Unfinished love

Chioma had mastered the art of smiling while drowning. It had always been her style showing the world she was strong. But inside, something was breaking. Some days, she felt she could not do it anymore. Yet she kept moving, hoping one day everything would be fine. She had to be strong for her son. “Mrs. Nnamdi, we’ve already extended the payment deadline twice,” said the school administrator. He didn’t look cruel. Just tired. The kind of tired that comes from repeating the same sentence to parents who cannot afford the life they want for their children. “I understand.. I’ll settle it before Friday,” Chioma replied, forcing her voice not to shake. Friday. Three days to find money she did not have. Where would I get it? From the peanuts they pay me as a cleaner? God help me. Outside the school gate, Lagos traffic roared as usual—impatient, loud, unforgiving. Horns blared. Motorcycles zipped between cars. Street vendors tapped on car windows, shouting their wares. Heat clung to her skin. She tightened her grip on her son’s small hand. “Kene, did you finish your maths test?” she asked. Her six-year-old beamed. “I got everything correct, Mummy!” Of course you did, she thought. You always do. He had his father’s eyes. She hated that she still noticed. Seven years ago, she had believed love was something solid. Something that did not vanish overnight. She was wrong. Zikora Donald had left without explanation. No goodbye. No closure. Just a message that said: I know what you did. She read it more than twenty times. Know what I did? How? What did I do? She called him thirty-seven times that night. He never answered. He never called back. He never replied to her messages. Two weeks later, she found out she was pregnant. Chioma did not cry when the pregnancy test showed two lines. She simply sat on the bathroom floor and whispered, “Okay. I will survive.” Because survival does not wait for heartbreak. That afternoon, when she stepped into the company where she worked as a cleaner, the atmosphere felt different. Whispers floated across the hallways. “Did you hear? The London investor finalized the acquisition.” “They say he’s ruthless.” “He’s young too.” Chioma placed her bucket down and adjusted her scarf. She was about to start mopping when the office doors opened. And then she saw him. Same posture. Same controlled expression. Same calm that once made her feel safe. Zikora Donald. He looked at her like someone seeing a ghost he thought he buried. The room felt smaller. Seven years collapsed into one unbearable second. He was supposed to be in London. He was supposed to be a memory. But here he was. Alive. Powerful. And staring at her like the past had just punched him in the chest. Hatred rose inside her. But his eyes never left hers. Chioma forced herself to focus on the mop in her hand. One stroke. Two strokes. Breathe. She moved slowly along the hallway, avoiding the glass walls of the executive offices. Every whisper, every glance, every footstep felt heavier than usual. Seven years. Seven years of survival. Seven years of pretending she was fine. And now, he was back. Watching. Judging. Assuming. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest. Don’t look, she whispered to herself. Remember how he left you. He doesn’t deserve your tears, your fear. But she did. She couldn’t help it. Their eyes met. No dramatic gasp. No collision of worlds. Just a tense, silent recognition. Something flickered in his gaze gone before she could name it. A shadow of the man she had loved, of the trust she had lost. He looked away first, returning to his glass-enclosed office, leaving her trembling slightly in the hallway. Chioma kept her head down, finishing her rounds with deliberate care. She cleaned desks, swept corners, and mopped floors. Every sound of her mop against the polished tiles echoed too loudly in her ears. She heard whispers. “he is so handsome , “Yeah… so cute. That girl’s just a cleaner, and he’s looking at her like that!” Chioma’s fingers tightened around the mop handle. She didn’t care. She would survive today, like every other day. And yet, the pull of his gaze, though distant and controlled, made her stomach flutter. She remembered the old days the way he smiled, the way his voice could make her feel safe. Now, it made her ache. That night, after leaving the office, she trudged home through Lagos streets alive with chaos. Hawkers shouted, children ran past her, and the sun dipped behind buildings, casting long shadows on the uneven sidewalks. At her small apartment, Kene ran to meet her. “Mummy!” She scooped him up in her arms, letting the exhaustion fall off her shoulders for just a moment. “How was your day?” she asked. “I did my homework, Mummy!” Kene said proudly. Yes. You are strong too, she thought, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. You don’t even know how strong you are. “I have told you not to run barefoot,” she added. “Am sorry, Mummy,” he replied, hugging her tightly. Chioma stepped into their small one-room apartment a bed, a tiny cooking corner, a table, two chairs. Not much. But clean. Warm. Safe. Her sanctuary. She looked at Kene and whispered softly, “We survived today. And we’ll survive tomorrow.” But her mind couldn’t escape him. Zikora. Alive. Watching. Unforgiving. Chioma sat down on the edge of the bed and closed her eyes. Memories pressed in the love, the betrayal, the heartbreak, and the fire that had taken her family away. And somewhere deep inside, she knew this was just the beginning. Seven years later, her heart still had unfinished business. And Zikora? He was here. Alive. Powerful. Dangerous to her carefully built world.