The weight of Eyes
The next morning began the way it always did for Chiamaka: with the relentless noise of Lagos intruding before dawn. The call of the mosque drifted from a nearby street, competing with the shrill cries of a hawker selling fresh bread. Someone’s generator coughed to life, rattling the fragile windows of their one-room apartment.
Chiamaka rolled over on the thin mattress she shared with her mother, squinting at the gray light filtering through the faded curtains. She could feel the stiffness in her shoulders from standing all evening in borrowed heels, the ghost of last night still clinging to her like perfume that refused to fade.
Ade Bakare’s eyes.
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t push them out of her mind. She had spent hours tossing and turning, replaying that moment by the exit when their gazes had locked like magnets. The silence of it, the intensity. The fact that a man like him—surrounded by wealth and importance—had noticed her, a nobody with tired hands and borrowed clothes.
She hated that part of her had liked it.
“Mm-hmm, you’re already awake,” her mother’s voice rasped softly beside her. “It’s not even six.”
“I couldn’t sleep, Mama,” Chiamaka admitted, forcing a smile.
Her mother struggled to sit up, her thin frame draped in a wrapper that had lost its shine years ago. She pressed a hand against her chest before reaching for the small bottle of medicine on the rickety stool. Chiamaka moved quickly, pouring her a cup of water and handing her the tablets.
“Thank you, my daughter,” her mother whispered. Her eyes—still sharp despite the illness—studied Chiamaka carefully. “You look troubled. Was the event too stressful?”
Chiamaka hesitated. How could she explain that what troubled her wasn’t the long night, but the way a billionaire’s eyes had stripped her bare in the middle of a glittering room? She shook her head. “It was fine, Mama. Just tiring.”
Her mother accepted the answer with a small nod, sipping the water slowly. Chiamaka busied herself with folding the thin blanket, anything to avoid those eyes—both Ade’s memory and her mother’s knowing gaze.
By the time she left the house, the streets were alive. Danfos—yellow buses with cracked paint—swerved dangerously through traffic, their conductors hanging from the doors, shouting routes with voices hoarse from years of use. Market women arranged piles of tomatoes, peppers, and plantains on makeshift tables, calling out prices. The air smelled of diesel, roasted corn, and the salty tang of the lagoon.
Chiamaka balanced her handbag tightly against her chest as she navigated the chaos. The memory of the ballroom felt like another life. Here, in the raw pulse of Surulere, she knew who she was: an ordinary young woman, one of millions. Not someone a man like Ade Bakare would ever truly see.
But still, her chest betrayed her, tightening each time the memory surfaced.
---
Later that afternoon, she sat in Amara’s small apartment, nursing a bottle of malt. Amara, draped in a bright yellow wig and adjusting her eyelashes in a handheld mirror, was in no mood for silence.
“Babe!” she squealed suddenly, slamming the mirror down. “Tell me why you didn’t tell me Ade Bakare was staring at you all night yesterday?”
Chiamaka choked on her drink. “What?”
“Don’t ‘what’ me!” Amara narrowed her eyes dramatically. “You think I didn’t notice? Every time I looked at you, his eyes were right there too. That man is fine, rich, and single! Do you know how many women in Lagos would kill to get that kind of attention?”
“Amara, please,” Chiamaka groaned, setting down the bottle. “He wasn’t staring. You’re just exaggerating.”
“Exaggerating?” Amara leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Babe, I swear, the way he was looking at you? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you put something in his drink.” She giggled, then sobered quickly. “Do you realize what this could mean for you?”
“It means nothing.” Chiamaka’s voice was sharper than she intended. She rubbed her temples. “He’s… he’s Ade Bakare, Amara. Men like that don’t look at girls like me. Not for anything good.”
Amara pouted, unconvinced. “Or maybe they do. Maybe you’re exactly what he’s looking for.”
Chiamaka shook her head, unwilling to entertain the thought. The idea was dangerous. She knew enough stories—young women drawn into the glittering worlds of men like him, only to be discarded, ruined, forgotten. She would not be one of them.
And yet…
That night, as she lay in bed again, sleep refused her. The city’s noises dulled, but her thoughts roared. She remembered the sharp cut of his tuxedo, the stillness of his posture, the unwavering heat of his gaze. She remembered the way her knees had almost buckled when he refused to look away.
She turned onto her side, pressing her pillow hard against her face as if it could suffocate the memories.
Her phone buzzed.
She froze, her heart slamming against her ribs. Slowly, she reached for it, hands trembling. The screen lit up with an unknown number.
Her breath hitched.
You looked lost last night. I’d like to change that.
The message was simple, but it lit her veins like fire. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, her chest rising and falling rapidly. Who else could it be? She hadn’t given her number out, not to anyone new.
It was him.
It had to be him.
She dropped the phone on the mattress as though it had burned her. Her mother stirred faintly beside her, sighing in her sleep. Chiamaka stared at the cracked ceiling, torn between fear and something she refused to name.
Minutes passed. Then the phone buzzed again.
You don’t have to be afraid of curiosity.
Her throat tightened. She squeezed her eyes shut.
What did he want from her? Why her, of all people?
She typed out a response—I don’t know who this is—then deleted it. She typed again—Please stop—and deleted that too. In the end, she placed the phone face-down and curled into herself, refusing to look again.
But sleep never came.
By morning, a third message waited.
Dinner. Tomorrow. No strings. Just conversation.
Her stomach twisted. Dinner? With Ade Bakare? The thought was laughable. Terrifying. Impossible. She imagined herself sitting across from him in some glittering restaurant, her thrift-store dress glaring under the chandelier lights, every patron staring, whispering, wondering what a man like him was doing with a girl like her.
No. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
Her hands trembled as she typed a single word back:
No.
She pressed send before she could change her mind, then dropped the phone on the wooden stool, heart hammering.
For the rest of the day, she refused to check if he had replied. She cleaned, cooked, ran errands for her mother, and drowned herself in noise, anything to push away the silence that buzzed around that single word.
But deep inside, beneath all her refusals, something small and dangerous stirred.
She was afraid it wasn’t over.
---
By evening, Amara barged into the apartment, makeup smudged from the heat and excitement still buzzing around her. “Babe! Tell me you replied to him.”
Chiamaka stiffened. “What are you talking about?”