Chapter 4: The Rainstorm
1401 Words
Tunde’s POV)
From the air-conditioned safety of my office, I watched the girl across the street.
She looked ridiculous. She was sitting on a plastic garden chair in the middle of the road, guarding two bald tires and a Jerry can like they were crown jewels.
I chuckled. "She's actually insane."
I had spent the last three hours bowing and scraping to the Senator and his entourage. I hated these events. I hated the fake laughter. I hated the way they treated my staff. But the Senator’s patronage kept the lights on and the expensive ingredients stocked.
Amara didn't care about any of that. She didn't care about politics or connections. She just cared about her shop.
I admired that.
Earlier, when she had stormed into my lobby, smelling of palm oil and righteous anger, I had felt a pang of guilt. She was right. I had let my customers bully her. I wanted to fix it, but I was trapped by the expectations of my clientele.
Seeing her fight back with rusty tires? It was the highlight of my week.
By 4:00 PM, the last of the VIPs finally rolled away. I watched Amara stand up and dismantle her barricade. She high-fived an Okada rider. She looked exhausted but triumphant.
I let out a long breath. I loosened my tie and ripped it off my neck. I was done.
I took off my stiff white chef’s jacket and threw it on the leather sofa. Underneath, I wore a simple white t-shirt. I reached into my locker and pulled out my favorite beige cashmere sweater. It was soft, comforting, and ridiculously expensive, a gift from my mother.
I grabbed my car keys. I just wanted to go home, pour a drink, and sleep.
I walked out of the restaurant toward my car. The air outside was heavy and humid.
Then, the sky broke open.
It wasn't a slow start. It was an instant deluge. The wind howled, and the rain came down in sheets, turning the world gray.
I sprinted for my car, covering my head.
Then I stopped.
Through the rain, I saw movement across the street.
Amara was out there. She wasn't running for cover. She was standing shin-deep in black water, hacking at the gutter with a shovel.
"What is she doing?" I muttered, squinting through the downpour.
The water was rising fast around her ankles. It was dangerously close to the entrance of her shop. If that water breached her door, her dining room would be ruined.
She dropped the shovel. She bent down and grabbed the edge of a heavy concrete slab. She pulled, her small frame straining against the weight. She screamed something at the stone, but the thunder drowned it out.
I didn't think.
I dropped my car keys. I ran.
I splashed across the road, my Italian loafers sinking into the mud. The rain soaked through my cashmere sweater in seconds, making it heavy and cold against my skin. I didn't care.
"Move!" I shouted over the roar of the rain.
Amara looked up. Her hair was plastered to her face. Her eyes went wide. "What are you doing? Go back! You’ll ruin your clothes!"
"Pull on three!" I yelled, ignoring her protest. I jammed my hands into the murky water, grabbing the rough edge of the slab right next to hers. "One! Two! Three!"
We pulled.
The stone was heavy, but with both of us, it moved. I gritted my teeth, feeling the strain in my back. With a guttural shout, we flipped the slab onto the pavement.
WHOOSH.
The blockage cleared. The trapped water swirled violently and drained away into the deep gutter.
Amara let out a breathless laugh. "We did it."
She stepped back.
I saw it happen in slow motion. Her rubber Crocs slipped on the slime. Her arms windmilled. She was going down.
I lunged.
I caught her. My hands clamped around her waist, pulling her hard against me to stop her fall.
She slammed into my chest.
For a moment, the storm didn't exist.
She was small in my arms, shivering, soaking wet. I looked down at her. Raindrops were racing down her neck. Her chest was heaving against mine.
I felt a jolt of electricity go straight to my gut. It wasn't just adrenaline.
She looked up at me. Her eyes were wide, vulnerable. Her lips were parted slightly.
I realized my grip on her waist was tight. Too tight. I wanted to pull her closer. I wanted to know if she tasted as fiery as she acted.
"Are you okay?" I asked. My voice sounded wrecked to my own ears.
Amara blinked. The moment shattered. She scrambled out of my arms like I had burned her.
"I’m fine," she stammered, hugging herself. "I... thank you. For the drain."
I wiped water from my eyes. I felt cold now that she wasn't touching me. "Don't mention it, neighbor."
"Your sweater," she said, pointing at my chest. "It’s ruined."
I looked down. The beige cashmere was a soggy, mud-stained mess. It was trash.
I shrugged. "It’s just wool. Your shop is safe. That’s more important."
I couldn't stay there. If I stayed, I would do something stupid like ask her out. And she would probably hit me with a shovel.
I turned and ran back across the street.
Back in my office, I stripped off the wet sweater and threw it into the trash can with a wet thud.
I dried off with a towel and put on a spare gym shirt I kept in my bag. I sat down at my desk, my heart still racing.
My phone buzzed.
It was a notification from ChefsConnect.
SpiceGirl: The sky fell down today. It nearly flooded my shop.
I smiled. I leaned back in my chair. I loved talking to SpiceGirl. She was the only person who understood the stress of the kitchen.
Me (ChefX): Lagos rain is no joke. Are you safe?
I waited.
SpiceGirl: I’m safe. My enemy... he surprised me today. He ran out in the rain to help me clear the gutter. Ruined his expensive clothes.
I froze.
I stared at the words.
My enemy.
Ran out in the rain.
Ruined his expensive clothes.
My eyes darted to the trash can in the corner of my office. The muddy beige sweater was poking out.
I looked back at the phone.
SpiceGirl.
Amara.
My brain tried to reject it. Amara was the girl who yelled at me. SpiceGirl was the witty, funny chef I flirted with every night.
But the details were exact.
SpiceGirl: I slipped in the mud. He caught me. For a second... I don't know. I forgot I hated him.
I dropped the phone on my desk. I stood up and walked to the window.
I looked across the street. Baba’s Pot was dark, but I saw Amara locking the front door and hopping into a yellow taxi.
I started to laugh. It was a loud, incredulous sound that echoed in the empty office.
"It's her," I whispered. "It's actually her."
I picked up the phone again. My thumb hovered over the keyboard. I should tell her. I should say, "It's me. The guy with the ruined sweater."
But then I re-read her message: I forgot I hated him.
She hated Tunde. But she trusted ChefX.
If I told her now, the wall would go back up. She would be embarrassed. She might even block me.
A slow, mischievous smile spread across my face.
I had the advantage now. I knew her secret.
"Okay, Amara," I murmured. "Let's play."
I typed my reply carefully.
Me (ChefX): Careful SpiceGirl. The line between love and hate is very thin. Especially when it’s raining.
I hit send. I watched the taxi disappear down the wet street, and for the first time in years, I felt excited about going to work tomorrow.
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