A GERMOPHOBIC ROMANCE
A Germophobic Romance (14): A weekly Nigerian romantic-comedy series.
Read the previous chapter here
Dedicated to every one of YOU 🥹 whose restacks quietly stole my heart.
I don’t know you personally, but I’m grateful for you 🤍
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Omotayo turns on the bed, the sheets twisted around his legs. His throat burns. His head throbs. Heat rises and settles beneath his skin, leaving him restless and weak.
He made sure Rahama didn’t see him like this.
Not yesterday.
Not today.
This morning, he called his sister and asked her to pick Rahama up earlier than planned.
Saturday wouldn’t work, he’d said, because Rahama leaves for home every Friday evening.
He stopped by the office briefly, long enough to look fine. Long enough to be seen. The moment Lola took Rahama, he drove straight back home.
He’s always known close contact isn’t his strength. Relationships are marked by hands holding, bodies leaning closer, and shared space.
And with that closeness comes the tightness in his chest, the spiraling thoughts.
What kind of man starts a relationship knowing closeness costs him this much?
His phone vibrates on the bedside table. He drags himself closer and squints at the screen.
Rahama.
They must be done with Lola’s spa outing by now.
He lets the phone ring out.
She shouldn’t get pulled deeper into a relationship he can’t fully show up for.
He pushes himself upright, his gaze drifting to the neatly arranged bottles on the table nearby. Anxiety meds. Antidepressants. He exhales slowly.
Everything feels small. Distant.
The phone rings again.
Rahama.
Maybe he should be the one to end it this time.
He should’ve let it end when she tried to walk away first. Saying it now would sound petty. Like retaliation.
The phone rings a third time.
He reaches for it, intending only to silence it. But something in him hesitates, and the call connects.
“Hello,” Rahama says, bright and warm.
He can hear the smile in her voice. He can picture it too: soft, cheek flushed, familiar.
Despite himself, his lips curve upward.
He presses his fingers to his forehead, easing the ache, and lifts the phone closer.
“Hey. Where are you now?” He keeps his voice steady, careful not to sound as tired as he feels.
“On my way home,” she says cheerfully.
How does she make everything sound so easy?
“I should’ve called earlier,” he says. “Did you get a ride?”
“What do you take me for?” Lola cuts in. “You think I’d abandon your girl?”
“I’m personally chauffeuring your woman,” Lola adds. “You’re welcome.”
He chuckles, nodding even though she can’t see him. “Thank you, Lola. I owe you.”
He imagines her driving one-handed, dramatic as ever. Rahama beside her, probably quiet, probably blushing.
As usual, he lets Lola carry the weight he should be carrying himself.
“You owe me plenty,” Lola says. “Wait till you see her, video call or in person on Monday. You’ll appreciate me properly.”
“Oh no,” Omotayo says, smiling through the headache.
He pauses, listening to his own breathing, then adds lightly, “You’ve officially recruited her, haven’t you?”
“She’s one of us now,” Lola declares. “Skin glowing. Nails done. Hair? Absolute main-character moment.”
Rahama’s laughter filters through the background.
“Rahama,” Omotayo says gently. “You good?”
He shouldn’t be asking that. He should be ending things.
“Yes,” she says. “Well… except the waxing. But I’ll live.”
He smiles. That’s her.
“Alright then,” he says. “I’ll call you later.”
He ends the call before she can respond.
The silence settles fast.
He lies back and stares at the ceiling.
Letting Rahama stay feels good, but keeping her here, in a world shaped by fear and careful distance, feels wrong.
And loving someone shouldn’t feel like confinement.
Rahama lowers the phone, the smile still lingering on her lips.
Lola glances at her and grins, eyes flashing. “Now that I know Enny’s weakness…”
She taps the steering wheel like a villain in a Disney movie. “He’s finished!”
Rahama turns toward her, warmth spreading through her chest.
The late-afternoon light slips through the windshield, softening Lola’s features. But it’s not the sunlight that catches Rahama’s attention. It’s the care behind the jokes. The effort. The way Lola has taken her in without hesitation.
Rahama looks at her for a moment longer, then says quietly, “You’re a really good sister.”
Lola shrugs, casual as ever. “He’s my brother. You’re his girl. That makes you my responsibility.”
Rahama’s smile deepens. “Then I’m lucky.”
Lola shoots her a wink. “Yeah. And lucky him, too.”
The car slows to a stop in front of Rahama’s house. Lola cuts the engine.
“I should greet your family before I head out,” Lola says, already reaching for the door.
Rahama blinks. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Lola says, smiling. “It’s the polite thing. Not after Enny came here and ghosted everyone.”
Lola steps out, steadying herself as her heels sink slightly into the uneven ground.
Rahama follows, her gaze sweeping the compound without thinking - the chipped walls, the clothes hanging from a wire, firewood stacked neatly in one corner, dry leaves scattered across the earth.
Then she looks back at Lola.
In her tailored dress and carefully styled curls, Lola looks out of place and yet completely unbothered. Like she belongs anywhere she chooses to stand.
Rahama chuckles, nerves beating beneath her breath. She lifts her bag and walks slowly, deliberately matching Lola’s awkward tip-toe shuffle across the rocky ground.
A small voice rings out before they reach the door.
“Yaya Rahama! You look beautiful!”
Aisha bolts from the cluster of kids playing with an old tyre and throws her arms around Rahama’s waist.
“Aisha! Look at you!” Rahama laughs, scooping her up. “Na gode, na gode,” she says shyly at Aisha’s compliment, cheeks burning.
Lola steps forward, waving gently. “Hi, sweetheart.”
Aisha tightens her grip on Rahama’s neck, peeking at Lola with the wary curiosity only kids possess.
“Hello,” Aisha replies softly.
“You’re beautiful,” Lola tells her, and Aisha rewards her with a small smile before burying her face into Rahama’s neck again.
“Let’s go inside,” Rahama says, already regretting it.
She should’ve insisted Lola head back. The house wasn’t ready. It was never ready. But now it’s too late.
Lola nods, heels clicking against the uneven floor as they step into the living room.
Chaos welcomes them like an old friend.
An old couch sagging under Hafsat’s sleeping body. The center table buried in folded and unfolded clothes. Plastic chairs stuffed with laundry. Bags and wrappers dangling from the wall nails. A dusty TV with Dawuda’s tattered books stacked like ornaments.
Rahama’s heart sinks. Her shoulders fold inward as she puts Aisha down, who dashes back outside like a bird freed from a cage.
She moves to her mother. “Mama?” she calls softly, tapping her.
Hafsat stirs, then sits up slowly. Her eyes find Rahama’s face and pause.
“Rahama?” she asks, blinking like she’s unsure it’s really her.
“Ina wuni, Mama.” Rahama greets in Hausa, voice low.
Hafsat stares. “What happened to your face? And your hair?”
Before Rahama can reply, Hafsat’s gaze shifts, she sees Lola.
Her spine straightens. “Wa ne wannan?” Who is this?
Rahama takes a breath. “Mr Savage’s sister. Saurayina”
Hafsat’s eyes flick between them. Lola, to her credit, steps forward with grace and a polite, practiced smile.
“Good evening, ma. My name is Lola,” she says with a respectful bow.
Hafsat nods, still looking like she’s piecing together a puzzle.
“Bring a chair for her,” she says, already tucking in her wrapper properly.
Rahama sets her bag down right onto the table mountain of clothes.
She walks to the corner, grabs the lone plastic chair near the plate rack, removes the plates with care, wipes the seat with a kitchen napkin, and brings it to Lola.
Lola settles onto the plastic chair like it’s a throne, not missing a beat.
“I heard my brother came by last week and disappeared before anyone could blink,” she says, smiling like it’s a private joke. “I’m so sorry about that, ma.”
Rahama watches quietly. Her eyes scan Lola’s face, searching for even a flicker of discomfort at the cluttered room - the old couch, the sagging table under a pile of clothes, the tired walls. But nothing. Lola just beams like she belongs here.
Hafsat sits straighter, fixing her wrapper as she yawns mid-nod. “It’s our way here. If our daughter is in a relationship, we must know about it. Approve it. With our own eyes. Your brother has to come.”
Hafsat leans forward, voice firmer. “I know your people like long love story, but here, we don’t do ‘just dating.’”
Lola nods without flinching. “Mama, I agree with you. I don’t believe in long dating either. If he knows what he wants, let him do what’s right. I’ll talk to him. Whatever you want, we’ll make it happen.”
Hafsat’s face softens. “Thank you, thank you for understanding us.”
Then she loosens the knot of her wrapper, digs into a hidden fold, and pulls out some folded, tired naira notes. “Let me buy you something. What kind of minerals do you want?”
“Mama, don’t stress,” Lola says quickly, eyes kind. “Just give me water. I’m fine.”
Still, Hafsat stretches the note towards Rahama. “Go and buy table water from Mama Sultan—”
“No, no,” Lola interrupts gently, reaching out and pressing Hafsat’s hand back down. “Whatever water you have here is fine. Next time, I’ll call ahead so I can come and eat tuwo with you.”
That catches Hafsat off guard. Her brows lift. “You’ll drink the water we fetch into our drum?”
Lola smiles wider, sinking comfortably into the chair like she’s on her aunt’s verandah. She winks at Rahama.
“Yes, ma. Water is water.”
Rahama bites back a laugh, heart swelling. She heads to the corner, pours the room-temperature water from their covered bucket into a plastic cup, and hands it to Lola. No fuss. No grimace. She drinks it like it’s from a five-star hotel.
Then, with graceful ease, Lola reaches into her bag and pulls out a bundle of crisp ₦500 notes. She places it in Hafsat’s palm.
“Mama, please help me manage this. Next time, I’ll come more prepared and bring some things for you.”
Hafsat stands immediately, visibly moved. “Na gode! Na gode sosai!” She pulls Lola into a hug, firm and motherly. Lola hugs her back, just as warmly.
Hafsat turns to Rahama. “Keep it,” she says, handing her the money like a treasure.
“I’ll see you off,” Hafsat adds, and they step outside, side by side, into the fading light.
As they approach the car, Hafsat speaks again, softer this time. “Make sure your brother comes. If he’s anything like you…He must be a good man.”
She chuckles. “You didn’t even mind that we are Hausa. Or that we gave you water from our drum.”
Lola looks at her, eyes crinkling with a knowing smile. “Mama, love doesn’t know tribe. It’s about people. And you raised a really good one.”
Hafsat’s heart relaxes, visibly.
“I was scared,” she admits. “I don’t want Rahama ending up with someone who’ll forget where she comes from. But you… you didn’t judge us. You felt like family.”
“My brother’s actually the better one,” Lola says, adjusting her heels as she walks toward the car.
“He might not look it, but you’ll like him. And he didn’t just choose your daughter, he saw her. In twelve years, I haven’t seen him with anyone else.”
Hafsat nods slowly, watching her with the same cautious warmth she gives strangers who surprise her.
Lola bows again, hand over her chest. “I’ll come back soon, Mama.”
Hafsat nods, more certain this time. “You’re welcome anytime.”
Lola circles the car, opens the door with practiced grace, slips in, and winds the window halfway down.
“Be careful,” Hafsat calls.
Lola nods, eyes kind. “Yes, ma,” she says, then drives off, the sound of the engine softening behind them.
Rahama spins toward her mum like a child bringing home a school prize. “Mama! How is she?”
Hafsat watches the road a moment longer before turning. “She’s not what I expected.”
Rahama blinks. “Expected how?”
“With that fine face, the fancy car, everything... I thought she’d carry her nose in the air.” Hafsat waves vaguely, mimicking the air of someone too posh to breathe. “But she’s warm. She greeted well.”
Rahama grins. “She’s really sweet, Mama.”
Hafsat nods again, thoughtful. “If her brother is half as kind, I can sleep easily.”
Rahama’s heart swells.
Hafsat looks her up and down, eyes narrowing like she’s finally registering what’s right in front of her.
“Wait… what happened to your face and hair? You look—” She squints, then laughs. “—like someone who’s not from here again.”
Rahama does a shy spin, her hair bouncing in soft waves. “Ms Savage took me out. Face. Hair. Nails. Everything.”
Hafsat whistles. “Ah. That’s why your cheeks are shining.”
They laugh together, and Rahama feels lighter, more grounded than she has all day.
“Where’s Maria and Dawuda?” she asks, looking around, suddenly realizing the house is missing its usual chaos.
“They went to the clinic. Dawuda followed Maria, she’s been feeling weak.”
Rahama frowns, nodding. “She’s seven months now. It’s expected.”
“Eh,” Hafsat mutters. “It’s not easy.”
“Who is this?” Racheal blurts, her eyes wide as they trail Rahama descending from the staff apartment like a scene straight out of a makeover movie.
Her brows knit together in confusion - Rahama’s brows are perfectly trimmed, her hair long and silk-pressed like glass, swaying with every step. Her skin? Smooth, deep, and glowing like she bottled the sun over the weekend.
Rahama smiles, soft and easy. “Good morning, Racheal.”
Racheal stares for another second before recovering. “Happy new week,” she says, blinking fast.
From their corner of the office, Adeyemi, Samuel, and Mngohol glance up and freeze like someone pressed pause.
“Oh my God,” Mngohol gasps, pushing back from her desk and walking straight toward Rahama. “You look so nice! Wait - did you straighten your hair? And your skin, babe, you’re glowing!”
Rahama chuckles, tucking a strand behind her ear. “Yes, thanks to Ms Savage,” she says, shy but pleased.
Ifunanya strolls over, arms folded like she’s just here to investigate. “What’s the commotion?” she asks - and then her eyes land on Rahama.
She raises an eyebrow. “Ah. So dating the boss comes with skin benefits now?”
“Thank you, everyone,” Rahama says, cheeks warming as the compliments keep rolling in.
“I’m happy for you, oh,” Ifunanya adds with a small nod, already turning like she didn’t just say something unexpectedly soft.
Rahama watches her walk off and smiles to herself.
For someone who acts like she doesn’t care about anybody, Ifunanya’s got some softness tucked inside her.
“Mr Savage is here coming!” Tobechukwu calls from the front window, his voice slicing through the chatter.
As usual, everyone snaps into clean-up mode: fixing their shirts, patting down their hair, and scanning for even the tiniest speck of dirt.
But Rahama? She’s still standing there, her smile growing wider. It’s been three whole days since she last saw him, and now, she can’t stop blushing.
“Mr Savage,” Rahama says, her voice low and playful as she stands at the entrance of Omotayo’s office.
He looks up from his desk and rises. “Good morning, Rahama.”
She steps in, smiling, and takes the chair opposite him. He sits too, careful, measured.
“How was your weekend?” she asks. “Do you like my new look?”
How she missed him. Their calls had been shorter this time. Fewer. He’d said work was heavy, and she hadn’t pushed.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “My weekend was fine. And yours?”
“Fine too.” Her smile deepens. “I missed you.”
Something flickers across his face, but it doesn’t stay. He taps a finger lightly against the desk instead.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
“Yeah. I’m good.”
She hesitates, then leans forward, reaching for his hand. “You didn’t miss me?”
He pulls away at once.
The movement is sharp. Instinctive.
Rahama freezes. Her gaze drops to her hand, then lifts back to his face. Slowly, she draws it back to herself.
Something is wrong.
Before she can ask, his voice cuts through the silence.
“I want to end this,” Omotayo says, firm and measured. “This relationship won’t work.”
The room goes still.
Rahama stares at him.
Dawuda’s voice echoes in her head - gentle, cautious. He warned her. Said things moved too fast. Asked when she fell in love. Asked if she was sure.
She’d laughed it off. Told him she liked Omotayo from the very first day she went to clean his house. Told him this man cared too deeply to ever hurt her.
She was wrong.
Now the office feels smaller. Colder.
“I shouldn’t have stopped you last week,” Omotayo continues. “I thought about it over the weekend. We can’t do this.”
Rahama doesn’t move.
He announced them at work. Drove her home. Let his sister introduce herself to her family.
Why do all that…just to end it here?
Her chest tightens.
Is it because she’s not polished enough?
Because she cleans offices?
Because she’s Hausa?
She pushes her chair back and stands. No tears. No argument. Not a single word.
She walks out.
Omotayo watches her go.
He waits for something: for anger, for tears, for questions. Anything that would make this feel less heavy.
Nothing comes.
He exhales and sinks back into his chair.
It’s for the best.
She deserves someone who won’t flinch when she reaches out. Someone who will take her hand without hesitation.
Someone who leans in, laughs easily, and eats fried potatoes straight from an old newspaper.
Someone who fits into her joy without hesitation.
Not a man who flinches at touch.
Not a man who measures affection like risk.
Someone who isn’t him.
“Asanwa m, mma m, ụtọ m.” Tobechukwu croons dramatically as he saunters into the relaxation space like he owns it, hands behind his back like a proud village suitor.
She hisses. Loudly.
“Tobechukwu, abeg, it’s 10 a.m. on a Monday,” she says mid-chew. “Even if you don’t have a cleaning job this early, at least have shame. Don’t come and jinx my morning, Abeg.”
Tobechukwu grins, undeterred.
“Maybe it’s even you that chased my Mr Savage away, it might be your interest in me that made him not choose me, we all know he is a calm boss and doesn’t like trouble, that’s why he picked the less troubled girl among us,” Ifunanya says.
Her eyes go wide, as if the revelation just smacked her biscuit out of her hand.
“Wait... that’s true oh. Maybe what Mr Savage wants isn’t a clean girl. Maybe it’s... gentleness,” she says slowly, like the revelation is falling into place in real time. “Someone soft, like air freshener.”
Tobechukwu plops into the second beanbag like it owes him rent.
“And that, my dear Ifunanya, is something you don’t have. Gentleness saw you coming and relocated to Enugu.”
She shoots him a look.
“But I still love you like that,” he adds with a cheeky grin. “It’s your sharp mouth that made me fall for you in the first place.”
Ifunanya rolls her eyes so hard they almost exit her soul. “Even if I’m God’s prodigal daughter, why must my love life suffer to this level? How I take attract somebody like you?”
He clutches his chest, mock-wounded. “Am I not good enough?”
She stands, dusts off invisible crumbs, and tosses him a dry glance. “You’re good enough to mop a floor. Not to date a queen like me.”
And with that, she struts off toward the reception, leaving Tobechukwu smiling like a man who just got handed a romantic challenge instead of a flat-out rejection.
He’ll get her.
Slowly. Surely.
After all, even stubborn soap lathers when you scrub it right.
At the reception, Ifunanya taps through the company phone like it personally offended her, checking updates, bookings, and the business WhatsApp.
A message pops up.
Savtel Telecom:
Good morning.
Please schedule a deep cleaning session for the Savtel HQ office in Lagos for next week.
Also, please send the hygiene technician, Rahama, along with the rest of the team.
Management insists on her specifically.
Thank you.
Ifunanya blinks. Rereads it.
A slow, knowing smile creeps across her lips.
“Oh wow. Even Mr Savage’s father’s company knows his daughter-in-law’s name?” she mutters to herself.
“God, some people are just highly favoured. Meanwhile, I’m still here arguing with broom boy.”
She sighs, shaking her head as she settles down.
Some people are born into favour. Others have to sweep their way into it.
Rahama lies curled on her narrow bed in the staff quarters, knees drawn close, one hand pressed against her stomach.
Pain coils low and deep, sharp enough to steal her breath. Her eyes sting, tears slipping into her hairline and soaking the pillow beneath her.
She isn’t sure what hurts more: the cramps or the emptiness spreading through her chest.
Omotayo Enioluwa Savage is cruel.
She should have known. People don’t appear out of nowhere and ask for love. They don’t switch so easily, warmth one moment and distance the next.
Just last week, he held her and told her how much she meant to him.
Now this.
She should have asked why. She should have demanded an explanation. She should have stayed long enough to hear something - anything - that made it make sense.
But shock stole her voice. She stood, turned, and walked away like someone who didn’t care.
She thought he would follow.
She thought he would come back, call, apologize, and say he’d made a mistake. Anything.
But Friday arrives, and the silence stays.
All week, he hasn’t called. He didn’t send for her. When they cross paths at work, his eyes slide past her like she isn’t there.
No one says anything. Maybe no one notices. Or maybe they do and choose not to look too closely.
Even his sister calls that morning, cheerful, asking if she’s ready for their usual Friday outing. Rahama tells her she isn’t feeling well. The cramps give her an easy excuse.
He must not have told her anything.
The thought settles heavily in her chest.
She rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling. She can’t bring herself to tell Dawuda. Or Maria.
They warned her. Said everything moved too fast. Said she was risking too much.
Her boss. Neat. Wealthy. Distant.
What would she even say now?
That she believed him. That she trusted his care. That she mistook attention for permanence.
Dawuda would laugh first. He always does. Then he’d remind her she should have known better.
She presses her forearm over her eyes, muffling the sound as another wave of pain pulls a sob from her chest.
She won’t forgive him.
Not for the way he drew her close, only to step away without warning.
Not for how easily he erased her.
She lies there until the crying slows, until the room grows quiet again.
And when it does, the emptiness feels louder than anything else.
New Chapters drop every Thursday and Friday. 🤍
first here today! Thank you Abimbola for this story.
I look forward to Rahama and Tayo’s story unraveling beautifully. 🤭❤️
Lowkey want to save this read as a reward for all the work I have to do today. We’ll see🥹😂
Woe betide omotayo for real. Why play with someone's feelings like that. I get it's hard for him but haba