Oga’s room

Jake’s room near Oga’s shop is not a room. It’s half of a room. Concrete floor, one mattress on the floor, a plastic chair, a bucket in the corner. The wall has water stains shaped like a map. David sleeps on the floor sometimes when he’s too high to go home.

Jake likes it because it smells like oil and not like her.

He works 6am to 7pm. Oga shouts, throws spanners, pays late. Jake learns to change brake pads, drain oil, lie to customers. His hands are always black. At night he washes them three times and they’re still black.

He doesn’t go back to the flat. Mom calls. "Come eat." He says, "Work, ma." She stops asking after the third time.

He blocked Rihanna on W******p. Not because he wants to. Because every time her name popped up his stomach dropped and his hand moved before his brain did. He unblocked her once at 2am last week. Saw the messages. _Delete my number._ He blocked her again.

It doesn’t help. He still hears her voice when the generator dies at night: _If you weren’t my brother, would you have kissed me?_

He answers out loud to the dark: "Yes."

Then he punches the wall until his knuckles split.

---

David notices. Of course he does.

"You dey ghost," David says one night, passing him a wrap of suya. "You no dey laugh again."

"I dey work."

"You dey run."

Jake says nothing.

David chews, then says casually, "Your sister fine sha."

Jake looks up so fast David raises his hands. "Relax! I no mean bad. Just... she different. Not like Lagos girls."

"Don’t talk about her."

"Okay okay." David laughs, but it’s thin. "You dey protect am like wife."

Jake stands. "I’m going out."

He doesn’t have anywhere to go. He walks until his legs hurt, ends up by the canal near Oshodi. He sits on the concrete edge and watches rats move under the bridge. His phone is in his pocket. He turns it on.

Rihanna’s last message is still there. _I don’t want forever. I want once. Then I’ll leave and never come back. I swear._

He reads it again. And again. The part of him that’s supposed to be a brother screams. The other part — the one he’s been beating down since he was sixteen and saw her in shorts — whispers _once wouldn’t kill anybody._

That’s the part that scares him.

He types: _If I say yes you’ll hate me after._

Deletes.

Types: _I dream about you too._

Deletes.

Types: _Don’t come to Lagos again._

Sends.

Immediately regrets.

Three dots. She’s online.

She replies fast: _I won’t. Are you okay?_

He stares at _Are you okay?_ like it’s a trick. She doesn’t ask about the message. Doesn’t push. Just that.

He types: _No._

Sends.

She: _Me neither._

He puts the phone away before he does something stupid like call her.

---

Two nights later Oga tells him to stay late to fix a danfo that broke down. Jake is under the bus at 10pm when his phone rings. Mom.

"Jake. Come house now."

"What happened?"

"Just come."

He wipes his hands on a rag and borrows Oga’s bike. The ride back to the flat takes twenty minutes. He hasn’t been there in three weeks. The door looks the same.

Mom opens. Her eyes are red. Amaka is on the couch. Rihanna isn’t.

"Sit," Mom says.

He sits. His heart is already running.

Amaka speaks first. "Your sister posted something online. Then deleted it. But my daughter saw. She sent screenshot."

She holds out her phone.

It’s Rihanna’s private story. Four lines, black background:

_i love him_

_it’s wrong_

_i don’t care anymore_

_if i can’t have him i don’t want anybody_

No names. But Amaka’s daughter wrote under it: _who???_

Rihanna replied, then deleted: _the one i can’t._

Mom is crying quietly. "Jake. You know anything about this?"

Jake feels blood leave his face. He looks at the screen, then at Mom. The lie is right there. _No ma._

But Amaka is watching him like a hawk. And Mom — Mom knows his face too well.

"I don’t know," he says. It comes out dead.

Mom nods like she believes him. Amaka doesn’t.

After Mom goes to bed, Amaka grabs his wrist at the door. Her nails dig in.

"If you touch that girl I will kill you myself. You hear me? You will not destroy this family because you cannot control yourself."

He jerks his hand away. "I’m not—"

"I saw your face when I said her name," Amaka hisses. "Don’t lie to me."

He leaves without answering. No tap-tap. He rides back to Oga’s room shaking.

Inside, he locks the door, sits on the mattress, and opens his phone.

He unblocks Rihanna.

Types: _Mom saw._

Sends.

She replies in seconds: _I know. Amaka called me. I’m sorry._

He types: _Stop saying sorry._

Then, before he can stop himself: _What do you really want from me, Ri?_

Three dots. Then:

_I want you to stop pretending you don’t feel it too. Even if we never do anything. Just say it. Once. So I know I’m not crazy._

Jake puts his forehead against the wall. The concrete is cold.

He types: _I feel it._

Send.

Read immediately.

No reply. Just: _Thank you._

He turns the phone off and lies on the mattress staring at the water stain on the ceiling. It looks like a face screaming.

He doesn’t sleep.