Chapter 3. Their Friendship Deepens
1229 Words
Adaeze told herself it was a one time thing.
Take him to the mechanic. Done.
Walk away.
Forget him.
But life doesn’t respect plans.
Especially not hers.
The next day, she saw him again.
Outside a small roadside shop, arguing with a phone that clearly wasn’t listening.
“You can’t be serious,” Tunde Balogun muttered. “Hello? Hello? This network is a scam.”
He lowered the phone slowly and exhaled.
That’s when he noticed her.
Adaeze stood still.
She should have kept walking.
She didn’t.
“You again,” he said.
“I live here,” she replied flatly.
“I mean… again in my life.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That sounds dramatic.”
He smiled. “My life is currently dramatic.”
A beat.
Then she asked, “Your truck still alive?”
“Barely.”
“Expected.”
He laughed softly. “You’re always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Like you already know everything will go wrong.”
Adaeze crossed her arms.
“Experience teaches faster than hope.”
That line made him quiet for a second.
Not offended.
Just… thinking.
He stepped closer to the shade where she stood.
“You helped me yesterday,” he said.
“I pointed you to a mechanic.”
“And gave me money.”
“Two hundred naira.”
“It still counted.”
Adaeze looked away.
“It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing to me.”
Silence.
The kind that doesn’t feel empty… just unfinished.
A child ran past them chasing a tyre.
Tunde watched it.
Then said quietly, “You have kids?”
That question landed differently than she expected.
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
He nodded slowly. “Boy?”
“Boy and girl.”
He smiled faintly. “That’s… nice.”
Adaeze studied him now.
“You like kids?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I think I like the idea of them more than the reality.”
That made her scoff.
“Try feeding them first before liking ideas.”
He looked at her quickly.
Then nodded.
“Fair.”
They stood there longer than necessary.
People passed.
A woman selling plantain chips stared too long.
Adaeze noticed.
She always noticed.
“You’re going to give me problems,” she muttered.
Tunde blinked. “Me?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You talk too much.”
He smiled.
“That’s not a crime.”
“In my world, it is.”
“What world is that?”
Adaeze paused.
The answer sat in her throat.
One room.
Two children.
Bills.
Silence.
Hunger disguised as patience.
Instead she said, “A world where people don’t survive by talking.”
That shut him up.
For once.
He changed tone.
“So what do you do?”
“I survive.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is where I live.”
Tunde studied her again.
Like he was trying to decode something.
Then he said, softer:
“You’re angry.”
Adaeze’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are… but controlled.”
That hit harder than it should have.
She looked at him sharply.
“Don’t analyze me.”
He raised his hands slightly.
“Sorry.”
A pause.
Then quieter:
“I just notice things.”
“Well stop noticing.”
He nodded once.
But didn’t stop.
A motorbike splashed water near them.
Adaeze stepped back quickly.
Tunde noticed.
“You don’t like getting wet?”
“I don’t like unnecessary suffering.”
He laughed.
“That’s the most honest thing I’ve heard today.”
“Then you haven’t spoken to many honest people.”
“I haven’t.”
Another pause.
Then he asked, “Do you eat lunch?”
Adaeze stiffened.
“That’s a strange question.”
“It’s a simple one.”
“I manage.”
“That’s not yes.”
“It’s not your business.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
But he didn’t move on.
Instead he said:
“I’m going to eat. Come with me.”
Adaeze frowned. “Excuse me?”
“I’m buying.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
He shrugged.
“Because I don’t like eating alone.”
That answer confused her.
“You don’t even know me.”
“Yesterday you gave me money when you had none. That’s enough introduction for now.”
Adaeze stared at him.
Trying to decide if he was foolish.
Or calculating.
Maybe both.
“I don’t accept charity,” she said finally.
“It’s not charity.”
“What is it?”
He paused.
Then:
“Company.”
That word lingered.
Company.
Simple.
But dangerous.
They sat at a small roadside buka.
Plastic chairs.
Flies.
Steam rising from plates of rice.
Adaeze didn’t eat at first.
Just watched him.
He noticed.
“You think I’m trying to poison you?”
“I think I don’t know you.”
He nodded. “Fair again.”
Then he picked up his spoon.
Ate first.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
To show her.
Nothing was wrong.
That small gesture changed something.
She started eating.
Quietly.
“Why are you really here?” she asked suddenly.
Tunde looked up.
“Here?”
“In this place. Talking to me. Eating rice like you belong here.”
He smiled faintly.
“I told you. Truck broke down.”
“I don’t mean that.”
A pause.
Then he leaned back.
“Maybe I’m tired of people who pretend they’re fine.”
Adaeze scoffed lightly.
“Everyone pretends.”
“You don’t.”
That made her stop.
Spoon halfway to her mouth.
“I do,” she said.
“No,” he replied gently. “You endure. That’s different.”
That word sat heavy.
Endure.
Like it was something she wore every day.
After food, they walked again.
No destination.
Just walking.
Adaeze didn’t like it.
But she didn’t stop it either.
Tunde spoke less now.
Watching her instead.
At some point, she noticed.
“What?”
“You walk like someone expecting bad news.”
She rolled her eyes. “Because bad news is punctual.”
He laughed.
Then suddenly serious:
“You always this sharp?”
Adaeze stopped walking.
“Is that a problem?”
“No.”
“Good.”
He nodded slowly.
Then added:
“It’s interesting.”
She looked at him.
“Interesting gets people in trouble.”
He smiled slightly.
“Maybe I like trouble.”
Adaeze shook her head.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I think I do.”
“No,” she said firmly. “You don’t.”
A pause.
Then softer, almost warning:
“People like you don’t survive in my world.”
Tunde tilted his head.
“And what kind of people am I?”
Adaeze hesitated.
Just a second too long.
Then:
“People who think everything is a story they can fix.”
Silence.
The street noise returned.
Cars.
Voices.
Life continuing.
Tunde finally spoke.
“Maybe I’m wrong then.”
Adaeze looked at him.
For the first time… he didn’t sound confident.
Just honest.
And that scared her more than anything else.
Because honesty like that…
usually didn’t stay harmless for long.
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