peter had said it so proudly.

She should’ve asked more questions. Two hundred thousand naira? For cleaning? With benefits?

Half the people at the company don’t even clean. They sip from glass bottles of water in AC-chilled offices and wear perfume that smells like money.

She’s the only one who came here with palm oil stains in her memory.

Her eyes drop to the uniform on her body, freshly laundered and ironed.

White T-shirt, gold embroidery on the chest.

Luxe Touch Cleaning, it reads, like it’s proud of itself.

Charcoal-gray skirt to her knees. White sneakers with bounce. A waist-length apron made from stain-resistant fabric. Canvas gloves. A cap. A company-issued wristwatch.

Even her mask is branded.

Who wears coordinated masks to scrub toilets?

She bites her lip.

She doesn’t belong here. No matter how much she pretends. Ifunanya could be loud, but she wasn’t lying.

This is a place where even the mops probably have degrees.

“Hello, sir. We’re at the gate,” Racheal says into her phone, voice smooth as melted Milo.

The car slows to a stop in front of a massive black gate.

Before Rahama can blink, it swings open on its own.

She jumps slightly, eyes wide. “Did the gate just…move by itself?”

Racheal chuckles. “It’s automated.”

Automated?

Rahama stares as the Hilux glides into the compound like it has clearance from heaven.

She swallows.

It hasn’t even been two hours, and already—this city, this job, this life—has shown her more than she’s seen in twenty-seven years.

“Here, use this,” Racheal says, handing Rahama a tiny bottle of disinfectant like it’s a sacred relic. “You need to disinfect before going in.”

Rahama squints at it. “Use it… how? Drink it?”

Racheal smiles at her. “Twist the cap, spray your palms.”

Rahama fumbles with the bottle, her fingers already sweating.

“And these,” Racheal adds, producing a pair of white socks and something that looks like a plastic leg cover.

“Your sneakers can’t go inside, and you can’t be barefoot either. Mr Savage’s hygiene protocol.”

“Protocol?” Rahama echoes, eyes widening.

Racheal chuckles. “Oh…and keep your nose mask on. The whole time.”

Rahama sighs, tugging her mask over her nose.

“Last thing,” Racheal says, with the practiced tone of someone who’s said this twenty times. “No phones. No face-touching. No personal items. Just clean and go. Mr Savage doesn’t like noise, questions, or stress.”

As they step out of the Hilux, Rahama’s breath catches.

The house isn’t massive: it’s quietly rich.

Sleek lines, soft lights, a garden so symmetrical it could pass a UN inspection.

Then, Racheal sprays them both from head to toe like she’s seasoning chicken, and Rahama winces as cold mist kisses her face. She sanitizes, gloves up, adjusts her cap, and wiggles into her leg covers like she’s about to enter a sterile lab.

“This is not cleaning,” she mutters.

Racheal slips on her own shoe cover and hair net, then disinfects again.

The front door opens automatically.

Rahama jumps back.

“It’s a motion sensor,” Racheal says coolly.

They step into the house, and Rahama’s jaw drops.

Everything gleams. The floors are glassy. The furniture is minimal yet rich-looking, as if it were crafted by angels with PhDs in design. Curtains fall from ceilings that feel like sky. The air smells like... money and lavender.

“This place is clean,” Rahama whispers to herself.

What exactly am I suppose to clean here? Polish the air?

They cross the ante-room into a grand living room that looks like it belongs on TV.

An automated female voice suddenly floats from nowhere. “Hello. Mr Savage will meet with you shortly. Please feel at home.”

Rahama leaps back like she’s been pinched by an invisible demon.

“Who said that? Who is that woman?” she gasps, clutching Racheal’s sleeve.

“It’s an AI,” Racheal says, not even blinking.

“AI?” Rahama whispers.

Racheal bursts into quiet laughter. “Artificial Intelligence. A robot voice.”

Rahama doesn’t laugh. She stands there, stiff, gloved, masked, leg-covered, and extremely convinced that she has walked into a very organized trap.

Her eyes dart around the perfect room. There’s nothing to clean. Nothing to mop. Not even dust pretending to exist. The smart devices blink like secret cameras. The air feels… too calm.

Her stomach drops.

“This is a trap,” she says under her breath.

They lured me in with two hundred thousand naira. Classic ritual.

I should’ve known. The AI is their spiritual secretary. Mr Savage is the priest. I’m the goat.

She squeezes her eyes shut and begins to pray.

Father Lord, I surrender. Forgive my greed. If I survive this one, I’ll go back to Somolu and live quietly. I would miss Aisha, Maria and Dawu—

“Hello, Racheal.”

The voice is deep. Too deep. Rich, clean, commanding.

Rahama’s eyes fly open mid-prayer—and for a full second, she forgets how to breathe.

She’s staring at… what? A well-moisturized archangel?

The man standing at the foot of the staircase doesn’t look real.

His skin is a warm caramel tone, like chin-chin kissed by golden hour. His jawline looks like it was drawn with a ruler. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and unfairly handsome, with a sky-blue shirt that hugs his chest like it signed a non-disclosure agreement.

His eyes? A dangerous mix of gray and black—sharp, steady, calculating.

Rahama blinks again, sure she’s hallucinating.

Maybe she fainted, and this is heaven. But then Racheal nudges her hard in the ribs.

“Greet.”

“Oh. Good morning, sir,” she blurts, ducking her head.

Tayo barely nods.

His face is blank, unreadable. He lowers himself onto the couch with smooth, precise movements. Like he’s trying not to disturb the molecules in the air.

Racheal steps forward with Rahama shuffling behind her.

“I apologize for asking you to clean without a formal interview,” he says calmly, his voice gliding through the space like premium sound.

Rahama’s eyes lock on him.

The way he talks: polite, crisp, careful.
And that voice? That voice should be sold as a sleep aid.

But then his face tightens slightly.

He looks tired. Not just “didn’t sleep well” tired. The deep kind. The kind that comes from something internal.

“I had food poisoning,” he adds, quietly, more to himself than to them.

It wasn’t just food poisoning.

It never is.

He had tried to push himself past his compulsions, after storming out of the family dinner two nights ago, unable to stomach his father’s insults, he had dared himself to act normal.

He went to the Abula Joint, sat like an ordinary person, touched the table, ate from their plates, used their cutlery.

And for a few minutes, he almost believed it.

Until reality snapped back like an elastic band to the face.

He isn’t normal.
He doesn’t get to have cravings like everyone else.
He gets panic. Tight lungs. Skin crawling. Breaths that hitch like a bad signal.

He scrubbed himself under the shower, brushed his teeth over and over, but it was too late. His heart raced, his body ached, and by morning, the flu had settled in.

Tayo studies Rahama. But he can’t see much. Her face is masked, hair covered, uniform oversized.

She could be anyone. But if Peter sent her, she must have potential.

Tayo exhales through his nose. “Alright. Racheal will supervise you. Just do as she says. Don’t touch your face. Or anything unnecessary.”

Rahama nods quickly.

He turns back to Racheal. “I’ll be upstairs. Make sure she follows protocol. If anything feels off, call me.”

“Yes, sir,” Racheal responds like a soldier.

And then he stands, one clean motion, and disappears up the staircase like a well-dressed shadow.

Rahama follows Racheal’s instructions to the letter.

Use the lemon-based spray.

Wipe clockwise.

No streaks.

No shortcuts.

And absolutely no touching surfaces after they’re cleaned. Not even to admire her own work.

The smart vacuum glides past like a judgmental supervisor, making a low mechanical whir every minute.

The house is already spotless—like a hotel room no one has ever stayed in—but here she is, deep-cleaning an expensive and perfectly clean dining chair.

This is just a job. Clean. Leave.

But her brain refuses to cooperate.

Every time she stops to catch her breath, it drifts back to him: Mr Savage.

That voice. That body. That tired, exhausted look that doesn’t match either.

Why does he seem so frail? Food poisoning? she wonders.

Probably one of those rich-people sicknesses.

No food gives her poisoning—well, unless it has actual poison in it.

Hours pass. The house now sparkles so hard.

Not that Rahama sees the difference. She’s used to dragging homes from dirty to livable. This place went from museum-level clean to… still museum-level clean.

She sighs, muttering under her breath, “All this effort for a house that a robot vacuum doesn’t stop cleaning.”

Racheal claps her hands. “I’ll call Mr Savage for inspection.”

Footsteps echo from the staircase. Slow. Dragged.

Almost dramatic.

Tayo appears, looking like he’s walking through a hangover. He makes it to the couch and drops into it like gravity just increased for him personally.

“Mr Savage, could you check if everything meets your expectations before we go?” Racheal asks, voice crisp and professional.

Tayo barely lifts his head. “It’s fine. I trust your judgment.”

His voice sounds softer, duller.

His eyes flick briefly to Rahama. She stands still, hands behind her back like she’s waiting for roll call.

He squints a little. “What’s your name?”

“Rahama.”

His brows twitch. Hausa?

He can’t see much—cap, mask, oversized uniform. Still, he tries.

Tries to really see her. And for a moment, he does.

There’s something in her name that amuses him.
But it’s her eyes that catch him: deep brown, steady, striking.
Framed by the fullest, thickest brows he’s ever seen.

There’s calm in her gaze. Something soft.

Something... oddly smoothing. Endearing, even.

He clears his throat.

“Peter should handle Rahama’s interview when you get back to the office,” he says to Racheal, his gaze still on Rahama. “I won’t be in tomorrow. I need the day to rest.”

Rahama watches him subtly. He presses his fingers against his temple like he’s holding his head in place. His skin glistens slightly. He looks more fragile than his voice lets on.

“Have Samuel and Tobechukwu handle cleaning here tomorrow,” he adds, barely raising his voice. “If Rahama passes her interview and she’s a good fit, she can join the company.”

He pauses, still watching Rahama like he’s trying to figure her out.

“She was helpful today.”

Rahama blinks.

Helpful? She scrubbed invisible dirt alongside a vacuum.

But she bites back a smile.

“If not,” he adds, already sinking deeper into the couch, “make sure she’s compensated well.”

Racheal nods sharply. “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, sir.”

Tayo raises one hand in a slow, lazy wave. “Alright.”

“Take care, sir.”

Rahama echoes Racheal’s words, then follows her out, glancing back just once.

He’s already closed his eyes. His breathing slow. Peaceful.

Rahama sits stiffly across from Peter in a minimalist office that smells like lemon wipe and luxury. Her knees press together, her hands are locked in her lap like they’re in time-out, and her heart? Drumming like she owes it rent.

She’s changed back into her earlier outfit— gown, her thick black hair packed into a bun, zero confidence.

This isn’t just someone asking if she can “help them clean the house.”

This is an actual interview..

Maybe I trusted Dawuda too much, she thinks. Maybe this leap is too big. Maybe I’m not even jumping. Maybe I’m falling headfirst.

“So,” Peter begins with a kind smile, clicking his pen, “can you tell me about your previous experience in cleaning and sanitation?”

Rahama inhales quietly. Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her gown.

God has not given me a spirit of fear.

“I’ve been cleaning all my life,” she says, steady but soft.

“My mom’s a cleaner, and I always went with her since I was small. She has regular clients.”

Peter nods, jotting something down.

“Have you worked in environments with strict hygiene requirements before?”

If he’d asked her that this morning, she might’ve said yes. With confidence.

But now, after today? She’s been inside a home so clean it made her question her own soul.

“No, sir,” she says honestly.

Then adds quickly, “I’m from a rural area where we clean with what we have, but I learn fast. I’m ready to adjust to anything.”

“Noted,” he says, almost quietly.

He scribbles again.

“Are you comfortable working in high-standard environments like Mr Savage’s home?”

“Yes, sir.” Her voice comes stronger this time. “Today was my first time cleaning a house like that. But I followed every instruction. I don’t take shortcuts, and I’m not afraid of hard work.”

Peter leans back slightly, curious now. “Have you ever had to deal with a difficult or unusual cleaning request?”

“Yes, sir.” Her eyes brighten. “There was this woman whose house got flooded. When the water dried, the whole place was caked in mud—floor, furniture, even the fan.”

Peter nods.

“We didn’t have bleach” she continues. “So I boiled water, mixed it with soap and scrubbing sand, and went at it for hours. By evening, the place smelled neat and looks clean.”

He grins. “Impressive.”

He flips to a final page.

“Some clients prefer a no-contact approach. How would you adapt your cleaning routine around that?”

Rahama nods thoughtfully.

“I would make sure to stay out of their way. I won’t touch anything personal. I will just clean what I am ask to clean. I can keep to myself, no problem. I don’t need to be seen to do the work well.”

Peter studies her. For the first time since the interview began, he seems to pause—not to write, not to evaluate, but just… take her in.

“That’s good,” he says finally, closing the folder.

Rahama exhales, her shoulders dropping half an inch.

“We’ll get back to you.” He stands. “There’s a one-month trial training. Paid, of course. If you’re selected, someone will call you.”

She stands too, smoothing the sides of her gown.

They won’t call. I can feel it. But still, she smiles.

New Chapters drop every Thursday and Friday. 🤍

Read the previous chapter here

CHAPTER TWO

— Ikoyi, Lagos-Island, Nigeria —

“Mr Savage is coming!”

Racheal dashes into the reception area, her voice sharp with urgency. The bean bag couch nearly tips as the staff scrambles to their feet, their movements sharp and frantic, like a group of synchronized dancers.

Ifunanya rushes to her desk, snatches up a compact mirror, and checks her reflection. She touches up the tiniest blemish, then hastily dusts off her white round-neck tee and jeans, smoothing every wrinkle, every stray thread that might be out of place.

“Tobechukwu, pick that pen up!” Peter barks, his voice sharp enough to slice through the tension in the room.

He’s scanning every inch of the space, his eyes narrowed, as if searching for any imperfection, any stray speck that could cost them their jobs.

“Racheal, put that comb away now!” Peter snaps again, his voice bordering on frantic as he glances toward her, the last-minute attempt to fix her already-perfect hair now a point of contention.

He peeks through the window, and the collective breath of the room is held as the sound of a car engine dies away. Their boss has stepped out of his sleek black vehicle.

His sharp gaze sweeps the exterior, scanning the building like it’s under inspection by the health department. And then, like a machine moving with precision, he strides toward the entrance.

They all know the rule: no dirt. Not a speck. Not a single wrinkle out of place.

No one understands Mr Savage’s obsession with cleanliness, but they don’t ask questions.

What they do know is that a single smudge, a misplaced fingerprint, or—God forbid—a stray hair in the place could mean immediate termination. And the job? Too good to lose.

The pay is unmatched. The company sits in the heart of Lagos’s elite district, catering exclusively to billionaires: the kind who count their wealth in dollars.

They clean their mansions, offices, and private estates, ensuring that everything gleams to perfection.

No one is willing to throw that away over a boss with an extreme aversion to dirt.

The team moves like a well-rehearsed drill. The already spotless office gets another wipe-down. Surfaces gleam, the faint scent of disinfectant lingers in the air, and they take their places at the entrance, standing at attention.

Tension crackles in the room like static electricity. They all know it’s coming.

The glass doors glide open.

Enioluwa Omotayo Savage steps in.

His presence commands the space, the kind of stillness that sends a ripple through the room. In one hand, he holds his signature disinfectant spray, misting the air as he walks, like he’s preparing to cleanse the very atmosphere.

“Good morning, Mr Savage!” Ifunanya greets him, her voice bright, too bright, like a sunbeam trying to cut through a cloud.

Her ever-present smile is firmly in place, but there’s something in her eyes, a glimmer of hope, a faint, soft hope that maybe today will be the day.

Tayo’s eyes sweep the room, scanning, inspecting, a hawk searching for the smallest flaw.

His shoulders relax just slightly when he finds none.

His lips curl into the faintest smile, a professional smile. “Good morning, everyone,” he says, his tone cool but polite.

The staff echoes the greeting in unison, their voices tight with rehearsed enthusiasm, but there’s always a hint of tension when he speaks. They’ve learned not to get too comfortable.

Ifunanya inches forward, testing her luck. She moves just a little too close, her body language practically shouting:

I’m here, I’m available.

As expected, Tayo steps back immediately, his personal bubble unbreachable. He doesn’t do close contact. Everyone knows this by now. But that doesn’t stop Ifunanya from trying.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’ll let her in. She waits. She watches. She’s a glutton for punishment.

Tayo likes his own rules.

If he worked at his father’s multimillion-dollar company, he wouldn’t have this kind of control.

But here? Here, he sets the standard. His employees must be clean, disinfected, and pristine at all times.

It took three years and countless firings but now, only six close employees remain. Six who meet his exacting standards.

And even though he is their boss, even though he maintains his cool, there’s a tension that buzzes in the air when he’s around—one that makes the staff want to be perfect, even if it means pretending to be something they’re not.

Adeyemi, the oldest, clears his throat. The room quiets in anticipation.

“Let’s pray,” he says softly, his voice a balm for the nerves that are starting to fray around the edges.

Tayo nods. They gather in the center of the reception area, forming a loose circle. It’s not perfect, nothing ever is when humans are involved. But it’ll do.

Adeyemi begins, his voice steady and rich.

Tayo takes a discreet step back—not too far to draw attention, just enough to keep the invisible barrier intact.

Physical closeness still makes his skin itch, but this part of the morning matters to him.

He stills, bowing his head.

His mother used to pray for him like this, hands on his little shoulder, voice trembling with hope and authority.

At first, he prayed out of duty. Then out of habit. But now, somewhere in the silence of his private world, he’s carved out his own quiet kind of faith.

Adeyemi finishes with a soft “Amen,” and the staff echoes it, some sincerely, others out of habit. Tayo lifts his head and offers a small smile, the kind that makes Ifunanya blink twice. Then, with precise steps, he turns and disappears into his office.

Inside, everything gleams like a showroom. His private haven.

He grabs a bottle of disinfectant and sprays the air once, twice.

Then he glides a lint-free cloth over his desk with deliberate strokes—up, down, circular—like a ritual. His chair gets the same treatment. Twice. He knows no one else sits in it. Still, he checks. He always checks.

Fingers skim the glassy surface. No dust. Still, he disinfects it again before finally settling into the seat, posture military-straight, movements practiced. Controlled.

People talked, of course. They always did.

Some called him controlling.

Others said he had a superiority complex that he thought he was cleaner, better than everyone else.

Some just dismissed him as an exhausting perfectionist with no chill and a gallon of hand sanitizer for a soul.

But the truth? Only his family knew.
Diagnosed germophobia.

The kind that turns public spaces into battlegrounds and hugs into near-death experiences.

Tayo doesn’t jump when his phone vibrates. He just reaches for it—smooth, like always. Glances at the screen.

His stepmother.

He exhales through his nose, the kind of breath people release when they already know what’s coming. He picks up.

“Mom.”

As he speaks, he straightens an already straight stack of documents. Opens his MacBook. Movements clean. Predictable. Like he’s following a script he wrote for himself.

Her voice spills through the speaker—flowery, strong, and a little too enthusiastic for this early in the morning.

“Enny, tí n kò bá pè ẹ, ìwọ ò ní pè mí.”

(Enny, if I don’t call you, you won’t call me.)

He closes his eyes for a beat.

She’s somewhere, no doubt, putting on her favourite show:

The Loving Mother. Audience optional, but highly preferred.

“Good morning to you too, Mom,” he says, tone polite and tight, like a tie he doesn’t wear.

“Good morning, my dear. But you need to call me more. Or do you have another mother somewhere else?”

He scrolls through their company’s Instagram page with his free hand. Smiles at a client’s reviews. Nods like this is just another morning call. Not a guilt grenade wrapped in lace and expectations.

“I’m busy, Mom. I have clients. A job.”

“Everyone has a job and still keeps up with family,” she snaps, quick and sharp like a clapback rehearsed in front of a mirror.

Tayo almost laughs. Almost.

Except you, he thinks.

Folashade’s only job is spending the family’s money, and she does it like an Olympic sport.

Designer handbags with more followers than some reality stars. Red carpets. Dramatic gele styles that double as visual obstructions, attending high-society parties, buying expensive outfits, flaunting her jewelry, throwing cash at events, and making sure everyone knows she is Savage’s wife. She throws money the way other people throw shade—freely, and with practiced flair.

If there’s a camera, she’s front and center. If there’s cash to spray, her wrists are limber. She calls it branding.

Actual work? She avoids it the way Tayo avoids handshakes.

No one burns through the Savage fortune with more flair than she does. And somehow—defying logic, physics, and probably prayer—his father adores her for it.

Tayo pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t want to admit it, but…

If there’s one thing he respects about his father—buried somewhere under all the resentment—it’s the way he loves.

Loudly. Devotedly. Like a man who has something to prove and doesn’t care who’s watching.

When Tayo’s real mother was alive, their home was a carousel of hospital rooms and whispered prayers.

But his father never let it look like defeat.

No matter how many boardrooms he conquered by day, he still came home to cook for her. Fed her by hand. Refused to let her touch hospital food. Even with a nurse in the house, he insisted—his hands, his care, his wife.

Always.

Until the very end.

So when he remarried, Tayo hadn’t protested. He’d wanted his father to be happy again.

But Folashade didn’t come with healing.

She came with drama. Heels that click like gunfire on tile. Silk wrappers that swish with entitlement. And a daughter.

At first, it’s... tolerable.

Then his birthdays go unmentioned. Uncelebrated.
Then it’s “our daughter” when she talks about Lola.
Not my daughter.
Not your stepsister.
Just... ours, like Tayo is some distant cousin with visitation rights.

And it’s wild, because he’s the first son. The heir. The one who stayed after his mother took her last breath.

But his dad? He praises Lola like she’s an answered prayer. Like she’s the savior of their lineage.

And Tayo? He gets critique. On everything. The way he walks. The way he wipes doorknobs. The way he breathes too cautiously.

He tries. God knows he tries not to feel it.

But it’s hard to ignore when one child gets affection, and the other gets reviewed like a budget spreadsheet.

Now, Folashade’s voice chirps through the speaker like they’re besties.
“Can you please come home for dinner this weekend?” she asks, syrupy sweet—too sweet. The kind of sweet that makes his teeth itch.

Tayo leans back in his chair.

“Mom, we both know that’s not possible.”

“You’re the one making it impossible,” she snaps right back.

No lag, no hesitation. “If you wanted to spend time with us, you would.”

He shifts in the chair, slow and stiff. Not because of work— It’s this cycle that tires him.
This monthly guilt appointment disguised as a phone call.

Every word she says feels like a carefully placed banana peel.
Say the wrong thing—slip, crash, shame spiral.

No one ever asks how he’s doing.

Not really.

He pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales.

“Okay. I’ve heard you.”

He misses home sometimes.

More often than he likes to admit.

It’s the only place where his illness isn’t seen as demonic.

Where a special chef knows about his condition and makes sure the food is clean and safe for him to eat.

They don’t flinch when he uses tissues to open bottled water.

Well.

Except his father. His father flinches with words.

Still... maybe his absence will finally echo loud enough to be heard.

Maybe this time, the silence he leaves behind will shape itself into something close to regret.
Maybe, just maybe, his father will finally miss him.
Not the version he tries to be.
Him. As he is.

There’s a beat of silence on the line. Then…

“Ìbò ni ẹ wà?” Where are you, ma?

Tayo tries to redirect the conversation, keep it light, surface-level, exactly where he likes it.

“Do you remember Mr Adeshina? Your dad’s former general manager from the Ibadan branch?”

Folashade’s voice slides through the phone with too much cheer. The kind that comes layered like jollof with extra stew. He can already taste the setup.

“I’m with his wife—Mrs. Adeshina. Bankole’s mother. They just moved to Lagos, so I thought I’d catch up with her.”

Of course she did.

Yoruba mothers and networking?
More efficient than 5G.
No data limits. No downtime.

Tayo blinks slowly. Keeps his voice pleasant. Vanilla.
No sharp edges, no sarcasm.
Because if Folashade’s phone is on speaker—and it probably is—he’s not about to be that child.

“How did you meet her?”

“Oh, we ran into each other at a resort I visited last week.” Her voice lilts, like she’s narrating a lifestyle vlog.

“She was in a bit of a fix, so I helped her out with my VIP access.”

Tayo almost snorts. Rolls his eyes at the ceiling instead.

There it is.

Classic Folashade: humblebrag, but make it a performance.
She can’t just help someone.

She has to elevate them—then subtly point out who did the lifting.

“And then I decided to treat her to lunch,” she adds, like she’s narrating a charity campaign.

Cue violin music. Cue slow-motion bread breaking.

“She asked about your dad, you, and Lola, so I thought it’d be nice for you to say hello.”

He opens his mouth, mid-protest, but she swoops in with the finisher:

“Oya, kí wọn.”

“Oya, Say hi.”

He freezes.

Kí tani? Greet who? he thought to himself.

This woman is practically a stranger.

Maybe he saw her once—fifteen years ago—when his dad dragged him to a company end-of-year party.

Now he’s supposed to turn on phone warmth and act like they’re family?

He opens his mouth again, ready to politely decline.

Too slow.

A new voice explodes into the call, full of practiced cheer—

“Tayoooo! Tayooo! Ku ojo meta!”

He blinks. Looks at the phone like it personally betrayed him.

What is he supposed to say to that?

“Good... morning, ma.” He says it with all the enthusiasm of a tax form.

She’s still talking.
Something about how he used to play with Bankole in their matching Aso-Oke.
He doesn’t even remember owning Aso-Oke.

He zones out halfway through, letting her memories rewrite his own.

And all the while, Folashade is somewhere in the background, grinning like a matchmaker who just lit a very expensive candle.

“Ifunanya baby! Omalicha nwa!” Tobechukwu bursts into the lunchroom like he owns it—grin wide, cologne loud, and ego fully caffeinated.

His eyes lock onto her.

There she is. Queen of Cold Shoulders.

Picking through the fruit basket like it personally offended her.

The break room, a spotless tiny escape from mops and meeting rooms, is stocked with snacks and fruits.

Ifunanya doesn’t spare him a glance.
She grabs a handful of grapes, rinses them at the sink, each movement stiff enough to slice air.

“Greet me, Ifunanya,” he says, sliding in beside her with the confidence of a man who’s been curved since January.

“Are we fighting?”

She pops a grape into her mouth—slow, unimpressed, unbothered.

“Did I say we’re fighting?”

“Ị na-akwọ m ọtọ nke a? You hate me that much?”
His smile doesn’t budge. Neither does her mood.

“Ị nwere ike ịkwụsị? Can you just stop?” she snaps, eyes darting to him like lasers.

Tobechukwu leans casually against the counter, soaking it all in like it’s foreplay.

“I know you’ve got eyes only for Mr Savage”, he says, “but maybe it’s time you considered me too. I’m here. Tall. Charming. Employed.”

Ifunanya cackles. Not laughs, cackles.

The kind that draws stares from passing staff.

“If they packaged you with a ribbon, threw in a loyalty card and added ₦500k in the mix,” she says, chewing her grape like it’s his pride, “I’d still return the delivery.”

Tobechukwu chuckles, undeterred. He’s been dragged worse by better.

But Ifunanya isn’t done.
She gives him a slow once-over, unimpressed.

“You think you’re in my league? You? A hygiene technician?” She tosses a grape in her mouth, chewing slowly, like she’s savoring a clapback.
“A cleaner. Wanting to date me?”

That one stings a little.

But Tobechukwu wears his pride like Storm—sprayed on thick. “You know Mr Savage doesn’t rate you, right?” he replies, folding his arms with ease.
“I’m a man. I know the signs. You think he’s watching you, but my sister, he’s just wondering if you touched the doorknob without sanitizing.”

Ifunanya’s eyes narrow.

“That’s my business and cup of tea. If the tea is bitter, I’ll drink it hot, cold, or in peace. You won’t be invited to the sipping.”

She grabs her grapes like a mic drop and saunters out, hips leading the way.

Tobechukwu watches her go, sighs dramatically, and, of course, follows.
Because dignity is nice, but this fine girl?

Unfinished business.

— Somolu, Lagos-mainland, Nigeria —

“Yaya Rahama!”

Dawuda kicks the front door open and steps into chaos.

Clothes spill from plastic baskets, boxes are crammed into corners, and the air is thick with the scent of fried onions, baby powder, and body heat. Six bodies squeezed into a one-bedroom flat. Barely any space to breathe.

“Yaya Rahama!” he calls out, tossing his backpack onto the faded couch before collapsing onto it. He tugs off his boots, grimacing as they squeak against his slightly damp socks. His NYSC uniform clings to him: creased and faintly sweaty from the heat.

A soft yawn echoes from the bedroom.

Rahama appears, dragging her feet, one arm stretched overhead, the other rubbing sleep from her eyes while yawning. Her wrapper is crooked. Hair wild. Face bare. Lips slightly crusted.

Dawuda gapes. “Yesu Kristi.” (Jesus Christ.)

She pauses in the doorway. “What?”

He gestures at her with both hands, like she’s a crime scene. “Can you just once, try to behave like a girl?”

Rahama sighs, too tired to fight. “You say that every single time.”

“And I’ll keep saying it until it enters your thick skull! You’re the reason people assume Hausas don’t have home training.

Cover your mouth when you yawn! Comb your hair! Cream your skin! And please, for the love of God, don’t look homeless.”

Her arms cross, mouth tight. “So now that you’re a corper, you think you’ve unlocked the secrets of life?” She jabs a finger at him. “Did you buy me nice clothes? Or pay to fix my hair?”

“You don’t need money to stop looking like a cartoon character,” he fires back. “At least wipe the spit from your mouth.”

She gasps, then whacks the back of his head. “You’re impossible! I’m still your senior, remember?”

“Toh, yi hakuri, Madam. Sorry, Madam.”

He chuckles, dodging her second swipe and reaching out to pinch her cheek.

“But seriously, I should’ve been your big brother.”

“Ka daina ni.” (Leave me.) She slaps his hand away, a pout blooming on her face.

He grins. “Okay, okay. I actually called you for something important.”

She lifts a brow, arms still folded.

“I found a job listing,” he says, sitting up straighter.

“Cleaner in Ikoyi. Two hundred thousand a month. No degree needed. They even offer paid training for a whole month and accommodation.”

“I already drafted a CV and sent it in.” He beams. “You have an interview on Monday.”

She stares at him like he just told her she won a trip to Pluto.

“Are you dumb, or are you just trying to disturb my sleep?”

Dawuda blinks. “What do you mean?”

Rahama scoffs. “So you really are slow.”

She plops down on the edge of the center table, avoiding the cracked spot near the leg. Her tone hardens.

“How exactly do you expect me to get from Somolu to Ikoyi every day with Lagos traffic? Do you know how much transport costs now? And who do you think gets jobs that pay two hundred thousand? Definitely not people like me.”

Dawuda shifts, his confidence cracking. She’s not wrong. He’s lived it, seen how people stiffened in lecture halls the moment they heard his name, watched opportunities dry up because he was Hausa.

As if that meant he wasn’t clean, smart, or worthy.

Still, he leans forward. “What if you tried?” His voice lowers. “They offer optional staff accommodation.”

Rahama rolls her eyes but doesn’t cut him off.

He presses on, gentler now. “Nothing is impossible with God. You taught me that. Determination changes stories.”

She shakes her head slowly.

“Let me guess. I’ll move in, they’ll realize I’m Hausa, and boom—instant side-eye. People don’t like living with us. They think we’re backward. I’d rather stay here, earn my daily crumbs, and mind my business.”

Dawuda exhales sharply. “And just stay stuck here forever?”

He gestures around them, walls smudged with fingerprints and smoke, ceiling fan tilting like it’s about to fall.

The faint stench from the shared toilet seeps in under the door.

“Yaya Rahama, this isn’t living. It’s surviving. You’ve sacrificed too much for this family to settle for this. You’re better than this. You’ve got fight in you. Don’t bury it here.”

He stands, pacing now.

“I’m moving to Abuja after NYSC. Why not move too? Leave Somolu behind for once. We’re crammed into a single room, bathing in buckets outside, lining up to use a dirty toilet shared by twenty people. We hustle just to eat rice without enough stew. When it rains, we sleep standing.”

His voice breaks a little. “This is not what God meant by prosperity.”

Rahama’s eyes flicker. She doesn’t interrupt.

“You brought Christ to this family. You said His plans are good. But this?” He gestures again. “This can’t be it.”

A thick silence hangs between them.

Finally, Rahama speaks, voice quiet. “You really think I can survive there?”

Dawuda smiles, the tension in his shoulders easing. “Just try. That’s all I’m asking. You can come home every weekend”

She looks away, then nods slowly.

“I’m not promising anything. But like you said, I’ll try.”

She turns and walks toward the bedroom, wrapper trailing behind her.

Dawuda watches her disappear behind the curtain, heart swelling with hope until reality taps him on the shoulder.

Rahama might have the heart, but does she have the habits?

He exhales, sinking into the couch.

In Ikoyi, they’ll judge everything: her scent, the way she chews, even the oil stain on her wrapper.

Poverty aside, her hygiene and lack of polish is a problem. And he knows it.

“Ikoyi!?” Hafsat’s voice slices through the room like a slap.

Rahama flinches.

“A’a, ba za ki tafi ba! You are not going! Not Ikoyi of all places?”

Her mother’s brows shoot up, hands flailing in disbelief.

“That’s the island! Not just the island, one of the richest part of it! How will you survive there?”

She leans forward on the threadbare couch, wrapper knotted tightly at her waist, fear flashing in her eyes.

Rahama exhales slowly, lips pressed into a firm line.

“Ki kawo min ruwa da farko,” Hafsat says, rubbing her forehead like the very thought is draining her life force.

Rahama walks to the corner of the room, the cement floor cold beneath her feet. She lifts the plastic cover from the water bucket, fills a blue cup, and brings it over.

Her mother takes it with trembling hands, gulps twice, then sets it gently on the ground beside her.

Only then does Rahama speak.

“I felt the same way when Dawuda told me. But maybe I should try. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll come back.”

Hafsat shakes her head, her voice dropping to a warning murmur.

“It’s not worth trying, Rahama. Those people don’t live like us. They look at girls like you and laugh. How will you cope?

And staying in the staff quarters? No, just stay here. No one is chasing you.”

Rahama’s chest tightens. She lowers herself onto the armrest of the chair, eyes on the peeling paint above the door.

“That’s the problem, Mama,” she says quietly.

“Nothing’s chasing me, that’s why I’m stuck. Dawuda is going to Abuja. Maria will leave when her husband returns. She’s only here now because she’s pregnant and needs help. Soon, it’ll be just me, you, and Baba. I’m twenty-seven.”

Her voice falters, then steadies again.

“If I get this job, I can help with the expenses. You and Baba won’t have to struggle so much. Please, let me try. Dawuda even said I can come home on weekends.”

Hafsat twists the edge of her wrapper between her fingers, eyes clouding with something between fear and grief. “But their mindset... the way they treat...”

She shakes her head slowly.

“You don’t know those streets, Rahama. You’ve never even left Somolu.”

Rahama swallows the lump in her throat.

“I know. But I’m not saying I’m going forever. I would be coming home. I’ll talk to Baba when he returns.”

A long silence stretches across the room. The sound of a neighbour’s generator filters through the slatted window. Finally, Hafsat sighs and massages her temples.

“Fine. I’ll get you a big phone, so you can call me when you go.”

Rahama’s face lights up, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Na gode, Mama. Thank you.”

She moves toward the tiny kitchen corner, where rusty pots hang on bent nails, and begins dishing her mother’s food into a shallow bowl.

Behind her, Hafsat watches with a heavy heart. Her daughter means well. She’s always meant well.

But she’s not built for that world. Not with her gentle voice, her slow steps, her sheltered ways.

Not with her Hausa accent and her limited schooling. Not with her trust—so easy, so pure.

Still, Hafsat knows—she can’t stop her.

— Ikoyi, Lagos-Island, Nigeria. —

Tokunbo watches Tayo from across the dining table, his gaze sharp, barely hiding his disdain.

His eyes stay fixed on the velvet cutlery case Tayo unzips, the click of the latch a small rebellion against the judgment hanging in the air.

“You’re still not over this strange illness of yours?” His voice cuts through the meal like a blade, irritation thick in every syllable.

“Babe,” Folashade interjects, her tone a warning, but she doesn’t look up from her plate.

Lola’s smile is light, a delicate bridge between them. “Enny is improving, Dad,” she chimes in, her voice hopeful, almost too hopeful.

Tokunbo scoffs, his gaze hardening as it shifts between Lola and Tayo. “I don’t see any improvement.”

He leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as his attention lands fully on Tayo.

“You, Enioluwa Omotayo Savage, heir to the Savage empire, crippled by mere germs? Is your immune system that weak?”

Tayo’s fingers tighten around his cutlery case, his knuckles blanching, but he says nothing. Lola, ever the peacekeeper, tries again.

“It’s not his immune system, Dad,” she corrects gently, her voice calm. “It’s just a mental health condition.”

Tokunbo’s chair scrapes violently against the polished floor as he leans forward, every inch of him radiating frustration.

“That’s even worse!” His words crack in the air like thunder. “Mental health condition? What are we saying now, that he’s insane?”

Lola exhales, the patience in her voice forced, strained. “Dad, not every mental health condition is psychosis. There are different kinds.”

Tokunbo waves her off with a dismissive flick of his hand.

“It’s cowardice, that’s what it is! People face their fears, even if it kills them! How do you expect to run Savtel when you can’t even touch a table without sanitizing it first? Or do you think you’ll keep running that pathetic little cleaning company that’s an embarrassment to my name?”

Tayo’s body stiffens, the weight of the words sinking into him, but he carefully tucks his utensils back into their case.

“That ‘pathetic’ company generated over 250 million naira in revenue last year,” he says, his tone calm, but there’s an undeniable edge to it, a crack in the mask. His voice rises ever so slightly, betraying his simmering anger.

Tokunbo barks out a bitter laugh, his mouth curling into a sneer.

“So you expect applause for scrubbing floors? For slaving away for people who should be working for you?”

He leans back in his chair, his hand gesturing lazily as if dismissing Tayo completely.

“Our company makes that in profit within two months.”

“Just drop the cleaning business, Tayo. Come work with me.” Tokunbo’s voice softens, but the thinly veiled command remains.

Folashade huffs, arms crossed tightly against her chest. “Babe, can you give the boy some breathing space?”

Tayo’s jaw tightens.

Without a word, he pushes his chair back, the scrape of wood on tile loud in the thick silence. His voice remains calm, but his words are weighted with a quiet fury.

“Excuse me.”

Lola’s eyes widen as she immediately stands, following him. “Enny, please ignore Dad,” she pleads, but her hand reaches for him in vain. Tayo steps aside, avoiding her touch.

“I’m fine, Lola. I just need peace.” His voice is steady, but there’s a palpable tension in the air. The words hang between them, too heavy to ignore.

“And clearly, I won’t find it here.”

Without another glance, he strides out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the stillness.

Behind him, the argument erupts in a whirlwind of voices, but Tayo tunes them out. Let them talk. Let them dismiss his struggles.

It’s not his fault.

He’s tried. Over and over again, he’s tried. But no matter how hard he fights it, the sickness lingers—waiting, patient, always ready to strike at the sight of dirt.

— Surulere, Nigeria. —

Tayo parks in front of Abula Joint, engine humming as if unsure whether to stay or flee.

He turns the key, kills the engine, and just sits there.

Maybe… just maybe, tonight he can prove everyone wrong.

Maybe he can prove he’s not a prisoner to hand sanitizers, tissue barriers, or surgical-grade disinfectant.

Maybe his father will finally stop looking at him like a broken compass.

Maybe next family dinner, he won’t be insulted for using a personal cutlery.

He exhales. His father had said, “Face your fear, even if it kills you.”

Well, here he is: ready to die by his cravings.

He slips on his gloves—neatly, one finger at a time. Then his nose mask. Pulls out his bottled water, pocket-sized sanitizer, his individually wrapped disinfectant wipes. A slow, dramatic nod to no one in particular.

No open-air restaurants or rooftop lounges tonight. No sterilized kitchen or trusted private chef.

Tonight, he eats like a regular Nigerian man.

He steps out and walks toward the Abula Joint.

Immediately, heat slaps him like a mother correcting a spoiled child.

The place is packed: men sweating into their soups, women yelling orders over bubbling pots, the air thick with steam, spice, and enough noise to shake his soul. People stand shoulder to shoulder, fighting to get to the front.

Tayo pauses. His left eye twitches.

His feet betray him and try to step back. No. Not today.

He squares his shoulders and walks inside.

It’s chaos. A kind of organized madness. The amala pot sits just barely above the floor, the server scooping with Olympic-level wrist work, sweat glistens on her forehead. No gloves. No cap.

Ewedu flies, gbegiri splashes, goat meat simmers in a separate pot with a thick layer of oil doing gentle waves.

Tayo swallows hard. So this is how it ends.

Someone brushes past him. Tayo freezes like his soul just got hacked.

Another man bumps into him and yells, “Oga, shift na! You wan block road?”

He mutters a tight, “Sorry,” and moves aside, wiping his shoulder with a wipe like he’s trying to erase the man’s DNA.

He feels eyes. Stares. Some people are smirking. A few outright laugh.

Tayo keeps walking.

Tayo’s stomach flips.

Is that… a toenail on the floor?

The person beside him sneezes into the open air. Tayo gasps. His sanitizer is out of his pocket before the sneeze lands.

He reaches the serving line and freezes again. There’s zero social distance. No one is wearing a mask. Everyone is shouting.

“Oga, what do you want?” a woman with a tired scarf and tired eyes asks, suddenly standing in front of Tayo.

“I… I want some food,” Tayo says, his voice not sure if his soul agrees.

She jerks her head. “Come take plate then.”

He follows, eyes wide as she digs into a giant plastic basket stacked with plates that have clearly seen more life than most Nollywood villains. She hands him one, and Tayo stares like it just whispered a curse.

There’s a faded yellow stain baked into the ceramic. Possibly oil. Possibly palm oil. Possibly... 2023.

“Take. Go and collect amala. Come back for soup,” she says, like she’s just offered him front-row tickets to heaven.

Tayo nods slowly, whispering to himself, You can do this. It’s all in your mind. This is mental warfare.

He joins the queue. The smell is rich.

Loud. Loud enough to slap his nostrils. The amala woman scoops four proud mounds of stretchy brown dough into his plate, unbothered by the fact that she barely makes eye contact.

She shoves the plate into his hands and moves on.

How charming, Tayo mutters, stepping away and heading to the soup section.

The stew line is long and chaotic—no order, no logic, no hope. Tayo tries to queue responsibly, hands folded politely, leaving space between him and the next person.

Within three minutes, five people have cut in front of him.

Ten minutes in, he’s still standing. Still trying to be decent. Still trying not to scream.

Then, he snaps. Just a little.

“Ẹ jọ̀wọ́, ẹ fún mi ní obe. Please give me soup!” he mutters, voice muffled behind his nose mask but firm enough to mean business.

Finally, someone notices. A younger guy takes pity, collects his plate, and gets him soup and meats with gbegiri. Tayo transfers the money on his phone.

Then he sees it—a window seat.

He slides into it like a man returning from battle, peels off his gloves and mask like layers of identity, pulls out his bottled water, and wash his hands.

He takes the first bite.

Pause.

His eyes widen. “Hmm,” he says.

He takes a second bite.

His eyes close. “Oh my days…”

How can something this unhygienic taste so good?

By the third bite, he forgets his name.

By the fourth, he starts sweating.

There’s no air. His chest tightens.

His heart races like someone just played a drum inside it.

His hands tremble.

He stumbles up, breath shallow, and rushes out of the restaurant.

The heat, the smell, the body contact—all of it crashes on him at once.

He reaches his car, flings the door open, pulls off his shirt like it’s on fire, kicks off his shoes, throws everything into a black waste bag.

Sanitizes his hands.

Sprays down the car door handle.

Wipes his steering wheel.

Then sits, shirtless and panicking, in the driver’s seat.

Breathe, Tayo.

In. Out. In. Out.

You’re safe. You’re in a clean space.

No harm will come near me. God’s protection surrounds me.

He leans his head back against the seat, counting his pulse, sipping water, whispering scriptures, and reminding himself that his lungs still work.

After a few shaky minutes and a couple more sprays of eucalyptus oil from his glove box stash, his breath evens out.

Still breathing but humbled, he starts the car and drives off—window down, shirt still off, and a newfound fear of germs etched into his bones.

New chapters every Thursday and Friday 🤍

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CHAPTER ONE

MEET OMOTAYO ENIOLUWA SAVAGE

— Ikoyi, Lagos-Island, Nigeria—

“We’re not a match, Lola. And stop setting me up. This is the last blind date I’m agreeing to,” Tayo snaps.

Lola’s face fills his iPad screen on the counter, she’s sprawled on a spa bed, hair wrapped in a towel, a masseuse working on her shoulders.

“If Senator Kosoko’s daughter isn’t your type, then who is?” she teases, voice silky with amusement.

Tayo frowns at the pot, scooping a piece of yam with the ladle and tasting it. “Someone whose nail polish isn’t chipped with dirt stuck underneath.”

“Omotayo Enioluwa Savage!” Lola’s tone sharpens.

She sits up slightly, wincing as the masseuse hits a tight knot. “How did you even see her nails?”

Tayo shrugs, plating his food. “I noticed.”

“This is getting ridiculous,” she mutters. “One had a strand of hair on her dress. Another wore smudged glasses. The last one had lipstick on her teeth. You’re not even trying anymore. What happened to the deal we made, letting small things go?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he carries the plate into the living room, his iPad tucked under one arm. He drops onto the couch, setting the device on the table.

“You know how I am, Lola,” he says finally. “I can’t just overlook hygiene. It messes with my head. If I’m going to build a life with someone, she has to be clean. Not almost clean. Not kinda clean. Actually clean.”

Lola exhales sharply. “Nobody’s spotless, Enny. Even if she showers ten times, something will still get on her. You’re chasing an illusion.” She waves at off the masseuse. “Tell my assistant to bring my planner.”

Tayo watches her, his face unreadable.

“These women come from respected families. They’re not dirty. And newsflash, you can’t marry your gadgets.”

He lets out a long, exhausted sigh.

No one gets it. Not his father. Not Lola.

Definitely not the endless parade of women paraded before him. Sanitizer lives in every one of his bags.

He wipes down chairs before sitting. He brings his own cutlery when he visits his family. Eating at restaurants? Out of the question.

This isn’t drama. It’s survival. But somehow, his family turns it into a punchline.

His grip tightens around his fork.

“I’d rather be single than risk losing my peace and health,” he mutters.

Silence lingers between them as he chews, jaw set.

To outsiders, he and Lola are picture-perfect siblings—polished, privileged, close. But under that shine is a mess they both pretend doesn’t exist.

Lola Savage used to be Lola Akintunde, until his father married her mother and gave her his last name. Now she acts like the caring older sister. But Tayo remembers.

He remembers the fake smiles from his step-mom. The manipulation. The way his stepmother always found a way to cut him down, even when he tried to win her over.

And Lola? Neutral. Silent. Watching.

Maybe too young to speak up. Maybe too scared.

Still, she used to sneak off to play with him whenever her mother wasn’t looking. Even now, after everything, some part of him wants to believe old things really can pass away.

“What do you mean, stay single?” Lola’s voice cuts through the screen, sharper now as she sit straight on the spa bed.

Tayo tightens his grip on the fork. “Exactly what I said, Lola. Unless my relationship status somehow affects yours.”

The jab lands before he can reel it back.

Regret punches through his chest a second later.

He runs a hand through his freshly trimmed hair, sighing. “That came out wrong. I’m sorry.”

On the screen, Lola’s brow knits. She’s known him long enough to recognize this version of him: strained, not cruel. When he snaps, it’s never without a reason.

Still, her voice stays measured. “Well, it does affect me, Enny.”

His eyes flick up—blank, unreadable. “How?”

She shifts, crossing one leg over the other. “First, I need you to be okay. And I don’t think you are. You weren’t born this way, remember? I saw it happen. I watched you fade into someone so careful, so rigid. You sanitize your hands till they’re almost bleached. You avoid elevators. You haven’t stepped into a church or any event in years.”

Tayo presses his fingers against his temple, rubbing slowly. But she’s not done.

“Second, Dad won’t let me breathe. You don’t answer him, so I get the full blast. He’s convinced I can fix you, like I’m the therapist-slash-matchmaker-slash-big-sister-of-the-year.”

She glances sideways. Her assistant waits a few feet away. Lola lifts one finger to pause her.

Tayo shakes his head, voice quieter now. “Lola, this is my life. You don’t owe me guilt. We were kids. You couldn’t stop what happened.” He exhales, setting the plate on the center table. “What I need from you and everybody else is peace. Just peace.”

He picks up his fork again, stabs another piece of yam, and mutters, “Dad should focus on you. You’re the favorite anyway.”

He shrugs, like the words don’t sting. “I’m good.”

But it’s a rehearsed line. One he’s repeated so often, it’s lost all weight.

Because he’s not good.

Loneliness sits with him like an invisible roommate—quiet when the world is loud, screaming when everything falls silent. He’s mastered the art of pretending that solitude is a preference, not a consequence. But he knows the truth.

One careless touch. One contaminated surface. That’s all it takes to trigger a full-on breakdown. Not just panic but real, physical sickness.

So what’s the choice?

Be alone… or be sick.

Lola watches him like she wants to say something that could crack through the walls. But instead, she glances at her watch and sighs.

“I have to go. Dentist appointment.”

He nods.

“I’ll call you later,” she adds, almost gently.

Then the screen goes black.

Silence folds over the room like a sheet.

Tayo exhales, nudging the empty plate aside. A moment passes before he picks it up and walks it to the sink. He scrubs slowly, methodically. The scent of lemon dish soap swirls in the air, clean but hollow.

His thoughts drift backwards.

He was seven when his mother died. Just when he still believed hugs could fix everything.

Six months later, before his eighth birthday, his father married someone new. And with her came a quiet, wide-eyed girl named Lola.

As if that wasn’t enough, he got sick at fifteen.

First, it was little things. Trembling fingers. Tightness in his chest. The feeling that every surface was a threat. Panic attacks with no warning. A heartbeat so loud it drowned out reason.

Then came the unbearable fear of contamination.

Mysophobia.

The word wrapped itself around his life like chains.

Invisible. Unforgiving.

And with the diagnosis came a silent agreement with himself: live small or not at all.

He couldn’t work at his father’s telecommunication company not with open offices and board rooms, not with handshakes and endless meetings.

So he built something of his own. A premium cleaning company. High-end clients. Hospital-grade supplies. Every product vetted. Every standard his own.

His education? Remote—Management Information Systems, delivered through glowing screens.

His friendships? Faded.

His relationships? Nonexistent.

Meanwhile, Lola lived large under the Savage name: private school, debutante balls, brunches with ambassadors’ daughters, a degree in Business Administration, a role in the family company, Savtel, as Head of Business Development and Strategy, charity galas, a verified Instagram account, and enough connections to build a bridge across Lagos.

Tayo dries the plate carefully, lifting it toward the light to check for spots.

None. Still, he wipes it one more time before placing it on the rack. His movements are slow. Intentional. Practiced.

He knows how this story ends.

No woman will ever meet his standard.

Not because they’re dirty. But because his brain doesn’t accept “normal.” It rewrites it. Reframes it. Turns a tiny speck into a screaming hazard.

He’s aware. He’s logical. But logic doesn’t stop the spiral.

That last date? She smiled the whole time, asked thoughtful questions, made space for him in every way. But her nail polish was chipped and he couldn’t look away from the tiny grime tucked into the corner of her thumbnail.

He didn’t hear half the conversation.

All he saw were germs.

He rinses the sponge with boiling water, then squeezes it dry. His gaze drifts out the window but the curtains stay drawn. Lagos dust can sneak in without knocking.

How would he even date someone?

Hold her hand

Really hold it—without imagining every surface she touched before him?

How would he share a drink, a pizza, a plate of suya?

How would he kiss her, knowing that a single kiss transfers hundreds of strains of bacteria?

How would he ever explain that he can’t reuse towels… that he boils his toothbrush every week… that every remote in this house has been disinfected twice… that he hasn’t opened his windows in three months?

The weight returns settling in his chest like wet cement.

No woman is meant for him.

Not really.

Not unless God custom-builds one in a sterile lab, just for him.

And maybe that’s okay.

Maybe love is too messy. Too unpredictable. Too… human.

He turns off the tap, dries his hands with a fresh disposable napkin, and throws it in the trash immediately.

His reflection stares back at him from the microwave’s shiny surface: sharp haircut, clear skin, good jawline.

On paper, he’s the kind of man women want.

But paper doesn’t sweat. Paper doesn’t bleed.

Paper doesn’t fear touch.

MEET RAHAMA SANI

— Somolu, Lagos-mainland, Nigeria —

Dawuda raps his knuckles against the wooden frame of the bathroom entrance, his nose already twitching.

“Yaya Rahama, Fito mana! Ina so in yi wanka!” he calls, his voice straining with frustration. “Come out, please! I need to bathe—I’m late for work!”

The bathroom falls silent, the wrapper across the doorway a stubborn barrier, as if mocking his impatience.

He shifts the wrapper on his wrist, adjusting it to keep himself modest, but the movement doesn’t protect him from what comes next. The air thickens with a sharp, oppressive smell that nearly knocks him over.

He jerks back, slamming his palm over his nose, eyes watering.

“Didn’t Mama tell you not to use the bathroom when you want to do—” he waves his free hand dramatically, as if to deflect the smell with his gestures, “—big business?”

He drags his bucket of water farther from the door, like an escape artist, hoping distance will somehow save him. But it doesn’t.

Still, nothing.

“Yaya Rahama, please!” he pleads, his patience slipping away.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of waiting, Rahama emerges. The old towel wrapped around her chest barely stays in place, clutched in one hand as the other carries the plastic potty.

She marches, purposefully toward the pit latrine, not even glancing his way. Her face is twisted in disgust, her own nose pinched shut in a valiant effort to escape the smell.

Dawuda stumbles backward, his eyes wide with betrayal. “This is wickedness!” He fans the air in front of him like he can somehow make the stench vanish. “Even if you ate an uncooked pig, it shouldn’t be this bad!”

Rahama doesn’t even respond.

She dumps the contents of the potty into the latrine, rinses it out, and then, as though something has just occurred to her, she straightens, taking a few tiptoe steps before—smack—she smacks the back of his head with the palm of her hand.

“Why are you so rude? Is poo-poo supposed to smell nice?” Her grin is pure mischief, like she’s enjoying every second of his discomfort.

Dawuda rubs the back of his head, unimpressed. “I’m just being honest. Poo-poo isn’t supposed to smell like perfume, but yours? Ah! How do you plan to survive in your husband’s house like this?”

He eyes her from head to toe, shaking his head in exaggerated pity, like he’s already mourning the future man who’ll have to deal with this.

Rahama narrows her eyes, lips twitching. “Because you’re taller than me, you think you can talk to me anyhow?”

Dawuda’s grin widens. “I’m just following culture, Yaya Rahama.”

She scoffs, brushing a piece of dirt from her towel. “I’m older than you.”

“By two years. Don’t get ahead of yourself.” He folds his arms, staring at her hair, which seems to have a life of its own.

“And, please, do something about that bush on your head.”

Rahama gasps, her hand flying to her tangled hair. “What’s your own?”

“At this rate, nobody will even ask you out.” He raises an eyebrow, his teasing voice dropping an octave. “I know you’re fine, but please, don’t look homeless.”

Her glare sharpens. “Homeless?”

“Yes, homeless!” Dawuda says, arms still crossed. “And at twenty-seven, you’re still using a potty? A whole grown woman?”

He shakes his head slowly, like he’s been saddled with the impossible task of fixing her. “And when last did you even bathe?” He rolls his eyes. “Come on, Yaya Rahama. You’re a grown woman.”

Rahama’s hand shoots out, grabbing his ear and twisting it with precision.

“Yaya Rahama!” Dawuda yelps. “You’re hurting me!”

“Don’t ‘Yaya Rahama’ me!” she snaps, twisting harder. “I bathe daily!”

Dawuda pries her fingers off his ear, rubbing the sore spot. He stares at her, still reeling from the shock of being outmaneuvered.

“Bathing alone isn’t personal hygiene,” Dawuda declares, his eyes scanning Rahama from head to toe.

He gestures at her wild hair like it’s a national disgrace. “When was the last time you washed, or even combed this your hair? And moisturized your body?”

Rahama’s mouth drops open, her hands flying to her tangled hair as if she’s just been called out for some unforgivable crime.

Dawuda doesn’t give her a chance to respond. “Even this your so-called daily bath, didn’t you skip it three days ago? And last Tuesday, you said you had nowhere to go, so you just…” He waves his hand dismissively, making a disgusted face. “Let’s not even talk about that.”

Rahama stands there, too stunned to retaliate, her mouth closing and opening like she’s trying to find the right words. But nothing comes out.

Seizing the moment, Dawuda grabs his bucket and heads straight for the bathroom, his steps confident.

A second later, he bolts back out, looking like he’s seen a ghost. “Yaya Rahama! This place still smells—oh my God!” He rushes past her, gagging as he goes.

Rahama stares after him, fists clenched, but instead of saying anything, she stomps after him. “Stop respecting me then!” she yells, her voice filled with frustration. “Call me Rahama!”

Dawuda, already halfway out the door, grabs an air freshener from the table as he rushes past the living room. “I’m just being respectful,” he calls over his shoulder, waving the can like a shield. “Respectfully, I pity the person who will marry you.”

Rahama’s hands ball into fists, her face turning crimson as she watches him disappear down the road. She stands there, weighing her options—should she chase him down? Defend herself? But what’s the point? He’s already late for work.

As if on cue, a slow shuffle comes from the bedroom, and Maria appears. Her pregnant belly leads the way, and she blinks sleepily at Rahama.

“What is it, Yaya Rahama?” Maria asks, still half-dazed from sleep.

Rahama turns to face her, crossing her arms in an exaggerated huff. “You need to talk to Dawuda. He’s being rude! Am I his mate?”

Maria raises an eyebrow, clearly curious. “What did he do this time?”

Rahama lets out an exasperated sigh, her hands flying up in the air. “Imagine! He said I look homeless.”

Maria frowns, confusion clouding her eyes.

“Me yasa? Why?”

Rahama’s hands drop to her hips in frustration. “He claims I lack personal hygiene and that no man will want to marry me.”

Maria presses her lips together, clearly holding back a laugh. Her eyes flicker with amusement before a soft chuckle escapes her, which she quickly swallows down.

“Don’t mind him, Yaya Rahama,” she says, shaking her head, her tone amused. “He’s just trying to prove he’s a man.”

Rahama narrows her eyes at Maria, suspicion written all over her face. “You’re laughing at me too?”

Maria quickly sobers, but the playful twinkle in her eyes betrays her. “No! I’m not,” she says, but it’s clear she’s trying not to giggle.

Before Rahama can argue, a tiny voice chirps from the doorway.

“Yaya Rahama! Ina kwana!”

Rahama turns just in time to catch Aisha, her small whirlwind of a niece, charging into her arms, her tiny hands wrapping tightly around her neck.

“Good morning to you too, my sweet niece!” Rahama’s voice melts into a grin as she lifts Aisha up, planting a soft kiss on her cheek.

“Hope you slept well?”

Aisha nods vigorously, her bright smile making Rahama’s irritation melt away like ice under the sun.

“Good,” Rahama says, pressing a kiss to her niece’s cheek before setting her down.

Aisha giggles, running off to play, leaving Rahama standing there with a quiet sigh.

Just then, Hafsat’s voice booms from outside. “Rahama! Come here!”

“I’m coming, Mama!” Rahama calls back, already moving toward the bedroom. She grabs an old gown, ties a scarf over her head, and hurries outside, her feet brushing the dirt of the compound in quick, irritated steps.

Her mother stands there, hands on her hips, sweat already glistening on her forehead despite the early morning chill.

“Mama Dayo just called. She wants me to clean her house, and you know she pays well. I need you to come with me,” Hafsat announces with a decisive air.

Rahama stifles a groan deep in her chest.

“Mama, it’s too early. I was out at the market with Baba until evening yesterday. My body still aches.”

Hafsat shoots her a sharp look that could cut through steel. “And do you think money grows on trees? We live hand to mouth, and when work comes, you should be thanking God, not complaining.”

Rahama presses her lips together, knowing better than to argue with the force that is her mother. She turns away for a second, as if considering rebellion, but then sighs. There’s no use.

“Or should I call your pregnant younger sister to help?” Hafsat continues, eyes narrowing, the words sharp and pointed.

“Maybe Dawuda should skip work to follow me?”

Rahama exhales, heavy and resigned. “Fine, I’ll go.” The fight has gone out of her. Once her mother decides something, there’s no changing her mind.

With an exaggerated huff, Rahama grabs the broom and begins sweeping the compound.

Dust rises in the morning light, swirling around her like an unwelcome reminder of the endless chores that await.

A job would be better, something steady, something that wouldn’t leave her body sore every day.

But where would she even find one? Without a degree, her options are slim, and everyone knows it.

Food was already a luxury in their home. With five mouths to feed, asking her parents to send her to university felt selfish.

Dawuda was the only one who made it through. Now, he’s teaching at a primary school during his national youth service.

Their family, like many others from the north, had always prioritized the education of sons.

The belief was simple—daughters would eventually marry, so why waste money on their schooling?

Marriage. That’s the expected path. Back in the North, girls were engaged before they could walk and married before adulthood. But their family left that life fifteen years ago.

In Lagos, things were different, but not by much. Maria, her younger sister, was married at twenty-one. Now, at twenty-five, she was already expecting her second child.

Maybe Dawuda was right. Maybe she wasn’t feminine enough.

Maria had always been graceful, delicate—the kind of woman men gravitated toward.

Meanwhile, Rahama was too busy working, too tired to care about appearances.

She barely got enough sleep, let alone time for extra baths or beauty routines.

Her reflection often startled her, her skin a little too dry, her hair too wild, her clothes a bit too plain.

She shakes off the thought. There’s no room for vanity when survival is the priority.

The Hausa were often called one of the dirtiest tribes in Nigeria, but Rahama knew better. People didn’t see beyond the surface.

Poverty forced hard choices. When every moment was spent trying to earn enough for the next meal, hygiene became a luxury. A missed bath or two wasn’t laziness: it was exhaustion.

She grips the broom tighter, her knuckles whitening. Sweeping in steady strokes, her mind drifts between thoughts of exhaustion and desire.

Being the firstborn means sacrifice.

It means carrying the weight of the family alongside her parents.

And whether she likes it or not, today, that means following Mama to clean another person’s house. No questions, no rest.

New chapters every Thursday and Friday 🤍

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