When duty meets heart

The record

The written request arrived at exactly 8:47 the next morning.

Adaeze knew because she had been watching the clock. Not because she was waiting — she told herself that firmly — but because she had three samples due for processing before 9 AM and time mattered in this lab.

The request was slipped under the laboratory door in a plain envelope. Typed. Signed by Dr. Fashola. Every field filled out correctly.

She stared at it for a moment longer than necessary.

Chiamaka appeared at her shoulder. "Is that from him?"

"It's from Dr. Fashola."

"But for him."

Adaeze set the envelope on her desk and went back to her samples. "Tell him he can come collect the files at 2 PM. Not before."

Chiamaka disappeared. Adaeze focused on her work. She was very good at focusing.

At 1:58 PM, she heard the knock.

"Come in."

Emeka entered alone this time. No Ngozi, no clipboard. Just him in a plain navy shirt, a small notepad in his hand, looking around the lab with quiet, unhurried curiosity — the way someone looks at a place they're trying to understand rather than just pass through.

"You're two minutes early," Adaeze said without looking up.

"The door was open."

"The door is always open. 2 PM was the instruction."

A pause. "You're right. I'll come back in two minutes."

She looked up.

He was already turning toward the door, completely serious.

"Sit down," she said.

Was that almost a smile? She couldn't tell. He sat down across from her desk and she slid the folder of records toward him. Six months of data — infectious disease reports, lab results, referral patterns.

He opened it immediately and started reading. Not skimming. Actually reading.

Adaeze watched him for exactly three seconds before looking away.

"You can ask questions if you need clarification," she said.

"I know." He turned a page. "I will."

Silence settled between them. But it wasn't uncomfortable. It was the silence of two people who were both, in their own way, very serious about their work.

Ten minutes passed.

"Your malaria case spike in October," he said without looking up. "Was that linked to the drainage issue on Borno Avenue?"

Adaeze blinked. She had written a report on that. An internal one, never submitted anywhere.

"How did you know about the drainage issue?" she asked carefully.

He looked up then. And for the first time, something in his expression shifted — not quite warmth, but the closest thing to it she had seen from him.

"I read the neighbourhood health reports before every assignment," he said. "All of them. Even the ones nobody sends to Abuja."

Adaeze said nothing.

He went back to the folder.

But something had changed — quietly, without permission — and she wasn't sure what to do with that.