The Invitation that wouldn't die
Amara grinned like a cat who had cornered its prey. “Don’t play with me, o! Ade Bakare has never stared at anyone the way he stared at you. You think he won’t find you? A man like that, if he wants you, he will get you.”
“Amara!” Chiamaka hissed, casting a glance at her mother, who dozed lightly on the mattress.
Amara lowered her voice, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Don’t act like you don’t want it. I know you, Chiamaka. You’re pretending like you’re not curious. But deep down—”
“Deep down, I know trouble when I see it.” Chiamaka cut her off, her voice hard but her chest betraying her with its racing heartbeat. “And he’s trouble.”
Amara smirked, unconvinced. “Trouble can be sweet, sha.”
Chiamaka turned away, unwilling to argue further. She told herself she was strong enough to resist. That she had too much to lose.
But when she lay in bed that night, the city humming outside, her phone silent beside her, her chest ached in ways she couldn’t explain.
She hated herself for it.
And she knew—deep down, as Amara had said—that this wasn’t over.
Not by a long shot.
Morning broke with a heaviness that refused to leave Chiamaka’s chest. The sun rose harshly over Lagos, scattering its golden light over rusted rooftops and crowded streets, but inside her, there was no brightness. Just the steady, gnawing reminder of three messages she should never have read.
She tried to start the day like normal. She boiled water on the single gas burner, sliced bread thinly, and prepared tea for her mother. She swept the room, wiped down the table, and adjusted the curtain that never seemed to stay on its crooked rod. But no matter how much she busied herself, the phone on the stool mocked her with its silence.
She had told him No.
She should feel free.
But instead, she felt restless.
Her mother, oblivious, watched her with a sharpness that only mothers possessed. “Why are you moving like something is chasing you, Amaka?”
“Nothing, Mama.” She forced a smile. “I’m just thinking about the week. I have to look for extra shifts.”
Her mother gave a knowing hum but said nothing. Chiamaka turned away quickly, hiding the flush on her cheeks.
---
By mid-morning, she found herself walking the dusty road to Amara’s apartment again. The streets were alive with Lagos energy—bus horns blaring, street preachers warning of end times, children running barefoot after a worn football. She usually loved the chaos, but today it grated on her nerves.
Amara opened the door in a silk robe, face bare, hair wrapped in a scarf. She blinked in surprise. “You came early. Don’t tell me you’ve been thinking about him since last night.”
Chiamaka stiffened. “Amara, not everything is about him.”
“Really?” Amara arched a brow, stepping aside so she could enter. “Because you look like someone whose mind is playing chess with a billionaire.”
Chiamaka dropped into the faded sofa, clutching her handbag tightly. “I told him no. It’s finished.”
Amara laughed so loudly the sound bounced off the walls. “Finished? Babe, you think it’s that easy? Men like Ade Bakare don’t hear ‘no’ the way regular men do. To them, it’s just foreplay.”
“Amara!”
“Relax.” She sat beside her, nudging her with an elbow. “I’m not saying you should jump into his bed. But at least don’t pretend you’re not curious. Imagine—just imagine—if he’s serious about you.”
Chiamaka shook her head fiercely. “That’s not my reality. My reality is my mother’s hospital bills, our rent, and trying to survive this city. Not fairytales about rich men.”
But even as she said it, a small, traitorous voice whispered inside her: What if?
---
The rest of the day crawled by. She went to her tailoring shift, sitting hunched over a sewing machine in a hot room, sweat rolling down her back as she mended torn school uniforms. Her boss barked orders, the radio blared Fuji music, and the iron hissed with steam—but still her thoughts drifted.
By evening, she walked home slowly, watching the sky bleed orange and pink over the city. She told herself she had imagined everything. That by now he had probably moved on, forgotten her name, turned his attention to someone more fitting—someone who belonged in his glittering world.
When she entered the compound, children were playing ten-ten in the dusty courtyard, their laughter carrying into the warm night. She smiled faintly at them, then pushed open the door of their room.
Her mother was sitting upright on the bed, a folded piece of paper in her hands.
“Amaka, something came for you.”
Chiamaka froze. “For me?”
Her mother held it out. An envelope—cream-colored, embossed with gold edges. Heavy. Important.
Her stomach dropped. Slowly, she took it, fingers trembling as she slid it open.
Inside was a card, thick and elegant. Her name—Miss Chiamaka Okoye—was written in graceful handwriting across the top. Beneath it, in neat black ink:
You said no to dinner. Perhaps you’ll say yes to an evening among art and music. Tomorrow. The Civic Centre. 7 p.m.
No signature. No need.
Her mother was watching her closely. “Who sent it?”
Chiamaka’s lips parted, but no words came. Heat rushed to her cheeks. “I… I don’t know.”
Her mother’s brows furrowed. “Amaka. Be careful. The world is not kind to young women. Especially not when men of wealth are involved.”
“I know, Mama,” she whispered, hiding the card in her bag.
But as she lay down that night, staring at the ceiling, she knew sleep would not come.
---
The next day, she tried to convince herself she wouldn’t go. She worked through the afternoon, folding clothes and sweeping floors, her mind rehearsing excuses. She told herself she would tear up the card, throw it away, pretend it never existed.
But when the clock struck six, she found herself standing in front of the Civic Centre, her thrift-store dress smoothed nervously, her hair pinned neatly. She hated herself for it, hated the weakness that had brought her here. But some invisible thread had pulled her, and she had followed.
The building glowed against the lagoon, glass walls reflecting the night lights of Lagos. Inside, the lobby buzzed with people dressed in elegance, their laughter echoing against marble floors.
She felt small. Out of place. Ridiculous.
And then she saw him.
Ade Bakare stood near the entrance of the gallery, dressed in a navy suit that fit him like it had been stitched by angels. His posture was calm, assured, but his eyes—those eyes—lit up the moment they found her.
He crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps. The crowd seemed to part for him, as though they knew better than to stand in his way.
“Chiamaka,” he said softly when he reached her. The sound of her name in his voice curled around her like smoke.
She swallowed hard. “You shouldn’t have sent that card.”