Walls and Windows
Their coffee arrived, giving her a moment to breathe. She stirred the sugar nervously, though she didn’t take sugar in her drinks. The silence between them wasn’t empty; it was heavy, filled with things she wasn’t ready to name.
Finally, she asked, “What do you even want from me?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Time. Conversation. Honesty. Let me know you.”
The simplicity of it disarmed her. She had expected declarations, maybe some arrogant confession of desire. But instead, his tone was steady, almost gentle.
Her defenses wavered. She sipped her coffee, searching for strength in its bitterness. “And when you’ve had enough of the novelty? When you get bored? Men like you always do.”
For the first time, a shadow crossed his face. He looked down briefly, then back at her. “Maybe I deserve that judgment. But maybe you’ll find I’m not quite what they say I am.”
Something in his voice told her there was truth there, some story buried beneath the headlines.
Before she could respond, the air shifted. A tall woman in a crimson dress swept into the terrace, her heels clicking sharply. Heads turned as she passed, her confidence undeniable. She spotted Ade immediately and strode toward them, her expression tight.
“Ade,” she said, her voice smooth but edged. “You disappeared from the fundraiser early. Again.” Her eyes flicked to Chiamaka, lingering just long enough to sting. “And I see why.”
Ade’s jaw tightened. “Ngozi, this isn’t the place.”
Ngozi ignored him, turning her gaze fully on Chiamaka. “I don’t know who you are, but let me give you advice. Men like Ade Bakare don’t pick women like you for keeps. You’re just a distraction.”
The words sliced through Chiamaka like glass. Her face burned. She wanted to vanish into the ground.
Ade’s voice was low but firm. “That’s enough, Ngozi.”
But the damage was done. Chiamaka rose quickly, her chair scraping. “I should go.”
“Chiamaka—”
“No.” Her voice shook, but she forced strength into it. “This… this was a mistake.”
She grabbed her bag and hurried out, ignoring the curious stares, the pounding of her heart threatening to choke her.
---
The danfo ride home was a blur. She stared out the window at the blur of traffic, tears stinging her eyes but refusing to fall. Ngozi’s words echoed in her ears, cruel but plausible.
A billionaire and a tailor’s daughter? Foolish. Reckless.
By the time she reached home, she had made her decision. She would cut this off before it consumed her.
But as she lay in bed that night, staring at the cracked ceiling, her phone buzzed.
A woman’s bitterness is not your burden to carry. Don’t let her voice drown out your own. – Ade
She closed her eyes, clutching the phone to her chest.
And for the first time, she realized with terrifying clarity: she was already in too deep.
The morning air was thick with humidity when Chiamaka rose, her head pounding from a night of restless dreams. The danfo horns outside blared, vendors called out their wares—“Agege bread! Gala! Pure water!”—but none of it grounded her. She moved through the motions of washing her face, setting the kettle on the stove, slicing bread, all with a hollowness inside her.
Ngozi’s voice haunted her still. Men like Ade Bakare don’t pick women like you for keeps. You’re just a distraction.
Each time she remembered it, the heat of shame crept up her neck.
Her mother sat on the bed, folding wrappers into neat piles. “Amaka, you’ve been in your head too much lately,” she said softly, her sharp eyes cutting through her daughter’s silence. “Is it about work?”
Chiamaka forced a smile. “Just tired, Mama.”
But her mother wasn’t convinced. She studied her for a long moment before sighing. “Remember what I always tell you. If something looks too shiny, look twice before you touch it. Gold and brass wear the same color in the sun.”
The words struck deep. She nodded quickly and grabbed her bag, desperate to escape before the conversation turned sharper.
---
She kept her head down at the tailor’s shop, stitching seams with mechanical precision. Every so often, her phone buzzed in her bag. She ignored it. By lunchtime, she finally looked.
Three messages.
I owe you an apology for yesterday.
I should have protected you better.
Please, give me a chance to make it right.
Her chest squeezed. She deleted them before she could think twice.
But an hour later, another arrived.
One coffee. No drama this time. Just you and me.
She shoved the phone back into her bag, heart hammering. She told herself she wouldn’t reply. That she was stronger than this.
But as the day wore on, the thought of him lingered like a stubborn shadow.
---
By evening, she gave in. She wasn’t sure what possessed her, but her feet carried her not home, but toward Amara’s apartment. She found her friend lounging on the sofa with a bowl of suya in her lap, watching a telenovela.
“You,” Amara said, pointing a stick of meat at her dramatically, “look like a woman in turmoil.”
Chiamaka groaned, sinking into the seat beside her. “Why do I feel like I’m being played with?”
“Because you probably are,” Amara replied cheerfully, popping a piece of suya in her mouth. “Men are natural-born actors.”
“Amara!”
“Okay, okay,” she laughed. “Maybe not him. Ade is… different. But you know what your problem is? You’re afraid of wanting more than you think you deserve.”
The words pierced her. She turned away. “You didn’t hear what that woman said to me. She was right.”
“Rubbish.” Amara waved dismissively. “Ngozi has been hovering around Ade for years. Everyone knows it. She’s just mad someone finally caught his attention. And that someone happens to be my best friend. Babe, shine joor!”
Chiamaka covered her face with her hands. “I don’t want to be anyone’s toy.”
Amara’s tone softened. “Then don’t be. Make him prove he means it. You have the power too, Amaka.”
Her words lingered long after Chiamaka left.
---
The next day, against her better judgment, she agreed to meet him.
This time, he didn’t take her to a glittering gallery or a polished terrace. He asked her to meet him in a quiet garden tucked behind a bookstore in Ikoyi.
The place surprised her. It wasn’t ostentatious—just a patch of greenery with iron benches, shaded by flamboyant trees. Birds chirped above, and the faint smell of old books drifted from the shop. It felt hidden, almost secret.
Ade was already there, seated casually in a white shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows. No suit, no tie, no trace of the billionaire armor he usually wore. He looked… human.
“You came,” he said, standing as she approached.
She crossed her arms. “This has to stop, Ade. I don’t belong in your world. Yesterday proved that.”