Chapter Four
1500 Words
By afternoon, Adaeze was home again in her apartment in Surulere, fingers hovering over her keyboard. She was suspended and could not write for the paper, but she wanted to write something of her own.
On the screen, she began typing:
‘Life in Lagos is busy. People move fast. The streets are full of cars, buses, and motorcycles. Traders sell food, clothes, and many things. The air is full of sounds and smells.
Even in the crowd, people are kind. Children play in the streets. Neighbours greet each other. Street sellers call out their goods. Everyone is busy but they still notice each other.
The city is not easy. It is loud and crowded. But it is full of stories. Every corner has a small moment that shows hope, strength, and life. Lagos is alive, and its people keep it moving.’
She paused, looking at the words she had typed. Writing made her feel calm, even if she could not send it anywhere yet. It was her way of keeping connected to her work and the city she loved.
Then her phone vibrated. It was Izunna.
He had seen the pictures and apologised. ‘I saw the pictures. I’m sorry,’ the message read.
She blinked at the screen, thumb frozen above the keys. She replied, ‘It’s not your fault. I should’ve been more careful.’
‘They’ll move on soon,’ he responded. He meant the gossip and online attention would fade quickly.
‘Easy for you to say. You’re still the hero. I’m the woman who “fell for her story”.’ She sent back the text.
His next message lingered on her screen, teasing her heartbeat: ‘Do you regret it?’
She swallowed. The question made her chest tighten, like a breath she didn’t dare release. Do I? She typed instead, ‘I regret nothing that felt true.’
The reply did not come at once. She stared at the glowing screen, heart thudding in her ears. Finally, it appeared: ‘Meet me tonight. I’ll text the address.’
Moments later, another ping arrived with a location: Blue Fig Café, near Victoria Island.
Before she could think twice, she was already rifling through her wardrobe for the perfect outfit. If she was being honest with herself, she had already fallen for Izunna, and tonight might just make it harder to pretend otherwise.
***
The Blue Fig Café was softly lit, golden lamps pooling warm light over velvet seats and polished wooden tables. Soft jazz drifted through the air, mingling with the faint sweetness of vanilla and freshly baked pastries. Outside, the city moved on, unaware of the quiet world tucked behind frosted glass.
Izunna was already seated at a corner table, a slice of chocolate cake and a rich espresso in front of him. He looked up briefly as Adaeze entered, then returned to his cake, though the faint curve of a smile lingered on his lips.
Adaeze slid into the chair across from him, settling into the warmth of the café. A waiter arrived, placing a warm almond croissant and a frothy cappuccino in front of her. She broke off a piece, letting the steam curl over her fingers before taking a careful bite, the buttery warmth grounding her. Izunna took another slow bite of his cake, his eyes occasionally flicking toward her, steady and unspoken.
‘It’s… good to see you,’ he said softly, voice low and warm, threading through the café’s quiet.
‘I only came to say this needs to stop,’ Adaeze replied, curling her fingers around the cappuccino. She sipped, letting the foam coat her tongue, then nibbled on the croissant. ‘The rumours, the messages… it is starting to affect me.’
Even as she spoke, she felt the truth tug beneath her words. She had not come only to stop anything. She had come because she wanted to see him. Something about not seeing him every day had begun to feel unbearable. She did not tell him about her suspension; she wanted to keep him from worrying, to let him see her as herself, not as a journalist caught in a scandal.
Izunna leaned back slightly, resting an elbow on the table, gaze soft and attentive. ‘And if I say I do not care about the rumours?’
Her heart fluttered, but she steadied her voice. ‘Then I will remind you that I do. I have fought too hard to be seen for my work, not for… this.’
He reached for his espresso, letting the cup warm his hands. ‘You think I do not know what it means to be judged? I have lived half my life under a spotlight. But when I am with you… for once, it feels quiet. Like I can just be myself.’
The words brushed across her skin like a soft touch. She lowered her gaze, battling the warmth rising in her chest.
‘Do not say that,’ she murmured.
‘Why not? It is the truth,’ he replied, voice gentle.
Their eyes met, the world shrinking around them. Music, chatter, the clink of cutlery seemed to fade until it felt like only the two of them existed in that golden light.
‘Because truth like that crosses lines,’ she whispered.
His lips curved, not quite a smile, something more fragile and real. ‘Maybe some lines are meant to be crossed.’
For a moment, the world outside faded. They ate quietly, taking their time. Each bite and sip felt calm, like the café had slowed down just for them. The quiet, however, could not last forever. Adaeze rose slowly, smoothing her coat. ‘I have to go.’
‘I will take you home,’ he offered, voice soft.
She shook her head, longing tucked behind her restraint. ‘No. If anyone sees us again, the story will not die.’
He did not push. He only watched her walk to the door. Something unspoken stretched between them like a held breath.
Before she stepped out, she glanced back. He was still looking at her, and that, more than anything, made leaving harder.
***
The next day, her phone would not stop pinging. A gossip site had posted:
‘Izunna and Adaeze Spotted at Blue Fig Café. Love or Lies?’
A photo, grainy and taken through a window, showed them sitting across from each other, heads tilted in conversation.
Within the hour, Mr Ikenna’s message arrived: ‘Adaeze, do not speak to anyone from the press. Let the paper handle this.’
Then her mother, Uluoma, called from Imo State. ‘Adaeze, what is this I am seeing online? You and that football boy?’
‘Mama, it is not what you think.’
A long, weary sigh travelled through the phone. ‘My daughter, the world is not gentle with women people watch. Walk wisely.’
When the call ended, Adaeze sat on her bed, her laptop open before her. The article she had written about Lagos, her observations of the city’s streets, people, and life, stared back at her, complete yet unsent. She had finished it, but it was private, a piece of herself she wasn’t ready to share yet. Her fingers hovered above the keyboard, but no new words came.
The news cycle had moved on without her. This time, she was not reporting the story; she was trapped inside it.
***
That evening, Izunna’s training session ended. A simple ball rolled under his boot; another bounced away too quickly.
‘Focus, Izunna!’ someone shouted.
He blinked hard, trying to shake the image of Adaeze’s face from his mind.
After training, Coach Onyema blocked his path. ‘This gossip is becoming a distraction,’ he said quietly. ‘For your sake and the team’s, keep away from that reporter. Win matches, not headlines.’
Izunna nodded, jaw tight.
Later, alone in the locker room, he checked his phone. Her latest post on X read: ‘Truth is not always clear. Sometimes it hides behind silence.’
He exhaled, a soft tug at the corner of his lips. Even though she was suspended from The National Daily and couldn’t publish her work there, she was still sharing small thoughts online—words that, even in tiny glimpses, reached people like him.
***
Past midnight, Adaeze’s phone lit up again.
‘Hello?’
‘It is me,’ Izunna said. His voice was low, frayed at the edges. ‘I cannot sleep.’
‘You should not be calling.’
‘I know. I just… needed to hear your voice.’
Silence stretched, thick and fragile, full of things neither of them could name.
‘I miss talking to you,’ he said. ‘Off the record.’
Adaeze closed her eyes. ‘So do I.’
They stayed like that, breathing into the same quiet, rain tapping against her window like a secret knocking to be let in.
‘Goodnight, Izunna.’
A small pause. ‘Goodnight, Adaeze.’
The line went dead, but she remained still, phone pressed to her chest, as if it might echo his voice for a little longer.
- Writer
