A GERMOPHOBIC ROMANCE

A Germophobic Romance (9): A weekly Nigerian romantic-comedy series.

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Read the previous chapter here

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This bonus chapter is for you, Adesewa Oyinkansola. 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 🥰

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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.

---

---

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.

---

---

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.