The pharmacist
930 Words
Friday morning arrived and Kamsi decided overnight that she had imagined the whole thing.
Not the delivery — that was real. Not the wrong corridor — that was her own fault for being impatient. But the rest of it. The man on his knees. The cold beautiful man who knew her name before she said it. The SUV outside with the window lowered just enough.
She had imagined the significance of it. That was all.
She opened her pharmacy at eight as usual. Arranged her shelves. Made her tea. Greeted her assistant Tolu who arrived at eight-fifteen with akara in a paper bag and the morning energy of someone who had slept extremely well and wanted everyone to know it.
"You look tired," Tolu said, looking at her.
"I'm fine."
"You have the face you make when you're thinking about something you don't want to think about."
"I don't have a face like that."
"Ada you absolutely have a face like that." Tolu bit into her akara. "What happened?"
"Nothing happened. Eat your akara."
Tolu ate her akara. But she kept looking.
Kamsi went behind the counter and got to work.
The morning was normal. Customers with prescriptions. A mother with a feverish child. An elderly man who came every Friday for his blood pressure medication and stayed twenty minutes longer than necessary because he was lonely and she had never once made him feel that.
Normal. Completely normal.
At half past eleven the door opened.
She knew before she looked up.
She didn't know how she knew. Something in the air. Something that changed.
She looked up.
He was alone.
No Emmanuel. No large men. No corridor full of things she wasn't supposed to see. Just Zion Adaora in a plain dark shirt standing in her pharmacy on Benson Street looking at her the way he had looked at her last night — like a problem he was already solving.
Tolu made a small sound beside her.
Kamsi kept her face completely neutral.
"We're open," she said. As if he was anyone.
He came to the counter. He looked at the pharmacy — her shelves, her organization, her space — with that quiet assessing gaze of his.
"Nice place," he said.
"Thank you. Do you have a prescription?"
He looked at her. "No."
"Are you unwell?"
"No."
"Then how can I help you?" Steady. Professional. Completely fine.
He looked at her for a long moment. Something moved in his expression — not quite amusement. The almost-version of it.
"I came to see if you were alright," he said.
She stared at him. "I'm fine."
"You looked shaken last night."
"I wasn't."
"You were." Not unkind. Just accurate. "Most people who turn into that corridor don't walk back out looking as composed as you did. I wanted to confirm you were okay."
Kamsi looked at him.
This man — this cold dangerous rumoured man — had come to her pharmacy on a Friday morning to check if she was okay.
She didn't know what to do with that.
"I'm okay," she said carefully. "Thank you for asking."
He nodded. Looked at the counter. Then back at her.
"You didn't tell anyone," he said.
"I said I keep my word."
"Most people say that." His eyes were steady on hers. "Not many mean it."
"I mean it."
Another long look.
"I know," he said quietly. Like he had already confirmed this somehow. Like he had spent the night verifying it.
Tolu beside her had stopped pretending to arrange things and was simply standing very still.
"Is there anything else?" Kamsi said.
He reached into his pocket and set a card on the counter between them. Plain white. Just a number. No name.
"If anyone comes to you asking questions about last night," he said quietly. "Call that number before you answer them."
She looked at the card. "What kind of questions?"
"The kind that come from people who are not interested in your wellbeing."
She looked at him.
"Am I in danger?" she asked directly.
He held her gaze.
"Not while I know where you are," he said.
The pharmacy was very quiet.
"That's not entirely reassuring," she said.
"I know." Something shifted in his expression. Briefly. Like a door opening and closing before she could see what was inside. "But it's the truth."
He stepped back from the counter.
"Have a good day Kamsi," he said.
He walked out.
The door closed.
Tolu turned to look at her with the expression of someone who had just witnessed something significant and needed several minutes to process it.
"Who," Tolu said carefully, "was that."
Kamsi picked up the card.
Plain white. Just a number. No name.
She put it in her pocket.
"A customer," she said.
"He didn't buy anything Ada—"
"Tolu."
Tolu closed her mouth.
Kamsi went back to work.
But the card was in her pocket and she could feel it there all day — small and warm and slightly dangerous — like the man who had left it.
Not while I know where you are.
She thought about that for the rest of the day.
She thought about it on the drive home.
She thought about it lying in bed at midnight with the Lagos night outside her window and the card on her bedside table and the particular feeling of a life that had been very organised suddenly tilting slightly on its axis.
She picked up the card.
Just a number.
She put it back down.
She closed her eyes.
She did not call.
Not yet.
- Writer
