The Arrangement

Tunde Makes His Move

The invitation arrived on a Monday.

Lunch. Kola’s uncle Tunde. A restaurant on Victoria Island that he owned through a company that owned through another company. The invitation was addressed to Adunola only.

She showed it to Kola over breakfast.

He read it. Put it down. Drank his coffee.

“You do not have to go,” he said.

“I know,” she said. “I am going.”

He looked at her.

“He wants to assess me alone,” she said. “Without you managing the interaction. He thinks removing you from the equation gives him an advantage.”

“It might,” Kola said. “He is good at what he does.”

“So am I,” she said.

She went on Wednesday.

The restaurant had no name outside. The kind of place that communicated exclusivity through absence. A door. A number. A man inside who knew who you were before you gave your name.

Tunde was already seated.

He stood when she arrived which she noted. A performance of respect designed to establish that he was not threatened by her. People who were genuinely not threatened did not perform it.

“Adunola,” he said warmly. “You look wonderful.”

“Uncle Tunde,” she said. “Thank you for the invitation.”

She sat. She placed her bag precisely. She looked at the menu because it gave her thirty seconds to read the room without appearing to read it.

The restaurant was half full. Three tables she could see. One near the entrance with two men who were not eating and were positioned to observe. She filed that.

“I wanted the chance to know you properly,” Tunde said. “Without the noise of events and family gatherings. You are an impressive woman. Kola has chosen well.”

“Kola chooses carefully,” she said. “In everything.”

“Yes,” Tunde said. “He does.” Something in the word everything. “It is one of the things I admire about my nephew. His patience.”

“It is one of the things I love about my husband,” she said.

The word husband landed where she intended it to land.

Tunde smiled. “Of course.”

They ordered. The food was excellent. The conversation was a performance of warmth over the bones of something entirely different.

He asked about her company. She answered with precision and without volunteering anything beyond what was asked. He asked about her family in Ibadan. She answered warmly and briefly. He asked about her plans for the Adesanya household.

“My plans,” she said pleasantly, “are between me and my husband.”

“Of course,” he said. “I only ask because the family takes a great interest in the direction of the household. Especially given my brother’s health.”

“Chief Adesanya is well cared for,” she said. “Kola sees him twice a week without fail. The medical team is excellent. We are very hopeful.”

“Hopeful,” Tunde repeated. “Yes.”

The word sat between them.

She looked at him directly. “Uncle Tunde. You are a man who values directness. I am also that kind of person. So let me be direct.”

He raised his eyebrows. Pleasantly.

“I know about the Meridian contract,” she said.

His face did not change. That in itself was information. A man who was innocent would have shown confusion. He showed nothing which meant he was controlling a reaction that existed.

“I am not sure what you mean,” he said.

“I think you are,” she said. “I also think that you are a man who makes calculated decisions and that the calculation you made about me before today was based on incomplete information.”

“And what information were you missing,” he said.

“That I am not someone who can be managed,” she said. “Or removed. Or discouraged. I have built everything I have in this city without anyone’s help and I have survived people with far more resources than you have applied to the problem.”

She picked up her water glass.

“I am not your enemy,” she said. “I have no interest in being anyone’s enemy. I am simply a woman who is very good at her work and very committed to the people she loves.”

She put the glass down.

“I thought you should know that,” she said. “Directly. So we understand each other.”

Tunde looked at her for a long moment.

Then he smiled. A different smile from the earlier ones. Smaller. More real.

“Kola chose very carefully indeed,” he said.

“He did,” she agreed.

They finished lunch.

She drove home.

She called Kola from the car.

“How was it,” he said.

“Educational,” she said. “For both of us.”

“Should I be worried.”

She thought about the look on Tunde’s face at the end. The recalibration of a man who had underestimated something and was now adjusting.

“Not yet,” she said. “But stay close.”

“I am always close,” he said.

She ended the call.

She looked at Lagos moving past the window.

She thought about the word always.

She thought about how it had sounded when he said it.

She did not examine that too closely.

Not yet.