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CHAPTER EIGHT
Shalem eyes the wall clock. 4:20 PM.
On a typical Saturday, Chinaza is usually home by two. He picks up his phone. Dials. It rings, a long, hollow sound that echoes in the quiet of the apartment, until it drops to voicemail.
He paces the length of the tiles. Most times, he drives her. But this morning, she’d insisted on driving herself, her voice a flat line of “I’m good. I’ll drive myself.”
Lord, what’s wrong?
He taps his contacts and calls Doris. The receptionist picks up on the first ring, her voice bright with background music.
“Shalem, how far?”
“Doris. Is Ms.... is Mrs. Olanrewaju still in the building?”
“No, o. She came in this morning, stayed barely twenty minutes, and vanished. Why? Is everything okay?”
Shalem’s chest tightens, the air in the apartment suddenly feeling thin. “Right. Thanks, Doris. See you Monday.”
He hangs up and dials Chinaza again. Silence. He calls Austin; he needs a voice that isn’t his own panic.
“My guy,” Austin answers, his voice absorbed by the low rumble of a television.
“I can’t reach Chinaza,” Shalem says. His hand trembles slightly against the cool glass of the phone.
“Calm down. What’s the subtext, Shalem? What happened before she left?”
Shalem winces. “Nothing. We just... had a… conversation. I told her I’d handle the cooking and every other chore around the house, but I asked her to do the dishes.”
A beat of silence. Then, Austin’s laughter explodes through the receiver.
“Guy! You told the Ice Queen to wash plates? Do you have a death wish? Why didn’t you just outsource it like a normal person?”
Shalem exhales loudly, “Why are we outsourcing intimacy before intimacy even exists?” Shalem snaps, his frustration boiling over. “I’m trying to build a partnership, Austin. A shared life. Doing things together creates intimacy. I asked her to wash our plates… two plates, at most four daily.”
“Guy, listen to yourself,” Austin’s voice drops into a pitying tone. “Logically, your words don't make sense to a woman who earns twenty times your salary. You said ‘partnership.’ She heard ‘lay down your crown.’ A queen doesn't argue with her staff, Shalem. She just replaces them. She hasn’t vanished; she’s retreated.”
“Are you not the one who said she is a lioness and you don’t want her to be a house cat?” Austin adds.
“I’m not trying to turn her into a house cat… I intend to do most of the chores here,” Shalem sighs, rubbing his temples.
“Well, you just tried to put her in a kitchen apron. Take my advice: meet her at her level first. Make her comfortable before you try intimacy, or she’ll keep running back to where she’s in control.”
Austin hangs up, leaving Shalem in the thickening dimness of the living room.
His intention wasn't submission; it was a foundation. He didn't want to live with a boss; he wanted to live with a wife. But as he strides toward her bedroom and pushes the door open, the truth hits him.
The room is untidy, but still.
He checks the vanity. Her essentials are gone. He opens the wardrobe. Her clothes remain, hanging like colorful ghosts, but he knows her well enough to know they are just decoys.
She didn’t go to a meeting. She went back to Ikoyi.
He pulls out his phone, his thumb hovering over the keypad. He types:
I noticed you left. You’re safe, that’s what matters.
I’ll be here when you’re ready to come home.
He sinks onto the edge of the bed, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. He wanted a partner; she wanted a compromise she could control.
He’d tried to pull her into his world, but all he’d succeeded in doing was locking himself out of hers.
Chinaza’s living room is a masterclass in quiet wealth. Floor-to-ceiling silk curtains swallow the chaotic Lagos sun, filtering the light into a muted golden haze.
She sinks into her Italia Camaleonda sofa. It doesn’t creak; it simply accepts her. She props her iPad up and starts the call, the high-definition ring echoing through the hollow perfection of her duplex.
Oluwashindara picks up first, her face filling the screen with obvious concern. “Girlfriend, talk to me. How is the struggle-house?”
Before Chinaza can answer, Keziah joins, breastfeeding her infant. “Naza,” she greets softly with a smile. “How is your husband? When are we starting the real wedding planning? My Nigerian gele is already crying to be tied.”
Chinaza adjusts her glasses, the gold frames catching the light. “I’ve left the apartment. I’m back in Ikoyi.”
Silence ripples through the digital connection. It is the kind of silence that only happens when a social pillar collapses.
Keziah’s smile falters. “What do you mean, you’ve left?”
“He expects me to wash plates, Keziah.” Chinaza’s voice is flat, but her thumb traces the edge of her tablet in angry motion. “And his sisters are coming in three weeks. There is no espresso machine, the bathroom is a tragedy, and I am tired of the noise of neighbors and common appliances.”
“Is he mad?” Shindara’s voice spikes. “Does he not have hands? Or a budget for a maid? Or get a dishwasher?”
“Ah-ah! Shindara! Show some respect,” Keziah warns, her voice grounding the conversation. “That is her husband.”
“Is that why he wants to turn her into a modern-day housegirl?” Shindara counters.
“Who has been doing the work since you moved in?” Keziah asks, ignoring her.
Chinaza looks at her perfectly manicured nails. “He cooks. He washes. He keeps the place spotless.”
“Then why isn’t he getting a cleaner?” Keziah presses.
“He said no maid, and getting extra things isn’t in his financial budget for this month, so we have to do it together. As a team.” Chinaza leans back, her voice dripping with disbelief. “I’m not going to do any chores.”
“Good for you,” Shindara cheers. “Remind him you’re his boss, not his kitchen assistant. You’ve spent years building a life where nobody can corner you, Chinaza. Of course, this is a trap.”
“Actually, it isn’t a trap; it’s a marriage,” Keziah interrupts, her voice grounding the conversation.
“Naza, you have to understand his finances. He isn’t as wealthy as you. He’s asking for a partnership; you both have to compromise.”
“Compromise on what? Her sanity?” Shindara snaps. “Marriage shouldn’t feel like punishment; he’s egoistic. He won’t move into her house because of his pride, but he’s happy to let her suffer in that cramped box. He’s acting like he’s too good for her world.”
“Herh! Oluwashindara, stop it!” Keziah warns.
“Stop what? He gave her a ring that probably came from a cereal box and signed a three-page paper. The families don’t even know! It’s barely a marriage.” Shindara says, her eyes narrowing at the screen. “Naza, don’t go back to that hole. And please, buy yourself a real diamond. That gold band on your finger is embarrassing you.”
“Changing that ring is a slap in his face,” Keziah says firmly. “Naza, don’t listen to her. You both need to talk, not run.”
Chinaza’s thumb moves to the gold band, twisting it. “He argues with me at every turn, Keziah. He told me ‘Don’t do that again’ because I asked for the lights to be dimmed. He’s trying to manage me.”
“Imagine!” Shindara scoffs. “Don’t let a three-page document hold you down. It’s a list of rules, not a law. Go on a date. Find someone who matches your bank account. Get a divorce.”
Keziah exhales, a long, tired sound. “Dara, why are you setting fire to Naza’s home? The man has done nothing but ask for a wife instead of a boss. Don’t you do chores in your own home?”
“My husband helps,” Shindara mutters.
“Exactly. The idea isn’t wrong, Naza; the issue is the delivery. He’s traditional, you’re modern. This was always going to be a collision. But running away in less than a week? That isn’t a solution.”
Chinaza crosses her legs, adjusting her glasses. The difference between her quiet, perfect living room and Shalem’s world feels like a physical ache. “It’s fine. I know what to do.”
“Just don’t do something you’ll regret,” Keziah pleads.
Chinaza nods dismissively. She knows exactly what she wants. And going back isn’t part of it, even though she’s starting to miss the closeness of the apartment more than the silence of her duplex.
She didn’t leave because she couldn’t live there. She left because she couldn’t predict him anymore.
Monday Morning
“Are you sure Shalem isn’t the one the ice queen actually married?” Doris leans over the reception desk, her voice low and urgent.
Liora throws her head back, her laughter bouncing off the polished marble of the lobby. “Doris, your imagination is doing overtime o. First of all, Shalem is too patient to handle that woman’s temper. Secondly, you see how she bosses him around? If they were married, he’d have a little more say, don’t you think?”
Doris shrugs, her eyes darting toward the elevator. “He called me on Saturday, asking about ‘Mrs. Olanrewaju.’ He sounded... stressed and protective.”
“He’s her assistant, Doris. His job description is literally ‘worrying so she doesn’t have to,’” Liora whispers, leaning in with a wicked grin. “Besides, her family is old money. They wouldn’t let her marry someone like him. It’s not in the script.”
“And the rings?” Doris counters, tapping her own ring finger. “They both showed up with gold bands on Thursday and Friday. And ‘Olanrewaju’? That’s Shalem’s last name.”
Femi walks in, his leather bag slung over his shoulder. He stops at the desk, taking in their huddle. “Do you both live for gossip? On a Monday morning, o.”
“We’re just analyzing a big issue,” Liora says defensively.
“What issue?” Femi picks up the heavy fountain pen to sign the register.
“Do you think our boss married Shalem?” Doris asks point-blank.
Femi pauses, the nib of the pen hovering over the sign-in book. He looks at Doris like she just asked the dumbest question. “Do you think the sun comes out at midnight?”
Doris scowls. “What kind of question is that?”
“The same kind you just asked me,” Femi says, finally scribbling his name. “If you saw them in the meeting room last week, you’d know they are not in love, talk less of being married. They were at each other’s throats. Two of them in one house? Lailai1”
“But the name... and the rings...” Doris persists.
Femi chuckles, tapping the side of his head. “Use your brain now. Is Shalem the only Olanrewaju in Lagos? A quarter of Western Nigeria shares that name. Amaka, in sales, wears a ring. Tunde also wears a ring. Does that mean they’re hiding a secret life together? Doris. Think.”
Liora nods vigorously. “Exactly. She’s way too proud for that. And honestly, her stubbornness? That’s a whole other level I don’t think Shalem could ever handle.”
Doris sighs and then nods. The logic is sound, but her gut is screaming.
(An hour and a half later)
Chinaza sits behind her desk, her spine a rigid line of resistance. She wears a power suit in a shade of burnt orange that screams for attention, a waist-length, silky human-hair wig that falls in smooth, straight lines, rich with the quiet luxury of something unmistakably expensive.
She has been in the office since 7:30 AM, fueled only by adrenaline and a desperate need to prove that her life is back on its original track.
The digital clock on her desk flips to 9:00 AM.
Exactly on the second, the door opens.
Shalem walks in. He looks rested. He looks professional. He looks like a man who spent his Sunday in church and in peace, not roaming the streets looking for a runaway wife.
He places a folder on her desk, the weekly projections, and stands back, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he says. His voice is a neutral, flat-line baritone.
Chinaza’s gaze snaps to his. Her throat is dry, and the lack of caffeine is making her temper fray at the edges. “You’re late.”
Shalem doesn’t blink. He doesn’t even check his watch. “My job description states a start time of 9:00 AM, ma’am. I am precisely on schedule.”
Chinaza’s hand tightens on her gold fountain pen. On a normal Monday, he would have been here before 8. He would have checked the thermostat. He would have placed an electrolyte sachet on her desk. He would have pre-screened her emails. And most importantly...
She looks at the empty space on her desk where a steaming cup of Blue Mountain coffee usually sits. He didn’t bring it. He didn’t even mention it.
Shalem knows instantly she is looking for her morning coffee. He almost brings it with him. The habit is louder than his decision. But then he stops himself, not because he doesn’t care, but because caring like before is exactly what got them here.
“You used to be here by 8:00,” she says, her voice dropping into a dangerous, executive snap. “Why the sudden devotion to the clock?”
“I’ll be keeping to my official hours going forward, ma’am,” Shalem replies, his expression as unreadable as a blank blueprint. “Nothing more. Nothing less.”
The air in the room becomes a vacuum. Chinaza waits for the “line.” She waits for him to mention Saturday. To ask why she didn’t follow him to church or come home for their mandatory Sunday dinner date. To reference the absence. To make her account for it.
He says nothing.
He begins to turn toward the door, his movements fluid and detached. He reaches the handle, and for a split second, he almost speaks.
He stops. His shoulders tense, and his head tilts just a fraction, as if he’s about to look back. He takes a deep breath, an uneven draw of air, and his hand tightens on the doorknob until his knuckles turn white.
Chinaza holds her breath. Her heart thuds once, twice, hard against her ribs.
Shalem’s chest expands, then slowly, deliberately, he exhales. He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t speak. He simply relaxes his grip and opens the door.
“Wait,” Chinaza blurts out.
Shalem pauses, half-turned. “Yes, ma’am?”
She wants to ask about the coffee. She wants to ask why he isn’t fighting for the “covenant” he was so obsessed with.
“Get Liora to bring me coffee. Now,” she says, her voice sounding thin even to her own ears.
“I’ll pass on the message,” Shalem says quietly.
He walks out, closing the door with a click so soft it feels like a final judgment.
Chinaza stares at the closed door; she got exactly what she wanted.
So why does it feel like she just lost something she never agreed to give?
Monday Afternoon (Hours later)
“Ma’am, the Boardwalk strategy has hit a wall,” Tunde says, his voice strained. He drops a stack of photos onto the table. They show a half-finished wooden structure and a group of men standing with folded arms in front of a tractor. “The baale2 of the community has rejected the bridge. He says we are trying to ‘decorate their poverty’ and that the boardwalk is just a fancy way to spy on their movements and obtain their livelihood from them. They’ve stopped all work. Again.”
Bashir, the Finance Lead, slams his folder shut. “We’ve already sunk thirty-four million into the materials for that boardwalk. If we scrap it now and go back to a wall, we’re looking at a 30% loss on the Ikorodu project. It’s a disaster.”
“And my buyers?” Amaka’s voice is shrill. “They liked the Cultural Landmark and Exclusive Heritage Waterfront Access pitch. If I tell them the landmark is now a riot zone or it’s no longer possible, they’ll want their refunds by noon.”
The team erupts. Arguments fly across the table like fragments: legal threats, bribe suggestions, logistical retreats. Chinaza sits at the head of the table, her pen tapping a chaotic sound against the table. She feels the familiar heat of a crisis rising in her throat.
She needs the magic. She needs the pivot.
She turns her head to the right.
Shalem is there, exactly where he has been for four years. His posture straight, his expression a mask of professional neutrality. He is scrolling through something she can’t see on his tablet, his thumb moving with agonizing calmness. He hasn’t expressed any worry or offered a single word of comfort or a spark of genius since the meeting began.
“Shalem,” Chinaza says. The room falls silent. Her team looks at him, waiting for the rabbit he usually pulls out of the hat.
Shalem tilts his head slightly, acknowledging her. “Yes, ma’am?”
“The Baale is playing hardball. What’s the move? How do we reframe the boardwalk to get them to sign off?”
A long pause. Not hesitation, but consideration.
“The issue isn’t the boardwalk. It’s perception,” he says.
His voice is polite, crisp, and entirely hollow.
“They don’t trust the intent behind it. To them, it looks like an outsider’s law imposed on their space.”
Chinaza’s pen stops mid-tap. “So?” she presses.
“So we stop selling it as a feature to them,” Shalem continues. “And start framing it as infrastructure they control.”
The silence in the room stretches, thin and taut.
“How?” Chinaza asks again.
“Bring the Baale into the design conversation. Let them assign purpose to it. Fishing access, local trade movement, security patrol, whatever aligns with how they already use that water.”
Bashir frowns. “That delays us.”
“Not necessarily,” Shalem replies. “It shifts ownership. And ownership reduces resistance faster than enforcement.”
Chinaza nods. It’s a clean and strategic solution.
She watches him for more details, the expansion, the layering, the brilliance he usually builds around a core idea.
It doesn’t come.
Chinaza’s gaze sharpens. “That’s it?” she says.
“That’s my recommendation, ma’am,” he replies.
Chinaza’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Why is he becoming difficult?
She turns back to the room. “You heard him. We’ll proceed with a community integration approach. Tunde, schedule a meeting with the Baale. Amaka, manage client expectations. Bashir, rework the budget projections.”
“Meeting adjourned,” Chinaza says. The words feel fragile, lacking their usual executive fullness. “Everyone out. Shalem, stay.”
The boardroom empties in hushed whispers. When the door finally clicks shut, the silence that rushes in is suffocating.
She exhales slowly. “You could have said more in there. You were practically a statue.”
“I answered the questions you asked,” he replies. His voice is a neutral, polished stone.
Her eyes narrow. “You used to do more than that.”
Shalem holds her gaze, his expression a masterpiece of professional detachment. “At work, I follow your lead, ma’am. You made that boundary very clear.”
Chinaza feels it, that shift again. That space where something used to exist.
“This isn’t about boundaries. This is a critical project. I need your brain, not your compliance.”
“Ma’am, you’re more than capable of leading it,” Shalem says, his tone steady. “You don’t need me to carry the weight for you.”
The room feels smaller, the air thinning between them.
“That’s not what I said,” she snaps, her hand tightening around her gold pen.
“I know.”
He reaches out, his fingers hovering near hers for a split second before he grips his tablet. He stands, the movement fluid and distant. “If there’s nothing else, ma’am, I’ll prepare the revised brief.”
He walks toward the door. He reaches the brass handle but doesn’t turn it. He stands there, his back to her.
“Shalem.”
He exhales. “Yes, ma’am?”
She hates how much she misses the way he said her name without the title just forty-eight hours ago. She shuts the thought down immediately. “Is this all because I left the apartment?”
He turns back slowly. His face is calm, but his eyes are dark with things he isn’t saying.
“You didn’t bring my coffee today,” she continues, the list of grievances spilling out before she can stop them. “You didn’t adjust my office temperature. You didn’t even bring me lunch. And now, you’re giving me the bare minimum in meetings.”
“You left without a word,” Shalem says quietly. “That’s not how we agreed to handle things.”
“I can’t cope there, Shalem! You won’t fix the bathroom, but you want me to do dishes?” She stands up, her defense mechanism kicking into high gear.
Shalem sighs, a sound of profound exhaustion. “I spent my savings on the rent and the furnishing to make it decent for you. I asked for a month to fix the bathroom. One month.”
He takes a step closer, the professional mask finally cracking. “I wasn’t asking you to become small, Ma’am. I was asking you to build something with me. If we eventually need help, we’ll decide that together. I don’t want a home where we outsource every inconvenience before we’ve even learned each other.”
“I can’t wait a month,” she says, her voice firm. “Get a dishwasher. I’ll pay for it.”
“It’s above my budget for now, but if that’s what you want, we’ll get one over time.”
“Then take a salary advance,” she presses. “Fix the bathroom.”
Shalem shakes his head. “That’s not financially wise at this stage.”
The silence stretches, heavy and thick.
“I’ll stay at my house, then,” she says, throwing the words out like a dare.
Shalem studies her for a long moment, his gaze tracing her face.
“If that’s your decision, I won’t stop you.”
The lack of resistance unsettles her immediately.
“I’m still here,” he adds, his voice dropping to a low, intimate vibration that haunts the space between them. “When you’re ready to build this properly. As my wife.”
Chinaza says nothing. For the first time since returning to Ikoyi, it no longer feels like victory.
Little update, Lovestackers 🤍
Bougainvillea is officially moving from Selar to Substack as part of my paid subscription 🥳
Inside the subscription, you’ll get:
🌸 Bougainvillea — every Saturday evening
📓 Mina’s Diary — chaotic rom-com autofiction
⚖️ Legally Shalem — early access chapters + exclusive scenes
📚 The Redemption Assignment — now moving from Selar
Thank you for reading and loving these stories with me 🤍
Author’s Note:
When would Chinaza go back home like this?
Never
Head (of a community)
What everybody reads: You’ve spent years building a life where nobody can corner you, Chinaza
What I read: You’ve spent years building a life where nobody can correct you, Chinaza
No next chapter goal today? 🥲😭
Shalem is me, I am Shalem. I'm lowkey glad that Shalem put that office boundary since she asked for it. Love is built through partnership not control and control is what Chinaza wants. I'd advice that they both find a cozy place to sit and discuss properly not as boss and worker but as two adults who want to build something real. Shalem wants to bring her into his world but he doesn't want to understand hers. Also, he should try wooing her. From experience, even hard girls enjoy the thrill of the chase and eventually become soft. Wo, I don too talk for this comment. So far, I'm enjoying how the story is progressing.