A GERMOPHOBIC ROMANCE
A Germophobic Romance (4): A weekly Nigerian romantic-comedy series.
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 🤍🎄
See how grace speaks for people ehn, if Tayo was not unexpectedly sick, he wouldn’t have needed her to come clean his place and seen her with her coverup. If he had been in the office normally, he would have turned her away before she could even prove herself. But grace spoke for her, I’m happy she got the job o
Rahama's brother is so sweet🤭