A GERMOPHOBIC ROMANCE
A Germophobic Romance (17): A weekly Nigerian romantic-comedy series.
Read the previous chapter here
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Omotayo scrolls through the monthly spreadsheet: cleaning supplies, pest control. His MacBook rests on his thighs as he sits cross-legged on the bed, back against the headboard.
His phone vibrates.
WhatsApp Video Call: Lola
He taps accept and sets the phone against the laptop screen without lifting his eyes.
“Hey, Enny. Good evening.” Lola’s face fills the screen as she walks through the hallway to the living room. “I heard about Dad and Rahama. Is she okay?”
“She’s fine.” Omotayo’s voice is flat. Then, after a beat, “But you shouldn’t have told Dad about her.”
His fingers pause on the keyboard.
“At least not yet,” he adds. “You know how Dad is.”
Lola sighs as she drops onto the living room couch. She shifts the phone, angling it until she’s framed neatly, like she’s about to make a case in court.
“I was talking to Mum. He overheard. What was I supposed to do?”
“You could’ve warned me,” Omotayo says. He stares at the spreadsheet like it has personally betrayed him. “Just a heads-up.”
She softens immediately. Tilts her head. Pulls a face she’s been using on him since they were children.
“Ma binu, abúrò mi,” she says. (Don’t be angry, my junior brother)
He finally looks up at the screen, eyes sharp. “You should’ve told me you wanted to tell Mum.”
“I had to, nau.” She shrugs. “Rahama said you touched her. Isn’t that good news?”
His jaw flexes.
“And won’t you bring her home eventually?” Lola adds, like she’s stating a fact everyone agreed on already. “The earlier, the better.”
Omotayo leans back, rubbing a hand down his face.
Then, softer, “I’m still angry at you.”
Lola opens her mouth to respond when Folashade steps into the living room.
“Lola, is that your brother?”
Folashade’s voice comes before her face does.
Lola glances sideways. “Mummy…”
Folashade leans into view, lace gown immaculate, gold jewelry everywhere it matters. Her glasses sit low on her nose as she studies the screen, then Omotayo.
“How are you, my dear?” Folashade says, her voice carrying first, her smile following.
“Lola told me you have a girlfriend now?”
The words float out gently, but Omotayo knows better.
Perfect. This is going to take a while.
“Sún fún mi, Lola,” Folashade adds in the background as she settles beside her daughter.
Omotayo makes a low sound in his throat, eyes still moving across the spreadsheet. “Yes, Mom.”
“And she said you went to meet her family?”
“Yes, Mom.”
“And you touched her,” Folashade continues, tilting her head, “and kissed her?”
He swipes to the next column. Disinfectant prices have doubled again.
“Yes,” he says.
A pause.
“She also said she’s Hausa.”
Omotayo leans back, dragging a hand down his face. “Yes, Mom. Please…can you just ask all the questions at once?”
“How did that happen?” Folashade asks. “Why a Hausa girl?”
He looks up this time.
“Because I love a Hausa girl,” he says evenly. “That’s why I’m with her.”
Folashade exhales, sharp and audible.
“Ah.” She clicks her tongue. “Ìwọ ọmọ yìí.”
She shakes her head. “O kì n koju sí ibi tí ayé ń koju sí.”
(You never do things the way everyone else does it)
“You used to say even ‘clean’ girls were dirty to you. That they had germs you couldn’t ignore.”
She leans closer to the screen.
“So how did we get from that… to a Hausa girl in the slum?”
“Lola!” Omotayo’s voice cuts in loudly.
Lola’s face slides into view slowly, already smiling.
“Is it you that told Mum that Rahama lives in a slum?” he asks.
She shrugs, grin widening. “I just thought she’d find out eventually, no?”
“Leave her,” Folashade says, waving a hand. “Let her talk. Isn’t she our only source of information about you?”
Omotayo presses his lips together.
“Let’s focus on your own matter now,” she says calmly.
“And this Hausa girl you’ve decided to fall in love with.”
“Your father is not taking it lightly,” Folashade adds. “At all.”
Omotayo pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mom, can I call you back? I’m in the middle of something.”
“Never, don’t call me back.” She cuts in quickly. “You won’t call. Let’s talk now.”
She pauses, then adds pointedly, “Abi do you have another mother somewhere else?”
“No,” he says dryly. “She’s dead. So technically, you’re the one.”
Folashade gasps. “Ah! This your mouth is not good at all.”
He sighs, shifts on the bed.
“I love Rahama, Mom,” he says, steady now. “And her name is Rahama. Not ‘Hausa girl.’”
He reaches for his Montblanc, tapping it lightly against the mattress: once, twice, something to keep him anchored.
“I’ve tried to be the best mother I can be,” Folashade says, her voice softer, slower. “I took care of you. Made sure you were okay. I see you as my own son. You know that.”
He doesn’t respond. He’s learned when silence is safer.
“So don’t misunderstand me,” she continues. “It’s just that I don’t think someone like you should lower yourself to date a Hausa girl.”
Omotayo closes his eyes.
God, help me not lose it.
“Mom,” he says, opening them, calm but firm, “I’ve told you her name. And we’re not doing this right now. I love her. That part is not up for discussion.”
A beat.
“Everyone will just have to get on board.”
The silence stretches.
“Okay,” Folashade says at last, clipped. “It’s your life. You’re old enough.”
“I am.” He nods. “So please help me talk to Dad. I’m bringing Rahama over this weekend.”
“Ahh, this weekend?” Folashade repeats. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“Let him come, oh,” Lola’s voice cuts in from the background. “Don’t discourage him.”
“Later, Mom,” Omotayo says. “I’m really busy.”
He ends the call before it can spiral again, sets the phone gently on the bed, and exhales.
The spreadsheet stares back at him.
Because right now, budgets don’t matter.
Taking Rahama home does.
Hopefully, his family will learn to see her the way he does.
Omotayo walks in…and stops.
Rahama is laughing.
Not a polite smile. Not the soft one she saves for small talk. This one has her head tipped back, eyes nearly closed, hand pressed to her chest like she’s forgotten herself.
Peter stands close. Too close.
He says something again, low enough that Omotayo can’t hear it. Rahama laughs harder, reaches out, taps Peter’s arm like he’s just delivered gold.
Heat climbs Omotayo’s neck.
He’s seen this several times; Peter hovering, always ready to explain Rahama to the room, always conveniently nearby to protect her.
Admiration, maybe.
Or something else.
He trusts Rahama.
Peter? Not so much.
Omotayo crosses the room, smile easy, grip firm as he takes Rahama’s hand and draws her to his side. She startles, then relaxes, fingers sliding into his like that’s where they’ve always been.
Peter straightens, grinning. “Ah, Mr Savage. Good afternoon, sir. Do you need something?”
Omotayo’s smile doesn’t budge. “Yes. My babe.”
Peter blinks. “Sir?”
“I came to get my babe.” Omotayo’s gaze doesn’t leave his face.
The pause stretches. Then it clicks.
Peter laughs. “Ahh! She’s all yours, sir.”
He lifts both hands in mock surrender, even nodding at where Omotayo’s still holding Rahama.
Her cheeks warm, caught between a smile and a glance she pretends not to make.
“Are you sure?” Omotayo asks softly. Teasing…but not.
“Sure about what, sir?”
Rahama elbows him, a quiet warning, but Omotayo doesn’t look away.
“With the way you’ve been defending Rahama since she stepped into this place,” he says calmly, “I just want to be sure you’re not catching feelings.”
He finally looks down at Rahama, squeezes her hand once.
“Because I am in love with her.”
Peter bursts out laughing, loud, unguarded.
“No, no, no, sir! Rahama? No, oh.” He shakes his head. “She’s like a sister to me. A northern sister. I just like culture. We were talking about Hausa food, traditions, all that.”
He chuckles again, softer now. “Nothing more. I swear.”
Rahama shakes her head, smiling. “Mr Savage, don’t be jealous. Peter’s just a friend.”
Tayo turns to her, his jaw easing. “Tayo,” he says gently. “Or Enny. Please.”
A faint blush warms her cheeks. “I’m still getting used to it.”
He leans in just enough to be felt. “You will.”
Peter watches the exchange, the shift in energy, how Rahama melts just a little under Mr Savage’s gaze, how Mr Savage softens the moment she speaks.
With a quiet smile, Peter steps back and returns to his desk.
Never in his life did he think the famously aloof Mr Savage would be the jealous type or act like a mildly possessive teenager with a crush. But here they are.
And honestly? It’s kind of sweet.
“Mr Savage, you don’t have to be jealous,” Rahama says softly, her fingers still laced with his. “I love you. I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you… that day I came to clean your place. You looked like Michael.”
Tayo lifts a brow. “Michael? Who is Michael?”
She blinks, then laughs. “Archangel Michael.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “So I remind you of a heavenly warrior with a flaming sword?”
She tilts her head. “And a very nice jawline.”
His blush is immediate and hopelessly boyish.
Wonders would never end, Peter thinks from his seat, watching the transformation.
“I wasn’t jealous,” Tayo says, defensive but smiling. “I was just… cautious. Peter hovers. I had to be sure.”
Rahama leans into him, amused. “I didn’t know you had this side.”
He grins, sidestepping. “Come. Let’s go to my office.”
She follows him into his office, their shoulders brushing like a shared secret. Inside, he pulls out a chair for her before taking the one opposite, elbows resting on the desk, expression unguarded.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says quietly. “About inviting you over. Lunch. At my place.”
Her smile slows. “I haven’t been there since the day I cleaned it.”
“Exactly,” he says. “And I haven’t stopped thinking about that day.”
She shakes her head, amused. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Coming to your house when we’re not even engaged.”
Tayo leans forward, reaches across the table, and takes her hands in his. “That’s why I’ve gathered all my courage,” he says. “I’ll drop you off the day after tomorrow. And I’ll meet your parents.”
Her eyes widen.
“I might as well pay your bride price while I’m there,” he adds, grinning, like this is simple math.
Rahama bursts out laughing. “It’s not that easy, Mr Savage. You need your parents’ blessing first. You can’t just skip steps.”
“I know.” He sighs, still smiling. “But I’m coming anyway. I’ll meet your family, get their blessing, and maybe they’ll be so impressed they’ll hand you over to me immediately, parents or not.”
She laughs again, shaking her head. “You are very charming. And very handsome. You could probably sweet-talk all of Somolu if you tried.”
He watches her thumb trace slow circles over his knuckles. “Is that how I got you?”
She considers it, then smiles. “No, oh. You weren’t that nice at first. I just liked you on my own.”
His laughter comes easy, warm, filling the room. She joins in, something light settling in her chest.
She glances at his hands again, so soft, so neat, like they belong in a commercial for expensive hand lotion. It still amazes her that this beautiful, almost freakishly hygienic man wants her.
The girl who used to skip baths on long days, who’s just adjusting to twice-daily showers and good hygiene.
She’s trying. For him. For herself.
Not because he’s making her, but because she loves him. Deeply. And she wants to meet him halfway… maybe even all the way.
Even if it takes baby steps.
She’s already taken the first.
And he’s still holding her hand.
“I have good news, babe,” Tayo says, that boyish grin stretching across his face as he navigates the car through Yaba traffic, heading toward Somolu. “I’ve been meaning to tell you since morning, but you’ve been busy with your adventure with Lola.”
Rahama turns in her seat, eyes playful. “What happened?”
He laughs, then gives her a quick sideways glance. “You are coming with me to my parents’ next week.”
Rahama’s smile freezes slightly, curiosity now peeking through. “Your parent?”
He nods. “Yes. I spoke with my mom. Although it’s not going to be easy but then she already agreed that we can come over.”
Rahama lets out a mini-scream and practically launches at him from the passenger seat, grabbing his arm like he just told her she won a visa lottery. “Wait—what?! You’re serious? I’d love that!”
Tayo chuckles, still focused on the road. “Yes.”
They share a smile. Comfortable silence stretches for a beat before Rahama’s voice softens. “Can I ask something… personal?”
“Shoot.”
“Your mom isn’t she like late?”
Tayo nods. “Yeah. She was sick.”
“Mysophobia?” she asks gently.
“No. Cancer.” He says it quietly, like the word still feels heavy in his throat.
“I’m sorry.” Her hand brushes his arm.
“It’s okay,” he says, eyes on the road, voice calm. “It’s nobody’s fault. Life just... happened.”
She nods, lips pressed together, watching him, her heart wrapped in the invisible tenderness between them.
A few minutes pass.
Tayo’s chest loosens with relief. He reaches for her hand and squeezes gently. “Thank you. For your patience. For loving me. For calming my chaotic brain.”
Rahama smiles, cheeks glowing. “You’re welcome, Mr Savage.”
He groans playfully. “We really need to do something about this ‘Mr Savage’ thing. It makes me sound like a retired WWE fighter.”
She giggles. “You are dramatic enough for it.”
They turn into her street, Somolu’s familiar buzz welcoming them. Tayo’s grip on the steering wheel tightens just a little.
“You okay?” Rahama asks, watching him. “We can do this another time.”
“I’m fine,” he says, nodding slowly. “I want to do this.”
He parks neatly outside her compound, steps out, and walks around to her side, opening the door.
“You’re not wearing gloves?” Rahama asks, stepping out of the car, her brows lifting as she scans his hands; bare, exposed, vulnerable.
No gloves. No sanitizer. No disinfectant.
Tayo grins like he’s just walked into an ambush and is choosing charm over armor. “Come on, I’m trying to impress my in-laws here. Can’t show up looking like I came to fumigate the building.”
Rahama laughs, that soft belly laugh that always disarms him. “You don’t need to impress anyone. They’re already obsessed with you.”
“Oh, really?” he arches a brow.
“Especially Dawuda,” she adds, taking his hand and leading him toward the entrance.
Tayo lets out a breath. He can do this.
They step into the house, and the first thing that hits him is not only the heat, but the chaos.
Maria is sprawled out on a mat right in the middle of the sitting room, snoring softly, her pregnant belly rising like a gentle wave and falling with each breath.
Clothes are stacked…no, dumped on the wobbly center table. There’s a half-eaten mango on the arm of the couch.
A baby doll missing an arm and a leg under the chair, an old and dirty TV remote taped together with masking tape. A slipper on the curtain rod.
Why is there a slipper on the curtain rod?
Tayo freezes.
His brain yells abort mission. His heart say hold the line.
Rahama bends over her sister, nudging her shoulder. “Maria, ki tashi.”
Maria groans, rolls to the side, pulls the wrapper over her head like she’s blocking sunlight from another dimension.
“Maria!” Rahama taps her harder, louder this time.
Tayo flinches at the unexpected boom of her voice. So she can yell. Noted.
Maria lifts the wrapper slightly, her eyes half-open, half-defiant.
“What is it now? You’re waking me just because you came back from work?”
“Where is everybody?” Rahama asks.
“Mom and Dad are at the market. Dawuda stepped out. Aisha’s probably somewhere outside playing with dust.” Maria yawns. “Can I go back to my sleep now?”
Rahama lowers her voice like she’s about to drop national news. “Mr Savage is here.”
Maria grumbles, rolls the other way. “Ohh, leave me alone. Me kuma ne yanzu? What’s the issue now?”
“I said, Mr Savage is here!” Rahama says louder, like an alarm bell.
Tayo flinches again. Okay, definitely not soft-spoken Rahama right now.
Maria bolts upright like a bear startled out of hibernation. Her eyes scan upward, locking onto Tayo, who is now awkwardly standing at the door like a UPS deliveryman holding emotions.
Maria blinks. “Yaya Rahama! Shouldn’t you have told him to wait outside?!”
“And why were you sleeping in the middle of the sitting room like a sacrificial lamb?” Rahama fires back.
Maria mutters something under her breath in Hausa, rubs the sleep from her eyes with one hand, and grabs the mat. She rolls it up and dumps it in the corner, wiping spit from the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.
Tayo looks away immediately, blinking. His brain screams hazard detected.
She extends her now-spitty hand toward him. “Hello, Mr Savage.”
His survival reflex betrays him. He shifts back half a step…just a small, subtle step, but enough for Rahama to pinch his side lightly.
He recovers. “Good evening, Maria. How are you doing?”
Maria beams. “Fine, fine!”
He glances down at her outstretched hand and - with the grace of a man whose brain is screaming - pinches the tips of her fingers and gives a micro-shake.
Polite. Barely there. Not technically a full handshake. Safe.
Maria doesn’t seem to notice. “He’s so fine,” she whispers loudly to Rahama.
“I heard that,” Tayo says, chuckling.
Rahama hides her smile, cheeks tinged pink.
“Please, come and sit down, Mr Samage,” Maria says, motioning to a chair draped in what may or may not be yesterday’s wrapper.
Tayo smiles tightly. Samage? He wants to correct her - so badly - but now is not the time to lose points.
As if she can read his mind, Maria laughs and says, “Ah—sorry! I meant Mr Savage.”
Tayo nods, relieved. “Thank you.”
He lowers himself carefully onto the chair, brushing invisible dust off with a flick. Maria watches him with curiosity, Rahama with quiet pride.
“Let me call Mama,” Maria says, her eyes lingering on Tayo with barely disguised admiration. She winks at Rahama like they’ve just scored front-row tickets to heaven.
Rahama shakes her head, trying not to laugh, and shifts a pile of clothes aside to claim a corner of the couch. The cushion sinks under her like it’s seen things.
Maria fishes her phone from a leaning tower of old textbooks in the corner and dials. “Hello Mama,” she chirps. “Mr Savage is here. He wants to meet you and Baba.”
“Mr Savage,” she repeats over the phone.
She plops herself on the bare floor like it’s a personal throne. Tayo watches her, puzzled. There are two whole chairs available - okay, one and a half. But still.
“You’re not sitting on the couch?” he asks casually.
“I’m fine here,” Maria says, grinning. “Besides, my sister said you were handsome, but seeing you now… wow. You are fine.”
Tayo chuckles, slightly embarrassed. “Thank you, Maria. You’re beautiful too.”
And he means it. Even heavily pregnant, even with the floor mat hair imprint still on her face, there’s something warm and earthy about her.
“Na gode,” Maria says, beaming like she just got complimented by a celebrity.
Rahama stands. “Let me get you something to drink…Minerals?”
But Tayo gently catches her wrist, still smiling. “Don’t worry, babe. I’m good.”
Maria’s brows shoot up like she just saw a plot twist. “Babe? Yaya? Babe?”
She turns to Rahama in wonder. “This fine man is calling you ‘babe’? Kai, nothing is impossible.”
Rahama hides her face, cheeks blazing as she sits back. But she doesn’t let go of Tayo’s hand.
Just then, a loud knock rattles the door. Tayo jumps slightly.
It swings open and a tall guy strolls in, jersey-clad, shorts dripping with sweat. His entire being radiates fresh off the pitch. His body scent hits Tayo’s nostrils like a slap from destiny.
“Yaya Rahama!” the guy announces, arms wide as he leans in for a hug.
Tayo instinctively shifts back, side-stepping like he’s dodging incoming bacteria.
“Dawuda! Where did you go?” Rahama asks, rising with a wide smile.
“Just small football, you know. Exercise,” Dawuda says, wiping sweat with the edge of his jersey. Then he turns to Tayo.
“You didn’t tell me Mr Savage was coming oh. I wouldn’t have gone out.”
Tayo nods politely, still mentally begging the universe: Please, no handshake. Please.
Dawuda eyes him, then leans toward Rahama and says “Kin yi sa’a sosai.”
Rahama giggles, glowing.
“I’ll go wash up,” Dawuda says and walks out, his jersey clinging to his back like a second skin.
Tayo exhales through his nose, steadying himself. Smile still intact. Hands untouched. No panic attack.
So far, so good.
“So… what exactly did you see in my sister?” Maria asks, tilting her head like she’s genuinely trying to crack a riddle.
Tayo chuckles. “She makes me want to do things I never thought I could. Things that scare me. Things that stretch me. She’s smart, beautiful, a little chaotic—” he throws Rahama a sideways glance— “but she’s got this way of making everything feel possible. I love her.”
Maria places a hand over her chest, grinning. “Aww. That’s so sweet,” she says, clapping softly. “You can go ahead and marry her. I approve.”
Rahama’s face flushes red as she gently pulls at a loose thread on her gown.
Maria isn’t done. She leans forward, elbows on knees. “So tell me, what’s it like living in Ikoyi? Do you have AC in every room? Are the houses like in Nollywood movies?”
Tayo laughs, answering each question patiently, good-naturedly.
Ten minutes go by in a blink - him fielding questions about his business, the traffic on the Island, how much swallow he can eat in one sitting - until the front door creaks open again.
Rahama’s parents walk in, Hafsat’s pauses mid-step, eyebrows lifted when she sees Tayo sitting there. Nasiru steps in behind her, dusting his cap off.
“Hello,” she says, lowering herself onto the couch with quiet elegance. Nasiru joins her, perching on the armrest, his gaze traveling over Tayo from head to toe.
Tayo rises immediately. “Good evening, ma. Good evening, sir,” he says, bowing slightly in greeting.
“Good evening, my son,” Hafsat says with a polite smile.
Nasiru leans back in his chair like a man ready to conduct an interview. “So… you’re the one,” he says.
“When I first heard about this relationship, I didn’t take it seriously. But now you’re here, I can see you mean business.”
“I do, sir,” Tayo says sincerely. “I came because I want to marry Rahama.”
Nasiru nods once, slow and firm. “Just come back with your people and fulfill the requirements. That’s how we do things here.”
“Yes sir. I’ll do everything properly.”
Hafsat beams, clapping her hands softly against her lap. “I knew it. I always say I have a sense for good men. This one? He’s a good man.”
Rahama lowers her head, smiling like she’s trying to hide from the joy swelling in her chest.
“You’ll be good to her?” Nasiru asks suddenly, his face firm.
Tayo meets his gaze. “I love Rahama, sir. I’ll be good to her. I give you my word.”
“Good.” Nasiru nods again. “Very good.”
Tayo reaches into his pocket, pulls out a large white envelope, and offers it to Nasiru with both hands, bowing slightly, careful not to brush his fingers.
“This is just a small token of my appreciation for your warm welcome, sir.”
Nasiru opens the envelope, eyes widening. “Tor. Have you started paying bride price already? Because this money can settle all that.”
Tayo laughs gently. “No sir, just appreciation.”
Hafsat places her hand over her heart. “God bless you, my son. May God increase you in everything.”
“Thank you, ma,” Tayo replies.
“Are you rushing off already?” Hafsat asks. “At least stay and eat something. We have Tuwo Shinkafa. Or should I quickly make Masa? We even have malt…cold one or water?”
Tayo’s smile holds steady. “I would’ve loved to, ma, but I should be going. I don’t want to take too much of your time.”
“Alright, then. Rahama, go and see him off,” Hafsat says, already rising alongside her husband.
“Thank you so much, sir, ma,” Tayo says as they walk him to the door.
“Just come back with your people,” Nasiru reminds him again. “Let’s make this thing official.”
“I will, sir. Thank you.”
Outside, as soon as Tayo steps into the cool air of the compound, he pauses and quietly releases a long, shaky breath.
Rahama reaches for his hand, her fingers threading gently through his. “Are you okay? How are you?”
Tayo exhales like he’s been holding it in since he stepped into her father’s house. “Excited. And slightly breathless. Like I just passed an exam I didn’t study for.”
She giggles, walking with him toward the car.
“Thank you for doing this, Mr. Savage,” she says, smiling like she just gave him a birthday card.
Tayo halts, brows raised, one hand still gripping hers. “Thank me? I love you, Rahama. I came for your parents’ blessing because I want to spend my life with you.”
She leans against the car, still smiling, the metal warm against her back. “Well… still. Thank you.”
Omotayo chuckles. “I love you, Rahama.”
She nods.
“I love you,” he says again, this time slower, like he means for it to land deep.
She nods again, lips twitching but sealed.
He squints. “That’s it? No ‘I love you’ back?”
She giggles again.
“I love you,” she whispers, giggling
“You look beautiful. You always do,” he says, his voice dropping a little
“Thank you, Mr Savage,” Rahama replies softly, blushing
He steps closer, stopping just short of her space. His presence is unmistakable, his smile fading into something steadier, more focused.
“And about that ‘Mr. Savage’ thing,” he says, lowering his voice. “Don’t you think we should do something about it?”
“Oh?” she murmurs, eyes dancing. “Like what?”
“I have an idea,” he whispers.
She blinks up at him. “Let’s hear it.”
He doesn’t answer.
Instead, he kisses her.
Just like that.
No warning. No permission slip.
His lips brush hers gently at first - like a question. Then his hand slides around her waist, pulling her into him, and the question turns into an answer.
Her breath catches.
Her knees buckle.
She forgets her name.
His mouth is warm, tasting faintly of citrus and something impossibly gentle. Hers tastes of mint and nervous excitement.
His other hand lifts to cradle her face as she tilts her chin, rising on tiptoe, and wraps her arms around his neck like she’s clinging to gravity, lost in the softness, the electricity, the way her whole body feels like it’s floating and grounded all at once.
Her breath catches.
“Enny,” she whispers.
He smiles against her lips, deepening the kiss like it’s a promise.
And then…
“Ahem.”
Maria’s voice slices the air like a sharp pin to a balloon.
They jump.
She’s standing a few feet away, belly round, hands on her hips, face set like an aunty who’s just caught you behind the church.
“I think you should get the list first and pay her bride price before all this mouth-touching.” she says flatly. “No more kissing until she’s fully yours. This is not one of those Lagos movies.”
Rahama springs back like the car just burned her, face flushed.
Tayo straightens, adjusting absolutely nothing but his composure.
“Yes, ma’am,” he says quickly, hands raised in surrender but still smiling. “Noted. No more kissing. Strictly engagement-level affection from now on.”
Maria narrows her eyes like she doesn’t trust his definition of “strictly,” then walks off slowly - still watching. Like a hawk. A very pregnant hawk.
Tayo turns back to Rahama, breath a little shaky, grin a little boyish. “So… I’ll see you on Monday”
She nods, still stunned, lips tingling.
“And for the record,” he says, stepping back just enough to plant a soft kiss on her forehead, “I like the way my name sounds on your lips.”
Rahama blinks, short-circuited. She nods again because her tongue and brain have apparently resigned.
“I love you, Rahama,” he adds softly.
She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out. She clears her throat.
“I…sorry…my brain’s still rebooting from that kiss,” she mumbles. “I love you too, Mr Savage.”
He squints at her playfully. “Seriously?”
She laughs, head tilting back. “Fine. I love you, Enny.”
“That’s better,” he grins. “I love you more.”
He opens the car door, shoots her one last look - the kind that feels like a thousand unspoken promises - and gets in. The engine purrs. The car pulls away.
Rahama stands there, heart still dancing in her chest, hands on her cheeks, trying to steady her pulse.
That kiss? That kiss just changed everything.
The truth settles gently inside her.
She’s about to step into a whole new world with Omotayo Enioluwa Savage: scary, wide, beautiful, exciting, unexpected, and just a little overwhelming.
Somehow, it’s only the beginning.
And she can’t wait.
Author’s Note
Should we wrap up Series One here and move into the next chapter?
Up next: A Germophobic Marriage? 👀
That one might need a little anticipation - possibly a mid-year release - so there won’t be an update tomorrow. I’ve been swamped with work lately.
Below is a sneak peek of what’s coming in the next Germophobic Series.
Coming Next in the Germophobic Series…
A Germophobic Marriage
Tayo and Rahama survived hand-holding, and a cleaning company romance.
Now comes the real test: living together and family drama.
Not just any marriage:
A Yoruba groom armed with a color-coded sanitizer kit, a five-step post-shower protocol, and anxiety over shared bathrooms.
An Hausa bride whose family expects kilishi, camels, and a sun-drenched open-air wedding… with at least 200 guests (barefoot optional).
And two lovebirds with wildly different ideas of what “home sweet home” should smell like.
He wants a scent-free, sterilized, indoor celebration with controlled lighting and gloved servers.
The families? “If it’s not owambe, it’s not a wedding.”
She wants culture. He wants controlled airflow.
He wants sleek minimalism.
She wants colors, couscous, and cousins sleeping over.
In A Germophobic Marriage: Love moves in permanently along with unexpected guests, family traditions, deep-seated fears, and a whole lot of emotional clutter.
Things get louder, messier, funnier - and a whole lot more real - both in marriage and with the Luxetouch cleaning company staff.
Culture clashes. Secrets unravel. Love and boundaries get tested.
And somewhere between disinfecting doorknobs, loud snores, and burning jollof, they’ll learn:
Marriage isn’t just about love.
It’s about compromise, culture shocks, and courage… plus a little grace, a lot of laughter, and maybe a few extra gloves.
Get ready for:
Laughs that linger.
Love that deepens.
And a whole lot of: ‘Can you adjust your sleeping position? Your snoring won’t let me sleep,’ and ‘Why is there a lump of sand at the front door?’
Coming Soon.
Because falling in love is easy, living together is the real rom-com.
Excerpt: A Germophobic Marriage
The invisible smell hits Tayo like a slap right as he lifts his lemon-ginger detox tea to his lips.
He freezes mid-sip, eyes narrowing toward the hallway like a lion catching a whiff of trouble.
He sniffs again. Nope. This isn’t just trouble. This is war.
And it’s coming from the guest toilet.
“Babe!” he calls out, setting his mug down with military precision. “Did something... die in the guest toilet? Please tell me that’s not you.”
Her voice drifts back, annoyingly casual. “Sorry, Enny. I tried to spray.”
“Tried?” His voice sharpens as he reaches for his emergency air-neutralizing diffuser. “Babe, ‘tried’ doesn’t cut it here. This is a crisis. I can taste it. My plants just fainted.”
She strolls into the kitchen, wiping her hands on her pyjamas like she owns the place, which, honestly, she does.
Tayo takes a cautious step back. “Why didn’t you use the master bathroom?”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “I was closer to this one. It was urgent.”
He clutches his chest like she just stabbed him. “My home has officially become a biohazard zone.”
She grins, completely unfazed. “That’s called love, Enny. And fiber. You married this sweetheart.”
Tayo exhales a long sigh, misting lavender disinfectant like it’s holy water. “And I’ve been repenting every Sunday since.”
P.S.
The above is an early draft and may be adjusted. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments. Thank you so much for sticking with me through the series.
Also, which part did you enjoy the most?
Love you all 🥰
Ouhhh. I love the idea of “A Germophobic Marriage”.
In recent times I’m learning that marriage is more than the meet-cute, and lovey-dovey. It’s compromise, it’s sacrifice.
They say nothing teaches you to be more like Christ than marriage because you’ll come face to face with your flaws and choose selflessness.
Let me stop here. I love the drafts as well and I think that transition is needed. I’m sat! 😌
Omo mehn siblings are the same everywhere. Omo I'm so happy for them. Thank you Abimbola