Ep 3- Tomorrow
AkilaHyel
I woke up before the alarm. I always do on this day. Even when I try not to think about it, my body remembers.
The house was still quiet. Abuja mornings carry a certain softness before traffic wakes up and noise becomes the city’s heartbeat.
For a moment, I stood by the window, arms folded behind my back, watching the sky turn from grey to pale blue.
Tomorrow I turn thirty.
Nine years since my father died. Nine years since I stopped celebrating birthdays.
The door creaked softly behind me.
I didn’t turn. I already knew it was her.
“You’re awake,” Naya said, her voice thick with sleep.
“I’m always awake.”
She shuffled closer. I could hear the hesitation in her steps. Then she wrapped her arms tightly around me.
Her forehead pressed into my back.
“Don’t be hard on yourself today,” she whispered.
I closed my eyes briefly.
“I’m not.”
She scoffed softly. “Akila, you’re like a wall.”
I turned slowly to face her.
She looked small in my oversized T-shirt, hair messy, eyes already glossy.
“Today is not your birthday,” she said carefully.
I didn’t respond. She swallowed. “It’s tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“And tomorrow is…”
“I know what tomorrow is.”
Her jaw tightened. “You don’t have to pretend.”
“I’m not pretending.”
She stepped back and looked up at me fully.
“You’re turning thirty.”
I held her gaze.
“And?”
“And you deserve to be alive. You deserve to grow older. You deserve joy.”
My expression didn’t shift.
“Joy is not mandatory.”
She exhaled sharply. “You can’t keep doing this.”
“Doing what?”
“Erasing yourself every year because of what happened.”
I felt something sharp and old stir inside my chest.
“Watch your tone,” I said quietly.
Her eyes softened immediately. “I’m not disrespecting you. I'm just…..”
“Good.”
Silence stretched between us. She moved to sit on the edge of my bed. I remained standing.
“You know what I remember?” she said after a moment.
I didn’t respond.
“The day Daddy said he wanted to show you something special.”
My jaw tightened.
She continued softly, “He took you out because it was a day to your birthday.”
“Stop.”
Her voice trembled. “He was happy that day, Akila.”
“I said stop.”
The word came out harder than I intended.
She flinched and immediately, guilt followed.
I inhaled slowly.
“Don’t reopen what you cannot close,” I said more calmly.
She looked up at me, tears forming now.
“You stopped celebrating because you think if you don’t mark the day, it didn’t happen.”
“No.”
“Then why?”
I stared at the wall past her.
“Because the day after my father died is not a day for cake and balloons.”
“It’s also the day you were born.”
“I would rather spend it in church.”
She stood up quickly. “So that’s it? Every year, you’ll punish yourself?”
“It is not punishment.”
“Then what is it?”
“Discipline.”
Her brows furrowed. “How is refusing happiness discipline?”
“It is alignment with reality.”
She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”
“....and you’re grieving.”
I didn’t answer. She stepped closer again.
“Celebrate quietly. Just us. No party. No noise. Let me cook for you. Let me bake something. Let me at least say happy birthday without you shutting me down.”
I looked at her.
“I didn't stop you from wishing me a happy birthday.”
Her face brightened slightly.
“But I won’t celebrate.” I added
Her shoulders dropped again.
“Why are you like this?” she whispered.
Because if I allow myself to feel that day as joy, I will have to feel everything else that came after it.
Because I watched my father bleed on the same day I was born.
Because something inside me died before he did.
But I didn’t say any of that.
Instead, I said, “You need to return to God.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You’re drifting from God.”
Her expression hardened slightly. “Don’t deflect.”
“I’m not deflecting. I’m telling you the truth.”
She folded her arms. “I still believe in God.”
“Belief is not relationship with God”
“Oh, so now you’re preaching?”
“I live it.”
She laughed weakly. “You???.. You live discipline. That’s not the same thing as faith.”
I stepped closer. “God kept us.”
“Daddy is dead.”
“Yes.” I said as a matter of fact.
“Then what exactly did he keep?” she asked
“He kept you.” Her lips trembled.
“He kept Mother.” I added
She wiped her cheek angrily. “He didn’t keep Daddy.”
The room fell silent. I lowered my voice.
“We don’t measure God by outcomes we prefer.” my jaw clenched.
She stared at me for a long time.
“You’re angry at Him,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I am not.”
“Then why won’t you celebrate life?”
“Because life is not all about celebration. I will rather spend life making God happy than being happy with myself.”
She shook her head, stepped forward again and hugged me suddenly.
Like she did when she was little.
“You scare me,” she whispered. “You shut yourself down and it is scary”
I didn't say anything. I was exhausted from having this conversation.
She pulled back and looked up at me.
“I don’t want you to become as hard as stone.”
I scoffed and ruffled her hair “I won’t.”
“You already are.”
The words lingered between us.
She touched my face gently.
“Please,” she said. “Just consider celebrating. Even if it’s small.”
“I will spend tomorrow in church.”
She sighed. “And after?”
“Perhaps a retreat.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head but didn’t argue again. Instead, she leaned her forehead against my chest.
“Happy birthday in advance,” she whispered.
I didn’t respond immediately.
Then I placed my hand lightly on her head.
“Go and rest, Naya” I said.
But my voice was softer than before.
By evening, the house felt heavier. The air carried memory.
Naya had been unusually quiet all afternoon. She tried once or twice to lighten the mood—asking what I wanted for dinner, teasing me about turning thirty, but even she knew this day demanded reverence.
At exactly 7:00 p.m., I set the phone on the dining table and adjusted the stand.
Naya sat beside me. Her hand rested against my arm.
The call connected and mother’s face filled the screen first.
She was sitting outside, under the neem tree beside the farmhouse. The same tree Daddy planted when Wandi was born. The same tree he used to sit under in the evenings, removing his boots after long hours on the farm.
“Akilahyel,” she said softly.
“Ma. Good evening.”
Her eyes searched my face. “You look thinner.”
“Mama, I’m fine.”
She smiled sadly. “You always say that. You never really talk.”
Wandi joined the call next. She was in her living room, one of the twins trying to climb onto her lap while the other waved at the screen.
“Uncle Akila!” they shouted together.
I allowed the faintest smile.
“Yes, generals,” I replied and they laughed.
Her husband, Timi, adjusted the camera. “Good evening, Captain.”
“Evening, boss.”
Kwaala joined last. Her Navy uniform crisp– she was at work. She was a US Navy Officer. She joined the navy the same year our father died. He didn't live to see her finish her training and become a Lieutenant.
“Captain,” she said with quiet respect. I loved Kwaala so much. She was my direct older sister and carried the same strength as me.
“Lieutenant.” I saluted.
Mother clasped her hands together. “Thank you all for joining,” she began. “Even if we are not in Adamawa together this year, we are one in heart.”
Naya squeezed my arm as mother inhaled deeply.
“Today marks nine years since your father went to be with the Lord.”
Her voice trembled. “He was a good man.”
Wandi wiped her eyes immediately and Timi put an arm around her.
Mother continued. “He was not perfect. But he was righteous. He feared God. He loved his children. He loved me.”
There was total silence. Even the twins sensed it.
Mother looked straight at the camera.
“I want us to speak about what we loved about him.”
She looked at Wandi first.
Wandi nodded slowly.
“I loved that Daddy never made us feel small,” she said, voice already breaking. “Even when we had nothing, he made us feel rich. He used to say, ‘Poverty is a situation, not an identity.’”
Tears rolled down her face.
“He taught me to pray without fear. Remember how he would gather us at 5 a.m. and say, ‘If you can speak to God before you speak to men, your day is already aligned’?”
Mother nodded, crying silently now.
Wandi continued, “He respected women. He never raised his voice at you, Mama. Not once.”
Timi spoke next.
“I respected his integrity. When I first came to ask for Wandi’s hand to date her, he didn’t ask about money. He wanted to know my character. He said, ‘Can you stand in storms?’ I didn’t understand then. I do now.”
Kwaala was next. She adjusted her posture before speaking.
“I loved his discipline,” she said firmly. “He believed in service. He believed Nigeria and the world as large was worth defending. Every time I wear this uniform and carry out my duties, it reminds me that my father was a man of discipline and I am making him proud.”
She looked directly into the camera.
“AkilaHyel, I know he is proud of you too.”
Mother nodded again. Naya’s grip on my arm tightened as my face remained stoic.
Mother turned her gaze to her.
“Naya.”
Naya wiped her face and inhaled shakily.
“I loved that he always called me ‘my sunshine,’” she said, smiling through tears. “Even when I was stubborn. Even when I broke Mama’s plates. He said I carried light.”
Her voice cracked.
“And the day he…..” She stopped herself.
Silence stretched and mother’s lips trembled.
Then she looked at me.
“Akilahyel.”
All eyes shifted but I remained still.
“I loved his strength,” I said evenly.
“He was not loud. He was not boastful. But he stood firm.”
My voice did not break.
“He believed a man’s word should weigh something.”
Mother nodded slowly.
“I will make him proud by avenging his death. One way or the other.”
Mother took a deep breath. She was tired of asking me to stop thinking of avenging his death. She believed God allowed it for a reason. I believed God made me a soldier in the Nigerian Army for a reason too.
“Let us pray.”
She closed her eyes. We all followed.
“Father in Heaven,” she began, her voice steady despite the tears, “We thank You for the life of my husband. Thank You for the years You gave us with him. Thank You for the children he left behind. Guard them. Strengthen them. Keep their hearts from bitterness.”
Bitterness.
The word lingered.
“Lord, help us to forgive what we do not understand. Help us not to carry anger longer than You permit.”
My jaw tightened.
“Protect Wandi and her family. Give Captain Akila wisdom. Give Kwaala courage. Protect them in their service. Heal Naya’s heart.”
“Let Gaya’s legacy not die with him. Make us men of integrity.”
Finally, Mother whispered, “And Lord, teach us to celebrate life even when we remember death.”
Silence followed with soft crying filling the speakers.
Naya leaned into me fully now as Wandi sobbed openly and mother wiped her face with the edge of her wrapper.
I did not cry. I have not cried since that day.
Mother composed herself first.
“Next year,” she said gently, “let us gather in Adamawa.”
She looked at me specifically. “Let us stand on that land together.”
Mother continued softly, “He was so proud that day.”
I inhaled. She didn’t continue the story. She didn’t have to.
Kwaala cleared his throat. “We love you, Mama.”
“I love you all,” she replied.
Wandi leaned toward the camera. “Akila, you know we love you, right?”
“Yes.”
“Say it.”
I hesitated.
Then, firmly, “I love you all.”
The twins shouted, “We love you, Uncle!”
Naya looked up at me through wet lashes.
“Say it to me,” she whispered.
I looked down at her.
“I love you, Naya.”
She cried harder. Mother smiled through tears.
We ended the call slowly. No one wanted to hang up. Finally, the screen went dark.
The house was quiet again. Naya remained pressed against me.
“You didn’t cry,” she murmured.
“No.”
“Do you ever cry?”
I didn’t answer. Some questions didn't need answers.
SOTERIA
I should have felt something. Excitement. Shock. Tears. Butterflies.
Something.
Instead, as I stared at Ayoola kneeling in front of me, velvet box open, diamond catching the soft light of his living room, all I felt was… pressure.
Too much pressure. The weekend had been loud.
Music, laughter. His friends crowding the penthouse. Bottles popping, smoke curling toward the ceiling. Bodies pressed too close in the club. His hand constantly on my waist like he owned the space I occupied.
It had been intense. Like always.
Three years of intensity.
Three years of being the girl beside Ayoola Adebayo — son of Chief Adebayo, owner of one of the largest logistics companies spanning Lagos and London. Three years of private jets sometimes. Three years of champagne birthdays. Three years of everyone saying, “You people are the “IT” Couple.” Everyone except Amara and Zainab
Three years of passion.
Now he was kneeling.
“Soteria Unwana Idorenyin,” he said, voice steady but eyes searching mine. “Will you marry me.”
My heart didn’t leap.
This makes sense. This is expected. This is logical. This is safe.
But it did not feel intense.
I forced a small smile.
“Ayoola…”
His jaw tightened slightly. He knew that tone.
“You don’t have to answer immediately,” he said quickly. “But I need to know we’re moving somewhere.”
We have been moving for three years, I thought. Just not forward.
“I’m not ready,” I said gently.
His hand lowered slightly.
“Not ready?” he repeated.
I nodded, trying to keep my voice soft. I hate upsetting people. I hate seeing disappointment in anyone’s face, especially someone who cares about me.
“It’s not about you,” I added quickly.
His eyes darkened.
“Is it because I haven't been around lately?” he asked carefully.
I stiffened. “It’s not about that.”
He stood slowly.
“Or is it because I’m not your tribe?”
There it was. The insecurity he pretended he didn’t carry.
“Ayoola….”
“No, answer me.”
His voice wasn’t loud. It sounded very controlled. Which was worse.
“My family loves you,” I said.
“That’s not what I asked.” He stepped closer.
“I am a good match for you, Soteria. I have money. I have structure. I have a future. My father built an empire in diaspora and Nigeria. I’m not some struggling boy. I can give you everything.”
I know. That was never the problem.
The problem was that he gave me everything except something I couldn’t name.
Peace? Safety? Stillness?
Our relationship was built on chemistry and convenience.
We partied hard. We fought hard. We made up harder. We had a great time in bed.
He was never possessive.
He just didn’t like when men looked at me too long. He didn’t like when I traveled without him. He didn’t like when I posted certain pictures.
But he liked showing me off.
I was the trophy girlfriend.
The light-skinned princess with a sharp mouth and designer taste.
And I liked being wanted. I liked being chosen. I liked knowing that when we walked into a room, heads turned.
But marriage?
Marriage requires something deeper than attraction and access. Something like why my parents had.
“I don’t want to rush something permanent,” I said quietly.
His nostrils flared slightly.
“Three years is a rush?”
I swallowed.
“It’s not about time.”
“Then what is it about?”
I didn’t have the courage to say it.
It’s about the fact that when I imagine forever, I don’t see your face clearly.
Instead I said, “I need to grow.”
He laughed lightly, but it wasn’t humor.
“You’ve not grown for over 3 years??”
That stung.
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
He closed the ring box slowly.
“So what are we doing, Soteria?”
We are enjoying each other. We are distracting each other. We are avoiding something deeper.
But I couldn’t say that either.
“I care about you,” I whispered.
“Care is not marriage.”
Silence fell heavy between us.
I excused myself to the bathroom before I cried. Inside the bathroom, I locked the door and leaned against it.
Then I called Amara and Zainab. Amara picked up immediately.
“Baby girl?? How far?”
“Ayo proposed.” I said flatly
Her scream nearly shattered my eardrum.
“WHAT?!”
Zainab joined the call seconds later from the UK.
“Wait. What did she say?”
“Ayo proposed,” I repeated.
“And?” Zainab asked carefully.
“I said I’m not ready.” They went silent.
Then Amara said “You’re joking.”
“No, I'm not.”
Zainab’s face hardened slightly. “Babe, why are you with him?”
I rolled my eyes. “Not you too.”
“Soteria,” she said calmly, “you’ve been sleeping with this man for three years.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Oh?” Amara cut in. “Then what is it like?”
I sighed. “He’s good to me.”
Zainab raised a brow. “Define good.”
“He sorts me out. He’s attentive. He knows what I like.”
They exchanged looks.
“In bed,” Amara said flatly.
I didn’t answer.
Zainab sighed deeply. “You’re playing wife without being one.”
“It’s not that serious.”
“It is that serious,” she countered. “You’re emotionally entangled and physically attached, but you don’t want commitment. That’s twisted.”
I frowned. “It’s not twisted. I just don’t want to lose him.”
“Why?” Amara asked.
Because I hate disappointing people. Because I like being loved. Because I like being needed. He made me feel like a drug he couldn't do without.
“He cares about me,” I said instead.
“And you don’t care about him enough to marry him,” Zainab replied.
“You get so much love from home,” she continued gently. “Your parents adore you. Your siblings worship you. Why are you constantly chasing validation outside?”
I bristled. “I’m not chasing validation, Zee.”
“You are,” she said softly. “You don’t like upsetting people. So you stay.”
Amara nodded. “You stay with whoever wants you.”
I looked away from the screen.
“He’ll be hurt,” I whispered.
“So you’ll marry him out of pity?” Zainab asked sharply.
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
I didn’t know. That was the problem.
I wanted everyone to be happy. I wanted him to feel chosen. I wanted my friends to approve. I wanted my parents to be proud.
I wanted to never be the villain in anyone’s story.
“I need to go,” I muttered.
“Think carefully,” Zainab said before I ended the call. “Don’t confuse chemistry with Love.”
I stared at myself in the mirror.
Perfect hair. Perfect skin. Perfect life. But…..Messy heart.
I walked back into the bedroom.
Ayoola was sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the ring box in his hand.
He didn’t look arrogant. He looked… vulnerable.
I walked toward him slowly. Then I wrapped my arms around him from behind.
He stiffened slightly.
“Baby… I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” I whispered.
“You didn’t,” he said quietly.
“I just need time.”
He didn’t respond. I rested my chin on his shoulder.
“I’ll think about it,” I murmured.
That was enough for him. He turned and pulled me into his chest.
“I’m not your enemy, baby,” he said.
I know. That’s what makes this harder.
I don’t dislike him. I’m just not sure I love him the way forever requires.
But I smiled against his chest anyway. Because I don’t like being the one who walks away.
The next morning, I woke up slowly, the kind of slow that comes after a weekend of too much laughter, too much music, too much touching.
Ayoola’s room was quiet, heavy curtains drawn just enough to let in a thin line of morning light. The sheets were rumpled, the faint scent of his cologne still hanging in the air. He was still asleep, one arm flung lazily across the bed where I had been moments before.
I watched him for a while.
There was something almost innocent about him when he slept. No ego. No calculated charm. No boardroom sharpness. Just a man breathing steadily, unaware of the way my mind was spiraling beside him.
The ring from the night before flashed briefly in my memory.
The surprise proposal.
I slipped quietly out of bed and wrapped the sheet around myself.
My body still carried traces of the weekend, the dancing, the drinks, the closeness.
We had lived recklessly for forty-eight hours. We always did.
His friends had come over Saturday night, loud, spraying money, popping champagne like the world was ending on Monday. I had danced until my calves burned, until Ayoola pulled me close in that possessive way he had, whispering that I was his future wife like it was already signed and sealed.
I didn’t feel like anyone’s future wife.
He stirred behind me.
“Babe,” he called softly, voice husky with sleep.
“I’m awake,” I replied without turning.
He pushed himself up slightly, resting on his elbow. “You’re leaving already.”
“Yes.”
He traced lines absentmindedly on my back in silence before saying, “You’ve been quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About last night.” it wasn’t a question.
“Yes.”
He exhaled slowly. “I meant what I said.”
“I know.”
“And you?”
I turned to face him fully now. “I meant what I said too. I’m not ready.”
He sat up completely, his expression serious but controlled. “We’ve been together for three years. What exactly are you waiting for?”
The room felt smaller suddenly.
“I’m not waiting for anything,” I said carefully. “I just don’t want to step into something permanent when I don’t feel completely sure.”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“Is it because we don’t have sex as often as we used to?” he asked bluntly.
I blinked at him. “This again?”
“You heard me. Has that changed how you feel?”
I almost laughed at the absurdity of it. “That’s not the issue.”
“Then what?” His tone was sharper now, defensive.
“What is what?” I shot back.
“You tell me.”
“I don't know.”
He searched my face like he was trying to find a crack in it.
“I’m a good match for you,” he said slowly. “Our families align. I’m not struggling. I’m not irresponsible. I don’t cheat on you.”
“I know.”
“Then why hesitate?”
Instead, I said, “I am not ready for this conversation.”
He stood up and walked to the window, pulling the curtain aside slightly.
“I can’t keep building with uncertainty forever,” he said quietly.
I felt guilt rise in my throat like acid. “I’m not trying to waste your time.”
“Then don’t.” he said.
I dressed in silence, packed my overnight bag, and left with a kiss that felt more obligatory than affectionate.
The club that evening was the complete opposite of his quiet house. It pulsed.
Bass throbbed through the walls before I even stepped inside. Blue and red lights cut through the haze of smoke machines, bodies packed tight on the dance floor. The air smelled of alcohol, perfume, sweat, expensive cologne, and something slightly sinful.
Chiamamanda’s sugar daddy had spared no expense for her 25th birthday party.
A VIP section elevated above the crowd, velvet couches, gold accents, waiters weaving through with trays of champagne and Hennessy.
Amanda spotted me immediately.
“Soteria!” she screamed over the music, rushing to hug me.
She was already tipsy, glittering dress clinging to her curves like liquid metal.
“Girl!!!! You look insane!” she added, grabbing my shoulders and spinning me.
I wore a red fitted dress, sultry and very expensive. It hugged my waist and hips before tapering down elegantly. My red heels clicked confidently against the polished floor.
The moment I stepped fully into the club, I felt it.
Eyes were scanning and accessing me.
Some appreciative while others were predatory.
And I won’t lie, I liked it.
I liked the way men straightened when I walked past. I liked the subtle shift in energy when I took space.
Music swelled and Amanda and my other girls dragged me to the dance floor.
We moved instinctively, hips swaying, hands in the air. The DJ switched to Afrobeats, the kind that makes your body respond before your brain does.
A man slid behind me, his hands hovering near my waist.
I didn’t turn. He placed them lightly on my hips.
I allowed it for a few seconds. But when his grip tightened slightly, fingers pressing in a way I didn't appreciate, I stepped forward smoothly, breaking contact.
Another man leaned close to my ear, shouting compliments over the music.
“You’re HOTTT!”
I smiled but didn’t answer.
The vape pen passed between us and I took a slow inhale, letting the sweetness settle in my lungs before exhaling a thin cloud.
The night blurred into laughter, grinding bodies, flashing lights.
Around midnight, my phone vibrated in my clutch.
Effiom❤️❤️.
My heart skipped.
I excused myself quickly and rushed to the restroom, the noise dimming as the door closed behind me.
“Where are you?” he asked immediately.
“At a party,” I replied, smiling despite myself.
He exhaled softly. “You this girl. You can never change.”
“What does that mean?”
“You love noise a lot.”
I laughed. “Ehhhh!! Whatever.”
“I’m back in Abuja oo.”
My breath caught. “Yayyyyyyy!!!! Since when?”
“Today, my love.”
Joy flooded me instantly. “I missed you, broooo.”
“I know, my troublemaker.”
His voice softened in that way only my family’s voices did.
“When can I see you, my guy” I asked.
“Tomorrow. Come to my office na.”
“I will oo. Where are you taking me to?” I asked
“I’ll take you to your amala spot after.”
“Ahnahnnn… My sponsor sir. Your girl is loyal”
He laughed and then. “How’s Ayoola?”
I hesitated before telling him about the proposal.
There was silence on the other end.
“We’ll talk when we see tomorrow,” he said finally.
“Okay, broo.”
“And sissy?”
“Mhmmm?” I was tired.
“Be careful.”
“I always am.”
“If you say so.” He didn’t sound convinced.
I left the club soon after. The drive home was quiet, Abuja streets calmer at that hour.
Streetlights streaked past as I thought about everything — Ayoola’s disappointment, Effiom’s concern, the way strangers’ hands had felt on my waist like I was public property.
By the time I got home, the house lights were still on.
Mom was in the living room.
“Unwana baby!” she exclaimed, standing up immediately.
I smiled and walked into her arms.
“Where are you coming from?”
“Ayoola’s place,” I answered casually.
She nodded. She likes Ayoola for me.
Dad immediately emerged from his study.
“Little general,” he called, grinning.
I laughed and ran to hug him.
“Old Man!!! I missed you oo.” He kissed my forehead lightly.
“You’ve been gallivanting around town,” he teased.
“Just small na,” I replied.
He handed me a small gift bag.
“Take this. I got it for you from my trip.”
I opened it eagerly.
“You spoil this girl too much,” Mummy said as she smacked my head and ran into the kitchen.
“Leave me, joor” I laughed. It was a designer scarf in my favorite shade.
“Daddyyy!!!! You didn’t have to.”
“I wanted to, baby.”
I hugged him tightly.
In moments like that, I felt completely loved. Completely safe.
That morning, I went to see my brother at the barracks.
I knocked on Effiom’s office door.
“Come in.”
The moment I entered, he stood up.
“Sote, baebaeeee!!!!.”
I ran into his arms. He lifted me slightly and hugged me tightly.
“I’ve missed you, my guy” he said into my hair.
“I missed you more.”
He pecked my forehead. I pulled back and immediately sat in his chair behind the desk.
“Oga Effiom,” I teased, spinning slightly.
He shook his head.
“Get up from there, this woman.”
“No!!.” I started picking up his awards, examining them.
“You didn’t tell me about this commendation.”
“You were not in the country then.” he said
“Do you really enjoy working in the military?” I asked seriously.
He leaned against his desk.
“Yes, I do.”
“How about the trips?”
“Not always. But I really enjoy serving.”
“You sound so much like Dad.” I said.
“Abeg oo. I'm not that old man." He sounded tough but his expression softened.
“How far that your nurse babe?? Are you serious about her?” I asked.
“Yes oo, inspector general. I plan to marry her.” He nodded.
I smiled widely. “I love love. Love Nwantiti.”
He laughed. “You love love but you rejected Ayoola's ring. You don’t know what you want, this girl.”
“I do joor.” I joked
"Why exactly did you even turn him down?” he asked as he took a seat across from me.
Before I could respond, there was a firm knock.
Effiom straightened instantly. “Come in.”
Immediately the door opened, I didn’t need to look fully.
The scent reached me first- clean, sharp, woody.
Then the voice. Deep. Very deep.
“Captain.”
My heart stopped.
That voice. I knew it. My eyes lifted slowly.
Tall frame filling the doorway. Broad shoulders. Presence commanding the air.
My stomach dropped. It was him.
Panic surged as recognition slammed into me at once.
My heart was pounding violently and without thinking, I slid off the chair and ducked under the desk.
Hiii babiesssss. It's been a while. I am sorry it came late but the wait was worth it. Right??????
This chapter was to introduce the characters in their different lights. What do you think of Akila and his family issue?
Also, Soteria and her man??
😂😂😂 I have never hated to see the authors note like I have😂😂😂 😒 I was flowing!!!
Ahh, why you do me like this?? 😩😫 That cliffhanger though!