Novels by Ekenta David

The dinner plates had long been cleared, the last of the wine finished, and the soft jazz from the record player had faded into a comfortable silence. Amir’s apartment felt smaller now, warmer, the city lights outside the windows casting a gentle glow across the living room.Adeyemi stood from the couch, walked to the window, and looked out at the glittering skyline. She could feel Amir’s eyes on her — steady, patient, full of quiet hunger.He came up behind her, not touching yet, just close enough that she could feel the heat of his body.“You’ve been quiet since dessert,” he said softly.She turned to face him, the navy dress still hugging her curves.“I’ve been thinking about how good dinner was,” she replied, voice low. “And how much better the night could get.”Amir’s eyes darkened. He stepped closer, one hand sliding to her waist, the other brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.“Then let me show you.”He kissed her — slow at first, then deeper, tongues meeting with growing u

The invitation came on a quiet Tuesday evening.Amir’s message was simple, almost shy:If you’re free this weekend, I’d love to cook for you at my place. Nothing fancy. Just good food and better company. No pressure.Adeyemi read it twice on her balcony, a small smile tugging at her lips. She had been thinking about him constantly since their second date — the stolen heat in the restaurant bathroom, the way his eyes had held hers in the mirror, the quiet tenderness afterward. She typed back before she could overthink it.I’d like that. Tell me when and where.He replied almost immediately with his address — a modest apartment in a quiet part of Al Quoz, not far from the bookstore. Saturday at 7 p.m. She accepted, heart beating a little faster than usual.Saturday arrived warm and golden. Adeyemi chose a simple but elegant outfit: a deep navy wrap dress that hugged her curves without being overt, hair loose, the silver anklet still on her ankle. She carried a small bottle of good Leban

Adeyemi sat on her Dubai balcony the next evening, a glass of chilled rosé in her hand, the city lights stretching out like scattered jewels below. The air was warm, carrying the faint scent of jasmine from a neighbor’s garden. She should have been reading or answering emails, but her mind kept drifting back to that second date with Amir — specifically to the stolen, heated moments in the restaurant bathroom.She closed her eyes and let the memory play out slowly.The way he had pulled her into that narrow, dimly lit space and locked the door with a quiet click. The hunger in his kiss the moment they were alone — deep, urgent, no longer patient. His hands sliding under her dress, fingers finding her already wet and ready. The way he had dropped to his knees right there on the tiled floor, pushed her dress up, and put his mouth on her without hesitation.She could still feel the heat of his tongue — slow, deliberate licks at first, then faster, sucking her clit while two fingers curled

The second date with Amir happened four days later, on a warm Thursday evening when Dubai’s spring felt almost tender. He had suggested a small, intimate Lebanese restaurant in Al Quoz — tucked inside a converted warehouse, soft lighting, low music, and tables spaced far enough apart that conversations stayed private.Adeyemi arrived wearing a deep burgundy silk dress that skimmed her curves without clinging, hair loose, the silver anklet still chiming softly with every step. Amir was already waiting at a corner table near the window. When he saw her, he stood — that calm, steady presence she was beginning to crave.“You look beautiful,” he said simply, pulling out her chair.They ordered slowly — mezze to share, grilled octopus, fattoush, a bottle of chilled Lebanese white wine. Conversation flowed easily, the way it always did with him: books they’d read since the last time, places they still wanted to visit, the strange comfort of finding someone who listened without trying to fix

The first real date with Amir happened on a Thursday evening when Dubai’s spring air felt almost gentle—warm but not yet oppressive, with a faint breeze carrying the scent of jasmine from nearby gardens. He had suggested a small, quiet restaurant in Al Quoz, tucked inside an old warehouse district turned arts hub. Nothing flashy. Just good food, soft lighting, and space to talk.Adeyemi arrived a few minutes early, wearing a simple deep-green linen dress that fell just above her knees, hair loose, silver anklet chiming softly with each step. She felt strangely nervous—not the old classroom kind of nerves, but the quieter kind that comes when something might actually matter.Amir was already there, waiting at a corner table near the window. He stood when he saw her—tall, calm, wearing a light blue shirt with sleeves rolled up, the same quiet presence that had first caught her attention in the bookstore. No suit, no show. Just him.“You came,” he said, smiling that small, almost shy smi

Dubai had entered its brief, beautiful spring—air still warm but no longer punishing, jasmine blooming on balconies, the desert winds carrying the faintest promise of rain that never quite arrived. Adeyemi had been back three weeks. Life had returned to its quiet rhythm: editing manuscripts in the mornings, occasional voice-over work for educational videos, evenings on the rooftop with wine and silence. She liked the solitude now. It no longer felt like hiding; it felt like breathing. She met him at a small independent bookstore in Al Quoz—a converted warehouse with high ceilings, exposed brick, shelves that reached toward skylights. She was in the poetry section, running her fingers along spines of Warsan Shire and Safia Elhillo, when a voice—low, calm, slightly accented—came from the aisle behind her. “You read her like someone who’s lived every line.” She turned. He stood maybe ten feet away—mid-forties, tall without looming, skin the deep brown of someone who spent time under

Toronto, Canada – September 4, 2036, 7:12 a.m.Morning light came soft through the blinds—thin gold lines across the floor and the rumpled sheets. Chino woke first, eyes heavy from the night before. The telling had left him raw, like he’d peeled back skin he’d kept covered for years. But beside him, Liam still slept—breathing slow, one arm draped across Chino’s waist like he’d been holding on even in dreams.Chino didn’t move right away. Just lay there, feeling the weight of Liam’s arm, the steady rise and fall of his chest. Last night’s words still hung in the air: the party, the video, the run, the knock, the roadblock kiss, the breaking with Wale. He had said it all. No hiding. No softening the edges. And Liam had listened—really listened—without trying to fix or rush or say “it’s okay” too soon.Now, in the morning quiet, Chino felt something shift. Not lighter exactly. Just… clearer. Like he’d finally put down a bag he’d been carrying across oceans.Liam stirred. Eyes opening slo

Toronto, Canada – September 3, 2036, 10:47 p.m. The living room lamp was the only light on—soft yellow, warm against the dark windows. Rain tapped light on the glass, steady like a heartbeat. Chino sat on the couch, knees drawn up, bare feet on the rug. Liam sat across from him in the armchair, elbows on knees, hands clasped, eyes never leaving Chino’s face. They’d been quiet for a while. Dinner cleared, dishes done, TV off. Just them. Chino had asked earlier: “Can we talk? Real talk.” Liam had nodded. No questions. Just waited. Chino exhaled slow. Looked at his hands—still scarred small from the drop in Wuse, still rough from years of gardens. “I never tell you everything,” he started. “Not the full thing. Not the parts that still wake me some nights.” Liam leaned forward a little. “I’m here. Whenever you ready.” Chino nodded. Took another breath. “In Lagos… 2026… me and Wale meet at one underground party. Lekki. Secret. No phones. We dance. We kiss. We… love. First time I feel

Toronto, Canada – August 12, 2036, 6:03 p.m.The backyard glowed in the late-afternoon light, everything golden and heavy with promise. Tomatoes hung low on the vines—red, round, warm from a full day of sun. Chino knelt by the raised bed, old gloves on, scissors in hand, cutting the first ripe one free. It came away easy, skin smooth and taut, the smell sharp and alive, like summer itself trapped in one small fruit. He held it up, turning it slow, feeling the weight of months of water, patience, and quiet hope.Liam watched from the porch steps, beer bottle loose in his hand, smile soft and easy. “First one?”Chino nodded. “First one. Mama go laugh if she see how small e be. She go say ‘plant more next time.’”Liam laughed low. “We planted plenty. This just the beginning.”Chino stood slow—knees creaking a little now—and walked over. Held the tomato out like an offering. Liam took it, bit in without ceremony. Juice ran down his chin; he wiped it with the back of his hand, grinning lik

Lagos, Nigeria – July 18, 2035, 6:42 p.m.The bookstore was packed—folding chairs full, people standing along the walls, air thick with perfume, paper, and Lagos heat. Banner above the small stage: “GLOW AFTER THE FIRE – A Conversation with Chinedu Okonkwo.” Chino sat beside the moderator, copy of his book in hand—cover simple: two shadows holding each other under a single bulb, Lagos lights faint in the background. Title in bold white: Glow After the Fire.Liam sat in the front row, beside Adanna and Nkem. Wale two rows back—smile small but proud. Chioma in the aisle, red locs bright, arms crossed, eyes shining fierce. Mama and Papa at home on video—tablet propped so they could see.The moderator—a young woman named Ifeoma, queer activist and writer—leaned into the mic. “Chino, thank you for being here. Your book… it’s raw. It’s real. How does it feel to see it out in the world?”Chino exhaled slow. Looked at the crowd—faces young and old, some nodding, some wiping eyes.“Feel like d

Lagos, Nigeria – July 16, 2035, 4:42 p.m.The café was small—hidden in Victoria Island, glass walls, plants hanging from the ceiling, soft jazz playing low. Chino arrived first, found a corner table, ordered two coffees—black for himself, latte for Wale. Hands steady but heart beating fast. Liam sat beside him, hand resting light on Chino’s knee under the table. “You okay?”Chino nodded. “I dey okay. Just… long time.”Wale walked in ten minutes later—same walk, same easy smile, hair shorter now, small silver earring catching the light. He saw Chino, paused, then grinned wide. “Bros.”Chino stood. They met halfway—hug long, tight, no words at first. Wale smelled like shea butter and Lagos air. Chino felt something in his chest shift—old ache, new peace.They pulled apart. Wale looked at Liam. Extended a hand. “You must be Liam. Nice to finally meet the man wey take care of my guy.”Liam shook it firm, smiled. “He take care of me too. Good to meet you, Wale.”They sat. Coffee arrived. S

Lagos, Nigeria – July 14, 2035, 2:18 p.m.The airport arrivals hall smelled like sweat, perfume, and roasted corn from the hawkers outside. Chino stepped through the doors, Liam beside him, both carrying small bags. Heat hit like an old friend—thick, heavy, alive. Chino inhaled deep. Felt something loosen in his chest he didn’t know was still tight.Adanna waited beyond the barrier—braids longer, smile wider, Nkem jumping beside her in a bright sundress. “Uncle Chino! Uncle Liam!”Nkem ran first. Chino dropped to one knee, caught her in a hug. She smelled like coconut oil and childhood. “You big o! Last time you fit carry me. Now I dey carry you.”Nkem giggled. “You tall pass everybody!”Adanna reached them next—hugged Chino long, then Liam, no hesitation. “Welcome home, bros. Welcome, Liam. Mama dey wait with stew. Papa dey pretend say he no dey excited.”Kelechi took the bags, clapped Chino on the back. “Good to see you, man. Lagos miss you.”They piled into the car—traffic thick as