A GERMOPHOBIC ROMANCE
A Germophobic Romance (12): A weekly Nigerian romantic-comedy series.
Read the previous chapter here
CHAPTER TWELVE
Rahama is in the breakroom, rummaging through the snack shelf like a woman on a mission. She grabs two packs of Krim Crackers, just as Peter strolls in.
“You’ve got a delivery,” Peter announces with a wink.
Rahama blinks. “Delivery?”
He gestures with his head. “Come and see.”
Curious, she follows him out, her snack forgotten in her hand.
Outside, a crowd has already formed. Staffs are circled around something - or someone - like it’s a celebrity sighting. Rahama edges closer… and gasps.
A bouquet.
No, a giant, outrageous, somebody-cannot-pay-rent-again bouquet.
It’s massive; like someone tried to stuff a botanical garden into one arrangement. Petals in blush pinks, fiery reds, lavender dreams, and creamy whites spill out like a Disney scene.
“It’s real o. Not fake,” Racheal says, leaning in to sniff.
“Ahhh! God, na when? When I no be pineapple?” Oritsejumi cries, clutching her head like the flowers personally betrayed her.
Rahama just stares, speechless.
Isn’t Mr Savage doing too much?
Yesterday, Mr Savage sent her breakfast, lunch, and dinner like he said he would. This morning? Same. Now this? An entire wedding bouquet without the wedding.
“If una see the chain wey that oga give Rahama yesterday, ehn...” Oritsejumi throws it in for the culture. “Rahama, abeg, lock that gbege for inside safe, I dey beg oh. You sabi how much that diamond dey cost?”
Racheal hands her the small note tucked inside the bouquet. Rahama takes it gently, her fingers lingering on the soft paper.
In the corner, Ifunanya watches, stiff, arms crossed. Her eyes are cool, but her tone warmer than yesterday. “Congratulations oh,” she mutters.
Rahama nods, offering a small, careful smile. “Thank you, everyone.”
Everyone’s still swooning and snapping pictures, but Rahama’s heartbeat slows as reality settles in.
The bouquet is beautiful: almost aggressively so. Too much. She can’t even pretend she has space for it.
Where will she put it? In her mother’s cramped two rooms in Somolu, where the fan barely rotates, and the table doubles as her brother’s study and the family’s dinner spot?
She presses the note to her chest alongside the Krim Crackers.
This - this simple note, whatever he wrote - is the part she wants to keep. Not the fuss, not the flowers, not the audience.
She’s never needed grand gestures.
She just wants to be seen. Softly. Quietly. Genuinely.
Rahama leaves the chaos behind, bouquet still the center of gossip. She tiptoes toward Mr Savage’s door, her grip tight around the Krim Crackers and that precious handwritten note.
She peeks in.
Omotayo’s eyes are glued to his screen, typing furiously, brows furrowed like he’s decoding nuclear codes.
“Mr Savage,” she calls softly.
He looks up and the transformation is instant. That serious work face softens like butter on hot yam.
“Rahama,” he says, standing up immediately. “Please come in.”
She steps in, half-shy, half-smiling.
He walks around to the guest chairs and pulls one out for her, careful to keep his distance, like it’s second nature.
Rahama sits, hugging her crackers like a secret.
Omotayo returns to his seat, eyes already back on her.
“How are you doing?” he asks, voice dipped in warmth.
“I’m fine.” She gives a small, blushing nod. “Thank you… for the gifts.”
“You’re always welcome,” he says with a smile that feels like a compliment.
Rahama presses her lips together, her fingers brushing over the folded note in her hand.
She wants to say the bouquet is too much, that it’s bigger than her mother’s entire kitchen space. But she doesn’t want to sound too Northern. Too practical. Too outdated.
Omotayo leans forward slightly, laptop now closed, arms resting on the table. His phone flipped over. His attention? All hers.
Her heart pounds. She should tell him about her mom’s message.
But this is Lagos, not Kaduna. Nobody gets engaged after a week here. That kind of talk could scare someone off.
So instead, she clears her throat and says, “I was thinking... maybe we could go out this evening. I want to buy you dinner.”
He freezes for a split second - just long enough for his brain to remind him: You don’t eat outside food, Tayo.
But then he smiles. “Sure.”
Sure?
Sure.
He’s going. He won’t eat, but he’ll go. He’ll put a handkerchief on the seat if he has to. Bring hand sanitizer if needed. She deserves more than being refused for the second time.
Rahama’s smile stretches wider, softening her whole face. At least tonight, they’d hold hands. Maybe brush fingers on the table. Dates are good for such sacred little intimacies.
Omotayo leans back in his chair, that playful glint back in his eyes. “My sister has been disturbing me to plan a meeting with you. She says she wants to ‘take you out on a girl’s date.’ Her words, not mine.”
Rahama laughs, the sound light and honest. “I’d love to meet her,” she says, eyes lit.
Omotayo's smile deepens, the kind that turns up at the corners and lingers. “So, when’s our date?”
Rahama stands, brushing her palm against her skirt, still holding the crumpled flower note and cracker like a nervous schoolgirl. “I’ll come back later. I need to finish an on-site job first.”
“Alright,” he says, watching her like she’s something delicate and rare.
She heads for the door, then pauses, turns back slightly. “And thank you. Again. For everything.”
Omotayo nods, warm. “I meant it all.”
Rahama steps out, her heart thudding.
She’s been overthinking it, hasn’t she? Wondering if he’s too much. Too extra. Too everything. But maybe he’s just… thoughtful.
She glances down at the handwritten note again and clutches it tighter.
Yeah. This is real. And maybe - just maybe - she deserves it.
Omotayo pulls up in front of a restaurant and parks smoothly. He steps out, rounds the car, and opens the passenger door.
Rahama steps out gently, smiling like she’s still not used to this kind of soft. “Thank you,” she says, almost shy.
Omotayo gives a small nod, lips tugged up, his distance intact. “Go ahead. I’ll meet you inside.”
She raises a brow. “You’re not coming in with me?”
“I’ll be right behind you,” he says with a calm smile, already turning back to the car.
She nods slowly and walks ahead, side-eyeing him once before facing forward. The restaurant’s security man greets her with a toothy grin and opens the door. She smiles back politely, but her brain’s already busy.
What’s he doing in the car again?
Inside, Rahama joins the short queue and pulls out her phone. From the corner of her eye, she sees him finally walk in.
And then she sees it - gloves. Not leather. Not style. Disposable gloves.
One on each hand.
Folded white handkerchiefs and a tiny bottle of sanitizer in one hand. A travel-sized pack of wipes in the other.
She stares, blinking.
She coughs out a laugh before she can catch herself.
He joins her at the counter, entirely unbothered. “Have you ordered?”
“I’m getting rice and sauce… with chicken. And Fanta,” she says, still watching his gloves like they’re part of a science experiment.
He nods. “Nice choice.”
“What about you? Get anything. I’m paying today,” she says, voice lilting with pride.
Omotayo gives a patient smile. “Bottled water is fine.”
“Water?” she arches a brow. “Mr Savage, order any food. I can afford it.”
“I believe you,” he says softly. “But water is enough.”
The server places her tray on the counter. Rahama throws in another bottled water and makes the transfer.
“Bring it,” Omotayo says, reaching for the tray like it’s a sacred object.
His gloved hands cradle the sides like he’s holding evidence from a crime scene.
They reach their table. Omotayo carefully sets the tray down like he’s defusing a bomb. He steps back, pulls out the chair for Rahama with a gentleman’s grace. She slides into the seat.
Then he crosses to the chair opposite, pulls it out - and here comes the full ritual.
Two fresh handkerchiefs folded like a throne cushion, spread neatly across the chair. He pulls a disinfectant wipe from a sealed pack and starts wiping the edges of the chair, then the edges of the table.
Rahama watches, blinking. She knows he’s clean - obsessively so - but this? This is next-level.
“Mr Savage,” she ventures, leaning forward just a bit. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
He looks up, smiles calmly and steadily. “Sure.”
With surgical precision, he peels off his gloves - careful not to touch a thing - and slips on a new pair.
He pulls the chair close, lowers himself gently onto the freshly laid handkerchiefs, then places two more on his side of the table. He even leans on one, gloved hand firmly planted.
Rahama’s eyes widen. The few other diners nearby glance over, whispering and giggling.
“Are you sure you don’t want to eat anything?” she asks, voice a mix of amusement and concern.
Omotayo shakes his head, his smile soft but unwavering. “I just want to watch you eat.”
She picks up her spoon, carefully nudges the bottled water toward him like a peace offering. Then she starts eating, slowly and carefully, under his gaze.
“You don’t like the restaurant?” she tries again, curiosity bubbling.
“No, it’s perfect,” he says simply.
Rahama glances at him mid-bite. His chair’s all handkerchiefs; his hands gloved. “Perfect” is definitely a creative word choice.
But then there’s that look in his eyes - the one that sends little butterflies fluttering in her stomach - and suddenly nothing else matters.
“Do you like your meal?” he asks, voice low.
She blushes, swallowing the bite.
“Feels like you’re the one treating me. I wanted to buy dinner for you, but here I am, the one eating.”
His smile widens, eyes warm. “As long as you’re happy, I’m full.”
Rahama laughs softly between bites. “You really do have a way with words.”
He smiles even more.
Her fingers twitch, itching to reach out, but how do you hold hands when his are both gloved like surgeons?
Rahama finishes the last bite, cheeks puffed slightly, her mind spinning.
This date was nothing like she pictured.
No spoon-feeding, no stolen glances over shared plates, no hands brushing - just him staring like she’s about to sprout germs.
She feels like a glutton, not a girlfriend.
Omotayo stands, moves with that same careful precision. He pulls out her chair, then gathers the handkerchiefs, dumping the pristine white cloths into the trash like sacrificial offerings.
Rahama blinks. Those were clean! Brand new! Why toss perfection away?
He opens the restaurant door for her like a prince with a sparkling armor of wipes and gloves.
At the car, he unwraps a new disinfectant wipe, gloves up, and opens her door. Then, after sliding into his own seat, he peels off his gloves, tosses everything into the nearby bin with ritualistic care.
Rahama watches him like he’s performing a magic trick she can’t quite believe.
“Are you alright, Mr Savage? Why all the waste? Wipes, gloves, handkerchiefs…” Her voice trails off, half-amused, half-concerned.
Omotayo smiles, the kind that’s a little too tight, like he’s hiding something big.
“I just don’t like dirt,” he says softly.
Her smile falters.
That’s it!
“Am I dirt to you?” Her voice is quiet but sharp, a sudden stab of vulnerability.
He freezes, eyes wide. “No! What? No, why would you think that?”
Rahama’s mind races back to his first day at the company, how he eyed her like she was some contagion. The way he dodged her, avoided even brushing fingers.
Now, dating him feels like living with a stranger - someone who treats her like a delicate artifact rather than a partner.
She forces a weak smile. “It’s fine. I’m joking.”
Too soon to fight, she tells herself. She’ll wait, watch, understand.
Omotayo nods, grips the steering wheel. But her words linger, no joke there. He can’t even reach out to comfort her, can’t cross the invisible barrier his fears have built.
I have to fix this, he thinks, eyes on the road but heart elsewhere. Maybe a doctor, maybe a miracle…anything.
For Rahama, for this fragile, confusing thing between them, he’ll find a way. No matter what it takes.
He’ll find a breakthrough…
He has to.
“Sir, I’ve drafted Rahama’s contract termination letter,” Peter says, holding his tablet like it’s a bomb about to detonate. He’s standing at a respectful distance, as always.
Omotayo looks up from his laptop, brows pinched. “Wait—what? Why are we terminating Rahama?”
Peter tries to hold back a smirk. “Sir, you said it yourself. A month ago. You called her a—” he scrolls and reads off the screen— “‘walking germ and a biohazard’ and said, and I quote, ‘Go out there and tell her… her services are no longer needed.’”
Omotayo blinks. “That was a month ago, Peter.”
“Yes sir, I remember. And I also remember saying we should wait till after her trial period. Well…” Peter flashes the screen. “Her one-month probation ends in two days.”
There’s a pause.
Omotayo narrows his eyes. “Are you for me or against me?”
Peter blinks innocently. “I don’t follow, sir.”
Omotayo shuts his laptop with force.
“When I was trying to avoid Rahama, you were dragging your feet. Now I want her here, and you’re slapping me with a termination letter?”
Peter shrugs. “I was just—”
“Don’t you know I’m in a relationship with Rahama?” Omotayo says, frustrated.
“Why would you bring a termination letter for the woman I’m trying to keep in my life?”
Peter raises a brow. “Oh. My bad, sir. I just thought I’d remind you. You did ask if her feet were glued to the company floor. You also said her presence gives you—”
“Get out.” Omotayo’s voice cuts through the room.
“Yes sir,” Peter says, grinning to himself as he turns to leave.
He’s not being wicked - he just needed to hold up a mirror. Omotayo’s heart has changed, and that’s all that matters.
Truth is, Peter has always rooted for Rahama. From the moment he saw her flailing in terror, trying to escape the office’s robot vacuum like it was a wild animal, he knew there was something… warm about her. Something everyone else overlooked when Ifunanya tossed insults.
People deserve a chance. Poor or privileged, Hausa or Igbo, clean or learning-to-be.
With the right support, anyone can become better.
Now, standing at the corridor, he stops short. Rahama is there, just a few feet from the door. Her face is stiff, her smile barely holding.
“Rahama?” Peter frowns. “How long have you been standing there?”
Did she hear anything?
“I came to see Mr Savage,” she says, trying to sound normal. The attempt fails.
Peter swallows. She heard everything.
He watches her turn away, heading towards the breakroom, and it hits him like a slap.
He tried to fix something, and only made it worse.
Rahama lies curled up on the narrow mattress in the shared staff apartment, the thin bedsheet tangled around her feet like it’s trying to hold her together.
So it’s true.
Walking germ.
Biohazard.
She stares at the ceiling and frowns. “What does biohazard even mean?” she mutters to no one.
Oritsejumi stirs in the bed opposite, mumbles something about starch and owho soup in her sleep, then rolls over, snoring lightly.
Rahama exhales sharply through her nose.
Of all the girls in Lagos - cleaner girls, richer girls, girls who carry disinfectant wipes in their purses just for style - why did he choose her?
Why is he dating her?
Or is he not really dating her?
Her chest tightens.
Even Dawuda used to mock her hygiene back in Somolu, but this... this is different.
Hearing those words - walking germ - from Peter, it cut deep. And worse, it confirmed every fear she’d been trying to laugh off.
She turns on her side, face buried in her pillow.
This isn’t going to work. It can’t.
What’s she doing clinging to a man who can’t hold her hands? Who wipes chairs before sitting and holds the steering like she’s bacteria?
She can’t keep pretending everything’s okay
Tomorrow, she decides.
She’ll tell him it’s over.
She squeezes her eyes shut.
Not because she wants to.
But because she’s tired of feeling like a parasite in a love story that was never meant to include her.
New Chapters every Thursday and Friday 🤍
Chai 🥺🥺🥺🥺 poor Rahama.
Are we getting an extra chapter today pleeeeaaaaseeee