When Hearts Negotiate

The Man Everyone Misreads Tobe Okafor had already rejected a proposal worth three hundred and eighty million naira before most of his staff had settled into their Monday morning. He did it without raising his voice. That was the part people found unsettling. Across the polished conference table, three representatives from Rexton Developments sat in varying stages of discomfort. The youngest of them had stopped taking notes. The man beside him kept adjusting his tie. Their team lead, Mr Adebayo, was still talking. Tobe had stopped listening two minutes ago. Not because he was rude. Because the answer was already no. Morning light poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him, Lagos stretching beyond the glass in a hazy mixture of concrete, traffic and ambition. Tobe sat at the head of the table, one hand resting beside the proposal. His charcoal suit was immaculate. His expression gave away nothing. Mr Adebayo cleared his throat. “As I was saying, the projections are conservative. Once we move into the second phase—” “Page forty-seven.” The room went quiet. Mr Adebayo blinked. “Sorry?” “Page forty-seven.” Papers shifted around the table. Tobe waited. There was something about his silence that made people rush. Mr Adebayo found the page. Tobe leaned back slightly. “Your projected acquisition cost assumes regulatory approval within twelve weeks.” “Yes.” “Why?” A pause. “That's consistent with the timeline we were given.” “By whom?” Another pause. Their team lead glanced briefly at the woman sitting beside him. Tobe noticed. He noticed most things. “Our consultants,” she answered. “Which consultants?” She gave him the name. Tobe nodded once. “And they guaranteed twelve weeks?” “Not exactly guaranteed—” “Then why is your entire profitability model built around it?” Nobody answered. Tobe reached for the proposal and closed it. Mr Adebayo leaned forward. “Mr Okafor, perhaps we're focusing too heavily on one variable. There are several strengths in this proposal that—” “That variable affects your financing cost, your delivery schedule and your projected return.” “Yes, but—” “If approval takes twenty-four weeks instead of twelve, what happens?” Silence. Tobe looked from one face to another. “Thirty?” Still nothing. He pushed the document gently across the table. “If I can find that problem in three minutes, what exactly have you been doing for three months?” The youngest man looked at the table. Mr Adebayo's jaw tightened. Tobe wasn't angry. That somehow made it worse. “We can revise the numbers.” “You should.” “So we can reschedule?” “When the proposal can survive questions.” Mr Adebayo stared at him for a second before gathering his papers. The meeting was over. Nobody needed to be told. Tara was waiting outside the conference room. She had worked with Tobe for four years, which meant she had developed the unusual ability to read approximately fifteen percent of his facial expressions. It was considerably more than most people managed. She fell into step beside him. “How bad?” “Bad.” “On a scale of one to catastrophic?” He glanced at her. “They built a three-hundred-and-eighty-million-naira proposal on an assumption.” “Catastrophic, then.” Tobe walked into his office. Tara followed. His office was large but restrained. Dark wood. Clean lines. No unnecessary decoration. Nothing on his desk that didn't have a purpose. Very Tobe. She placed his tablet in front of him. “Your nine o'clock moved to eleven. Finance needs approval of the revised budget. David called twice.” “No.” Tara paused. “I haven't told you why.” “If David called twice before nine on a Monday morning, the answer is no.” A smile tugged at her mouth. “He said you'd say that.” “Then we've saved time.” “He also said to tell you that you're becoming unbearable.” “Becoming?” That got an actual laugh from her. Tobe picked up the tablet. Tara turned towards the door, then stopped. “Oh. And congratulations.” His eyes lifted. She nodded towards the screen. The final confirmation had come through earlier that morning. Eighteen months of negotiations. Three failed rounds of financing. Two investors who had pulled out when the market shifted. One competitor who had confidently predicted Tobe's company would never close the deal. They had closed it. Tobe looked at the confirmation again. “It's done.” “It is.” “Good.” Tara stared at him. “Good?” He looked up. “Would you prefer a dance?” “I'd settle for evidence that you have a pulse.” “You've seen my medical records.” “Unfortunately, those remain our strongest evidence.” Tobe returned his attention to the tablet. Tara shook her head and left. Only after the door closed did he lean back. For several seconds, he simply looked at the screen. Eighteen months. There had been a time when a deal like this existed only in the notebooks he kept beside a mattress in a one-bedroom flat. A time when he answered his own emails, prepared his own presentations, chased invoices and calculated whether he could afford to hire one more person without missing payroll. Nobody in this building remembered that version of him. Tobe did. He remembered every version. Perhaps that was why success had never impressed him as much as people expected. He had learned too early that celebration didn't build the next thing. Work did. His phone vibrated. David. Again. Tobe ignored it. It immediately rang a fourth time. He answered. “What?” David's laughter came through the speaker. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.” “You've called four times.” “Because you ignored the first three.” “I assumed you'd understand.” “I did. I rejected your rejection.” Tobe closed the file in front of him. “What do you want?” “Dinner tonight.” “No.” “You don't know where.” “I don't need to.” “You just closed the biggest deal your company has done in two years.” “Which means I have work.” “Which means you're coming to dinner.” Tobe said nothing. David continued. “Normal human beings celebrate achievements.” “I'm happy for them.” “Do you know what your problem is?” “You're still talking?” David laughed again. They had known each other long enough that Tobe's temperament had stopped offending him years ago. “I booked eight o'clock.” “Cancel it.” “No.” “David.” “Eight o'clock. And wear something that doesn't make you look like you're about to acquire the restaurant.” The call ended. Tobe stared at his phone. Then placed it face down. He had no intention of going. That evening, Tobe walked into the restaurant. David saw him and grinned. “I knew you loved me.” “I was hungry.” “Let me have this.” Tobe took the seat opposite him. The restaurant was elegant without trying too hard to prove it. Low amber lighting. Muted conversation. Lagos glittering beyond the windows. David poured water into Tobe's glass. “To the man who apparently needs to be kidn*pped before he'll celebrate his own success.” Tobe gave him a look. David lifted his glass anyway. “Congratulations.” Their glasses touched. “Thank you.” There it was. Small. But genuine. David smiled. “I knew there was a person in there.” “Don't get used to it.” Dinner arrived. For the first twenty minutes, they talked business. For the next ten minutes, David complained about Tobe talking about business. Then, somewhere between the main course and dessert, David leaned back. “You know what I realized recently?” Tobe continued eating. “I suspect you're going to tell me.” “You have absolutely no life.” Tobe looked up. “I have a life.” “Name three things in it that aren't work.” Tobe didn't hesitate. “Sleep.” David stared. “That's one.” “Food.” “You're proving my point.” “You're here.” David placed a hand over his heart. “That's the nicest thing you've said to me in twelve years.” “Don't make it sentimental.” “Too late.” Tobe shook his head. David watched him for a moment. “You ever think about it?” “About what?” “Having someone.” Tobe's expression didn't change. “No.” “That was very quick.” “Because the answer was simple.” “Marriage?” “No.” “A relationship?” “No.” “Companionship?” “I have you. Apparently.” “I'm serious.” “So am I.” David studied him. There was no bitterness in Tobe's answer. That was what made it interesting. He wasn't a man recovering from heartbreak. He wasn't secretly pining for someone. He wasn't swearing off women because somebody had destroyed his faith in love. Tobe simply seemed genuinely content with the architecture of his life. Work. Home. A small circle of people. Control. No unnecessary complications. “You know,” David said, “one day somebody is going to walk into your life and completely scatter this arrangement.” Tobe reached for his glass. “That sounds inconvenient.” David burst out laughing. “I'm going to remind you of this conversation.” “You'll be waiting a long time.” “We'll see.” Tobe took a sip of water. And that was the end of it. At least for him. Dinner stretched late into the evening. By the time Tobe stepped outside, the Lagos night had settled into its familiar restlessness. Cars crawled along the road beyond the restaurant. Headlights swept across the pavement. Somewhere nearby, a horn sounded impatiently. David came out behind him. “Try not to schedule a meeting before you sleep.” Tobe unlocked his car. “I make no promises.” “Hopeless.” “Goodnight, David.” “Goodnight, robot.” Tobe opened the driver's door. David had already taken several steps towards his own car when he turned around. “Tobe.” Tobe looked over the roof of the car. “What?” “One day.” Tobe frowned. David grinned. “Remember I said it first.” Tobe stared at him for a second. Then shook his head and got into the car. David's laughter followed him. Minutes later, Tobe joined the stream of traffic. By the time he reached the first major junction, David's ridiculous prediction had already left his mind. Someone walking into his life? Disrupting it? Tobe almost smiled. He had meetings tomorrow, decisions waiting on his desk, and a company that demanded more of his attention than most people could tolerate. His life had taken years to build exactly the way he wanted it. Ordered. Private. Predictable. His. He wasn't looking for anyone. And as far as Tobe Okafor was concerned— that was the end of the matter.