A GERMOPHOBIC ROMANCE
A Germophobic Romance (3): A weekly Nigerian romantic-comedy series.
This bonus episode is all for you, @adesinaeniolaabigail! 🎉
The fact that you’ve been so amazing and engaged with my book, even though we’ve never met, honestly makes me feel like the luckiest person alive! 😊
Your support means more than words can say.
So, here’s to you; may this episode bring you as many smiles as you’ve brought me. 😊 Keep shining, because you are truly special! 🤍
Read previous chapters here
CHAPTER THREE
— Ikoyi, Lagos-Island, Nigeria. —
Rahama Sani steps out of the Uber, clutching her small nylon bag to her chest like a lifeline.
The bag contains everything she owns, her new Samsung phone and the small sum of money her parents had given her for the day. She isn’t taking any chances.
This is Lagos, and it’s a new side of Lagos she has never been to.
Thanks to Dawuda’s help—and his stubborn insistence—she wears a new gown. He’d argued that she needed to look presentable, even if she was only applying for a cleaning job.
He also styled her thick hair into a neat bun, making sure she moisturize her skin and lips.
After escorting her to Obalende, he’d booked and paid for an Uber, arguing it was safer and less stressful than taking one of Lagos’s chaotic yellow buses.
As the Uber disappears down the road, Rahama pulls out her new smartphone, another thing she owes to Dawuda.
He’d been patient, teaching her how to use WhatsApp voice notes and calls, saving his number, and even sharing her location with him before she left.
She glances up at the towering building in front of her. The area is clean, modern, and surprisingly quiet. But the overwhelming unfamiliarity of it all hits her. A wave of doubt creeps in.
Maybe I should call Dawuda and ask him to arrange another ride home?
Her thumb hovers over the voice note icon on her phone.
He promised he’d do that if I changed my mind.
But as she prepares to record the message, a uniformed security guard approaches her. His shoes click against the pavement, the sound unexpectedly crisp in the otherwise quiet surroundings.
“Hello, who are you looking for?” he asks, his voice polite but firm.
Rahama instinctively tightens her grip on her bag.
In Lagos, trust is a luxury she hasn’t had the privilege to afford just yet.
The guard, sensing her hesitation, offers a friendly smile.
“Ke Bahaushiya ce?” Are you Hausa?
Relief floods her chest like a burst of fresh air. She nods and returns the smile. “Ee.”
Now that she’s looking at him properly, he seems to be in his late forties, with a round build and a calm, approachable demeanor.
“Bari in taimake ki.” Let me help you.
He gestures toward the building, and Rahama feels a slight easing of her tension.
“I came for a cleaner interview,” she explains in Hausa. “My cousin sent me the location and told the driver where to drop me.”
The guard studies her for a moment, as though debating whether to say something, then finally nods.
“It’s here,” he confirms in Hausa, pointing toward the main building.
Rahama hesitates, still unsure whether to take the step forward. She looks at the security guard, waiting for some kind of approval, and his reassuring nod finally gives her the push she needs.
“You can go in,” he says, then adds, “Hope your English good?”
She straightens her shoulders, her heart thudding in her chest.
“Yes,” she responds in English, her smile bright, her teeth a flash of hope. Dawuda had made sure of that; patiently teaching her every time he came home from school, from his secondary years to university.
The guard grins, stepping aside.
“Good, go in. Good luck.”
Murmuring a quiet prayer to herself, Rahama takes a deep breath, squares her shoulders, and walks toward the glass doors, the sleek reflection of the modern building casting back her uncertain image.
Rahama steps into the building, her breath catching in her throat.
It’s enormous.
A reception desk sits in one corner, sleek and minimalist.
Nearby, a long office desk stretches across the room, dividers splitting it into six sections, each with a laptop and neatly arranged office supplies.
To her right, a cozy sitting area invites visitors to relax, while a corner dedicated to downtime boasts bean bags, a couch, and even a chess game waiting on the center table. Everything gleams bright, polished, almost... imposing.
Her stomach tightens.
A cleaning company, she had imagined, would be simple. A place for scrubbing floors, wiping down surfaces, maybe a spot to earn a living. But this?
This feels like a company: slick, corporate. What kind of cleaning job requires this level of sophistication?
“Hello there.”
The warm voice cuts through her thoughts. A young woman approaches, her smile wide and inviting.
Rahama stands straighter, offering a slight nod. “Hello, ma,” she says, her bow a little too deep, a reflex of respect she’s been trained to show.
The woman’s outfit catches her attention first: a crisp white blouse, paired with fitted blue jeans that hug her frame.
Her neatly braided hair packed into a ponytail, her complexion glowing with just the right touch of makeup.
Effortlessly beautiful. She looks like she belongs in a fashion campaign, not in a cleaning service.
Ifunanya’s gaze slides over Rahama, a flicker of amusement flashing in her eyes before she schools her expression.
A Hausa girl? Here? The thought teases at the edges of her mind, but she keeps it hidden behind a polite smile.
“How can we help you, ma’am?” she asks, her tone smooth, but there’s a sharpness in her eyes that Rahama can’t ignore.
Rahama shifts, feeling the weight of the moment. “My cousin saw an opening online and applied for me. I’m here for the interview,” she explains.
Before Ifunanya can respond, another woman steps up.
“Hello, ma’am.” Racheal greets Rahama with a wide, friendly smile, her caramel skin glowing under the soft overhead lights.
She’s a bit shorter than Ifunanya, a little softer in appearance, but her warmth fills the room, instantly putting Rahama at ease.
“How can we help you?” Racheal asks, her voice open and inviting.
“She came in for an interview,” Ifunanya cuts in, her words tinged with sarcasm, the amusement in her tone barely masked.
Racheal gives a small, knowing smile but doesn’t rise to the bait. She turns back to Rahama.
“Welcome to LuxeTouch Cleaning. Follow me, please.”
Rahama’s relief is almost palpable. She nods, clutching her bag a little tighter.
She trails behind Racheal, her eyes roaming over the polished space.
Unlike Ifunanya’s fair skin, Racheal’s deep caramel hue catches the light in a way that feels like warmth itself. Rahama stands at the same height, but in comparison, her own complexion feels dull, tired.
She can’t help but notice the lack of her skincare routine. Black is beautiful, yes, but hers feels weary.
“Have a seat,” Racheal says, gesturing toward a sleek couch near the reception.
Rahama mumbles a soft “Thank you,” then lowers herself carefully into the cushion like it might bite. Her bag stays glued between her lap, gripped tight.
“I’ll get you a form to fill,” Racheal adds, already moving toward the desk with confident steps that click against the polished floor.
And just like that, Rahama’s alone with nothing but her thoughts and the deafening thump of her heartbeat.
She shouldn’t have come.
Everything around her whispers luxury, from the sparkling tiles to the designer furniture.
Even the air smells expensive, like imported air freshener and ambition. The cleaners—if that’s what they are—look like they have Master’s degrees. They carry themselves like bankers, not bucket-and-mop people.
Her eyes wander. A grand staircase curves upward like something out of a mansion.
Sunlight spills in through massive floor-to-ceiling windows, bouncing off shiny surfaces with zero dust in sight. Not even a forgotten smudge.
If this is what cleaning looks like in Lagos Island, she might be in the wrong location.
Her grip tightens on her bag like it’s a lifeline, like the thin plastic polymer can ground her before she floats straight out the door.
Then something brushes her leg.
She leaps up, yelping, “Yesu!” Her scream echoes louder than she intends.
Her chest heaves. Her eyes dart to the floor—and there it is.
A robotic vacuum glides smoothly across the tiles, swishing with a mop and scrubber spinning underneath like it’s on a mission from heaven.
Rahama stares in total shock. The thing beeps, pauses for dramatic effect, then backs away like nothing happened and returns to work, whirring silently along the spotless floor.
She clutches her chest. What’s that?
Before she can gather her thoughts, a voice cuts in.
“Is everything okay, Miss?”
Peter strolls toward her, tall and lean with skin the color of midnight and dreadlocks pulled back into a neat low ponytail. He wears a crisp white shirt, loose dark jeans that fit too well, and sneakers so clean they reflect light.
Rahama blinks at him.
Are they hiring models here too?
She points stiffly at the robotic creature still swerving confidently under the table. “That thing touched me. I thought it was…I didn’t know…”
He chuckles, smooth and unbothered.
“It’s fine. It’s just our automated cleaning assistant. You’ll see a lot of them. Helps us keep the place running round the clock.”
She nods slowly, like her brain is still rebooting. Her fingers tighten around her bag like it might run off. Nothing here is normal.
“So, how can we help you, Miss?” he asks with an easy smile that probably wins people over for a living.
She clears her throat. “I came for the interview. For the cleaning job.”
His smile doesn’t falter. “Ah. You’re early. That’s good.”
Her gaze drops to his hands. Clean. Nails trimmed and filed like he just stepped out of a spa. Not even a trace of dust or detergent.
If she saw him outside, she’d think banker. Or a Nollywood actor. Anything but cleaner.
The question slips out before she can stop it. “Sir, are you… are you a cleaner here?”
He laughs, warm and amused. “Not quite. I’m the Office Administrator.”
Her mouth parts. She blinks again.
Office Administrator?
An Office Administrator in a cleaning company?
“Has someone attended to you yet?” Peter asks, voice warm.
“Yes, sir,” Rahama replies quickly, then winces. She doesn’t even know the names of the people she’s met so far.
She clears her throat. “I’m Rahama…Rahama Sani.”
“I’m Peter,” he replies with a nod.
“Here.” Racheal’s voice cuts in, drawing Rahama’s attention. She turns to see Racheal holding out a clipboard with a form and a pen.
Peter gestures toward her. “Looks like you’ve met Racheal too. She’s our Operations Manager.”
Rahama’s eyes snap up.
“Operations Manager?”
Her lips part slightly. She really is in the wrong place.
Peter chuckles knowingly. “I know that look. She handles staff schedules, client communication, and makes sure the whole place doesn’t fall apart.”
Rahama exhales, relieved. For a second, she thought ‘Operations Manager’ was just another fancy title for ‘Senior Broom Holder.’
“Rahama.” She turns back to Racheal and manages a nervous smile.
Racheal returns it with a soft one of her own. “You can sit and fill this out. Our boss isn’t in yet. He’ll conduct the interview and go over company policies once he arrives.”
Rahama nods and sinks back onto the couch, the clipboard now feeling like it weighs five kilograms.
This whole place feels like a TV show she accidentally walked into, the kind where cleaners would probably wear perfume and the reception smells like vanilla, not bleach.
Peter looks across the room and waves someone over. “Ifunanya, come here for a second.”
Ifunanya strides over, chin up, heels clicking, brows arched like they’re permanently unimpressed. She walks like she owns the office, or wants to.
“Ifunanya, this is Rahama. Rahama, meet Ifunanya, our customer service representative and receptionist,” Peter says, his voice easy.
Ifunanya barely looks at her before her face twists in irritation.
“Why are you introducing her?”
Peter blinks. “Because… she’s here for the interview?”
Ifunanya folds her arms tightly across her chest.
“And? She hasn’t even gotten the job yet. Look at her. There are way more qualified applicants. If Mr Savage lays eyes on her, she’ll be back on the road before she can say ‘Jack.’”
Peter opens his mouth, but Racheal beats him to it.
“Ifunanya,” she says firmly, her voice low but loaded with warning.
Ifunanya doesn’t flinch. “I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. She doesn’t fit the company image. We know our boss. He’s picky.”
Her eyes sweep Rahama slowly, like peeling off a sticker she didn’t want to see.
“She probably heard about the quarter-of-a-million naira salary and came running from... wherever she crawled out from,” she sneers. “Look at her hair, her skin is so dry. And slippers? Who wears Slippers to an interview?!”
Rahama stiffens, but says nothing. Her hands grip the clipboard tightly. Her lips press together. Her face remains calm, but something in her eyes shifts.
“And what are you? Hausa?” Ifunanya’s voice cuts the air like a slap.
The room stills.
Not a whisper. Not a breath.
Peter’s brows knit.
Even Racheal is quiet now, lips tight, jaw working.
Ifunanya scoffs, throwing a dramatic hand gesture toward Rahama.
“Let’s be real. We all saw that Instagram post—‘no degree required’—but a Hausa girl from the slums applying here? For this kind of job? In this kind of place?”
She takes a step forward, like she’s presenting evidence in court.
“She’s going to waste the form. Mr Savage won’t even let her stand in this office, let alone clean it. Her nails are filthy!”
“That’s enough!” Peter’s voice slices through the air like a blade, sharp and steady.
Ifunanya flinches, blinking like she wasn’t expecting resistance.
Peter steps forward, jaw tight. “Why are you being so rude?”
Ifunanya shifts back, blinking fast. “I just—”
“You walked in here barely two months ago,” Peter cuts in, voice low but firm. “And we all welcomed you without judgment.”
He gestures lightly between them.
“You’re Igbo. Racheal’s Edo. I’m Yoruba. We even have Nupe and Tiv staff on our hygiene team. No one asked if you were ‘qualified’ based on your tribe.”
His gaze narrows, locking on hers with quiet disappointment.
“So what if she’s Hausa? What does that change? Since when did we start measuring human worth by tribe... or slippers?”
Racheal folds her arms, nodding slowly. “Exactly.”
Peter keeps going, his voice softening but not losing strength.
“We’re one Nigeria. Different tribes, same heartbeat. The least we can do is treat each other with some basic human decency.”
Ifunanya huffs, looking away. “I’m sorry, but—”
“No buts,” Peter snaps, and this time, there’s a flick of real heat beneath his calm exterior.
“You owe her an apology. Even if she never gets this job, she still deserves respect. Her nails? She can clean them. Her hair? She can do it tomorrow. But your attitude? That one’s harder to fix.”
Silence.
Ifunanya exhales through her nose like a dragon holding back fire. “Sorry, oh,” she mutters, the words dripping with sarcasm.
Peter’s phone buzzes. He fishes it from his pocket, glancing at the screen. “Mr Savage,” he mouths to Racheal.
She straightens.
Peter presses the phone to his ear. “Hello, sir,” he says, voice instantly dipped in respect.
A pause.
“I’m fine, sir. Everyone here is, too.” Another pause.
Peter’s brow creases. “Sick? What happened?”
He listens, eyes darkening slightly. “Oh. Adeyemi and all our hygiene techs are already on-site.”
He glances at the wall clock, then back at the people in the room. His eyes land on Rahama.
“There’s a lady here,” he says carefully.
“She came for the on-site hygiene technician interview.”
Rahama shifts slightly in her seat, pressing her lips together.
Hygiene technician. That’s what they’re calling it? She almost lets out a chuckle.
Sounds like something you’d study for in a university.
Peter listens again, then blinks. “Really, sir? Are you sure?”
Another pause.
“Okay, sir. I’ll speak with her now.” He ends the call.
Ifunanya leans forward, arms still crossed, but curiosity creeping into her expression. “Boss is sick?”
Peter nods slowly. “Yes. Food poisoning. He said he can’t sit in his house another minute without someone disinfecting it top to bottom. I told him our hygiene technicians are already deployed for the day.”
His eyes return to Rahama, this time lingering.
“I told him someone came in for the job,” Peter continues, almost thoughtful now.
“He says if you’re willing, you can go over and help,” Peter says, voice even, like he’s reading off a neutral script.
“Even if you’re not officially hired yet, he’ll still pay for the day. Think of it as a... practical interview.”
He leaves the sentence hanging like a soft toss: easy to catch or walk away from.
Rahama opens her mouth—
“I’ll go!” Ifunanya blurts, practically leaping forward.
Peter blinks. Once. Then again.
“Since when are you a hygiene technician, Miss Ifunanya?” he asks, voice so dry it could crack glass.
Ifunanya straightens, clutching her imaginary pearls. “Well, it’s the boss we’re talking about. I just thought maybe—”
“Who’s handling customer support while you’re off pretending to be Mary Maid?” Peter interrupts, arms now crossed like a disappointed father.
“I just thought—”
“No,” Peter says, sharp but calm. “You’re constantly distracted with what doesn’t concern you. Stick to your lane. Complaints. Requests. Calls.”
Ifunanya’s arms fold tighter.
“Why are you picking on me now?” she whines, her voice pitching up a notch.
“I’m not picking on you,” Peter says, sounding tired now. “We have roles here. And respect comes from knowing which one is yours.”
His eyes flick toward Rahama. “If anyone’s doing the cleaning, it should be her. She’s the one applying for the on-site technician position. Not you.”
Ifunanya glares between them, lips tightening, nostrils flaring.
Then she spins on her heel and stomps off, sneaker soles slapping the tiles like a warning shot.
Peter exhales. Then turns back to Rahama.
“Are you okay with working today? I know it’s technically still your interview.”
Rahama glances at Racheal, then back at him. Her palms are sweaty on the handles of her nylon bag, but she manages a steady nod.
Peter gives a short nod in return. “Good. You won’t be going alone. Normally, our hygiene techs work in pairs, safety reasons. Since the rest of the team is out, I’m assigning Racheal to go with you.”
His eyes drop to the nylon bag Rahama still clutches like it holds all the dignity she has left. “Do you live nearby?”
“No, sir,” Rahama says, adjusting her grip. “My cousin mentioned the optional staff accommodation. I was hoping to stay there during weekdays if I get the job.”
Peter hums in acknowledgment.
“Alright. Racheal, take her to the staff quarters, second room on the left. It’s free. She can change into the company uniform.”
Racheal nods once.
Peter turns back to Rahama. “It’s an en-suite. You can freshen up, get into the uniform, and prep for the job. You’ll be using one of the company cars.”
Rahama gently places the half-filled form on the armrest of the couch and rises to her feet, her posture straighter now. Determined. Or trying to be.
“And Racheal,” Peter adds as he starts walking away, already dialing, “Tell Leke to prep one of the cars. He’ll drive you both to Mr Savage’s place.”
As Peter disappears down the hallway, Racheal gestures with her chin. “Come on.”
They head upstairs.
Halfway up the steps, Racheal leans in a little. “You’re lucky,” she says, almost like a secret.
“The boss? He doesn’t let just anyone clean his house. He only uses the best of the best.”
Rahama gives a small smile, more nerves than confidence.
Racheal didn’t say it out loud, but Ifunanya—rude as she was—had a point.
Rahama wouldn’t last a day. Still, it wasn’t her place to be pessimistic.
Rahama presses her forehead lightly against the window as the Toyota Hilux weaves through Ikoyi’s clean, bougie streets.
Outside, the world gleams: wide roads, trimmed trees, not a single pothole in sight.
Beside her, Racheal lounges in her crisp white LuxeTouch tee and jeans, her posture relaxed.
Rahama glances down at her lap. Her fingers are still clenched.
Ifunanya wasn’t wrong. Nothing about this feels normal.
The room they gave her earlier? It’s bigger than the entire two rooms her whole family shares back in Somolu. Two twin beds—clean, smooth, and made like a hotel commercial. A dressing table that actually has a mirror, not just a scratched piece of foil glued to wood. And the bathroom?
She had stared at the toilet like it might talk.
It flushes with a handle. No fetching water.
No shouting “Is someone inside?” before entering. Just flush—whoosh—and everything disappears like her problems should.
And the bathroom is stocked.
A pair of brand-new toothbrushes. A tube of toothpaste so fat it could last her till next Christmas. Lotions and shampoos in matching bottles labeled LuxeTouch, but they look more like what actresses use in commercials.
Who puts rose oil in a cleaning company’s shower gel?
When Dawuda said “cleaning job,” she thought: mop, bucket, sweat. Maybe some back pain if the clients are nasty.
But this?
This is “Hygiene Technician”, capital H, capital T. Peter had said it so proudly.
She should’ve asked more questions. Two hundred thousand naira? For cleaning? With benefits?
Half the people at the company don’t even clean. They sip from glass bottles of water in AC-chilled offices and wear perfume that smells like money.
She’s the only one who came here with palm oil stains in her memory.
Her eyes drop to the uniform on her body, freshly laundered and ironed.
White T-shirt, gold embroidery on the chest.
Luxe Touch Cleaning, it reads, like it’s proud of itself.
Charcoal-gray skirt to her knees. White sneakers with bounce. A waist-length apron made from stain-resistant fabric. Canvas gloves. A cap. A company-issued wristwatch.
Even her mask is branded.
Who wears coordinated masks to scrub toilets?
She bites her lip.
She doesn’t belong here. No matter how much she pretends. Ifunanya could be loud, but she wasn’t lying.
This is a place where even the mops probably have degrees.
“Hello, sir. We’re at the gate,” Racheal says into her phone, voice smooth as melted Milo.
The car slows to a stop in front of a massive black gate.
Before Rahama can blink, it swings open on its own.
She jumps slightly, eyes wide. “Did the gate just…move by itself?”
Racheal chuckles. “It’s automated.”
Automated?
Rahama stares as the Hilux glides into the compound like it has clearance from heaven.
She swallows.
It hasn’t even been two hours, and already—this city, this job, this life—has shown her more than she’s seen in twenty-seven years.
“Here, use this,” Racheal says, handing Rahama a tiny bottle of disinfectant like it’s a sacred relic. “You need to disinfect before going in.”
Rahama squints at it. “Use it… how? Drink it?”
Racheal smiles at her. “Twist the cap, spray your palms.”
Rahama fumbles with the bottle, her fingers already sweating.
“And these,” Racheal adds, producing a pair of white socks and something that looks like a plastic leg cover.
“Your sneakers can’t go inside, and you can’t be barefoot either. Mr Savage’s hygiene protocol.”
“Protocol?” Rahama echoes, eyes widening.
Racheal chuckles. “Oh…and keep your nose mask on. The whole time.”
Rahama sighs, tugging her mask over her nose.
“Last thing,” Racheal says, with the practiced tone of someone who’s said this twenty times. “No phones. No face-touching. No personal items. Just clean and go. Mr Savage doesn’t like noise, questions, or stress.”
As they step out of the Hilux, Rahama’s breath catches.
The house isn’t massive: it’s quietly rich.
Sleek lines, soft lights, a garden so symmetrical it could pass a UN inspection.
Then, Racheal sprays them both from head to toe like she’s seasoning chicken, and Rahama winces as cold mist kisses her face. She sanitizes, gloves up, adjusts her cap, and wiggles into her leg covers like she’s about to enter a sterile lab.
“This is not cleaning,” she mutters.
Racheal slips on her own shoe cover and hair net, then disinfects again.
The front door opens automatically.
Rahama jumps back.
“It’s a motion sensor,” Racheal says coolly.
They step into the house, and Rahama’s jaw drops.
Everything gleams. The floors are glassy. The furniture is minimal yet rich-looking, as if it were crafted by angels with PhDs in design. Curtains fall from ceilings that feel like sky. The air smells like... money and lavender.
“This place is clean,” Rahama whispers to herself.
What exactly am I suppose to clean here? Polish the air?
They cross the ante-room into a grand living room that looks like it belongs on TV.
An automated female voice suddenly floats from nowhere. “Hello. Mr Savage will meet with you shortly. Please feel at home.”
Rahama leaps back like she’s been pinched by an invisible demon.
“Who said that? Who is that woman?” she gasps, clutching Racheal’s sleeve.
“It’s an AI,” Racheal says, not even blinking.
“AI?” Rahama whispers.
Racheal bursts into quiet laughter. “Artificial Intelligence. A robot voice.”
Rahama doesn’t laugh. She stands there, stiff, gloved, masked, leg-covered, and extremely convinced that she has walked into a very organized trap.
Her eyes dart around the perfect room. There’s nothing to clean. Nothing to mop. Not even dust pretending to exist. The smart devices blink like secret cameras. The air feels… too calm.
Her stomach drops.
“This is a trap,” she says under her breath.
They lured me in with two hundred thousand naira. Classic ritual.
I should’ve known. The AI is their spiritual secretary. Mr Savage is the priest. I’m the goat.
She squeezes her eyes shut and begins to pray.
Father Lord, I surrender. Forgive my greed. If I survive this one, I’ll go back to Somolu and live quietly. I would miss Aisha, Maria and Dawu—
“Hello, Racheal.”
The voice is deep. Too deep. Rich, clean, commanding.
Rahama’s eyes fly open mid-prayer—and for a full second, she forgets how to breathe.
She’s staring at… what? A well-moisturized archangel?
The man standing at the foot of the staircase doesn’t look real.
His skin is a warm caramel tone, like chin-chin kissed by golden hour. His jawline looks like it was drawn with a ruler. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and unfairly handsome, with a sky-blue shirt that hugs his chest like it signed a non-disclosure agreement.
His eyes? A dangerous mix of gray and black—sharp, steady, calculating.
Rahama blinks again, sure she’s hallucinating.
Maybe she fainted, and this is heaven. But then Racheal nudges her hard in the ribs.
“Greet.”
“Oh. Good morning, sir,” she blurts, ducking her head.
Tayo barely nods.
His face is blank, unreadable. He lowers himself onto the couch with smooth, precise movements. Like he’s trying not to disturb the molecules in the air.
Racheal steps forward with Rahama shuffling behind her.
“I apologize for asking you to clean without a formal interview,” he says calmly, his voice gliding through the space like premium sound.
Rahama’s eyes lock on him.
The way he talks: polite, crisp, careful.
And that voice? That voice should be sold as a sleep aid.
But then his face tightens slightly.
He looks tired. Not just “didn’t sleep well” tired. The deep kind. The kind that comes from something internal.
“I had food poisoning,” he adds, quietly, more to himself than to them.
It wasn’t just food poisoning.
It never is.
He had tried to push himself past his compulsions, after storming out of the family dinner two nights ago, unable to stomach his father’s insults, he had dared himself to act normal.
He went to the Abula Joint, sat like an ordinary person, touched the table, ate from their plates, used their cutlery.
And for a few minutes, he almost believed it.
Until reality snapped back like an elastic band to the face.
He isn’t normal.
He doesn’t get to have cravings like everyone else.
He gets panic. Tight lungs. Skin crawling. Breaths that hitch like a bad signal.
He scrubbed himself under the shower, brushed his teeth over and over, but it was too late. His heart raced, his body ached, and by morning, the flu had settled in.
Tayo studies Rahama. But he can’t see much. Her face is masked, hair covered, uniform oversized.
She could be anyone. But if Peter sent her, she must have potential.
Tayo exhales through his nose. “Alright. Racheal will supervise you. Just do as she says. Don’t touch your face. Or anything unnecessary.”
Rahama nods quickly.
He turns back to Racheal. “I’ll be upstairs. Make sure she follows protocol. If anything feels off, call me.”
“Yes, sir,” Racheal responds like a soldier.
And then he stands, one clean motion, and disappears up the staircase like a well-dressed shadow.
Rahama follows Racheal’s instructions to the letter.
Use the lemon-based spray.
Wipe clockwise.
No streaks.
No shortcuts.
And absolutely no touching surfaces after they’re cleaned. Not even to admire her own work.
The smart vacuum glides past like a judgmental supervisor, making a low mechanical whir every minute.
The house is already spotless—like a hotel room no one has ever stayed in—but here she is, deep-cleaning an expensive and perfectly clean dining chair.
This is just a job. Clean. Leave.
But her brain refuses to cooperate.
Every time she stops to catch her breath, it drifts back to him: Mr Savage.
That voice. That body. That tired, exhausted look that doesn’t match either.
Why does he seem so frail? Food poisoning? she wonders.
Probably one of those rich-people sicknesses.
No food gives her poisoning—well, unless it has actual poison in it.
Hours pass. The house now sparkles so hard.
Not that Rahama sees the difference. She’s used to dragging homes from dirty to livable. This place went from museum-level clean to… still museum-level clean.
She sighs, muttering under her breath, “All this effort for a house that a robot vacuum doesn’t stop cleaning.”
Racheal claps her hands. “I’ll call Mr Savage for inspection.”
Footsteps echo from the staircase. Slow. Dragged.
Almost dramatic.
Tayo appears, looking like he’s walking through a hangover. He makes it to the couch and drops into it like gravity just increased for him personally.
“Mr Savage, could you check if everything meets your expectations before we go?” Racheal asks, voice crisp and professional.
Tayo barely lifts his head. “It’s fine. I trust your judgment.”
His voice sounds softer, duller.
His eyes flick briefly to Rahama. She stands still, hands behind her back like she’s waiting for roll call.
He squints a little. “What’s your name?”
“Rahama.”
His brows twitch. Hausa?
He can’t see much—cap, mask, oversized uniform. Still, he tries.
Tries to really see her. And for a moment, he does.
There’s something in her name that amuses him.
But it’s her eyes that catch him: deep brown, steady, striking.
Framed by the fullest, thickest brows he’s ever seen.
There’s calm in her gaze. Something soft.
Something... oddly smoothing. Endearing, even.
He clears his throat.
“Peter should handle Rahama’s interview when you get back to the office,” he says to Racheal, his gaze still on Rahama. “I won’t be in tomorrow. I need the day to rest.”
Rahama watches him subtly. He presses his fingers against his temple like he’s holding his head in place. His skin glistens slightly. He looks more fragile than his voice lets on.
“Have Samuel and Tobechukwu handle cleaning here tomorrow,” he adds, barely raising his voice. “If Rahama passes her interview and she’s a good fit, she can join the company.”
He pauses, still watching Rahama like he’s trying to figure her out.
“She was helpful today.”
Rahama blinks.
Helpful? She scrubbed invisible dirt alongside a vacuum.
But she bites back a smile.
“If not,” he adds, already sinking deeper into the couch, “make sure she’s compensated well.”
Racheal nods sharply. “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow, sir.”
Tayo raises one hand in a slow, lazy wave. “Alright.”
“Take care, sir.”
Rahama echoes Racheal’s words, then follows her out, glancing back just once.
He’s already closed his eyes. His breathing slow. Peaceful.
Rahama sits stiffly across from Peter in a minimalist office that smells like lemon wipe and luxury. Her knees press together, her hands are locked in her lap like they’re in time-out, and her heart? Drumming like she owes it rent.
She’s changed back into her earlier outfit— gown, her thick black hair packed into a bun, zero confidence.
This isn’t just someone asking if she can “help them clean the house.”
This is an actual interview..
Maybe I trusted Dawuda too much, she thinks. Maybe this leap is too big. Maybe I’m not even jumping. Maybe I’m falling headfirst.
“So,” Peter begins with a kind smile, clicking his pen, “can you tell me about your previous experience in cleaning and sanitation?”
Rahama inhales quietly. Her fingers twitch against the fabric of her gown.
God has not given me a spirit of fear.
“I’ve been cleaning all my life,” she says, steady but soft.
“My mom’s a cleaner, and I always went with her since I was small. She has regular clients.”
Peter nods, jotting something down.
“Have you worked in environments with strict hygiene requirements before?”
If he’d asked her that this morning, she might’ve said yes. With confidence.
But now, after today? She’s been inside a home so clean it made her question her own soul.
“No, sir,” she says honestly.
Then adds quickly, “I’m from a rural area where we clean with what we have, but I learn fast. I’m ready to adjust to anything.”
“Noted,” he says, almost quietly.
He scribbles again.
“Are you comfortable working in high-standard environments like Mr Savage’s home?”
“Yes, sir.” Her voice comes stronger this time. “Today was my first time cleaning a house like that. But I followed every instruction. I don’t take shortcuts, and I’m not afraid of hard work.”
Peter leans back slightly, curious now. “Have you ever had to deal with a difficult or unusual cleaning request?”
“Yes, sir.” Her eyes brighten. “There was this woman whose house got flooded. When the water dried, the whole place was caked in mud—floor, furniture, even the fan.”
Peter nods.
“We didn’t have bleach” she continues. “So I boiled water, mixed it with soap and scrubbing sand, and went at it for hours. By evening, the place smelled neat and looks clean.”
He grins. “Impressive.”
He flips to a final page.
“Some clients prefer a no-contact approach. How would you adapt your cleaning routine around that?”
Rahama nods thoughtfully.
“I would make sure to stay out of their way. I won’t touch anything personal. I will just clean what I am ask to clean. I can keep to myself, no problem. I don’t need to be seen to do the work well.”
Peter studies her. For the first time since the interview began, he seems to pause—not to write, not to evaluate, but just… take her in.
“That’s good,” he says finally, closing the folder.
Rahama exhales, her shoulders dropping half an inch.
“We’ll get back to you.” He stands. “There’s a one-month trial training. Paid, of course. If you’re selected, someone will call you.”
She stands too, smoothing the sides of her gown.
They won’t call. I can feel it. But still, she smiles.
New Chapters drop every Thursday and Friday. 🤍
Hooked is not even the word.
Rahama is so funny. I like how real she is.
May God help Tayo. Omo
Infact this is getting more interesting, hmm Ifunanya, that girl go cry las las 😂😂
And I can't wait to see what's brewing between Rahama abd Tayo.
Oh and also I love the representation of all Nigerian tribes in the story..