NewStats: 3,263,617 , 8,180,770 topics. Date: Friday, 06 June 2025 at 08:24 PM 34221e

OOOKEWALE:
quite intriguing Mr. Metalgear1. Where have you been?

Been around, just not posting as regularly as I used to.

CHAPTER NINE: The Room With No Applause

It was all quiet now. No calls. No confrontation. No whispered gossip that found its way to her ears through mutuals and middlemen. Just a stillness that felt neither peaceful nor empty.

Amaka sat in her apartment, barefoot on the cold tiles, legs folded under her, surrounded by unopened boxes. They were meant to be for the move to Kola’s new duplex in Lekki Phase 1. Wedding gifts still trickled in. Someone had forgotten to remove her from the guest registry. A silver toaster gleamed from one of the open boxes. A gift card attached read "Wishing you both joy and ease. Love always — Mrs. Eze."

She wanted to throw it. Instead, she took a picture of the card and sent it to Adaora with no caption.

[Return it. Or burn it. No in-between.] Her sister replied.

Amaka smiled, weakly. The kind of smile that doesn’t reach the skin, let alone the soul.

________________________________________

Her mother came by unannounced that evening.

Amaka opened the door in sweatpants and no bra. Madam Stella barely blinked. She looked elegant as ever, though less like a mother and more like a diplomat preparing for crisis management. She didn’t hug her daughter. Didn’t sit either. She looked around the apartment, then said, flatly: “Have you no shame?”

Amaka didn’t flinch. “I’ve had plenty. It didn’t change anything.”

Her mother inhaled, nostrils flaring like she’d just stepped into the fumes of disgrace. “You embarrassed this family. Do you know what people are saying? That we raised a girl with no virtue. That even a man as good as Kola wasn’t enough for you.”

“And maybe he wasn’t,” Amaka said. “Maybe I wasn’t enough for that life either.”

“You were enough. You just didn’t want to be contained.”

The silence between them was sharp. Mama stepped closer. Her voice softened, but it cut deeper.

“Whatever fantasy you had with that boy — it’s over. It was always going to end. Now you have to carry what it cost.”

“I already am.”

“You think you are. But wait until the next man looks at you and sees the story before he sees your face. Wait until you hear your name in rooms where you’re not even present. That’s what consequence is.”

Amaka swallowed. Her throat ached with everything she couldn’t say — that she didn’t regret Michael, not fully; that maybe she wanted to be seen differently, even if it meant being judged. That maybe she was tired of being everyone's good idea.

“I didn’t ask you to come,” she said finally.

“I know,” her mother replied. Then, after a beat, “You’re still my daughter. But Lagos doesn’t forget. Just make sure you can live with who you are now.”

And then she left.

-----------------------------------

That night, Amaka stood before her bathroom mirror. She looked older — not in years, but in wear. In the creases around her eyes. In the small hardness behind her gaze. She used to look at herself and see a woman in progress. Tonight, she saw a woman who had broken her own com — and was learning how to walk without one.

She opened Instagram, hovered over the “delete ” button.

Then stopped. Instead, she posted a photo of herself in the mirror. No filter. No caption. No applause. She logged off.

And for the first time in weeks, she slept. Alone. Unloved. Undisguised.

It all unraveled one Thursday. They were at a low-lit restaurant in Oniru, seated in a corner booth. The kind of place where Lagos elites whispered deals over hot pepper soup. Amaka wore a backless dress. He wore his usual — simple shirt, good watch, clean jaw.

They were halfway through the main course when a very pretty and voluptuous woman approached their table. Mid-twenties. Braided hair. Big tits. No-nonsense heels. Expensive body fitting dress.

“Michael.”

He looked up, startled. “Chioma. Wow. Been a long time.”

They hugged awkwardly. Chioma glanced at Amaka, smiling too politely.

“This is—”

“Amaka,” Amaka said before he could finish.

Chioma raised a condescending eyebrow. “Oh. The Amaka.”

The air tightened. Chioma’s smile returned — this time sharper, more jeering. “Nice to finally put a face to the story.”

She left. Michael didn’t speak for a full minute. Amaka stared at him. “You told people about me?”

He sighed. “I didn’t give them names. But you know Lagos. It leaks.”

“So I’m the side chick who got promoted.”

“You’re not—”

“But I was—,” she cut in, voice cold. “I was the secret. The thrill. The reason someone else’s future fell apart.”

Michael looked wounded. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” She stood up, barely touching her food. “I gave up everything,” she said. “And I don’t even know if you ever intended to catch me.”

________________________________________

That night, they didn’t speak. She left the next morning before he woke. No dramatic goodbye. No slammed doors. Just a pair of gold earrings left on the bathroom sink, and the sound of quiet — heavier than any scream.

CHAPTER EIGHT: The Discovery

The air in Michael’s apartment was always a little too still. It wasn’t that it lacked warmth — he’d put effort into the space. A dark leather couch. A bookshelf filled with worn paperbacks. A record player that actually worked. But it felt like a waiting room. Temporary. Transitional.

Much like them.

Amaka stood by the open sitting-room window, arms wrapped around herself, staring out into the distant horizon. She was wearing his T-shirt, the one with a faded Fela print across the chest. The one he never commented on when she “borrowed” it.

“I told him,” she said finally.

Michael looked up from the kitchen counter where he was slicing mangoes. “Yeah, you told me.”

“No, I mean— I told him. Everything. That it wasn’t a mistake. That it wasn’t just a moment. That I chose it.”

Michael watched her for a moment, knife still in his hand. “And how did he take it?”

“He left.”

He nodded. Not with satisfaction, not with sorrow. Just... recognition. “He wasn’t built to stay. Not once he saw the real thing.”

Amaka turned to face him. “And you are?”

He didn’t flinch. “I don’t know.”

Silence stretched again — not cold, but uncomfortable. Like shoes that used to fit.

________________________________________

They tried. In their own way. Michael started inviting her into more of his life — introducing her to colleagues as “a friend,” offering her keys to the apartment, sending her songs instead of sexts.

She tried too. She stopped checking Kola’s socials. Let the wedding planner keep the deposit. Smiled at her mother’s silence without replying to it. She even cooked — once — and they ate in silence, music humming in the background. But something was missing. Not ion. That was still there, in quiet touches and stolen looks.

What was missing was a sense of place. In Kola’s world, she had known her role: fiancée, political wife, PR queen. In Michael’s world, she wasn’t sure if she was a lover, a regret, or an experiment.

She tried to go about her day like it was still hers. She went to work. Took calls. Scheduled meetings. Wore power heels and matte lipstick. But everything felt off-kilter — like walking on furniture, trying not to slip. She ran into Adaora at Noir during lunch. Her little sister’s arms were folded before she even sat down.

“Tell me you’re not thinking of fixing this.”

Amaka blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Kola. The wedding. Your image. All of it.”

Amaka exhaled. “I’m not trying to fix anything. I’m just trying to survive the mess.”

Adaora’s features softened, slightly. “You know what scares me? Not that you cheated. But that you don’t seem sure why you did.”

Amaka didn’t reply. Because she didn't know either. It wasn’t about love. Not really. It wasn’t even about sex. Not entirely. It was about hunger. Hunger for something raw, something...uncurated. Something that didn’t need to look good in photos. Something real enough to burn.

Adaora leaned back, swirling her drink. “They’ll talk. The aunties. The industry people. They’ll label you reckless. Unmarriageable. Poisoned fruit.”

Amaka looked out the window, where lightning flickered just above the city skyline — too far to touch, but close enough to see.

“Let them,” she said.

“Good,” Adaora replied. “Because if you’re going to burn your life down, at least light the match yourself.”

________________________________________

That night, back in her apartment, Amaka finally opened Michael’s message. [Did you tell him?]

She replied simply. [He found out.]

A pause. Then another message. [Do you regret it?]

She stared at the screen for a long time, thumb hovering. [Not the choice. Just the fallout.]

She didn’t wait for his reply. Some consequences, she was learning, arrive after the flames — in the silence, in the smoke, in the way people look at you like a stranger in your own skin.

CHAPTER SEVEN: Heat Lightning

It began with silence.

Kola didn’t call. Didn’t send anyone to collect his things from the apartment — though he’d moved back into his father’s Ikoyi duplex. That silence was worse than shouting. It was judgment that didn’t need language. By the third day, the silence grew legs. It reached her mother.

“You did what?” her mother hissed over the phone. The voice was low, deadly, controlled. The tone she reserved for disappointment that made the family name sweat.

“Mama, I’m not discussing this over the phone,” Amaka replied, trying to sound calm.

“Oh, you weren’t discussing it when you spread your legs either. Amaka, you’ve shamed us.”

Amaka swallowed hard, trying not to cry. That would only fuel the fire.

“We’ll talk face to face.”

“You’re damn right we will.”

The line went dead.

----------------------------------------------------------

By Friday, the whispers had started.

It was her aunt who called first — the one who never liked her, the one with the gossip blog hidden behind a “faith and femininity” brand.

“Nne, is it true you and Kola broke off the engagement? Hmm. You know people are saying one girl is sleeping with a man that’s not her own—”

Amaka hung up mid-sentence.

Then came the soft unfollows — the “friends” who stopped liking her posts, the clients who suddenly wanted to “put the campaign on pause,” the wedding planner who politely asked if she should release the date slot to another bride.

In Lagos, shame didn’t knock. It kicks the door in, then drinks your wine.

Damilgodwin:
Mehn, what a blast 😁😁😁. I can actually relate, when it comes to POV of kola. Ladies especially are insatiable in nature, likewise men. But we men tends to work with emotion at the detriment of our domineering factor which said and I quote " think with your heart and mind not with emotion"

Do you think that justify Amaka rubbing her affair in such raw details into her, dare I say it, ex fiancé's face?

Later, after the door clicked shut and the silence screamed, Amaka stood alone in the center of the room. She stared at the empty hallway, the untouched wine, the half-written wedding checklist still on the console table. Her reflection in the window looked foreign — like a woman who had borrowed her own body for too long.

Her phone buzzed again. [Did you tell him?]. She turned the phone face-down and let the silence settle again. She had never planned to ruin anything. But now, the ruins were hers alone.

The silence that followed wasn’t explosive. It was surgical. Amaka’s body froze, wine glass pausing mid-air. Her eyes flicked to the screen, then to him, and back again. The name on the screen glared up at her like an open wound. She lowered the wine glass slowly, fingers trembling just enough to make the liquid tremble too. She didn’t lie. Didn’t beg. She just stood there, caught like a deer in headlights, in the middle of the life she built and the truth she never planned to expose.

“I…I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said. Her voice was quiet — too quiet — like someone apologizing for spilling coffee. Kola’s jaw tightened.

“What the hell do you mean you didn't mean for it to happen?” he said, his voice suddenly rising — low at first, then sharp, cutting through the air like glass. “you’re seeing another man?”

She hesitated. That was her answer. He dropped the iPad on the couch.

“So you are.”

“I didn’t go looking for it, Kola. I was—”

The explosion from his palm against her face surprised her more than it hurt. Amaka tasted blood. Her hand went to her cheek. “Don’t give me that rubbish,” he snapped, his anger finally dragging him forward. “Don’t you dare try to shape this into something noble. You made a decision. How long has it been? Weeks? Months?”
She didn’t answer. Her hand rubbed her cheek where it stung. “You slapped me Kola?”

“And so what? You’ve been lying to my face. Every night. Every damn dinner. Every time you rolled over and pretended to sleep—”

“I didn’t pretend,” she snapped back. “I lay there every night wondering how I ended up next to a man I barely knew anymore.”

That stunned him.

“You barely—” he laughed, bitter. “You barely knew me? That’s rich. I gave you everything. Space, trust, the kind of patience most men would be mocked for!”

Her voice rose, sharp now, years of bottled discontent boiling up. “Space?” she spat. “No, Kola. You gave me distance. Distance dressed up as maturity. You were always so damn measured — like our love was a spreadsheet. You didn’t see me. You just... assumed I’d always be there, like part of your five-year plan.”

His hand massaged the throbbing vein on his forehead. “I didn’t cheat, Amaka. I didn’t stray. I kept showing up. Isn’t that what love is?”

“No,” she snapped. “Love isn’t just showing up. It’s seeing the person you show up for. And you never saw me. And then, softly, she said it - “I think I always knew we weren’t compatible enough.”

“You waited till now to say that?” he asked, disbelief stretching his features.

“I waited because I was afraid,” she whispered. “Afraid of losing something that looked right but felt wrong. Afraid of itting I wanted more. And then...Michael happened. And suddenly, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore.”

His eyes bore holes in her soul. “Did you fück him?”

She winced at the word — not out of guilt, but because of how real it suddenly sounded when spoken aloud. That silenced the room more than any shout could have.

“Answer me godammit!” he bellowed, sending his wineglass shattering against the wall behind her, “did you fück the bastard or not?!”

“Yes!!! I fücked him!” she yelled back, her eyes two blazing coals of fire, “You want the truth? I fücked him. In fact I sucked him, then fücked him. I sucked him so good, his first explosion was all over my face! We then went on and had the best sex of my life! You happy? You want the truth? That’s the fücking truth!”

Kola looked at her — really looked. And for the first time, his anger cracked at the edges, giving way to something sadder. Weaker. He stepped back, the ever present brightness in his eyes dimming.

He turned. Picked up his keys. Headed towards the door. She didn’t try to stop him. It closed softly behind him — which somehow made it worse.

He just walked out.

________________________________________

CHAPTER SIX: Glitches in the Glamour

Kola wasn’t suspicious by nature. He believed in balance, in giving people room. The kind of man who trusted the brakes would work — until the car swerved. But even he could feel it now - the subtle shift in Amaka’s eyes when he asked simple questions. The way her smile arrived a second too late. The way she held her phone like it owned her secrets. Still, he gave her space.

That was his mistake.
________________________________________

He was using her iPad one night to scroll through home design samples for the new property they’d agreed to look at in Lekki Phase 1. Amaka was in the kitchen, her voice floating in from a call with her aunt. Kola tapped the screen, absently switching between tabs.

["I can still taste you. I don’t think I want to forget how."]

The message had slid in like a drop of acid through silk. No emoji. No punctuation. Just the brutal intimacy of someone too comfortable, too familiar. He didn’t move. Didn’t scroll. Didn’t need to. The rest was already loud in his head — the late nights, the withdrawn touches, the new lingerie folded too neatly in the drawer.

Amaka walked back in barefoot, sipping from a wine glass. He looked at her — long enough for her smile to fade.

“You okay?” she asked, but she already knew. Kola held up the iPad, screen still glowing, message still visible.

“Who’s Michael?”
________________________________________

My last update was deleted. Will try again.

Damilgodwin:
Insofar she might get things straight sha, I don't really conclude on people 🤷‍♂️🤷‍♂️

Let's wait and see.

CHAPTER FIVE: The Split Screen

Mornings after weren’t supposed to feel like this.

Amaka stirred at 4:47am, blinking at the ceiling of the hotel room, her nµde body wrapped in crisp white sheets and the warmth of Michael’s breath just behind her shoulder. The city outside was still quiet — that rare Lagos silence before the street vendors, traffic, and horns claimed the day. She dressed quickly. Michael didn’t try to stop her. He watched, eyes soft, as she buttoned her blouse and reached for her heels.

“I won’t ask you to stay,” he said.

“I know,” she replied. A part of her wished he would. Not because she would stay — but because asking would mean he wanted her to.

________________________________________

By 6:15am she was back in her apartment, moving like a ghost through familiar spaces. She stripped her clothes off and showered until the steam erased everything. The guilt. The skin. The scent. By 8am she was in a Zoom call with her agency’s beauty brand team, her voice crisp, her tone precise, her face beat to perfection. She was Amaka again — composed, controlled, respected. But that afternoon, when her phone rang, it rattled her more than she expected.

Kola. She answered quickly. “Hey, baby.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice smooth but tired. “Didn’t hear from you this morning. Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I was up late working, slept through my alarm.”

Pause. “You’ve been working late a lot.”

“I know. Campaign season. Everything’s mad.”

He didn’t press. That was the problem. Kola never pressed. He always believed her. Always had. That kind of trust was a beautiful thing — and now it tasted like bile in her mouth.

________________________________________

Later that evening, as Kola massaged her feet while they watched CNN Inside Africa, Amaka’s phone lit up.

[Thinking about you. Thinking about last night. You were so...ionate.]

She didn’t reply. Kola glanced at the screen and she quickly flipped the phone over.

“Work?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she lied,

He smiled at her. “I can’t wait till we’re married,” he said. “Everything will make sense then.”

Amaka forced herself to smile back. In that moment, she realized — he truly didn’t see her. Not the hunger. Not the ache. Not the small wars she fought inside her ribcage each day. The life she was building with him was pristine.

And already burning at the edges.

-------------------------------------------------------------

By the end of the next five weeks she had been with Michael three more times. Once in the back seat of his car, parked in a quiet corner of a Lekki compound. The other times at a small cozy apartment he’d rented for his Lagos stays — sparsely but tastefully furnished. Each encounter more intense than the previous. They never talked about what they were doing. They never made plans. It was just... happening. But it wasn’t without cost. At work, she snapped at her intern. She missed a brief deadline — her first in months. She forgot her mother’s call two nights in a row. Her fiance seemed to be getting on her nerves all the time. Adaora noticed.

“You’re different,” her sister said flatly over brunch.

“I’m tired,” Amaka replied, stirring her mimosa.

“You’re lying,” Adaora said. “And you’re not even good at it anymore.”

Amaka looked away, jaw tight.

“You’re going to ruin everything,” Adaora continued. “And for what? For someone who won’t hold your hand in public?”

“I didn’t ask you for advice.” she snapped.

“No, you didn't, but you’re moving like someone who doesn’t know where the brakes are.”

________________________________________

CHAPTER FOUR: The Hotel Room

The rain came without warning — hard, fast, and unapologetic. The kind Lagos rain that turned traffic into static and umbrellas into ornaments. By 7:30 p.m., Amaka was already late for dinner with her aunt in GRA, but she hadn’t left her office yet. Her phone buzzed.

[You’re not going to that dinner in this storm, are you?]

Michael. She hesitated.

[I’ll manage.]

[I’m at a little place off iralty. Dry roof, warm food, and a chair with your name on it. No pressure.]

Her finger hovered over the keyboard. She could say no. She should say no. Instead, she grabbed her bag.

________________________________________

The restaurant was tucked away behind a nondescript gate, one of those new-age spots with minimalist lighting and overpriced small plates. But it was quiet and homely. Michael was seated at the back, nursing a glass of red wine and reading something on his phone. He looked up when she arrived.

“You came,” he said.

“I needed to get out of my own head.”

“You came to the wrong man then,” he said, half-laughing. “I live in mine.”

They talked. Not about relationships. Not about Kola. Just... about things. About a cathedral he once visited in Lisbon. About a book she never finished. About the way Lagos could make you feel both powerful and invisible in the same breath.

When the rain softened to a whisper, the waiter brought the bill. Michael reached for it.

“I’ll get it,” she said, reflexively.

“Let me,” he replied, gently. “It’s not a transaction.”

That sentence stayed with her — It’s not a transaction — like most of her life hadn’t been exactly that. Give this. Be this. Earn this.

They stepped outside. The streets were slick, headlights dancing on wet asphalt. Her car was parked two blocks away. Michael offered to walk her. They didn’t speak much. The silence stretched between them like something sacred — or fragile. When they reached her car, she didn’t unlock it. She stood there, key fob in hand, rain misting her shoulders.

“You okay?” he asked.

She looked at him. For a moment, neither moved. The city around them blurred — just background noise to something deeper. Her pulse was loud in her ears. “I don’t know how to stop this,” she whispered and moved closer.

He didn’t respond. He didn’t need to.

________________________________________

The guesthouse was two turns away — discreet, neat, quiet, the kind of place that kept secrets better than friends did. In the room, he undressed her slowly — not seductively, not performatively. Just... truthfully. He knew she didn’t want to impress him. She wanted to be seen. Michael touched her as if she weren’t something fragile or precious. He held her like a mystery to be explored, not a truth already known. And when she finally let herself fall apart in his hands, it was not loud. It was not dramatic. It was fierce. It was deliberate. A choice. A reckoning.

It was the storm she had held back for far too long.

________________________________________

Afterwards, they lay in silence. Her head on his chest, his fingers tracing the outline of her shoulder blades. No promises. No talks of tomorrow. Just the low hum of the air conditioner, the smell of rich skin and thunder. And Amaka, finally still, eyes staring into oblivion, realized -

She hadn’t fallen. She had stepped. Leaped.

And the ground was already giving way beneath her.

CHAPTER THREE: Wanting Isn’t Sin

It started with a message.

Not one of those reckless, midnight kinds — no. Michael messaged her three days after the mixer, around 11 a.m., at the height of her second Zoom meeting of the day.

[Hey. You mentioned you liked older buildings. I found a book I think you’d enjoy. Would you like me to send it?]

Simple. Clean. No flirtation. Amaka stared at the screen longer than she should have, then minimized it and went back to a briefing about a telecom brand’s social campaign. But something about the message unsettled her. Not the words — but the lack of intent behind them. He hadn’t asked for coffee. Or dinner. Or a scandal. He was just... there. By 4 p.m., she’d replied.

[Sure. Send it.]

And so began their quiet rhythm. Not daily texts, but thoughtful ones. No emojis. No late-night calls. Just a slow conversation that circled art, architecture, music, the politics of cities, the texture of memory. It reminded her of the kind of love stories that didn’t sell in Nollywood — slow-burning, cerebral, dangerous in a different way. It made her think, and thinking was often what got people into trouble.

________________________________________

They met again. Accidentally — or so she told herself.

A week later, at a minimalist gallery off Awolowo Road. She had gone to view a monochrome exhibit curated by one of her friends. He was there, alone, hands in pockets, studying a piece titled “Disappearing Edges.” She almost didn’t approach. But he saw her first.

“Didn’t peg you for an art walker,” she said, casually.

Michael smiled. “You’d be surprised what I do when I’m trying not to overthink a design brief.”

They walked together. Quietly. The gallery was empty, and the silence between them had started to feel familiar. Easy. At one point, they stood before a piece — black ink spilling from one frame into another.

“It looks like something breaking.” She tilted her head and said.

“Maybe it’s something spilling. Things spill when containers are too full.” Michael said knowingly.

She looked at him. A little too long. When he met her eyes, it was like a fuse lit — slow, controlled, but unmistakably hot.

“Do you ever wonder,” he asked, “what we’d be if we’d met five years earlier?”

“No,” she replied.

A big, fat lie.

________________________________________

That night, back in her apartment on Bourdillon, Kola cooked dinner. Something light — a seafood pasta he’d found online. He plated it nicely. Poured her favorite wine. Sat across from her like a man eager to keep being enough.

“How was the gallery?” he asked.

She blinked and almost choked on her wine. “How did you—?”

“You posted it on your Insta story. Just a photo of the wall. Very moody. Very...you.”

She forced a laugh. “Right. It was fine.”

They ate in silence for a bit.

“You’ve been distant,” Kola said finally. “Is it work stress?”

Amaka swallowed. “It’s just... everything.”

He reached for her hand. “We’re almost there. After the wedding, it’ll settle. The noise. The obligations. You’ll see.”

She nodded and smiled.

But that night, as he snored beside her, she lay awake, staring into the darkness.

Wanting, she told herself, wasn’t sin.

Not yet.

CHAPTER TWO: Soft Openings

The invitation had come through a work — something about a design mixer for luxury real estate clients. Amaka hadn’t intended to go, but RSVP’s rooftop was a good distraction, and distractions were in short supply these days.

She arrived late, dressed in a black, cleavage baring jumpsuit that looked casual but cost enough to hurt. Her curls framed her face deliberately, not a single strand left to chance. She smiled at the bouncer, let the flash of recognition ease her entry, and stepped into a wash of deep house music, soft clinking glasses, and curated Lagos elegance.

The party was already in motion. She moved through the crowd with practiced ease, collecting greetings, air-kisses, and business cards like a diplomat. But even in this sea of familiar ambition — influencers, developers, gallery owners, and realtors — she felt oddly detached. Her body moved. Her face smiled. But her mind floated somewhere else, like a woman watching her own performance. She was at the bar ordering a glass of white wine when she heard the voice.

“That’s a safe choice.”

She turned. The man beside her wasn’t flashy. No oversized watch or loud designer logos. Just a clean grey shirt rolled at the sleeves, dark skin with the sheen of heat, and an expression that was curious, not hungry.

“What would you have recommended?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended.

He shrugged. “Depends. Are you trying to stay awake, or trying to forget?”

That disarmed her. She studied him. Early to mid-thirties, beard trimmed just enough to show he cared, but not so much he was vain. He carried himself like a man used to space — not the kind who filled it, but the kind who didn’t beg for it.

“Amaka,” she said, extending her hand.

“Michael,” he replied, shaking it. His grip was warm. Grounded.

“You’re not from Lagos.”

He smiled. “Port Harcourt. I design residential spaces. Here for a pitch.”

“Architecture?”

“Mostly. But lately, it feels more like performance art. Everyone wants Dubai in VI.”

She laughed — a real one this time, unexpected and unfiltered. It startled her.

------------------------------------------------------------------

They stood at the bar longer than she meant to. Talked about music, cities they missed, the madness of Lagos traffic. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t perform. He listened — and when he spoke, it wasn’t about himself.

At some point, her phone buzzed.

[Hope it’s not a late night. My mum wants to call you tomorrow morning about asoebi colors.]

Reality. Sharp and immediate. She put the phone away.

“I should go,” she said.

Michael nodded, but didn’t look disappointed. “Another time, maybe.”

“I’m engaged,” she blurted, immediately wondering why that came out of her mouth.

“I figured,” he said with a smile, “You speak like someone who’s used to explaining herself.”

She didn’t answer.

Outside, the night air was thick with the smell of rain and jollof smoke from a roadside vendor. As she waited for her Uber, she glanced back at the rooftop.

Michael was still at the bar, drink in hand, back turned, already absorbed in another conversation.

He hadn’t chased her.

And somehow, that stayed with her all night.

Chapter One: The Good Woman Myth

The ballroom glowed like a chandelier trapped in a dream — all satin tablecloths, clinking glasses, and carefully curated smiles. A saxophonist played a slow, syrupy rendition of Asa’s "Bibanke," and Amaka thought, for a moment, that she might drown in it.

This was her engagement party.

Well, their engagement party. Hers and Kola’s. But the “hers” felt loose in her mouth lately — like something borrowed, not quite owned.

She stood near the cake, a towering white-and-gold monument to tradition, wrapped in fondant and fond expectations. Her mother had insisted on three layers. "Two is for birthday parties. Three means permanence," she’d said, smoothing her gele like it was part of the ceremony itself.

Kola was across the room, laughing with someone from the governor’s office — the kind of man who wore his agbada like it was armor. Kola always wore his power politely, the way a well-trained son of old money should. Not too loud. Just enough to be respected, never feared. He caught her eye across the crowd and smiled. It was a soft smile. A good one. He raised his champagne glass slightly in her direction, and she responded with one of her own. On the surface, they looked perfect. They were perfect — at least in the eyes of Lagos. As the crowd buzzed around her, Amaka couldn’t stop noticing the tremor in her fingers. She clenched them around the stem of her glass and reminded herself to stay still.

"Why do you look like you're about to flee the country?" Adaora’s voice cut through the noise like a sharp blade dressed in velvet.

Amaka turned. Her younger sister stood beside her, decked in burnt orange lace and zero subtlety. Her hair was cropped low, dyed honey-blonde, lips stained a wicked red, her expression unreadable — somewhere between amusement and concern.

"I’m not fleeing," Amaka said, her tone light. "Just taking it all in."

Adaora sipped her Chapman. “Taking it in? Or talking yourself into it?”

Amaka shot her a look. "This isn't the time nor place Ada."

"No, it’s the perfect time," Adaora said, gesturing with her drink. "All these people, these families measuring each other in silent glances, your soon-to-be husband trading political favours like it’s a bidding war — it's a carnival. And you’re the prize goat."

Amaka laughed, but it landed flat. "You’re dramatic."

"And you’re tired," Adaora said, softer now. “You’ve been tired for months, big sis.”

Before she could answer, their mother appeared, all glittering gold and grace.

“There you are!” Madam Stella beamed, adjusting the sash on Amaka’s waist as if the night itself depended on perfect symmetry. “You’ve hardly danced. And Kola’s mother has been asking where you disappeared to. Let her see that smile, ehn? Biko.”

Amaka forced one.

“Good girl,” Madam Stella whispered, kissing her cheek. “Your father’s speech is next. After that, we can relax. This is the beginning of everything, my dear. God has done it.”

Amaka nodded, but something in her chest twisted — not out of rebellion, but out of a quiet, aching confusion. She wanted to believe this was the beginning. That the carefully selected ring on her finger meant something bigger than expectation. That Kola’s gentle strength would carry them through. That she, too, was made for this kind of love — safe, structured, pre-approved.

But beneath the perfume, champagne, and Ankara elegance, something inside her felt... misplaced. Like she’d entered the right building but opened the wrong door. She looked across the room again at Kola. He was still smiling, still gracious, still perfect.

And suddenly, that terrified her.

Prologue – The Fine Print of Desire

Lagos doesn’t sleep — it schemes.

From twenty floors up, the city looked like a restless lover, humming with horns and halogen dreams. Amaka stood barefoot on the balcony, a wine glass in one hand, the last lie she’d told still burning in her throat. Below, the taillights of late-night vehicles smeared the road like a wound that refused to close. Inside, Kola was asleep. Or pretending to be. She could hear the air-conditioning humming above their bed, humming in the rhythm of a clock she wished would stop. Her white robe fluttered in the breeze, open just enough to remind her of how little she still cared about caution.

Her phone buzzed — a message lighting up the screen like a whisper in the dark.

**I keep thinking about that last time. The way you pulled me back. Are you okay?**

Amaka didn't reply.

Not because she didn’t want to — but because replying made it real. And if there was one thing Lagos taught a woman like her, it was that desire always comes with small print, and no one ever reads it until the damage is done.

She turned from the city and walked back into the apartment — past the oversized furniture, the curated paintings, the engagement ring still sitting in its velvet box on the console table.

Tomorrow would come with its own questions.

But tonight, she allowed herself this silence — this dangerous, delicate pause between the life she’d built and the one she was already betraying.

Somewhere inside her chest, the first crack had begun.

And soon, everything would echo.

👤 CHARACTER BREAKDOWN

Amaka Nwoke
• Age: 32
• Occupation: PR executive
• Personality: Ambitious, emotionally guarded, driven by image and control
• Arc: From perfectionist bride-to-be to a woman who confronts her inner void and reclaims agency beyond societal validation

Kola Adedoyin
• Age: 34
• Occupation: Politician-in-training, heir to family business
• Personality: Calm, composed, emotionally intelligent but emotionally unavailable
• Role: Represents safety, prestige, and the expectations Amaka is suffocating under

Michael Umeh
• Age: 35
• Occupation: Architect
• Personality: Introspective, honest, emotionally present, grounded
• Role: Catalyst for Amaka’s inner unraveling. Represents escape, not solution

Adaora Nwoke
• Age: 26
• Occupation: Aspiring writer
• Personality: Bold, modern, skeptical of marriage and gender norms
• Role: Mirror to Amaka’s internal struggle, eventual system

Madam Stella Nwoke
• Traditionalist, church-going, obsessed with appearances
• Loves her daughters but doesn’t understand emotional nuance
• Symbolizes generational pressure on women in Nigerian society

Synopsis

In the glossy corridors of Lagos high society, Amaka Nwoke lives a life that appears enviable — a successful career, a dependable fiancé, and a beautiful home on Bourdillon Road. But beneath the surface lies a woman suffocating in emotional silence and unmet desire. When an affair with a ionate journalist shatters her carefully maintained world, Amaka is forced into a reckoning with who she truly is and what she truly wants.

I've been chipping away at this in my spare time for a while now. It’s not as refined as I’d like just yet, but sometimes over-polishing can take away from the essence you're trying to convey.

Copyright 2025. All rights reserved. Any names, characters, and events portrayed are entirely fictional, and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Damilgodwin:

I commented once a time like that oo, my brother. Before I know ehn, it was deleted. That was when I realized that our comments are been regularize 😁😁😁

The thing weak me. It's not like I did anything or typed anything wrong. All I wrote was I would turn myself into a character in the story to deal squarely with this supposed male house help if he dare lay as much as a finger on any of those kids, and gbam, my comment was removed.

So why was my comment deleted, s?

Before I read let me thank you for the update @SheWrites. I will tell the "boys" to chill out .

April 9th na ihn you update last madam SheWrites. E be like say you wan make we arrange boys come carry you before you update ba?

@SheWrites, how far na? Anything for the boys?