BETRAYED BY LOVE

The rain in Lagos never asks permission. It had been a clear, sticky afternoon when Nadia left the office in Yaba. By the time she reached the bus stop, the sky had turned the colour of old pennies, and the first fat drops hit the pavement like thrown stones. Within a minute, the street was a river. Hawkers dived under umbrellas and tarpaulins, and danfo drivers honked as if the noise alone could part the traffic. Nadia ran, holding her bag over her head, and ducked into the first place with a light on: a small café with fogged-up windows and a chalkboard outside that said *Coffee. Chin-chin. Peace.* She stood dripping on the doormat, laughing at herself. "You look like someone who lost an argument with the sky," said the girl behind the counter. "The sky cheated," Nadia replied, wringing out the end of her braids. "I was not given a fair warning." She found a small table by the window, ordered a cup of hot chocolate she didn't need, and pulled out her phone. Three messages from her mother, asking whether she had eaten. One from her manager about Monday's report. And one from Amara, which was just a string of heart emojis and the words: *Call me tonight. I have NEWS.* Nadia smiled. With Amara, news could mean anything from a new hairstyle to the end of the world, and she would announce both with the same level of drama. "Excuse me. I'm sorry, is anyone sitting here?" She looked up. The man standing by her table held a laptop bag against his chest, his shirt soaked at the shoulders. He had a calm, open face and the kind of eyes that seemed to pay attention, as though whatever you said next was the most interesting thing in the room. Every other table was full. "It's free," Nadia said. "But I should warn you, I'm in a bad mood with the weather. I may complain." "That's fine. I complain professionally." He sat down and set the bag carefully on the floor. "I'm Daniel." "Nadia." "Nadia," he repeated, as if testing how it sounded. "Good name." "It's just a name." "No. Some names fit. Yours does." She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling when she did it. They might have stayed strangers, two people sharing a table out of necessity. But the rain grew louder, and the café filled with the steam of wet clothes and the smell of frying plantain from the kitchen. When the waitress brought Daniel's coffee, he noticed Nadia staring at the small notebook beside her phone. "You write?" he asked. "Not really." She tucked it away. "I make lists. Things to do, things to buy, things I'm worried about." "What's on the list today?" "Today's list," Nadia said, "is: survive the rain, call my best friend, and stop saying yes to extra work that nobody is paying me for." Daniel laughed, a real laugh, low and surprised. "So, the usual." "The usual." "And you're bad at saying no." "I'm not *bad* at it. I just feel guilty when people are disappointed." She shrugged. "My mother says I carry everybody's load. She says one day my shoulders will file a complaint." "Your mother sounds wise." "My mother sounds *tired* of me." But she was grinning now, and she realised, with a small flutter of surprise, that she had been talking to this stranger for nearly half an hour. He asked her questions, and the odd thing was that he listened to the answers. He asked what she did for a living, and when she said she worked in project coordination for a logistics company, he didn't glaze over. He asked what the hardest part was, and she told him: the endless chasing, the people who promised and didn't deliver. He asked why she stayed, and she found herself saying what she had never said aloud. "Because I like it when things work out," she said quietly. "When everyone gets what they need. It feels like the world is behaving itself for once." Daniel looked at her for a moment, longer than was polite. "I wish more people thought like that," he said. His smile faded slightly, and something passed behind his eyes, a shadow so brief she nearly missed it. "Sometimes it's not that simple." "What isn't?" "Making everyone happy." He picked up his cup, then put it down again without drinking. "Sorry. Long day." "Is it work?" "Something like that." He smiled again, and the shadow was gone. "Let's talk about something better. What's your favourite food in the whole of Lagos? Don't say jollof. It's too obvious." "Then I'll say it anyway. Jollof." "Wow." "With fried plantain. And chicken, and a cold Fanta on the side. Judge me." "I would never," he said, hand on his chest. "Only God judges jollof." By the time the rain softened to a drizzle, the café had begun to empty. Nadia glanced at the clock on the wall and gasped. It was almost seven. "I have to go. My friend will start sending me voice notes with threats." "Then I won't keep you." He stood when she did, which she noticed, and liked. "Can I ask you something, Nadia?" "You can ask." "May I have your number? I'd like to hear how the rest of your list goes." She should have hesitated. Her mother had spent years warning her about charming men in coffee shops. But there was nothing in his face that frightened her, only a hopeful kind of nervousness, as if he truly expected her to say no. She took his phone and typed in her number. "Don't make me regret this," she said. "I won't." Outside, the air smelled of wet earth and exhaust and roasted corn. She didn't look back as she walked away. But she was smiling all the way to the bus stop. He texted that same night. *Did you survive the rain?* Nadia was sitting cross-legged on her bed, her braids tied up in a scarf, when the message lit up her screen. She waited a full two minutes before replying, because she had standards. *Barely. My shoes are still crying.* *Tell them I'm sorry. I'll buy them a drink.* *They don't drink. They're very disciplined.* *Like their owner.* *Nobody has ever called me disciplined.* *Then they haven't been paying attention.* She put her phone face down on the pillow and covered her mouth with both hands, like a teenager. Then she picked it up again. It became a habit so quickly that she couldn't say when it started. Good morning messages sent at six, before the traffic. Photos of terrible office lunches. A voice note, one night, of Daniel humming a song she half-remembered from childhood, so off-key that she laughed until her stomach hurt. He asked about her day and remembered the answer. When she mentioned her manager's impossible deadlines on Tuesday, he asked about them on Thursday. On the fourth evening, they spoke on the phone for two hours. He never said much about himself, and Nadia didn't notice at first. He was good at turning questions around, making them gentle, making her feel she was the more interesting subject. When she asked where he lived, he said, "Island side, mostly. I move around." When she asked about his family, he said, "Big. Complicated. Loud," and changed the subject to her favourite films. Once, while they were talking, she heard a woman's voice in the background, calling something she couldn't make out. "Who's that?" she asked. There was a short pause. "Just my... somebody in the compound. Sorry, I'll take this outside." When he came back on the line, he sounded relaxed again, and she let it go. Everyone had a loud compound. Everyone had a complicated family. Still, later that night, as she lay awake staring at the ceiling fan, a small, stubborn thought lingered: *He never says when we can meet at his place.* They had met twice since the café, once for suya and once for a walk at the Landmark, always in public, always somewhere he chose. And his phone, she realised, was always face down on the table. *You're being silly,* she told herself. *You've been disappointed before. Not everyone is a liar.* She believed in love. That was the problem, her friends said. She believed in it the way other people believed in gravity. "You're glowing," Amara said. It was Saturday. They sat on Amara's balcony in Surulere with a bowl of groundnuts between them, the evening sky streaked orange behind the rooftops. Amara had changed her hair again, honey-coloured twists this time, and she wore her usual expression of someone who had just heard a wonderful secret and was waiting for permission to share it. "I'm not glowing." "Nadia. You've checked your phone six times since you sat down. I counted." "I was checking the time." "Six times." Nadia threw a groundnut at her. Amara caught it in her mouth, bowed, and chewed triumphantly. "Okay," Nadia said finally, hugging her knees. "There's someone." Amara screamed. Actually screamed, so loudly that a neighbour's dog started barking. "*Who?* Where? What does he do? Is he tall? Please say he's tall." "He's... tallish." "Tallish is acceptable. Continue." So Nadia told her. The rain, the café, the empty table. The way he listened. The way he remembered things. She heard her own voice soften as she spoke, and she saw Amara's face soften with it. "His name is Daniel," she said. "Daniel." Amara leaned back in her chair and smiled. "I like it already." "You don't even know him." "I know *you*. And I haven't seen you smile like this since... ever, actually." She reached across and squeezed Nadia's hand. "You deserve someone who sees you, Nadi. Someone who doesn't make you feel like you're too much." Nadia felt her throat tighten. This was Amara. Amara, who had sat with her through every heartbreak, every bad boss, every night she cried and couldn't say why. Amara, whose happiness made every room feel lighter. "So what was your news?" Nadia asked, wiping her eyes quickly. "You said you had news." Something flickered across Amara's face, excitement and nerves tangled together. She glanced at her left hand, then pulled it into her lap. "It's nothing," she said. "I'll tell you next week, when it's... when it's official. I want to do it properly." "Official? Amara, what did you do?" "Next week!" She laughed, pressing her palms to her cheeks. "Don't look at me like that. Tonight is about *you*. I want to hear everything. When do I get to meet this Daniel?" "Soon," Nadia said. "I think. He's been busy." "Busy with what?" "I don't know. Work, he says. His family." "Hmm." Amara tilted her head, the way she did when she was half teasing. "Is he one of those mysterious types?" Nadia laughed, because it was funny. Because it was Amara, and the evening was warm, and nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. But as the sun sank behind the rooftops and the call to prayer drifted from somewhere far away, her phone buzzed on the table between them. A message from Daniel. *Can't stop thinking about you. I need to see you tomorrow. There's something I have to tell you.* Nadia stared at the screen, her heart suddenly beating a little too fast. *Something I have to tell you.* Across the table, Amara was humming and reaching for another groundnut, completely at peace. Nadia slid the phone into her pocket and smiled, but for the first time since the rain, she wasn't sure what she was smiling about.