Oga’s call

Rihanna wakes up with a crick in her neck and Jake’s hoodie halfway off her shoulder. He’s already up. She can hear him in the kitchen, cursing at the gas ring.

The rain stopped in the night. Outside, the street is still a river of brown water and floating pure-water sachets. NEPA is back — the fan spins lazily above her head.

She sits up slowly. The plates from last night are washed and stacked. On the table, Jake left half a bread loaf and a note torn from her notebook: _Gone to Oga. Don’t burn house. — J_

She smiles before she can stop herself.

Mom comes home at nine, eyes red, scrubs smelling of disinfectant. She hugs Rihanna hard, then goes straight to shower and sleep. "You two eat?"

"Yes ma."

"Good. Wake me by three."

The flat is quiet again. Rihanna tries to read. Marketing 302. The words slide off her brain. She keeps hearing the bucket from last night. _Plink. Plink._ Even though it’s gone now.

Jake bursts in around two, soaked to his knees, grinning wide enough to show the gap in his teeth. He slams the door.

"I got it!"

"What?"

"The apprenticeship. Oga said start Monday. No pay first month, but after —" He stops, breathing hard. "After, I’ll get something."

Rihanna jumps up before she thinks. She hugs him, quick, hard. His shirt is damp against her cheek. She lets go fast, steps back.

"That’s good, Jake. That’s really good."

He’s still smiling, but his eyes flick to hers for half a second longer than normal. "Thanks, Ri."

He changes in the bedroom, comes out in dry shorts and a singlet. They wake Mom together at three. She sits at the table blinking, eats bread with tea, asks Jake questions he answers in short bursts. _Yes ma. Monday. Yes ma. I’ll be serious._

When Mom goes back to bed, Jake turns to Rihanna. "Come out with me."

"Where?"

"Anywhere. My leg dey pain me for inside house."

They end up at the junction, buying boli and groundnut from the woman under the umbrella. They sit on the low wall by the drainage, legs dangling. The sun is out for the first time in days. Everything smells washed.

Jake talks. About Oga, about the other apprentice who stole a carburetor last year, about how he’ll save for a bike of his own. Rihanna listens. It’s easy when he’s talking — she can look at his mouth, his hands, without it feeling dangerous.

"And you?" he asks suddenly. "School? Boyfriend?"

She chokes on a groundnut. "School fine. No boyfriend."

"Why not? You fine."

Rihanna stares at the gutter. "Nobody I like."

"Liar." He nudges her shoulder with his. "You dey hide something."

Her heart does something stupid. "You first."

He laughs. "Me? I no get time. Girls want money. I get wetin?"

"You have this." She gestures at him, meaning his face, then regrets it immediately.

Jake squints. "This what?"

"Nothing. Forget."

He studies her. Not in a brother way. Or maybe it is, and she’s imagining things again. She hates this — not knowing where the line is anymore.

Tap-tap. He taps the wall twice before standing. "Let’s go. Mom go shout if we late."

Back home, the afternoon stretches. Jake naps on the couch, arm over his eyes. Rihanna sits on the floor with her laptop, pretending to type notes. She watches the rise and fall of his chest instead.

At five Mom wakes up properly, makes rice and stew. They eat at the table like a real family. Mom tells a story about a patient who called her “doctor” and she didn’t correct him. Jake laughs so hard he coughs. Rihanna laughs too, and for a whole hour she forgets.

After dinner Jake washes plates. Rihanna dries. The sink is fixed now — no tape, no drip. He hands her a plate. Their fingers touch for half a second. Neither pulls away.

"Thanks," she says, too soft.

"For wetin?"

"For... everything."

He dries his hands on his singlet, looks at her. "You dey act strange since you come back."

She opens her mouth. Closes it. "I’m not."

He doesn’t push. He just nods, then taps the table twice before heading to the bedroom.

Rihanna stands there with the damp towel in her hand, listening to his door click shut.

She goes to the balcony. Lagos is loud again — horns, music, someone shouting downstairs. The air smells like exhaust and rain.

She whispers, to no one, "I’m in love with my brother."

Saying it out loud doesn’t fix anything. It just makes it real.

Inside, Jake’s laugh filters through the wall as he talks to Mom. Rihanna closes her eyes and leans on the railing until her arms hurt.

Two more weeks before she has to go back to school. Two weeks to pretend.

She can do that.