Chapter 3

FEHINTOLA

1st DECEMBER 2024.

Ikorodu, Lagos state.

"You have arrived at your destination!"

The voice of the GPS in my Uber ride jolted me out of my thoughts. I straightened in my seat, staring out the window as the Uber slowed to a stop. Ikorodu. This place was just as I remembered it—unchanged, very familiar.

A part of me almost didn’t want to come. Of all the places in Lagos for my father to find a potential business venture, why here?

Memories—some fond, others bitter—flooded my mind as I took in the streets, the unpaved roads, the weathered buildings that hadn’t aged well. Five years ago, fresh out of university, I had been posted here for my National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) program, a mandatory year of service for Nigerian graduates. My assignment had been at a secondary school, teaching literature to senior secondary students. But I’d been too used to the comfort and luxury of my upbringing to adjust to this small town. The moment I had a chance, I redeployed and fled, and left for Newyork.

Now, I was back, even though I didn’t want to be. But at the end of the day, Ikorodu is a not so small town, what were the odds of running into familiar faces from those days?

"Madam! Are you paying with cash or transfer?" The Uber driver’s impatient tone interrupted my thoughts. I turned to him, blinking away my thoughts. His annoyance was obvious as he reached for the glove box and yanked it open, pulling out a POS machine with unnecessary aggression.

"Or POS! Tori à mo iru yín!" ("Because I know your kind!") he spat, eyeing me with disdain.

"Lagos wannabe big girls, no money!"

I blinked, caught off guard by his audacity. A small scoff escaped my lips as I tried to process his words.

"Excuse me?"

"You’re not excused, aunty! Pay my money!" He snapped, his eyes narrowing as if daring me to argue, like he was so sure I was broke and could afford to pay him. I shook my head slowly, a mixture of disbelief and irritation bubbling inside me.

"You know what? Call your account number."

He rattled it off, and I quickly transferred the fare. Almost immediately, his phone chimed with the alert. He glanced at the screen, then rolled his eyes and muttered,

"Toor. Shior!"

Shior. That dismissive Yoruba expression dripped with condescension. As if that wasn’t enough, he added,

"You better take your life seriously. Banana Island to Ikorodu every day? Just because you want to form Lagos big girl? It won’t pay you. I have a daughter your age at home, and I’ll tell her the same thing."

I froze, my lips parting in astonishment. Was this stranger actually judging me based on... nothing? Once again, Lagos proved it: someone somewhere always had unsolicited advice. Was I really in Lagos Nigeria, if one Busybody adult does not try to tell you trash!

"You don’t even know me!" I shot back, my voice rising.

"How about you focus on your wretched life and stop trying to advise someone whose life is already put together?" My life wasn’t put together but still!

I pushed open the door, grabbed my suitcase from the trunk, and slammed it shut with more force than necessary. He hissed loudly as he reversed the car and sped off, leaving a cloud of dust behind.

I huffed in frustration, as early as now I was already regretting agreeing to this trip. Not only was the Uber driver’s word irritating the hell out of me, the sun bore down on me, unrelenting and scorching. From winter in Newyork, nothing prepared me for the heat in Nigeria.

I looked around for the hotel I had booked, after a while of asking around, I realized that the hotel I’d booked was a short walk down an unmotorable road. Of course, my father hadn’t considered that I’d need a car here. Typical.

Dragging my suitcase over the uneven, dusty path, I muttered curses under my breath. The road was riddled with potholes, and I could already feel my heels sinking into the dirt, I shouldn’t have worn them, neither should I have worn the wig on my head. I should have put on something more comfortable, probably a jeans and top or something, How could I have forgotten what this town was like. Or maybe I was extremely delusional thinking everywhere would have suddenly become developed in five years.

****

“I’m sorry for the inconvenience, ma’am. Our website has been inactive for some time now. We only attend to physical customers.” The receptionist at the hotel said to me.

What?! You’ve got to be joking! Their website has been down? How does that even happen?

I exhaled sharply, pressing the heel of my palm against my forehead as I tried to keep my temper in check. Slowly, I looked back up at her, forcing some calmness into my tone.

“Alright, fine. I’m already here. Can I book another room instead?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, and I could tell from her furrowed brows that another excuse was coming.

“It’s peak season, ma’am. We’re fully booked.”

I scoffed, scratching at my scalp through my wig in sheer frustration.

“Peak season? In Ikorodu? Since when does this place have peak seasons?” My voice rose despite my effort to stay composed.

“So, you’re telling me there’s not a single room available anywhere in this whole town?” The receptionist winced, her expression almost apologetic.

“I’m really sorry, ma’am. Please try to remain calm—”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” I snapped,

“Why can’t you people get your systems in order in this country? Why do you keep stressing innocent citizens?”

Before she could respond, a man approached us briskly. His demeanor was authoritative, and I assumed he must be the manager.

“What’s the issue here?” he asked, his voice steady. The receptionist immediately filled him in, her voice low and apologetic. Once she was done, he turned to me, his face etched with concern.

“Ma’am, I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience,” he began. I shook my head, my patience long gone.

“I don’t need an apology,” I shot back. “What I need is a solution. Because if one doesn’t show up soon, I swear I’m going to lose my mind!”

The man nodded, seemingly unfazed by my outburst. Almost like he was used to customers outbursts like this.

“I know a realtor. They could arrange a serviced apartment for you to rent, if that’s acceptable.”

I arched an eyebrow at him, crossing my arms as I tilted my head.

“A serviced apartment?”

“Yes, ma’am. It’s fully furnished and available for short-term stays. I can make a call for you right now.” I let out a heavy sigh, rolling my eyes.

“Fine. I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

•

As the realtor drove down the road , I stared at nothing in particular, anger brewing inside of me almost spilling out.

They say heartbreak turns you into an amateur motivational speaker. Maybe that’s why I’d convinced myself I could do this—start fresh, rebuild, and somehow make everything work out. But here I was, on my first day, and it already felt like the universe was mocking me. Everything that could go wrong had gone spectacularly wrong.

Within minutes, we pulled up in front of what I assumed was the service apartment Ayo — The realtor had mentioned. He parked neatly by the entrance and turned to me, his expression careful.

“We have several properties. If this one doesn’t work for you, we can check out another,” he said, his tone light but professional.

I barely acknowledged him, my gaze shifting from his face to the building before us. It wasn’t bad—clean lines, fresh paint, and none of the wear and tear I’d come to expect from places in this area. The structure shone like it had been built yesterday.

My stay here is temporary anyway. A week, maybe ten days at most. I didn’t have the energy or patience for apartment hunting, and this place seemed decent enough.

“I’ll take it,” I muttered, the words slipping out tiredly.

He nodded, visibly relieved, and we both stepped out of the car. The busy street hummed with the sounds of children playing and adults just going about their business.

We reached the entrance, and the realtor —Ayo fumbled in his pocket before pulling out a set of keys. He slid one into the lock and turned, but the door refused to budge.

His lips thinned as he tried again, his movements growing more impatient before he turned to me with an apologetic shrug.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice laced with embarrassment.

“I left my brother here earlier to fix something in the bathroom. Let me knock.”

He knocked on the door a few times, pausing to listen. The faint shuffle of footsteps from inside reached us before the sound of the lock turning.

When the door opened, my eyes flapped close and fluttered open almost immediately as I looked up at the person who had just opened the door. I froze.

I blinked once, then twice, convinced my eyes were playing tricks on me. But no, the man standing there was unmistakable.

Tall and broad-shouldered, his frame filled the doorway like he belonged there. His dark skin glowed in the soft light filtering through the hall, and the sharp planes of his face, high cheekbones, and those full lips I used to know too well—seemed even more striking than I remembered.

But it was his eyes that held me captive. Deep, intense, and framed by lashes that could put anyone’s to shame. They pinned me in place, their dark depths holding a mix of surprise, curiosity, and …something I couldn’t quite name.

For a second, I forgot to breathe.

He leaned casually against the doorframe, his white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, showcasing forearms corded with muscle. He looked effortless, like he’d just stepped out of a beauty magazine.

I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

What were the odds of running into familiar faces from those days? A hundred Apparently!

And I hated that my heart still skipped a beat for him.