Rain, Dodo, and Destiny
722 Words
Lagos is loud.
Not just with sound, but with feeling. The city moves like it’s late for something always buzzing, honking, shouting, hustling. And right in the middle of it, in a small flat in Surulere, Afolabi was wide awake at 6:12 a.m., staring at the ceiling and already tired.
Another PHCN blackout. His phone was on 3%. Mosquitoes were dancing war songs near his ear. But none of that mattered because in his chest, something was burning.
He sat up, reached for his notepad the same one he’d had since UNILAG. Pages filled with scribbles, wireframes, random app names, and quotes he didn’t want to forget. The most recent one said: “Build for your people first.”
Afolabi wanted to create something real. A tech platform that would make it easier for local vendors to sell online from the woman frying puff-puff in his street to the shoemaker who made custom sandals in Mushin. He was tired of watching talent go unnoticed just because someone didn’t have the right connection or enough data.
He wanted to change that. He just didn’t know where to start.
With a sigh, he pulled on his faded jeans, slung a small backpack over his shoulder, and stepped out into the warm Lagos air.
Across the bridge in Ikeja, Sade was also getting ready.
She stood in front of the mirror in her mother’s sitting room, tying her gele the way she’d seen her grandmother do it but with her own twist. Bold prints, sharp lines, soft glam. Her outfit spoke before she did.
She had a client meeting in VI. Not just any client this one knew someone who ran a boutique in Lekki. A real boutique, not the i********: kind. If this meeting went well, it could open doors. Real ones.
Sade took a deep breath. She picked up her tote bag stuffed with measuring tape, pins, and the most vibrant Ankara samples she owned and headed out.
Her mum called after her:
“Make sure you eat! You can’t talk price on empty stomach!”
“I’ll buy dodo on the way, Mama!” she shouted back.
She didn’t. She barely made it past the gate before the sky broke open.
Not a warning. Not a drizzle.
Just bam Lagos rain.
The kind that soaks you in five seconds and turns every roadside into a river. She dashed under a makeshift awning, clutching her bag like it held gold (because to her, it did).
Then the wind hit. Her tote slipped. Ankara flew into the street like confetti.
“Ahhh no no no!” she gasped, kneeling already stepping into the rain to chase her fabrics, when a hand appeared, picking one up gently.
“Relax,” the voice said. “Na rain, no be war.”
She looked up.
There he was.
Clean haircut. Black hoodie slightly damp. Calm eyes. Not trying to flirt just helping.
“Thanks,” she muttered, collecting the piece from his hand.
“You’re a tailor?”
“I’m a designer,” she corrected.
He raised his hands, smiling. “My bad. The prints gave you away. You’ve got bold taste.”
She looked at him properly now. There was something easy about him the way he stood, the way he didn’t rush her. She smiled a little. “You talk too much.”
“I get that a lot,” he said, chuckling.
They both stood under the awning, close but not too close, watching the rain slap the pavement.
“I’m Afolabi.”
“Sade.”
A beat passed.
“Where are you headed?”
“VI.”
“I’m going Yaba.”
And just like that, they were in two different stories for a moment but still standing in the same chapter.
Another gust of wind came. A danfo splashed a puddle right in front of them. She screamed. He pulled her back instinctively, his arm brushing hers. They both laughed, slightly breathless.
The rain was easing now. Slowly. Softly.
“I should go,” she said.
“Same.”
They didn’t exchange numbers. No i********:. No promises.
But they both walked away thinking about the stranger they just met. Wondering if Lagos chaotic, crazy Lagos would bring them back together.
And in a city of over 20 million people…
It just might.
- Writer
