Chapter Six: Blueprints and Ghosts
719 Words
Monday morning came with a new kind of nervous energy.
Adanna wore her favorite mustard blouse, paired with black cigarette trousers and just a hint of lip gloss. She didn't usually bother with makeup—life in Gwagwalada taught her that sweat respected no foundation—but today, something felt different.
She wasn’t just trying to feel confident.
She was trying not to feel seen.
Because she had definitely caught Toba watching her on Friday.
Not just watching—seeing.
And that scared her more than any client presentation.
---
“Quick site visit,” Toba said when she stepped into the office. “I want you to come along. The private estate in Guzape. Bring a hard hat. And don’t wear those shoes. You’ll cry.”
She blinked. “Sir?”
He grinned. “I mean, unless you want to carry gravel stylishly.”
They drove together in his grey Prado, windows down, Abuja breeze washing over them as they passed AYA and climbed the winding road into Guzape.
“You ever been here?” he asked.
“Only in my dreams.”
“Same. Even after five years of this job, I still feel like I’m trespassing.”
She turned, surprised. “You?”
“I grew up in Karu. My parents sold fabric and second-hand tires. I only saw Guzape on billboards.”
Adanna laughed softly. “Same. Except our billboard was Mama’s customer who once took me to her mansion in Maitama. I didn’t sit down the whole visit. I thought the furniture was only for rich air.”
Toba chuckled. “You’re funny, you know that?”
She smiled. “You don’t look like someone who laughs a lot.”
He paused. “That’s because… I didn’t, for a while.”
The car fell into silence as they climbed the estate road.
Then he added, almost absentmindedly, “I lost someone. Three years ago.”
Adanna turned gently. “I’m sorry.”
He gave a tight nod. “She was my fiancée. Long story. Life happens.”
There it was again. That rawness. The vulnerability beneath the clean shirts and project timelines.
“I lost someone too,” she said quietly. “Not to death, but… almost worse.”
He glanced at her.
“My heart,” she explained. “I gave it to someone who couldn’t carry it. He walked away during my master’s year. I nearly failed. Had to rewrite my final project twice. Only God knows how I graduated.”
“Top of your class,” Toba said.
She blinked. “How did you—?”
“I read your file. I research people I believe in.”
Her throat tightened.
He parked outside the site—a bare stretch of red earth and the skeleton of a duplex-in-progress.
But her mind was still on the car ride.
---
Later that night, long after she’d returned home, washed her feet of the dusty site visit, and helped Mama boil yam for dinner, her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
The message read:
“Hi, Ada. It’s Emeka. I heard you’re in Abuja now. I’m here too. Can we talk?”
Her heart dropped.
Emeka.
The name alone pulled her back to lecture halls, late-night tears, and unanswered prayers.
She stared at the screen, thumb hovering.
Why now?
She stood and paced the room.
Was this a test?
Was God trying to reopen something to heal it properly—or warn her to never return?
She didn’t know.
But she did know one thing: she couldn’t pretend she was unaffected.
She typed, deleted, and retyped.
Then finally replied:
“Hello. I’m not sure what you want, but I’m not the same girl you left behind. God healed me. Let’s keep it that way.”
She hit send.
And breathed.
Mama looked up from the couch. “What is it?”
Adanna smiled faintly. “Just someone who used to know me. Past tense.”
---
The next morning, as she walked into the office, Toba looked up from his laptop.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That’s new.”
He smirked. “Just testing if you’d smile.”
She did.
And for the first time in a long while, her smile didn’t feel like a mask.
It felt… real.
- Writer
