Chapter Nine: Pressure Points
864 Words
Monday. Garki, Abuja.
The Onwudiwe clients were panicking.
Apparently, a miscommunication with the contractors had caused an entire slab to be poured two feet off alignment. Toba called an emergency meeting and had the team on-site before the sun was fully up.
Adanna tied her braids in a loose knot, shoved her sketch roll into a case, and practically jogged to the gate where Toba’s car was already waiting. She hadn’t even finished her cereal.
“You okay?” he asked as she slid in, breathless.
“Who pours concrete on a Sunday?” she muttered, strapping on her seatbelt.
He smirked. “People with more money than sense.”
---
The site buzzed with urgency—men yelling measurements, concrete mixers groaning, supervisors pacing like caged lions.
Adanna rolled up her sleeves and got to work, redrawing sections of the building plan on her tablet while Toba coordinated with the structural engineer.
For the next six hours, they moved like clockwork—her insight balancing his leadership, her calm tempering his sharp commands. It was exhausting. But it was also… thrilling.
At one point, while crouched over a set of new alignment markers, Adanna looked up and saw Toba watching her.
Not staring. Watching. Like someone who had been holding his breath for days.
“What?” she asked, wiping sweat from her temple.
“Nothing,” he said. “I’m just… impressed.”
She chuckled. “You’ve said that before.”
“No,” he replied. “I mean it now more than ever.”
---
By 4:00 p.m., the site was back in control. Adanna was too tired to be proud, but as she stretched her arms and cracked her neck, she felt a satisfying ache in her bones.
She and Toba sat on a low ledge near the car, sharing a cold bottle of malt and a pack of Gala sausage rolls.
“I don’t think I’ve ever worked that hard,” she mumbled between bites.
“Me neither,” he said. “But if I must suffer, I prefer it be beside someone who knows what she’s doing.”
She laughed. “Look at us. From Guzape to Garki, one slab at a time.”
Their fingers brushed slightly as he handed her the malt.
He didn’t pull away.
Neither did she.
A silence settled—pregnant with all the words neither of them had said out loud.
But then—
A voice.
Too familiar.
Too untimely.
“Adanna?”
She froze.
Toba turned.
And there, standing a few feet away in a tailored blue shirt and that same crooked smile from university, was Emeka.
---
“Wow. So it’s really you,” he said, stepping forward like they were at a wedding, not a construction site.
Adanna stood slowly. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been trying to reach you,” he said, eyes flicking from her face to Toba’s then back again. “I didn’t expect to run into you here.”
She glanced at Toba, who had now stood beside her, his stance protective.
“This is a private site,” Toba said coolly.
“I’m not here to cause trouble,” Emeka replied, his voice too calm. “I just… I had to see her. Say things properly. Not through an email.”
Adanna's heart pounded. She wasn’t ready for this—not here, not like this.
Toba’s tone remained even. “You’ve said enough. She deserves peace.”
“I don’t need you to speak for me,” Adanna cut in, surprising even herself.
Both men looked at her.
She took a breath.
Then turned fully to Emeka. “You walked away when I needed you most. I don’t need your apology wrapped in nostalgia.”
“Ada, please…”
“No,” she said gently, but firmly. “I’ve forgiven you. But that doesn’t mean you get access to me again.”
Emeka’s eyes dimmed.
She softened just a little. “If God brought me through it, He’ll bring you through your own shame too. But this chapter? It’s closed.”
Emeka opened his mouth, but the words never came.
He just nodded—slowly—and walked away.
---
After a long moment, Toba turned to her.
“You okay?”
She nodded. “I meant it.”
He was quiet, watching her like she might shatter.
“I’m proud of you,” he said softly.
And without overthinking it, she reached for his hand.
Their fingers laced. Warm. Steady.
“I think I’m proud of me too,” she whispered.
---
That night, she knelt beside her bed again. Mama was asleep. The house was quiet.
“God,” she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Thank You. For peace I didn’t beg for. For love I didn’t even ask for yet. Help me not to rush. But help me not to run either.”
She opened her Bible and read:
> “Behold, I am doing a new thing; now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?”
—Isaiah 43:19
And with that, she smiled.
Because she could perceive it now.
A new thing.
- Writer
