A GERMOPHOBIC ROMANCE
A Germophobic Romance (13): A weekly Nigerian romantic-comedy series.
Read the previous chapter here
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Rahama sits stiffly across from Omotayo, the morning sun slipping through the blinds, warming the edges of the desk between them. She gently pushes a black nylon bag toward him like she’s offering a peace treaty.
“I got fried sweet potato with pepper,” she says, smiling too hard. “Oritsejumi said there’s this woman a street away whose fried yam is very sweet, so I thought... we could eat it together.”
Omotayo blinks. His smile appears too quickly - too polished. “No, thank you.”
Rahama tilts her head. “Are you fasting?”
“No.”
He folds his hands, neat as always, then adds with a practiced grin, “I just thought since it’s that nice, you should enjoy it all by yourself.”
“I brought it for us,” Rahama insists, voice gentle but firm.
She opens the nylon before he can deflect again, and the sweet, fried aroma of hot potato and sauce fills the room like an edible perfume.
She plucks one potato from the old newspaper, dips it into the sauce spread beside it, and offers it to him across the desk. “Here.”
Omotayo recoils before he can catch himself. He leans back slightly, eyes wide like she’s offering him anthrax.
“I’m fine,” he says quickly, leaning back ever so slightly, the smile on his face turning awkward.
Rahama blinks. Then slowly lowers her hand and sets the potato on a tissue.
Silence.
“I want to break up,” she says quietly.
Omotayo jerks his head up. “What?”
“I’m not interested anymore.”
“Rahama…” He leans forward, eyes wide. “How did we get from potato to breaking up?”
She shrugs like it’s obvious. “I overheard you and Peter yesterday. You called me a walking germ and wait…” She squints, trying to remember. “Something else… bio… bio…”
“Biohazard,” he murmurs, ashamed.
“Exactly.”
He exhales and runs a hand down his face. “Rahama, that was a month ago. Before… all this. Before I even admitted to myself that I can’t do without you.”
“Then why won’t you eat what I brought?” she asks. “Why can’t you just take one potato from me?”
“I don’t eat street food,” he replies.
“Not even the one I give you?” She sounds genuinely baffled, like he just admitted he doesn’t believe in jollof rice.
“I can’t,” he says gently. “I mean - I don’t. I just…”
She reaches across the desk and brushes her fingers against his.
And just like that, he pulls away. Instinct. Fast. Sharp. Like her touch burns.
There it is.
Rahama nods, her throat tight.
“You see?” she whispers. “I can’t even touch you.”
Omotayo shuts his eyes. Everything in him wants to explain - but how?
How do you tell a woman you’re falling for that you’re scared of her skin, not because of her, but because your brain is at war with your heart?
“I’d like to break up,” Rahama says again, her voice firmer this time as she heads for the door.
Omotayo bolts upright. “Wait—Rahama—” he calls, already circling the desk.
But she doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even turn.
His heart thunders. His brain races.
He’s losing her.
And for the first time in his perfectly scheduled life, he acts before thinking.
He crosses the room in three quick strides and grabs her hand. “Rahama, wait.”
She freezes. Doesn’t look at him. Just stands there, shoulders stiff.
So he does the unthinkable.
He pulls her into a hug.
His arms wrap around her like instinct, like need, like home. His heart is pounding so loudly he swears she can hear it.
“I’m sorry,” he breathes into her hair. His voice breaks the silence, soft and scared. “Please… wait.”
Rahama goes still in his arms. Like someone hit pause on her whole nervous system.
He smells like rosewood and lavender and something else that makes her knees wobble: like clean rain on a rich man’s shirt.
“I love you,” he whispers into her ear, breath warm on her neck. His voice is trembling. Honest. Scared.
Rahama’s breath hitches.
Her body stiffens instinctively - because how can someone that clean want someone like her?
But before she can take a step back, Omotayo’s grip tightens. Not forceful. Just... afraid.
“I’ve loved you since the first day,” he says. “Since you showed up in my house with the mask and cleaning supplies…I was just scared”
“Your voice is adorable,” he says, pulling back just enough to look at her. “And your eyes… my God. Your eyes...”
She giggles, blushing so hard it’s impossible to pretend otherwise.
“I love you too,” she says quietly. “I just thought… maybe you didn’t like me. I mean—I’m Hausa. And not... your kind.”
Omotayo leans back slightly, still holding her, his hands warm and steady on hers.
“Your tribe has nothing to do with this,” he says.
“And I’ve been rearranging my life just to make space for your chaos.”
She blushes, a smile blooming across her face like sunshine cracking through clouds.
“So… do I still have a chance?” he asks, half-grinning.
She nods, cheeks pink. “You do.”
He exhales - relief, heart racing, everything at once - but then something shifts.
The room feels… off. The air suddenly too thin.
His body starts to chill, then dizziness, then tremble all at once. His chest tightens like someone is sitting on it.
Still, he holds her hand, refusing to ruin the moment.
“Can we, um… talk later?” he asks with a strained smile, trying to stay upright, trying not to collapse from whatever’s happening to his insides.
“Okay,” she whispers with a bright smile.
He leans in and presses a kiss to her forehead - gentle, lingering.
“I love you,” he says again, almost like a prayer.
And then she leaves, practically floating. Heart light, grin wide.
As soon as Rahama disappears, Omotayo grips the edge of his desk like a man bracing against impact. His knees wobble. The room tilts - just a little at first, then enough to make him swallow hard.
Air stutters into his lungs.
Too fast. Too shallow.
He drags a hand down his chest, pressing as if he can physically slow his heart.
His breath comes in short, panicked bursts.
“Breathe,” he whispers to himself, pressing one palm to his chest.
His eyes squeeze shut, voice trembling.
“Box breathing, come on…Inhale for four… one, two, three, four…”
He holds. “One, two, three, four…”
Exhales, shakily. “One, two, three, four…”
He freezes there, lungs stretched tight, skin prickling where her arms had been.
“Hold.”
One. Two. Three. Four.
He exhales, shaky, uneven.
Again.
Again.
“I’m not dying,” he whispers, voice cracking. “I’m just… uncomfortable.”
His knees buckle. He catches himself on the desk, knuckles whitening, legs trembling like they might fold out of spite.
“I’m okay,” he insists, to the room, to his body. “I chose this.”
He stumbles toward the mini fridge, holding the desk along with him for balance. His movements are clumsy, desperate - controlled chaos.
He yanks the fridge open, grabs the coldest bottle he can find, fumbles the cap twice before it finally gives.
He drinks like he’s been underwater too long.
Cold floods his throat. It helps. A little.
His muscles burn. His heart won’t slow. His skin feels too tight, like it doesn’t fit him anymore.
He drops into his chair, folds forward, elbows on knees, hands clenched so hard his nails bite. He doesn’t wipe them. He can’t yet. Not until the shaking stops.
“God,” he breathes, forehead hovering just above the desk. “Please.”
This is not a tidy prayer. There are no full sentences. Just need. Just survival.
His breathing evens out inch by inch. The spinning dulls. The scream in his chest lowers to a roar, then a growl.
And through it all - through the nausea curling in his stomach, through the itch under his skin - one truth holds steady.
He hugged her.
He chose her.
He lifts his head slowly, testing the world. Still upright. Still here.
She’s still his.
That’s the win.
Even if his stomach is still doing things that should qualify as a competitive sport.
“So…” Lola starts, steering the wheel with one hand and shooting Rahama a loaded side-eye, “what do you think about Enny?”
It’s barely 11 a.m., Friday sun gentle on the windshield, and Rahama’s already blushing like someone sprinkled sugar in her bloodstream.
Rahama shifts in the passenger seat, cheeks warming. “He’s… handsome. And neat ma,” she says softly, fingers twiddling in her lap.
Lola bursts out laughing, the kind that comes straight from the belly, catching Rahama off guard.
“Well, he is,” Lola says, still chuckling. “Extremely neat. Obsessively neat, actually.”
Rahama chuckles shyly.
“Oh, and drop the ‘ma’ thing, please,” Lola adds, flicking her fingers in the air. “We don’t do that. It makes me feel like I need to start wearing orthopedic shoes.”
“Okay,” Rahama says with a smile, studying Lola for a moment.
She is stunning. Curvy in all the right places, glowing skin like she drinks water and minds her business, nails long, wig definitely imported, and the kind of dress that doesn’t live in regular boutiques. She smells like confidence and clean money.
“Better.” Lola nods, satisfied.
Lola steals another glance. “So… his neatness doesn’t bother you?”
“No. Not at all.” Rahama’s voice turns soft again, her mind drifting to yesterday - the hug, the warmth, the way he didn’t flinch this time. “He hugged me yesterday.”
Lola slams the brake just enough for the car to jerk a little. Her eyes widen. “What?!”
Rahama startles, clutching the seatbelt.
“He—he hugged me. It wasn’t a big deal—”
“Not a big deal?” Lola’s jaw drops. “Enny hugged you?! Like… full body contact?”
Rahama nods, cheeks hot again.
Lola slows the car to a crawl, turning to stare at her like she just declared she touched the sun and it winked back.
“Oh my goodness. Who are you, Rahama?” she whispers, clearly in awe. “Do you realize you’re the first person he’s hugged in, like… twelve years? He doesn’t even hug me. I’ve literally begged before, like I was asking him to donate a kidney.”
Rahama smiles, biting her lip, unsure what to say. “Well… he did. He pulled me in.”
Lola shakes her head, laughing under her breath, but her mind is working overtime.
Lola sizes her up again - this time not with judgment, but stunned curiosity.
Rahama’s beauty is there, tucked behind rough edges: her thick hair cornrowed in an all-back style; her full lips begging for a little lip balm; skin that needs TLC and oils her brother probably keeps in alphabetical order.
And yet... he hugged her?
Lola narrows her eyes.
“I noticed he doesn’t like being touched,” Rahama says quietly. “Even in the office. No one comes close to him.”
Lola’s hand stiffens slightly on the wheel.
And then it hits her.
His condition.
His mysophobia.
She swallows. “And… he was fine afterwards?”
Rahama furrows her brow. “Fine?”
“I mean, like… he didn’t act weird? Get sick?” Lola asks, making a quick U-turn, as if she just remembered an errand. But her eyes keep darting to Rahama.
Rahama blinks. “Sick? Why would hugging make him sick?”
Lola’s lips twist into a small, awkward smile.
So he hasn’t told her.
Omotayo hasn’t said a word.
Not about the therapy. Not about the panic attacks. Not about his sickness.
“Considering he doesn’t do body contact,” Lola says, flashing a brighter smile like she’s trying to laugh off how stunned she still is, “I was joking. Kind of.”
Rahama nods slowly. “Oh. Well… he’s fine. I mean, I actually tried pulling away from the hug, but… he pulled me back in. Then he…” Her cheeks catch fire. “He kissed my forehead.”
She hides her face a little, unable to stop smiling.
Lola misses the red light until it’s a breath away. She slams the brake.
Rahama jerks forward against her seatbelt with a quiet gasp.
For a moment, there’s silence - except for Rahama’s exhale and Lola’s blink as reality catches up to her.
What is it with Savage siblings and emergency braking? Rahama mutters under her breath.
She’s turned fully toward Rahama now, eyes wide, invested, as if Rahama just dropped the plot twist of a drama series.
“Wait, wait, wait—rewind,” she says, holding up one hand. “You tried to pull away from the hug - he pulled you back in - and kissed your forehead?”
Rahama nods, still smiling, still glowing. “Yes.”
Lola stares at her like she’s looking at the fifth wonder of the world.
Her eyes flick to Rahama’s forehead, as if the kiss might still be stamped there, glowing or sparkling or something.
“Did you notice anything strange about him this morning?”
Rahama shrugs a little, unsure which part is meant to be the big deal - the hug or the forehead kiss. “No, he seems fine.”
Lola is still staring. Still smiling. But quieter now.
That kind of quiet when something big is dawning.
If Enny pulled her back into a hug… if he kissed her forehead… no gloves, no flinching, no sanitizing his lips afterward… then maybe —
Maybe Rahama isn’t just a passing interest.
She’s a cure.
A breaking point in the best way.
Lola exhales and softly shakes her head, more to herself than Rahama. “He’s never done that. Not for anyone.”
Rahama looks at her, now curious. “Why? What’s so strange about a hug and a kiss?”
Lola gives a soft laugh, but her eyes shine like someone watching a miracle unfold.
“You have no idea what that hug cost him.”
Omotayo has found something worth breaking rules for.
Someone worth braving fear for.
And her name… is Rahama.
“I’d like to invite you to our family dinner,” Lola says casually.
Rahama’s lips part, about to respond, but a blaring honk from behind cuts her off.
Lola jumps. “Oh shoot—green light!” She hits the gas like she’s in a race, and Rahama holds the edge of her seat for balance.
“Sorry, sorry,” Lola says with a sheepish grin, eyes back on the road. “Anyway—just convince Enny to come with you. He’ll listen to you. I’m sure of it.”
Rahama’s face warms with a shy smile. “I’ll tell him.”
Lola glances at her, satisfaction written all over her face. Perfect. She doesn’t need to warn Rahama about the circus that is dinner with their family. No need to spoil the moment. Let her just bring Enny home. Let love do the rest.
Rahama’s fingers play with the hem of her sleeve.
If she’s meeting all of his family, then he should meet hers too. She nods to herself. It’s only fair. And… kind of romantic.
Lola beams suddenly, like another lightbulb has just flickered on.
“Also, I’m officially stealing you for a girls’ date every Friday afternoon. I planned Saturday, but I found out you need to go back home Friday evenings.”
Rahama turns to her, blinking. “Every Friday?”
“Absolutely,” Lola says with a wink. “Pick-up included. Full glam, full gist.”
Rahama chuckles but tilts her head. “Won’t that affect my cleaning schedule?”
Lola scoffs like she’s just been personally insulted.
“Excuse me, your man owns the company. If they need more help, they should hire more staff.”
“Still, I—”
“I’ll tell him myself. I’ll have your Fridays cleared just for me. Big sister privilege,” she declares with a confident nod.
Rahama bites her lip to hide a smile. Lola is intense, but somehow… in the best way.
Lola pulls into a neat parking lot and parks in front of a pristine grey building. The words Grey & Glow Spa gleam on the glass like it’s winking at Rahama.
“We’re here,” Lola says, already unbuckling.
Rahama looks around, then at the spa, then back at Lola. “Where is here?”
Lola opens her door, tosses her long weave back like a Nollywood star, and smirks. “Somewhere magical.”
Rahama hesitates, then quietly follows, still unsure what she just signed up for.
Rahama steps into Grey & Glow Spa like she’s walked into the wrong building. The air smells like warm oranges and expensive peace. Soft music swirls around the gold-accented lobby. Everyone is either whispering or smiling too much.
She halts. “Are we here to clean?”
Lola does a slow blink. “Clean?”
Rahama nods cautiously.
Lola gasps, placing a hand dramatically on her chest like Rahama just slapped her spirit. “Sweetheart. We’re not here to clean. We’re here to resurrect.”
She snatches a plush white robe from the receptionist and tosses it into Rahama’s arms like it’s a sacred scroll. “Today, you are the VIP.”
Rahama stares at the robe. “Why?”
Lola flips her wig. “Because I like you and want to spoil you. And because you’re courting my brother, so congrats, you’ve unlocked a full spa day.”
“Ms Savage, please. I didn’t plan—”
But Lola already waves her off. “No long talk. Let the pampering begin.”
Minutes later, Rahama re-emerges from the changing room, wrapped in the robe like a reluctant lamb heading for the altar.
Her slip-on sandals flap as she tiptoes past the velvet curtain into the treatment lounge.
“Don’t be scared,” Lola calls from a recliner, legs crossed, sipping lemon-cucumber detox water like royalty. “This is the fun part.”
A warm mist greets Rahama’s cheeks as Tonia, the aesthetician, gently spreads something grainy across her face.
“This is sugar-based,” Tonia says with a calm smile.
Rahama’s tongue pokes out instinctively. “Tastes like sugar.”
Tonia freezes. “You… tasted it?”
“My sister-in-law is new,” Lola says, smiling without looking up. “Still thinks spa products are snacks.”
Rahama giggles under her breath.
Exfoliation. Extraction. A cooling cucumber mask that smells like someone’s rich garden. When they peel it off, Rahama’s skin is reflecting light like glass.
Next stop: a candle-lit massage room. Rahama lies face-down on a heated table, wrapped in soft towels like a burrito.
When the coffee-vanilla scrub touches her back, she jumps.
“Tickles,” she squeaks.
“Good,” the masseuse says in a melodic voice.
“That means your skin is waking up.”
Soon, warm oil replaces the scrub. Skilled hands knead through her back and shoulders, coaxing out years of tension and maybe a few ancestral fears. Ten minutes in, her brain is floating somewhere between Earth and Mars.
“Did I just… sleep?” she mumbles.
“No,” Lola replies from beside her. “You levitated.”
Then she sees it.
Wax strips.
Rahama sits up. “Wait. Wait. What are those?”
“Eyebrow threading. Leg and armpit waxing,” the technician says sweetly, like she’s offering candy.
“No. No, no, no. My hair is there for a reason. God put it there.”
Lola pokes her head in. “God also gave us coconut oil and self-awareness. Relax.”
Rahama eyes the wax strip like it’s a weapon. “I’m not ready.”
“You’ll survive,” Lola grins. “I’ll hold your hand.”
That’s a lie.
Rahama screams like she’s seen her life flash in HD.
“Ahh, what have I done to deserve this punishment?!”
“She’s doing great,” the technician says, unbothered.
“She’s lying!” Rahama sobs. “Check my leg. Is it still there?!”
More ripping. More wailing. Threading. Waxing. Rahama emerges minutes later limping slightly, but her legs shimmer, her brows are shaped, and her armpits could pass for angel wings.
In the final room, her lashes and brows are tinted, her lips glossed with something rosy and subtle.
Then they wheel her to the salon section like a sacred offering.
Two stylists gasp. “Her hair is full!”
“Let’s do a steam treatment, deep condition, trim the ends, blowout, light curls,” the stylist rattles off like a plan for world peace.
Rahama blinks at her. “Will I still have hair after all that?”
One stylist leans in, all confidence. “You’ll have more.”
She says it like a promise from heaven.
The steam wraps around her head like a soft cloud. Fingers detangle with patient care, combs glide through strands soaked in conditioner. Warm air buzz as the dryer does its thing. Then come the curls, bouncy, soft, like her hair just fell in love with itself.
Lola gasps dramatically. “Enny is going to collapse like a folding chair.”
Rahama chuckles, but her eyes stay on the mirror. She doesn’t recognize this version of herself - and that’s not a bad thing.
Hands and feet get the royal treatment next—dipped in rose-scented bowls, scrubbed, massaged, shaped, polished. Nude toes. Coral-pink fingers. One nail with a tiny gold flower.
Rahama holds up her hand, wide-eyed. “How am I supposed to mop floors with these?”
Lola smirks. “Exactly.”
Someone hands her a sage-green jumpsuit. The fabric feels like butter and looks like wealth. Gold buttons at the shoulder. A cinched waist. She steps into it like she’s entering a new chapter.
Then she turns to the mirror.
Her hair frames her face in glossy waves. Her skin glows like she drinks coconut oil for breakfast. Her lashes flutter like they have their own script.
She’s not just pretty. She’s present.
She stares.
Lola appears behind her in the mirror, all smiles and satisfaction. “This is the Rahama Enny saw from day one,” she says softly. “Now the rest of the world can catch up.”
Rahama laughs, cheeks glowing as much as her skin. “I feel like a human cupcake.”
“A fine cupcake,” Lola corrects. “The kind in a black and gold luxury box with tissue paper and a handwritten note.”
Rahama exhales slowly. “Thank you.”
“Don’t cry,” Lola says, waving a finger. “You’ll ruin your lash tint and I didn’t come this far for streaks.”
They step out into the late afternoon sun. The city air doesn’t feel as heavy. Rahama glances at her reflection in the spa’s glass door.
No flinching.
Just a slow, quiet smile.
Abimbola, i loved the fact that you kept rahama's natural hair. That little detail mattered to me 🥹
We open up this chapter in the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. 🤭