A GERMOPHOBIC ROMANCE
A Germophobic Romance (10): A weekly Nigerian romantic-comedy series.
Read the previous chapter here
CHAPTER TEN
The sizzling of onions in hot palm oil fills the kitchen with a sharp, smoky aroma. Omotayo stands over the gas cooker, stirring absently, a single glove on his right hand.
His brows are drawn together, not from the steam, but from the thoughts chasing each other in his head.
I should’ve just asked if she was okay.
He stirs again, too slowly.
Instead, he got frustrated. She got hurt, and he got angry.
Didn’t reach out. Didn’t even offer a proper word of comfort. Just anger in disguise.
He wasn’t angry that she got injured. He was angry that he couldn’t fix it.
Angry at the way fear crept into his chest at the thought of getting close. Angry at himself for wanting to hold her and knowing his body wouldn’t let him.
His eyes drop to the glove. This stupid glove.
How does a man want a relationship with someone he’s scared to even touch?
The thought of Rahama flashes across his mind; her head swollen. He hates that she’s in pain. Hates it even more that he’s helpless and useless.
What kind of boyfriend would I even be?
No hugs. No casual touch. No brushing of the shoulder or holding hands at the cinema. No cooking together. Not even that.
He adds the half-blended pepper to the onions, and the stew hisses loudly. He doesn’t flinch.
It’s one thing to fall in love. It’s another to know you may never feel it.
He sighs and lowers the heat.
His phone rings.
He doesn’t check the caller ID. He already knows. Only one person FaceTimes him without notice.
Lola.
He pulls off the glove with his teeth, wipes his hand on a towel, and props the phone against a row of spice bottles.
“Lola,” he mutters, switching his gaze between the screen and the bubbling pot. “What’s up with you?”
Lola’s face brightens the screen. “Happy Sunday, we just got back from church. Why don’t you ever call someone, ehn? If I don’t call, then it’s silence.”
He exhales dramatically. “But you called. Isn’t that the important part?”
She squints at him. “That’s not the point.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he sprinkles seasoning into the stew. “I’ve been swamped. We had a big project. I even went to the office yesterday.”
“Ah! CEO of Luxetouch Cleaning Services,” she teases. “You’re balling now, oh. All these contracts, soon you’ll buy a beachfront property.”
He grins, brighter this time. “Are you calling to tease me? I don’t even know who to avoid right now; Dad, who outrightly calls me useless, or you, teasing me about how rich I am with my cleaning company.”
Lola props her phone against a bottle of nail polish and starts painting her thumb with all the concentration of a woman who just cornered juicy gist.
“So, what’s the girl’s name, Enny?” she asks casually, eyes not leaving her hand.
Tayo freezes mid-stir. “What girl?”
Lola lifts her head slowly, giving him the kind of look that says, You can lie to yourself, but not to me.
“You’ve changed, bro. You smile more. You joke more. That combo only means one thing; love is pinching you.”
Tayo snorts, rinses the new pot under the tap, and mutters, “It’s… sort of complicated.”
“So there is a girl,” Lola announces like she’s just solved a crime. “And here I was thinking you’d marry your hand sanitizer.”
Tayo chuckles, eyes flicking back to the burner. “I liked being alone. Until she came… along.”
Lola raises a brow, playful. “Awwnn!, Look at my brother turning into Shakespeare. So what’s she like? Or let me guess; clean, classy, subtle perfume, minimal jewellery...”
Tayo laughs, full and unexpected, like it surprised even him.
“She’s the opposite of all that. She’s…” he looks off, like he’s picturing her, “…a complete pain. Messy, confusing. Definitely not the kind of girl you’d pair me with.”
Lola leans closer to the camera. “She’s Hausa, isn’t she?”
Tayo freezes mid-pour, glances back at the screen. “Do you read minds now?”
“Nope,” she shrugs with a proud smirk. “You asked me about Hausa girls a week ago, remember? Out of nowhere. That’s when I knew something was either wrong or about to get wonderfully right.”
He smiles faintly, returning to the stew, then says,
“Her name is Rahama, she’s beautiful, Lola. Like… really beautiful. Full eyebrows, they deserve a museum. Hairy, like seriously hairy. And her eyes - she doesn’t even need to talk. Her eyes carry whole monologues. It was the eyes that got me”
Lola leans closer to the screen, already melting. “Oya, tell me everything. Where did you meet her? What does she do? Who’s her daddy?”
Tayo snorts. “She’s one of my new staff. And that’s part of the problem. I know next to nothing about her background. But I know she’s… messy.”
Lola tilts her head. “Messy how?”
Tayo glances at the stew like it holds the courage to speak the truth for him.
“She’s not neat. I mean, really not neat. Her clothes are faded, her slipper is a survivor of the Civil War, and her hair -” he shudders playfully, “ - is a whole ecosystem on its own.”
“Oh, please. You say that about everyone, you even said the Senator’s daughter was unhygienic because she wore acrylic nails.” Lola replies.
Omotayo laughs so hard he nearly drops the spoon, and Lola freezes, wide-eyed.
“Wait, is that a laugh? Enioluwa Omotayo Savage just laughed like a human being!”
He leans on the counter, still chuckling. “Honestly? I take it all back. Those girls were angels. Compared to Rahama? They were sterile hospital rooms.”
Lola bursts out laughing. “So it’s that bad?”
He nods as he stirs the pot again, adding the shrimp, roasted fish, and meat. A wistful smile tugs at his lips. “And yet… I love her. I think that’s the worst part.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m allergic to the very thing she doesn’t even try to hide. I nearly passed out the first time I saw her in my office. Her hair was all over the place, her skin looked like she hadn’t met Vaseline in months, and her gown had… patterns that didn’t come from a factory.”
He shakes his head, but there’s something almost tender in his voice.
“And still, she’s the only one I can’t stop thinking about. She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. I fell for her eyes the moment I saw her... and got deceived.”
Lola finally stops laughing, her face sobering into something softer. “Sounds like love chose you this time, how do you plan to cope, Enny?”
Tayo exhales slowly, pouring rinsed beans into the boiling pot. The water sizzles in response.
“Yeah. And I don’t even know if I’m strong enough to hold it. I think about her all the time, but… I can’t reach out.”
“Why not?”
He turns, brow drawn. “Because it feels like craving puff-puff when you’re gluten intolerant. She’s no good for me. But my brain? My body? My heart? They’ve all resigned.”
Lola tilts her head, already scheming. “What if I pick her up next Saturday?”
Tayo narrows his eyes. “To do what?”
Lola rolls her eyes.
“A spa day. Full makeover. New wardrobe. Something light.”
Tayo stares at the phone, stirring his pot. “Don’t you always have fully scheduled Saturdays?”
Lola flips her hair dramatically. “I make time for transformation, thank you. Besides, she needs some sister-to-sister polishing. I’ll even be nice.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Nice? That’s rich. And I haven’t even asked her out yet. I don’t think she’d feel comfortable following a random woman.”
Lola grins. “So you’re scared to even ask her out?”
Tayo pauses, spoon hovering mid-air.
“I’m not scared to ask her out,” he says slowly, “I’m scared I won’t survive the relationship.”
The honesty hits the air between them like a dropped pin.
Lola watches him for a beat, her voice quiet now. “One step at a time, Enny. If it’s right… don’t overthink it. Just start.”
Tayo nods faintly, staring at the boiling pot but seeing something else. Someone else.
He hadn’t had a panic attack.
There’d been anxiety, yes. Distress, too…especially when he tried to protect her.
But nothing close to a full panic attack.
Not even when her hair brushed him under the desk. That had to count for something.
“Okay,” he finally says. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow. But she has to agree to go out with you. I don’t want her feeling cornered.”
“Deal.” Lola winks. “Though I’m charming, so I’m not worried.”
Tayo smiles and starts cleaning the counter.
“Oh, and call Mom,” Lola adds. “She said you’re behaving like a stranger.”
Tayo groans. “I’ll call her tomorrow.”
Lola giggles. “Good. Now go and finish cooking whatever it is you’re burning.”
They both laugh, and the call ends.
Tayo stands in the quiet of his kitchen, phone screen now dark. The smell of fried stew sauce and boiling beans lingers in the air.
For a moment, he doesn’t move - just stares out the window, thinking about Rahama. Her sweet voice. Her chaos.
Maybe Lola is right.
This is what he’s always wanted. A chance at something real. Someone to build awkward beginnings with.
Someone to love; flaws, frizz, faded clothes and all.
The Monday prayer ends with murmured amens, and as staff begin to shuffle back to their desks, Omotayo does something no one expects.
He walks toward Rahama.
Heads turn. Ifunanya’s brows nearly fly off her face.
“Rahama,” Tayo says, voice calm but direct. “Can I see you in my office, please?”
Rahama lowers her eyes, biting back the heat still simmering in her chest. “Yes, sir.”
He nods once and walks away, not waiting to see if she follows.
The moment Mr Savage is out of sight, Ifunanya practically teleports to Rahama’s side.
“Rahama, biko, what’s going on between you and Nwoke m (My man)?”
Rahama shrugs, trying not to roll her eyes. “Maybe he needs help with something.”
“If it’s help, why’s he talking like a man calling his wife into his office?”
Ifunanya fans herself with her palm. “Omo, you people should not kill me in this office.”
“Maybe he wants to apologize,” Adeyemi pipes in, sipping from a steaming cup of green tea. “He shouted at both of us last Saturday. Remember? Called us incompetent. Maybe the guilt’s finally eating his conscience.”
Everyone nods. That tracks.
Rahama doesn’t reply. She turns and walks toward his office, expression unreadable, heart not as calm as she pretends.
She knocks lightly. “Good morning, sir.”
He stands up.
She freezes.
Then he pulls out a chair - the one right in front of him - and gestures for her to sit.
Her brows draw together. That seat? The sacred seat no one dares sit on?
“I’m fine standing,” she says, arms folded.
“I insist, Rahama. Please.”
She stares at him a second longer, then exhales like he’s asking her to take a bullet. She sits, arms still folded, tension evident.
Tayo sits across from her, leans forward slightly. “I’m sorry about last Saturday. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”
She nods, slowly. “I’m fine.”
He watches her for a moment. Then, without a word, he reaches beside him and pushes a white nylon bag across the table. “I got you something. Medication. And food.”
Rahama blinks, confused. She’d seen the nylon in his hand when he walked in. She’d assumed it was for himself - of course it was. Why would it be for her?
“I’m okay, sir,” she says, sitting a little straighter. She’s not about to fall into one of his confusing mood swings again.
“I’d like to take you out. On a date,” he says suddenly.
Rahama stares at him.
A date? From Mr Savage?
She lets out a short, startled laugh. If he’d said he bathed in gutter water last night, it would’ve sounded more believable.
“Sir… It’s me you’re talking to, oh. Rahama,” she says slowly, like maybe he’s mixed her up with someone else.
Each week, this man reveals a new personality like it’s part of a slow-release medication.
Week one? Cold shoulder and silent prayers for her resignation.
Week two? Awkward generosity with a side of suspicion.
Week three? Date proposal over paracetamol and breakfast?
She shakes her head slightly.
This is Lagos. Where men are either deceitful or dangerously unserious.
Or both.
“I know, Rahama. And I like you,” Omotayo blurts out, voice low but steady.
Rahama freezes mid-blink.
Did she just hear wrong? Or is Mr Savage suddenly auditioning for a telenovela?
How? Why? Different worlds: different tribe, different language, different everything.
Then it hits her.
TikTok challenge. A prank. Just like the ones Dawuda always talks about. Mr Savage is testing her, seeing if she’s interested.
She can’t help the smile tugging at her lips. Everyone’s on TikTok these days, doing funny and weird things.
“Sir, I know this is a prank. But I’m not interested.” Rahama says, proud as ever.
Thank God for Dawuda and his TikTok tutorials. Without that, she might have fallen for the whole thing.
Omotayo stares at her, stunned.
How did it get to this point?
Why does she think asking her out is a joke? Did he somehow give off a clown vibe?
He always thought mysophobia was the weirdest thing about himself. Now, it’s falling for Rahama.
“I’m serious. I want a relationship with you. I think about you all the time. My heart beats for you.”
Ba abin da ba za a gani ba. (There’s nothing one won’t see.) Rahama’s thought bubbles into a quiet laugh.
“Are my words funny?” Omotayo asks, eyes searching hers.
“No, sir. But even if you’re serious… I’m not interested.” Rahama replies, steady and clear.
Omotayo’s chest tightens.
“Why?”
Because you’re unstable. Too proud. Always with a sanitizer and a nose mask…always way too clean.
“Because I don’t like you, sir.”
He nods slowly, swallowing the sting. No forcing feelings here; that’s a workplace nightmare waiting to happen.
“It’s fine,” he says, voice steady but gentle. “But I like you. And if you ever feel the same, I’ll be here. Waiting.”
Rahama nods, stands up.
“Oh, and take this,” he adds, holding out the bag of food and medicine, arm extended, careful not to make contact.
She hesitates, like she wants to refuse, but then takes it anyway.
“Thank you, sir,” she says, turning to leave.
Omotayo exhales, alone in the quiet office.
It’s going to be harder than he thought.
But if he can live without touching germs, maybe he can survive this too.
And why is she laughing?
He smiles softly. Mysophobia is one thing.
Falling for Rahama? That’s a whole new kind of wild.
The week zips by. Rahama’s buried in work. Omotayo’s buried in... Rahama.
From his office window, he watches her like a man waiting for rain in dry season: hopeful, hungry, almost convinced it’ll fall.
She doesn’t return. Not her words. Not her feelings. Not even a glance that says “maybe.”
Still, he waits.
Every on-site report lands on his desk with her name circled in his mind. He assigns Adeyemi to babysit her on the big gigs, not that he says that out loud.
“She’s promising,” he tells himself. “And promising people need guidance.”
Guidance... and constant personal tracking, apparently.
Lola calls midweek and gasps dramatically over the phone.
“She said no? As in capital N and O?”
“Yes,” he mutters.
“She laughed?”
“Twice.”
Lola wheezes. “This is gold. Can I call her? Just to understand what’s going on?”
But Omotayo refuses.
He should totally respect her decision.
Rahama’s performance gets sharper. Her confidence steadier. She’s growing, and he knows deep down, whether she’s sunshine or a sandstorm, he wants Rahama around. No reason. Just her.
It’s 4:11 pm.
She’s still not back from an on-site job. A basic house cleaning with Tobechukwu that should’ve taken, what, three hours max?
His eyes dart to the clock again.
Four. Twelve.
He checks his phone. Rahama’s number…again. Not reachable.
Tobechukwu? Switched off.
No one switches off their phone. Not without something being wrong.
He paces. Once. Twice. Five times. His chest tightens. Not from germs. From worry.
He grabs the intercom and dials fast. “Peter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I need you to track Rahama and Tobechukwu’s location using the smartwatches they’re wearing.”
A pause. Then the sound of a keyboard tapping on Peter’s end.
“Sir?” Peter’s voice edges in, hesitant. “Is everything alright?”
Omotayo doesn’t even realize how fast he’s breathing. Or that he’s clutching his car key like it’s the only thing tethering him to sanity.
“Just send the address to my WhatsApp. Please.”
“Yes, sir,” Peter says and hangs up.
Omotayo doesn’t wait for the message to land. He grabs his gloves, hand sanitizer, and face mask and is already out the door.
Rahama better be fine. She has to be.
Because if something’s happened…
No. He won’t think about that.
Not today. Not ever.
Omotayo grips the steering wheel tighter than necessary, eyes darting between the traffic ahead and his phone on the passenger seat. Still no service. Still no word from Rahama.
4:34 pm.
He’s not the dramatic type. But his gut’s in a knot. It’s just a basic residential cleaning gig. She should’ve been back hours ago.
His phone buzzes. A WhatsApp message from Peter:
“Mr Bello’s address: 13B Rockview Estate, Lekki Phase I”
Omotayo taps the message to open Google Maps and presses harder on the accelerator.
Ten minutes later, his car screeches to a stop in front of a modern duplex. The gate stands slightly ajar: tilted, like it’s confused. He frowns.
Something isn’t right.
He pulls on his gloves, fixes his nose mask, and grabs disinfectant wipes from the car. He steps out, locks the door almost as an afterthought, then pushes through the gate.
Then freezes.
There, right in the middle of the compound, is Rahama… perched on top of a large black water tank, her cap barely hanging onto her head, hair frizzed like she fought with wind. One sneaker dangles from her foot. And in her hands? A mop. Gripped like a battle spear.
Below her, a massive German Shepherd patrols the base of the tank with the satisfaction of a dog who’s found a new chew toy—in human form.
Its tail wagging dangerously, not friendly wagging. More I’m-having-fun-keeping-you-there wagging.
Omotayo blinks twice. Did he enter a movie set?
“Rahama?” His voice comes out cautious, confused.
She whips around, her eyes wide. “Mr Savage?! Why are you here?!”
He stares at her, stunned. “I should ask you the same thing! Why are you… on a water tank?!”
“That beast chased us from the sitting room!” she yells, jabbing her mop toward the dog like she’s fencing.
Omotayo’s gaze sweeps the scene. There’s a single sneaker by the gate, a bottle of disinfectant rolling near a car tyre, and—wait—is that Tobechukwu?
Tobechukwu sits miserably on the veranda steps, cradling his ankle like he’s waiting for last rites.
“What happened?” Omotayo asks, slowly losing the ability to process any of this.
Rahama sighs like she’s been through war. “Mr Bello said his dog is friendly. He lied.”
“Rahama kicked the mop bucket,” Tobechukwu calls weakly.
“The dog thought it was a toy. It chased us like we owed it rent. I twisted my ankle. She climbed the tank. We’ve been trapped here for two hours!”
Omotayo presses his gloved fingers to his temple. “And you didn’t think to call?”
“Sir, my phone fell when the dog jumped,” Rahama says. “You think I was going to come down and pick it?”
There’s a pause. Omotayo looks at her - hair frizzy, dust on her cheek, one eyebrow defiantly arched from atop the tank like some reluctant warrior princess.
Then the laugh escapes him before he can stop it.
A real one. Loud. Unexpected. Beautifully human.
Rahama scowls from her perch. “Sir, it’s not funny!”
“It’s not,” he agrees, hands up. “Truly not. It’s just... you and a mop, facing down a dog from the top of a water tank, is something I didn’t know I needed today.”
She squints. “Sir, you’re enjoying this too much.”
“Just a little.” His smile softens. “But I’m glad you’re okay.”
Their eyes meet accidentally, lingering longer than either planned.
Omotayo clears his throat. “Let me talk to the security man. The dog clearly needs to be caged.”
“Thank you, sir,” Rahama mutters, but her lips twitch too. She’s smiling now, even if she tries to hide it.
From the top of a dusty water tank, hair wild and sneakers askew, she still shines.
And just like that, Omotayo knows it again; clear as sunshine after rain:
He’s in deep.
The heart kind.
The Rahama kind.
Tobechukwu strolls into the reception like someone carrying federal gossip clearance.
He spots Ifunanya packing her handbag and adjusting her wig, clearly ready to clock out.
He leans against the counter with a smirk. “Are you sure Mr Savage and Rahama aren’t dating?”
Ifunanya freezes mid-lip gloss swipe, then hisses like he just insulted her lashes.
“From where to where nau, Tobechukwu? Do you have any sense? If you said she delivers lunch to his real girlfriend, I’d nod. But dating? That one no balance abeg. Say something believable.”
She smacks her lips, satisfied with the shine, then tosses the gloss into her bag like she’s sealing the matter.
Tobechukwu shrugs. “Okay, oh, I’ve said my own. But guess what? Something happened today on-site.”
Ifunanya doesn’t respond, but one eyebrow lifts - just enough to say, I’m listening, continue before I change my mind.
“There was a little drama. Mr Savage showed up out of nowhere. Not a call, nothing. Just appeared. And guess what again, he insisted Rahama follow him back in his car.”
That gets Ifunanya's full attention.
She straightens. “Wait. Wait. Are you serious serious, or is this one of your usual attempts to make Mr Savage look like a Yoruba demon?”
“I wish,” Tobechukwu says, dramatically placing a hand on his chest. “But I saw it with these two eyes God gave me. The man looked really worried.”
Ifunanya’s lips part slightly.
Mr. Savage? Asking someone to sit inside his car? The same car he never shares?
She swallows. “And where are they now?”
Tobechukwu grins wider. “Still not back. Maybe they branched somewhere… you know. Small soft life. Because everyone’s seen the way Oga has been eyeing her lately. No be secret again.”
Ifunanya blinks. Once. Twice. Then freezes like someone’s paused her remote.
Mr Savage calling Rahama into his office every other minute.
That one time, she caught him smiling at her through the blinds. Now this?
It feels real. Too real.
She suddenly gasps.
“Ewoo! My enemies have succeeded! Rahama and Mr Savage? Tufiakwa!” She clutches her chest like she’s auditioning for a Nollywood monologue.
“What does he even see in her? Why are Lagos men like this? Just when you think you’ve positioned yourself…”
Tobechukwu laughs. “You see? Mr Savage has finally… Savaged your feelings.”
“I bu onye nzuzu!” she spits angrily, shooting him a murderous glare before snatching her bag and storming out the door.
Tobechukwu watches her go, still smiling.
Let her get furious, he thinks. Let it all burn beautifully.
Because if Mr Savage ends up with anyone but Ifunanya?
That, to Tobechukwu, is the true victory of love.
Can somebody help me beg Tayo to calm down?😭😭is this how love is?😭😂
This chapter🥹
I host hope you aren’t brewing hot plot twist for us🌚😭