THE ROMANCE COACH

Daniel Okafor had counseled over four hundred individuals on how to say *I love you* in a way that didn’t sound rehearsed or forced. Yet, in all his years of experience, he had never uttered those words to anyone who wasn’t a paying client. On a Tuesday morning around 6:40, he stood in the kitchen of his home in Yaba, cereal in hand, while a podcast script titled *Three Small Gestures That Say More Than Flowers* lit up his phone screen. He had whipped it up in just twenty minutes. As usual, it was another solid piece—always good—but therein lay the irony: he had never truly lived through any of the sentiments he professed. As the cereal grew soggy, he continued to eat it. By 9 a.m., he found himself in the studio on the second floor of a building he rented above a print shop. Speaking into the microphone, he adopted the warm, relaxed tone his listeners had come to enjoy. "Remember," he said, "romance isn’t about grand gestures. It’s in the little things—a cup of tea, a text saying *I’m thinking of you*, or recalling something she mentioned last Thursday." He couldn’t recall a single thing anyone had said to him the previous Thursday, except for Chidi, who had asked him if he had settled the electricity bill. "And that’s a wrap for today’s show," Daniel concluded. "Until next time, love well." After pressing the button to stop the recording, the red light blinked out, leaving the small room in silence, as if it had just exhaled after holding its breath for him. --- Chidi Nwosu had been Daniel's friend since their teenage years, when they shared a cramped mattress in a hostel in Akoka. Now, he was Daniel’s business manager, handling everything from scheduling and sponsors to invoices and the occasional moral quandary that Daniel preferred to ignore. "You have a meeting at 10 o'clock," Chidi announced, leaning against the doorframe with a tablet in hand. "New client. She’s a thirty-eight-year-old widow who’s already paid for ten sessions upfront. No negotiations." "Sounds good. What’s her name?" "Mrs. Miriam Adeyemi." Chidi cast his gaze downward. "By the way, she’s early." "How early?" "Forty minutes. She’s been waiting since 9:20 and has sighed twice while looking at your framed book cover." "Sighed how?" "Like a woman overwhelmed by a disappointing menu." Though unnecessary, Daniel adjusted his collar. He rubbed his jaw, checked his watch, and put on the inviting smile he had honed for first meetings: patient, friendly, with a dash of self-deprecation. It had taken years to perfect this demeanor, and it gave the impression that his clients had genuinely arrived at a welcoming space. "Let her in at ten," he instructed. "Not a minute sooner." "She doesn’t seem like the type who enjoys waiting." "Everyone waits." Chidi gave him a look that spoke volumes, a mix of exasperation and understanding that came from years of witnessing Daniel’s quirks. "Alright," he replied, "but I’m telling you now, she doesn’t seem like your usual client." --- Miriam didn’t fit the mold Daniel was accustomed to, and that struck him immediately. He was used to clients he could easily classify: anxious divorcees looking for a script, young men searching for shortcuts, couples aiming for resolution. They often came with notebooks and hope, but typically left feeling a little bruised. The woman who entered his office precisely at ten, firmly adhering to her decision not to arrive early, wore a gray cardigan, flat shoes, and a pincushion strapped to her wrist that felt almost like a piece of jewelry. Her hair was loosely braided, held together in a haphazard manner, and a measuring tape hung around her neck as if she had simply forgotten about it. Instead of exhibiting nerves, she seemed more like someone evaluating him. "Mr. Okafor," she said simply. "Mrs. Adeyemi. Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea?" "No, thank you." She sat down, placing her bag in her lap, scrutinizing the room with unabashed curiosity. Her eyes landed on his diplomas, awards, and the shelf displaying his book in various editions. "You have quite a collection of books with your face on them." "Just the one book," he clarified. "Different editions." "Mm." She returned her gaze to him. "I read it on the bus." "Oh? And what did you think?" "To be honest?" "Absolutely." "It’s very good," she paused, and he noticed a subtle shift in the room's energy. "Although, it’s sort of like being taught to swim by someone who has never set foot in the water." A long silence followed. Somewhere down the hall, a printer rattled as it produced wedding invitations. Daniel kept his smile in place, a skill he had fine-tuned over time. He clasped his hands behind his back to hide his growing unease. "That’s a fair point," he replied, adopting a tone he usually used to navigate tricky conversations. "Many people feel that way initially. A bit of skepticism is healthy. It shows you take this seriously." "I’m not skeptical," Miriam countered. "I’m just being honest." He chuckled, searching for common ground, but she didn’t reciprocate. Instead, there was a flicker of amusement at the corners of her lips as if she almost recognized his humor. "Why are you here, then?" he asked. "Because the book was good," she said plainly. "I need someone who’s adept with words, but I also need him to recognize what he doesn’t know." Daniel opened his mouth to respond but, for the first time in years, found himself at a loss for words. "Ten sessions," Miriam said, rising from her chair. She retrieved a folded receipt from her bag and carefully set it on his desk, as if she were budgeting resources. "Tuesdays and Fridays. I want to start properly this Friday. Today, I just wanted to meet you in person." "And?" She assessed him for a moment, tilting her head slightly, as if inspecting a piece of fabric before making a cut. "You look like you’ve been worn down for ages," she remarked. "Good morning, Mr. Okafor." With that, she turned and exited, the door clicking shut behind her. Daniel remained seated in his well-furnished office, surrounded by all his self-promoting books, grappling with an unfamiliar feeling that lingered like an uninvited guest. That feeling hung around him all day, an unwelcome presence that wouldn’t take its leave. That evening, he had cereal again. For once, he didn’t run through any reviews; he simply sat at the table, listening to the refrigerator hum, pondering how it was possible for someone to look at a stranger and truly see them.