Chapter 5. Adaeze Believes in Him
1193 Words
Adaeze didn’t believe people easily.
Life had already corrected her once for that mistake.
But somehow… she kept showing up.
And that scared her more than anything.
It was late afternoon when she found him again.
Tunde Balogun was sitting on a broken cement block outside a half-built structure, staring at a stack of unpaid bills.
He looked… smaller than usual.
Not physically.
Just… pressed down.
Adaeze stood at a distance.
“You’re doing it again,” she said.
He looked up slowly.
“Doing what?”
“Looking like the world owes you an apology.”
He gave a tired laugh.
“I didn’t know it shows that clearly.”
“It does.”
A pause.
Then he patted the space beside him.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine standing.”
“You always fine?”
That question made her stop.
She walked over anyway.
Sat, but not too close.
Tunde tapped the papers.
“I lost the deal.”
Adaeze didn’t respond immediately.
“Which one?”
“The one I told you about.”
“You tell me a lot of things.”
He glanced at her.
“That’s true.”
Silence.
The wind moved dust between them.
Adaeze finally asked, “What happened?”
He exhaled.
“Bribe was higher elsewhere.”
She scoffed. “So you didn’t win?”
“I don’t play that game.”
“Then stop playing it.”
He looked at her sharply.
“It’s not that simple.”
She turned toward him now.
“It usually is. You just don’t like the answer.”
That hit.
He didn’t reply.
A worker shouted somewhere in the distance.
A hammer fell.
Construction noises filled the air like pressure.
Tunde rubbed his face.
“I’m tired, Adaeze.”
She blinked.
Hearing her name like that felt too familiar.
Too fast.
“Then rest,” she said.
He shook his head.
“If I rest now, I don’t get back up.”
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s real.”
A beat.
Then softer:
“You don’t understand what I’m trying to build.”
Adaeze leaned forward slightly.
“Then explain it.”
He hesitated.
Like the words were heavy.
“I want something that lasts,” he said. “Not survival. Not small money. Something people respect.”
Adaeze watched him carefully.
“And you think this will give you that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He looked at her.
Long.
Then:
“Because I refuse to be nothing.”
That line landed differently.
Not loud.
But sharp.
Adaeze looked away first.
She shouldn’t have asked the next question.
But she did.
“How much do you need?”
Tunde blinked.
“For what?”
“For your work.”
He hesitated.
“I don’t want you involved in my problems.”
“I didn’t ask if you want. I asked how much.”
He studied her.
“You’re serious.”
“I don’t joke with money.”
A small laugh escaped him.
“Most people would walk away from this conversation.”
“I’m not most people.”
“I know.”
That answer again.
Always like he was placing her somewhere in his mind.
She didn’t like that.
He picked up a stone, tossed it, caught it.
“I need funding. Proper funding. Machines. Labour. Permits.”
“How much?”
He looked at her carefully.
“Millions.”
She didn’t flinch.
But her stomach did.
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I was.”
Adaeze laughed once.
Short.
Dry.
“You think I have millions?”
“I think you listen.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I know.”
Silence stretched.
Then he added quietly:
“I’m not asking you for money.”
“Then what are you doing?”
He looked at her.
And for the first time… he didn’t have a smooth answer.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
That honesty again.
Dangerous.
Adaeze stood suddenly.
“I should go.”
Tunde stood too.
“Wait.”
She stopped.
But didn’t turn.
“What?”
He stepped closer.
Not too close.
Just enough.
“I don’t want you thinking I’m wasting your time.”
She finally faced him.
“You are wasting my time.”
That stung him.
She saw it.
But he nodded.
“Fair.”
A pause.
Then softer:
“But I’m not lying to you.”
Adaeze studied him.
The sweat on his face.
The tired eyes.
The stubborn hope.
She hated that she understood it.
Because she had once looked like that too.
Before life taught her better.
She spoke quietly.
“Why do you talk to me like I’m part of your future?”
Tunde blinked.
“I don’t?”
“You do.”
He hesitated.
Then:
“Because you’re the first person who didn’t laugh at me.”
That hit differently.
Adaeze looked away.
“I don’t laugh at people’s dreams.”
“You should.”
That made her look back at him.
“Why?”
“Because dreams don’t pay rent.”
Silence.
That truth sat between them.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Real.
Adaeze took a step back.
“I don’t have anything to give you.”
Tunde shook his head.
“I didn’t ask for anything.”
“That’s worse,” she said quietly.
“Why?”
“Because men who don’t ask… usually take more later.”
That line changed the air.
Tunde didn’t respond immediately.
Then softly:
“I’m not that man.”
Adaeze stared at him.
She wanted to believe him.
She really did.
And that was the problem.
A long silence passed.
Then she spoke again.
“Show me your plans.”
He blinked. “What?”
“Your project. Show me.”
Tunde hesitated.
“You don’t trust me.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why?”
Adaeze swallowed.
A small c***k in her voice.
“Because I need to know if I’m stupid or not.”
That made him smile faintly.
“Fair enough.”
He pulled out a rough sketch from his folder.
Dusty.
Folded too many times.
He handed it to her.
Adaeze looked at it.
Lines.
Buildings.
Numbers.
Mess
y ambition on paper.
She didn’t understand everything.
But she understood enough.
And against every warning inside her…
She said it.
“I think this can work.”
Tunde froze.
“You do?”
Adaeze nodded slowly.
“I think… if you stop talking and actually build… it can work.”
A beat.
Then she added:
“But if you lie to yourself, it will destroy you.”
He stared at her like she had just spoken a language he didn’t expect her to know.
Then quietly:
“Why are you helping me?”
Adaeze looked at him.
Long pause.
Honest answer coming.
“I don’t know,” she said.
Then softer:
“Maybe because I recognize myself in you.”
That silence after… said everything neither of them could afford to say out loud.
And neither of them noticed…
that this was no longer just help.
It was the beginning of something that would cost her everything.
- Writer
