The Wrong Delivery

Amara had three rules for surviving Lagos as a single 27-year-old woman living alone. One, never date a guy from your estate. The gossip in Lekki estates moves faster than danfo on Third Mainland Bridge with no traffic. Two, never open the door without checking who it is first. Three, never answer the door in your wrapper after a shower. On Tuesday at 8:14pm, she broke all three. The rain was heavy, the kind that makes the power flicker and the internet misbehave. She had just stepped out of the bathroom, hair dripping, skin still warm, a faded Ankara wrapper tied hastily around her chest. She was expecting her usual delivery rider, that small quiet boy from FoodCourt who always said "Aunty, God bless you" even when she didn't tip. The knock came. She looked through the peephole. Tall. Broad shoulders. Black t-shirt soaked through, clinging to his back. Holding her small paper bag of shawarma and a pack of plantain chips she definitely did not order. She opened the door a crack. "You are not my rider," she said. He smiled. And it was not a customer service smile. It was a real, slow smile that started from his eyes. "Your rider's bike broke down at Jakande. I told him I'll cover his last two deliveries. I'm Jide. Block C, Flat 8. So technically, I'm still your neighbor before I'm your rider." Amara lived in Block B, Flat 5. Block C was directly opposite, you could see each other's balconies if you leaned far enough. "Block C? You live in this estate and you do delivery work?" She pulled her wrapper a little higher, suddenly very aware that her shoulders were bare and her knees were showing. "I own the kitchen. FoodCourt is mine. Cloud kitchen, just kitchen, no dine-in. When we are short staffed, I ride. CEO to delivery guy, same person," he said, lifting the bag. "And this plantain is compensation for lateness. Plus you looked hungry in your display picture." "You stalked my w******p DP?" "I saved your number from the estate group. You argued with the chairman last month about generator noise. I remember." She should have been creeped out. Instead, she laughed. That laugh made her wrapper shift. She caught it quickly. He looked away instantly, at the ceiling, like a gentleman who knew exactly when not to look. "Sorry," he said. "Do you want to get a towel or... I can just drop this and go." But he didn't go. He stood there, rain dripping from his hair down his neck, down his collarbone, into that wet t-shirt. Amara's eyes betrayed her for one second. Just one. He noticed. "You smell like coconut," he said quietly. "It's my hair cream," she said, voice smaller now. "My sister uses the same one. But it smells different on you." The hallway was quiet except for the rain hitting the corridor roof. Somewhere downstairs, a child was crying. Upstairs, someone's generator coughed and started. Amara took the bag. Their fingers brushed. His hand was warm, slightly rough, the kind of hand that works. She didn't pull away immediately. Neither did he. "POS?" she asked. He brought it out. She tapped. The machine said Approved. Still, they stood. "Your couch," he said, nodding inside. Her door was slightly open and you could see her small living room, the pink throw pillow, and on it, a book with a pink cover. "The Love Hypothesis?" "You read?" she asked, surprised. "My younger sister dumps her romance novels in my flat. I started one out of boredom during lockdown. Now I have opinions. That book? The guy is too slow. If he likes her, he should just tell her." "And how would you tell her, Mr. Expert?" He leaned against the door frame, just enough that he wasn't inside her flat, but close enough that she could see the small scar on his chin. "Like this," he said. "Amara from Flat 5, I have seen you every Sunday watering your plants in those small shorts and an oversized shirt. I have heard you singing old Burna Boy loudly when you cook egusi on Saturdays. I have watched you argue with security about your parking space and win every time. I think you're beautiful and a little stubborn. And I would like to take you for coffee. Not as your delivery guy. As your neighbor." Amara's heart was beating so loud she was sure he could hear it. No guy had ever spoken to her like that. Direct. No games. No "what's up baby" DM. "That is a very long speech for someone who is still on duty," she managed to say. "I'm off duty now. Clock me out?" She bit her lip. Her wrapper was still tight around her. Her hair was still dripping, one drop rolling down her neck, over her collarbone. Jide's eyes followed it for half a second, then back to her face, respectful but honest. "You should go dry your hair. You'll catch cold," he said, voice lower now. "Are you worried about me already?" "I started worrying the first time I saw you trying to carry a bag of rice up the stairs alone. You refused help." "Because men in this estate help and then think you owe them a date." "And what if I help and think you owe me just another conversation?" She smiled. That was the difference. "One coffee," she said. "Tomorrow. 7pm. But not in this estate. People talk." "Circle Mall. New place. Terrible coffee, great meat pies. So we have an excuse to leave quickly." "Why would we want to leave quickly?" "So I can take you somewhere with better lighting. To see you properly." Amara felt heat rush from her neck to her cheeks. He was flirting, openly, but in that old-school way that made her feel wanted, not objectified. "Goodnight, Jide from Block C," she said, finally stepping back. "Goodnight, Amara from Flat 5 who smells like coconut and reads romance," he said. He turned, walked three steps, then turned back. "Lock your door well. And... your wrapper." She looked down. It had loosened again, just slightly, revealing more of her thigh than she intended. "Jide!" He laughed, hands up in surrender, walking away. "I didn't look! I promise I didn't look!" She shut the door, leaning against it, heart racing, shawarma untouched on the table, the extra plantain sitting there like a promise. She picked up her phone and texted her best friend: _Girl, I think I just got toasted by my estate neighbor and I liked it._ Her friend replied: _Send picture. Is he fine?_ Amara peeped through her window. Jide was crossing the compound in the rain, white shirt now completely transparent, back muscles visible. She typed: _Fine is an understatement. Chapter 1 dom start...