The Senator's Driver

What I Never Saw In You

The night air was thick with the scent of blooming hibiscus and jasmine. Crickets chirped in the distance, and the stars above glittered like scattered diamonds across the inky sky. A gentle wind rustled the leaves of the mango tree in the corner of the compound, whispering secrets only the night could understand. It was past midnight, and silence cloaked the neighborhood in a hushed serenity—until the sputtering growl of a car engine shattered the quiet.

Tunde’s headlights cut through the dark as he pulled into the driveway, illuminating the front of the house with harsh, yellow light. Moments later, the car doors flung open, and Tunde stepped out, laughing boisterously. Araire followed, stumbling on her high heels, giggling like a girl who hadn’t a care in the world.

Araire’s makeup was smudged, her hair disheveled. Her eyes, glossy and unfocused, flickered under the influence of alcohol. She leaned heavily on Tunde, who wrapped an arm around her waist in a possessive, almost predatory grip.

From the upstairs window, Ayobami stood silently, watching. His brows furrowed in concern as he saw the state Araire was in. She wasn’t herself. Something about the scene unsettled him deeply. When Tunde looked up and spotted Ayobami, he called out cheerfully.

"Ayobami, my guy! Abeg come help me hold this babe. She don dey act film wey she no sabi script!"

Reluctantly, Ayobami descended the stairs and opened the door. Tunde gave him a mischievous grin, the kind that didn't sit right with a decent man.

"Omo, I need small favour. Abeg help me run go buy condom."

Ayobami stared at him, incredulous. "Wetin you talk?"

Tunde leaned in, whispering with a smirk, “You hear me. Condom na. You fit buy Golden Circle or Durex. Make e strong well.”

Ayobami nodded slowly, feigning obedience. "Okay, no wahala. I dey go now now."

He turned to leave but paused, his spirit churning with unease. The request felt wrong. It wasn’t just the condom—it was the smugness in Tunde’s voice, the limp way Araire clung to him, the vulnerable glaze in her eyes. Ayobami hesitated at the gate, then turned back. Something pulled him—no, pushed him—towards the room.

As he approached, he heard rustling and low murmurs. He tiptoed to the door and peeked through the narrow crack. His heart froze.

Araire lay on the bed, completely naked and clearly out of it, her limbs limp. Tunde was adjusting his phone to camera on a tripod stand, angling it toward the bed. He had unbuttoned his shirt and was reaching for his belt.

Ayobami's body tensed like a coiled spring. A wave of disgust and fury surged through him. This wasn't seduction.

This was assault. This was a trap. And he wasn't going to let it happen.

Ayobami burst into the room with a roar, launching himself at Tunde and delivering a vicious punch that sent the man crashing into the dresser.

"You dey mad?! You wan r**e am? You wan record am? You no get shame?!"

Tunde, stunned and bleeding from the lip, scrambled to his feet. “Wetin be this? You dey craze? Na play I dey play!”

Ayobami didn’t listen. His fists spoke for him—righteous, swift, and unforgiving. Tunde managed to push him off and flee from the room, but not without a black eye and a bruised jaw.

Panting, Ayobami turned to Araire. She was barely conscious, her breaths shallow. He moved quickly, draping a blanket over her body and gently pulling her hair back from her face.

“You’re safe now,” he whispered, his voice trembling.

The next morning, the sun shone brightly, but the air between Ayobami and Araire in the living room was heavy and solemn. The walls, once filled with laughter and activity, now echoed with tension.

Araire sat with her legs crossed, sipping water slowly. Her face was pale, her eyes haunted.

“Araire,” Ayobami began, his voice careful, “I need to tell you something about last night.”

She looked up, a flicker of anxiety crossing her face.

“Tunde… he was going to take advantage of you. He wanted to record everything while you were drunk and unaware. If I hadn’t walked in—” he stopped, choking on the words. “I had to stop him.”

Araire’s face crumpled in shock. “He was going to… record having s*x with me?”

“Yes. I saw it. The phone. The way he undressed you. Araire, I swear, I didn’t want to see you like that, but I had no choice. I had to act.”

She turned her face away, shame flooding her cheeks. “You saw me… naked.”

Ayobami’s voice softened. “I did. But I looked away as soon as I could. I’m sorry. I only wanted to protect you.”

For a long time, she said nothing. Then her voice, low and trembling, cut the silence. “I feel so stupid. I thought he cared. I thought… he liked me.”

“He didn’t,” Ayobami replied gently. “He saw you as something to exploit.”

“Please… just give me time,” she said, her voice cracking.

Ayobami nodded and left quietly, his chest aching.

That evening, as he was bent under the hood of the car in the compound, he heard soft footsteps approach. He turned, expecting Oga Kabiru, the gatekeeper. But it was Araire. She stood there, her face calm, no trace of the storm from earlier. Something in her eyes shimmered—a mix of gratitude, sadness, and curiosity.

“Ayobami,” she said, her voice clear, “I just came to thank you.”

He looked at her, wiping grease from his hands. “You don’t need to thank me. Anyone with hundred percent sense would have done the same.”

“But not everyone has your kind of sense,” she replied. “Or your courage.”

There was a silence. Then, she tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing playfully. “How come you’re speaking such polished English now? I thought you were the king of pidgin.”

Ayobami chuckled. “Na camouflage. Sometimes, pidgin dey help me blend. But I can switch when needed. I can speak polished English fluently with no hindrances.”

Her smile faltered into something more sincere. “Wow! But, why would someone like you be here, doing car repairs?”

Ayobami exhaled and chuckled. “Because life no balance.”

Then, his voice cracked with emotion. “I’m not just a vulcanizer. I have a degree. B.Sc. in Business Administration. But I lost both of my parents during my second year. After that, I was alone. I worked at construction site, doing security jobs, packed cement, tutored kids—anything to pay my tuition.”

Araire’s eyes widened. “You… went through all that?”

“Yes,” Ayobami said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I even dropped out for a semester. But I came back. I finished. My convocation was bittersweet. They weren’t there to see it. My biggest dream was to make them proud.”

He looked up at the sky, blinking back tears. “Sometimes, I wonder what my life would’ve been if they were still here. If I had the right connections. If I didn’t have to fight for every little thing.”

Without a word, Araire stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. He stiffened at first—then melted into the embrace. He had been holding everything in for years. Every ache. Every disappointment. Every lonely night. And now, in the arms of the girl he once thought was unreachable, he allowed himself to feel.

Araire held him close, her voice trembling. “I misjudged you. I saw what I wanted to see. A roadside vulcanizer. But you're so much more.”

Ayobami pulled back slightly, searching her eyes. “So are you. You’re not weak. You were just deceived. But you’re stronger than you think.”

They stood there under the dim evening sky, two broken souls finding solace in each other. And for the first time, Ayobami felt seen—not as a vulcanizer, not as a helper—but as a man. And Araire saw herself not as a victim, but as someone worthy of a second chance. Together, in that quiet moment, healing began.