Chapter 3 : The Portrait Proposal
1294 Words
The rain had stopped, but Lagos glistened like a freshly painted canvas.
Adaora sat by the window in her office, watching sunlight glance off the wet streets below. The skyline shimmered with towers of ambition built over noise and dreams.
For once, she wasn’t thinking about the stock reports spread across her desk.
She was thinking about him.
Kele.
The painter with the calm voice and the unsettling eyes that seemed to see past her tailored suits and curated confidence, straight into the parts of her she’d buried beneath titles and schedules.
She hated that she couldn’t get him out of her mind.
Not because of romance, which would be too cliché, but because he had unsettled something she couldn’t name.
Maybe it was his honesty. Or the way he existed outside her world of manicured appearances.
Adaora sighed, pushing her chair back. Work had become mechanical, lately profitable, yes, but soulless. Every boardroom presentation felt like a loop: success, applause, emptiness.
She turned to her assistant. “Zainab, call the design team. I want to redecorate the boardroom before next month’s investor conference.”
Zainab blinked. “Redecorate, ma?”
“Yes. New colors, new energy. The old one feels… tired.”
Zainab nodded quickly. “Of course, ma. Any specific style?”
Adaora hesitated, then said, “Something powerful, not pretty.”
That afternoon, she drove herself to Yaba again, half under the excuse of “exploring local art suppliers,” half because something in her heart was tugging her back.
When she parked near the familiar wall, her pulse quickened slightly.
The murals were brighter now, sunlight bathing them in gold. And there he was again, paintbrush in hand, head tilted, humming faintly to a tune only he could hear.
Kele looked up when her shadow crossed his canvas.
“Adaora,” he said, with a smile that made her feel both seen and safe.
She returned the smile. “Do you ever take breaks?”
“Do business moguls?” he replied, smirking.
She chuckled softly. “Touché again.”
They just stood there, two worlds colliding quietly in the Lagos heat momentarily.
“I came to ask you something,” she said finally.
Kele wiped his hands and leaned against the wall. “I’m listening.”
“I’m redecorating my office. I want a portrait, something bold, something that tells a story. Not corporate art.”
He raised an eyebrow. “A story about what?”
“Strength,” she said, after a pause. “But not the kind people applaud. The kind that survives quietly.”
Kele studied her for a long moment. “You don’t want something pretty. You want something true.”
Adaora met his gaze. “Exactly.”
He nodded slowly. “Then I’ll paint you.”
She blinked. Me?
“You asked for strength. I see it every time you talk.”
She hesitated. The thought of being painted made her uneasy. “I don’t sit for portraits.”
“Then it’s time you did.”
His tone was calm but firm, which left no room for argument.
Adaora crossed her arms, half amused, half intimidated. “You realize I don’t exactly sit still?”
He smiled faintly. “I don’t need stillness. I need truth.”
Something in his voice silenced her protest.
“Fine,” she said finally, trying not to show how nervous she suddenly felt. “When do we start?”
Kele looked at the fading light and said, “Tomorrow. Afternoon. The studio’s just down the street. Number 19, Adebisi Lane.”
“Alright,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Don’t be late.”
“I never am,” he said softly.
That night, Adaora couldn’t sleep.
She sat in bed scrolling through her phone, pretending to read emails while her mind replayed the conversation.
His confidence. His ease. He’d said, “I’ll paint you,” like an invitation to be understood.
For years, Adaora had been defined by control, the woman who planned everything down to the hour. But with Kele, she felt unpredictable. Exposed.
And somehow, it didn’t scare her as much as it should.
The next afternoon, Adaora arrived at his studio.
It was nothing like the spaces she was used to.
No air conditioning, no glass partitions, no sterile modernity. Instead, sunlight spilled through half-drawn blinds, painting golden rectangles across wooden floors. The air smelled of turpentine, oil paint, and faintly of rain.
Canvases leaned against the walls, some half-finished, others full of wild emotion. Faces were caught mid-expression, and landscapes looked like memories.
Kele stood near a large easel, wearing a white shirt splattered with paint, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He turned when she entered, and his eyes softened just slightly for a second. “You came.”
“You sound surprised,” she said lightly.
Not surprised,” he replied. “Just grateful.
He motioned for her to sit by the window on a simple wooden chair.
Adaora did, trying to mask her discomfort. She wasn’t used to being observed like this. She was the one who looked, who analyzed markets, read faces, and predicted reactions. Not the one being studied.
Kele picked up a charcoal stick and began sketching. His movements were sure, deliberate.
Silence filled the room for a while, but it wasn’t awkward. It was thick with awareness.
After several minutes, he said quietly, “You look like someone who stopped believing in softness.”
Adaora froze. “Excuse me?”
He didn’t look up. “You carry your face like armor. Beautiful armor, but still armor.”
Her chest tightened. “That’s… an interesting observation.”
“It’s not criticism,” he said gently. “It’s true. You built walls to survive. Most people do. But you also forgot how to rest inside them.
She wanted to tell him to stop, that he didn’t know her story, the betrayals, the public humiliation, the loneliness disguised as strength.
But something in his voice, the quiet empathy beneath the words, made her pause.
She exhaled shakily. You talk like you’ve seen too much.
Kele smiled faintly.
Maybe I’ve listened too much.
Adaora met his gaze, and for the first time, didn’t look away.
The air between them shifted, not romantic yet, but charged with something human, raw, and unspoken.
After a while, he stepped back. That’s enough for today.
She rose, smoothing her skirt. You didn’t even paint.
He held up the sketch, rough lines, shadows, and somehow, he had captured her. The way her shoulders carried weight, the slight tilt of her chin, the loneliness hiding behind control.
Adaora felt her throat tighten.
That’s… me?
He nodded. “The part most people don’t see.
For a moment, she couldn’t speak. She just stared at the image, a mirror of truth drawn in black and white.
“Keep it,” he said quietly. “Maybe it’ll remind you to breathe.”
She took the sketch gently, as if it might shatter. “Thank you, Kele.”
He smiled. “It’s just a start.”
As Adaora walked out of the studio into the bright afternoon, she felt strangely shaken yet somehow lighter.
She didn’t know what this connection was becoming, only that something inside her had begun to thaw.
Adaora placed the sketch on her bedside table that evening as the city lights blinked alive.
For years, she’d surrounded herself with art worth millions of pieces that matched her reputation. But… this simple charcoal sketch felt like it had more soul than all of them combined.
As she lay in bed, her mind drifted back to his words: "You look like someone who stopped believing in softness."
Maybe tomorrow, she thought, she’d start believing again.
- Writer
