A GERMOPHOBIC ROMANCE
A Germophobic Romance (8): A weekly Nigerian romantic-comedy series.
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.
“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.”
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.
A new chapter arrives this evening 🤍
To Everyone Who’s Bought Me a Chocolate 🍫
Thank you, truly, to everyone who has supported my writing by buying me chocolate. Your kindness encourages me more than you know and reminds me that my words are being received.
Every bit of support helps me continue to show up and share these stories. I’m deeply grateful to everyone who reads, engages, and shares these stories. Writing takes time and heart, and if you feel led to support this work, thank you 💜
Happy New Year once again 🥳
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Support is completely optional and deeply appreciated 🤍
Tayo has fallen in love already ?
The physics is just right😂...I won't say chemistry since the law of opposite attracts is more of physics than Chemistry😂.
Happy New Year, Abimbola. ✨
The new year started with positive changes in Rahama, and with Tayo noticing them. 🤭