Chapter Ten: Things Left Unsaid
847 Words
The office felt quieter than usual the next day, as though everyone was still catching their breath from the Garki chaos. Adanna sat at her desk reviewing structural corrections when she heard a soft knock on the glass wall of her cubicle.
Toba.
“Got a minute?”
She nodded, already curious. He rarely asked to talk. He just talked.
They walked down to the small courtyard behind the firm—a shaded spot with an old stone bench and tall bamboo fencing that blocked the street noise.
“I owe you something,” he said after a long silence.
Adanna raised a brow. “Okay…”
He leaned against the bamboo wall, arms crossed. His expression wasn’t nervous—more like… tired. Vulnerable.
“You know I was engaged before,” he said.
She nodded. “Zara mentioned. But only once. You never talked about it.”
“I couldn’t. Not because I didn’t want to—but because I didn’t know how.”
Adanna stayed quiet. Letting him have the space.
“Her name was Remi. We met during my NYSC in Lagos. She was a doctor, full of fire. Laughed too loudly. Hated cold drinks.”
A small smile flickered on his lips.
“She got sick—leukemia. Diagnosed barely a year after I proposed. We did everything—chemo, prayers, you name it.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“She passed before our wedding date.”
Adanna blinked, her heart aching in her chest.
“I stopped drawing for a while after that,” he continued. “Even stopped praying for a bit. I just existed. Went to work. Breathed. Ate. But inside—I was frozen.”
“I’m so sorry,” Adanna said softly. “You don’t have to keep explaining.”
“I do. Because I see something growing between us, and I won’t let it happen under shadows.”
She swallowed, unsure what to say.
He stepped closer.
“I still think about her. Not in a romantic way. Just… as a chapter that shaped me. But I’m not stuck there anymore. You’ve shown me that.”
Adanna looked up at him, tears threatening to rise.
“I need you to know,” he added, “if we move forward, it’s not with a half-heart. I don’t believe in halfway. Not with you.”
She exhaled slowly. “I appreciate your honesty, Toba. I really do.”
“Is that your polite way of saying ‘thank you, but no thanks’?”
She laughed through the emotion. “It’s my way of saying… I care. Deeply. And I want to keep walking with you. Just slowly. With God.”
His relief was visible.
“But,” she added, “if you disappear tomorrow, I’ll sue you for emotional damages.”
He smirked. “Fair.”
---
Two days later, Adanna walked into the conference room to find everyone clapping.
“What’s going on?” she whispered to Zara.
Zara beamed. “Toba just announced—he’s been shortlisted for a project with an international architecture firm in Nairobi. Like—big league. Huge money. Global exposure.”
Adanna’s heart dropped.
She looked over at him.
He was smiling, accepting handshakes and congratulations.
But when their eyes met—just briefly—his smile faded.
He knew.
She knew.
The timeline of them was now uncertain.
---
That evening, he called her outside to the parking lot, away from the others.
“I wasn’t expecting this,” he said, pacing.
Adanna stood with her arms folded, unsure whether to feel proud or panic.
“How long would it be?”
“Minimum a year. Could be two.”
She nodded, slowly.
“And you’d move?”
“Most likely. They want someone full-time. On-ground. It’s a campus master plan in Kilimani. Once-in-a-career project.”
Silence settled between them like rain.
“I don’t want to walk away from this,” he said. “But I don’t want to walk away from you either.”
Adanna’s voice trembled. “Then what do we do?”
He reached for her hands.
“We pray. We don’t rush. We let God write this one.”
She nodded, eyes glassy. “I’ve done the chasing. I’ve done the crying. If this is real… it’ll hold.”
“It is real,” he said firmly. “You are the first answer to prayer I’ve recognized in a long time.”
She smiled faintly, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Then go. If this is meant to last—it will.”
And in that moment, they didn’t kiss.
They just held hands tightly in the middle of the dusty Abuja parking lot—two people brave enough to believe in something bigger than themselves.
---
That night, as Adanna journaled beside her open window, the Abuja breeze warm on her skin, she wrote:
> “Love isn’t always loud. Sometimes, it’s waiting. Trusting. Praying. Letting go so God can hold it.”
And she closed her eyes.
Not with fear.
But with hope.
- Writer
