THE LIST

Episode 3 — Brushstrokes & Boundaries

Two months after the Abuja trip, Leo and I had settled into a rhythm that felt like breathing—natural, necessary, and quietly revolutionary. We still hadn’t put a label on us, but labels felt unnecessary when your best friend knew how you took your coffee and also how to kiss you until you forgot your own name.

The gallery, “Artereal,” was gaining traction. Local blogs wrote us up. Young artists from Benin to Port Harcourt submitted portfolios. And then, the email arrived.

From: Clara Adeyemi

Subject: Feature Inquiry – Artereal Gallery

Clara Adeyemi. The most influential contemporary art curator in Lagos. Maybe Nigeria.

My hands trembled as I opened it.

Dear Artereal,

I’ve been following your space with great interest. Your curation is bold, fresh, and distinctly Nigerian in the best way. I would like to feature Artereal in our next “New Spaces” spotlight in Contemporary Lagos magazine, with a potential linked exhibition at the National Gallery.

There is one condition.

We need a headline act—a solo exhibition by Kemi “Krayola” Akinola. She has never shown exclusively in Nigeria. If you can secure her, the spotlight—and all its doors—is yours.

Let me know if this is feasible.

Warmly,

Clara

Kemi Akinola. The “reclusive genius.” Nigerian-born, London-raised, her mixed-media works sold for six figures abroad but had never been shown at home. Getting her would be like catching lightning in a bottle.

I called Leo immediately.

“This is it,” I said, pacing my now-tidy living room. “This could change everything.”

“Kemi Akinola?” he repeated slowly. “She doesn’t do exclusives. She barely does interviews.”

“I know. But Clara doesn’t email just anyone. This is a test.”

Leo was quiet for a moment. “How do we reach her?”

“I have no idea.”

That’s when my phone buzzed again. A w******p message.

Dave: Hey. Heard about Clara’s interest. Congrats.

Dave: I might be able to help with Kemi.

My stomach dropped.

Me: How?

Dave: We work in the same building in London. I’ve met her agent a few times. I can make an intro.

Dave: No strings. Just helping an old friend.

Old friend. The words felt strange now.

I told Leo that evening over egusi soup at his apartment.

“Dave?” he said, setting his spoon down carefully.

“He says he can connect me to her agent.”

“And you believe him?”

“I don’t know. But if it’s real… Leo, this is Kemi Akinola.”

He ran a hand over his face. “What does he want in return?”

“He said no strings.”

Leo laughed, but there was no humor in it. “There are always strings with Dave.”

---

I met Dave over video call two days later. He looked different—softer around the eyes, dressed in a simple grey sweater.

“You look good,” he said, smiling. “Happy.”

“Thank you. So do you.”

Small talk felt like walking on glass. Eventually, he slid a digital business card across the screen.

“Kemi’s agent. Her name’s Simi. Tell her I referred you. She’s expecting your email.”

“Dave… why are you doing this?”

He leaned back. “When we broke up, I told you you weren’t wife material. I was wrong. I was projecting my own fears onto you. You were always enough—I just wasn’t ready to see it.” He paused. “Consider this an apology in the form of an art contact.”

The words were a balm I didn’t know I needed. But they also unsettled me.

“Thank you,” I said quietly.

“One more thing,” he added. “Simi mentioned Kemi’s considering a Nigeria homecoming show. But she’s hesitant. She wants the gallery to feel… authentic. Not just another commercial stop.”

“Artereal is authentic.”

“I know,” Dave said. “That’s why I recommended you.”

When I told Leo about the call, his expression was unreadable.

“So he’s a good guy now.”

“People can change,” I said softly.

“Or they can pretend to,” he replied, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he pulled me close. “Just be careful, yeah?”

---

Simi responded within hours. She was sharp, direct, and clearly respected Dave’s referral.

“Kemi only does business in person,” she said over the phone. “If you’re serious, you’ll need to come to London. She’ll want to meet you, feel your energy, see if your vision aligns with hers.”

A trip to London. With my budget, even with the gallery’s modest earnings, it was a stretch.

“I’ll cover half,” Leo said that night. “Consider it an investment.”

“Leo, no—”

“This is your dream,” he interrupted gently. “And I believe in it. In you.”

I kissed him, pouring every unsaid thank you into it.

But as I booked my flight, a quiet tension grew between us. It wasn’t about money. It was about Dave—who still lived in London, who had offered to show me around, who had apologized in a way that felt genuine.

The night before my flight, Leo helped me pack.

“You don’t have to worry, you know,” I said, folding a sweater.

“I’m not worried,” he said, but he wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Look at me.”

He did. There it was—the fear, laid bare.

“I love you,” I said, the words slipping out like a secret I’d been holding too tightly.

He stilled. “What?”

“I love you, Leo. I’m not going to London for Dave. I’m going for us. For Artereal. For everything we’ve built.”

He cupped my face, his thumb brushing my cheek. “I’ve loved you since the day you tripped over your own shoelaces in the uni cafeteria and spilled coffee all over my notes.”

I laughed, tears in my eyes. “You never told me.”

“I was waiting for you to be ready.”

We stood there in the quiet of my bedroom, the city humming outside, no list between us, no rules—just this.

---

London was a whirlwind of grey skies and bright galleries.

Dave met me at the airport, polite and respectful. He gave me a quick tour of Shoreditch, showed me where Kemi’s studio was, and left me with a simple, “Good luck. You’ve got this.”

Meeting Kemi was nothing like I expected.

Her studio was a beautiful chaos—canvases leaning against walls, sketches pinned haphazardly, the smell of turpentine and ambition in the air. She was small, with sharp eyes and an even sharper laugh.

“So,” she said, not offering a handshake. “Dave’s ex.”

I swallowed. “Yes.”

“He broke your heart. And now you’re building something beautiful from it. I like that.”

We talked for two hours. Not just about art, but about home, belonging, the pressure to be “authentic” when you’re stretched between two worlds. I showed her pictures of Artereal, of the artists we supported, of Lagos at sunset from my balcony.

“You’re not just a gallery owner,” she said finally. “You’re a storyteller. And I want my homecoming story told by you.”

We shook hands. The deal was sealed.

On my last night, Dave took me to dinner.

“I’m really proud of you,” he said over dessert. “And… I’m sorry. For everything.”

“It’s okay,” I said, and for the first time, I meant it. “We both needed to grow up.”

Back in my hotel room, I video-called Leo.

“She said yes,” I whispered, grinning so wide my cheeks hurt.

His smile was everything. “I never doubted you.”

“I come home tomorrow.”

“Good,” he said softly. “I miss you.”

---

The return to Lagos was sweeter than I imagined. Leo picked me up from the airport, holding me so tightly I felt every mile between us dissolve.

But as we drove home, my phone buzzed with a new email from Clara Adeyemi.

Congratulations on securing Kemi. The spotlight is yours.

One more thing—we’d like to include a short feature on the “support system behind the founder.” We’ll need interviews and photos with you and your partner. Let me know a convenient time.

I read it twice, my heart sinking.

“What’s wrong?” Leo asked.

I handed him the phone. He read it, his expression tightening.

“They mean Dave, don’t they?”

“They assume,” I corrected. “But if I correct them…”

“You risk the feature,” he finished quietly.

The car felt suddenly smaller. The world outside—noisy, bright, full of promise—seemed to hold its breath.

Leo looked at me, his eyes searching mine. “What do you want to do?”

And in that moment, I realized: the hardest choices aren’t between right and wrong. They’re between the future you planned and the future you actually want.