A GERMOPHOBIC ROMANCE
A Germophobic Romance (2): A weekly Nigerian romantic-comedy series.
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 🤍
Am I the only one finding it funny?😂😂... how Tayo enjoyed the first few seconds of the amala he ate
I feel so sad for Tayo.
Exceptional story telling by the way