Chapter Nine: Above the Storm

Toronto, Canada – February 14, 2028, 7:42 p.m.

Snow fell soft outside the window, sticking to the glass in lazy flakes. Inside the small one bedroom apartment in Scarborough, the radiator hissed warm air, and the smell of jollof rice lingered from dinner. Chino stood at the sink rinsing plates, sleeves rolled up, while Wale leaned against the counter watching him, arms crossed, small smile playing on his lips.

“Two years today since we land,” Wale said quietly. “Still feel like dream sometimes.”

Chino turned off the tap, dried his hands on a dish towel. “Not dream. Real. Too real some days.”

They’d moved here after the first year in temp housing NGO help, refugee support groups, endless paperwork. Chino found work in IT support; Wale built a small freelance design business, mostly remote, clients from diaspora networks who didn’t care about his face trending in old Lagos gossip. They’d adopted a scruffy brown dog named Freedom who now slept on the rug by the couch, one ear flopped over.

The bedroom was simple: double bed with colorful Ankara throw from Chioma (sent last Christmas), framed photo of the three of them Chino, Wale, Adanna taken during her visit six months ago. She’d come on a student visa, stayed two weeks, cried a lot, hugged them hard, promised to keep pushing their parents. “Papa still dey read Bible every night,” she’d said. “Mama ask about you quiet-like. One day, bros. One day.”

They didn’t talk about Pastor Victor anymore. The crusade videos had faded from feeds; the man moved on to new “deliverance” targets. The viral clip of Chino’s defiance at the roadblock still floated online sometimes shared by queer activists, used in asylum workshops but it felt distant, like someone else’s life.

Wale stepped closer, slid arms around Chino from behind, chin on his shoulder. “You dey think about them?”

Chino leaned back into him. “Sometimes. Mostly I think about us. Here. Safe.”

They moved to the living room. Freedom lifted his head, tail thumping once, then went back to sleep. Wale pulled Chino down onto the couch, legs tangled, heads close. No rush tonight just quiet touching, fingers tracing familiar lines, breaths syncing like they’d learned in those locked rooms.

“Remember that first night in Yaba?” Wale murmured. “Thin mattress, bucket toilet, Chioma banging on door at dawn.”

Chino laughed low. “I remember thinking, ‘If we die tomorrow, at least we had this.’”

“We no die,” Wale said. “We live. We still dey burn.”

Chino kissed him slow soft, deep, tasting home. Hands wandered under shirts, gentle now, no fear of noise or neighbors. Wale’s leg hooked over Chino’s hip, pulling him closer. They moved to the bedroom without words, shedding clothes like old skin.

In bed, under the Ankara throw, they made love unhurried face to face, eyes open, every touch a promise kept. Chino inside Wale, rocking slow, hands clasped. When they came, it was together quiet gasps, bodies trembling, then stillness.

After, tangled and warm, Wale rested his head on Chino’s chest, listening to heartbeat.

“We fit call Adanna tomorrow,” Wale said. “She say she dey plan visit again. Bring Mama small-small.”

Chino nodded, fingers in Wale’s curls. “One day, maybe Papa too. Or maybe no. But we no go stop hoping.”

Outside, snow kept falling soft, endless, covering the city in quiet. Inside, two men held each other, breathing steady.

No sirens. No knocks. No pastors. Just them.

Still breathing. Still burning. Brighter now.

And Lagos far below, across ocean kept its secrets, but somewhere in it, a father sometimes looked at old photos, Bible open beside him, and whispered a prayer that sounded less like judgment and more like longing.