Moon in the Go-slow

The alarm didn’t wake Aisha. The neighbour’s generator did—coughing to life at 5:47 a.m. like it had personally decided her day should start with diesel fumes and bass-heavy Fuji leaking through the thin wall. She lay there for a full minute, eyes closed, pretending the sound was ocean waves instead of a dying engine. Then she gave up, rolled out of the thin mattress on the floor, and padded to the bucket in the corner. Cold water hit like a slap. She shivered through the quick wash—armpits, neck, between her legs—then dried with the same faded towel she’d had since NYSC. The mirror above the cracked sink showed a woman who looked too tired for twenty-nine: braids half-undone from sleep, dark circles, lips chapped from harmattan wind. She forced a smile. Practised it. “Good morning, team. I’m Aisha Adebayo, and I’m here to revolutionise micro-lending through blockchain.” The reflection didn’t believe her either. She dressed carefully. Cream blouse (second-hand but ironed crisp), navy pencil skirt, black heels she’d polished the night before until they gleamed like new money. The fintech office in Eko Atlantic didn’t care that she lived in a face-me-I-face-you in Surulere; they only cared that she looked like she belonged on the Island. Today was the pitch. Make-or-break. Six months of late nights, rejected proposals, and “we’ll circle back” emails came down to this one thirty-minute slot at 9:00 sharp. By 6:32 she was out the gate, dodging puddles from last night’s rain, waving down the first danfo that slowed. The conductor leaned out, shouting “Island! Island! Enter fast!” She squeezed in beside a woman balancing a baby on her lap and a man reading a crumpled Vanguard folded to the sports page. The bus lurched forward, horn blaring at nothing in particular. Traffic started light, then thickened at Oshodi like cholesterol in an artery. A trailer had jackknifed somewhere ahead—rice sacks split open across three lanes, hawkers already moving in like vultures. People climbed out of cars to argue, phones up, recording for X. The driver killed the engine. Everyone groaned in unison. Aisha checked her phone. 7:04. Battery at 29%. One message from her mother: Aisha mi, dress well o. God go open door today. Don’t let them see village side. Call me when you reach. She typed back: On my way, Ma. Traffic bad but I’ll make it. Lie. The bridge approach was a parking lot. Horns blared in pointless symphony. Sweat glued her blouse to her back. She fanned herself with the printed pitch deck, pages already wilting. The okada man beside the danfo shook his head when she asked. “No go that side today, aunty. Go-slow since 4 a.m. Even Jesus no fit cross.” She laughed—short, dry—then started walking. Lagos walk: shoulders forward, eyes scanning gaps, ready to dodge both bike and ego. The air smelled of diesel, wet dust, frying akara from a roadside stall. A boy ran past with a tray of pure water sachets. “Fifty naira! Cold one!” She waved him over, bought two. Tore one open with her teeth, drank half in one pull. Warm, metallic, perfect. She tucked the second in her bag for later. By the time she reached the bridge ramp, the sun was serious. Her heels clicked unevenly—left one catching on cracked concrete. She looked down. A thin tear along the seam, like someone had clawed it in passing. Not dramatic. Just enough to make her limp slightly. Of course. She laughed again, quieter this time. The sound got swallowed by the noise. Then she felt it. Not saw. Felt. A hook behind her ribs, yanking forward. Skin prickled. Heartbeat slammed against her throat. She turned slowly, scanning the sea of stalled vehicles, sweating drivers, arguing conductors. There. Leaning against a black SUV three cars back: tall, broad-shouldered, dark skin gleaming under an open-collar shirt. Scar along his jaw like old claw marks. He wasn’t looking at the traffic. He was looking at her. Their eyes locked. The world narrowed. Horns faded. Heat softened. The pull sharpened until it hurt—like hunger she hadn’t known she had. He straightened, nostrils flaring as if he’d caught her scent on the wind. Aisha’s knees went weak. She smelled him too: pine, iron, wet earth after rain, and underneath, something wild and hungry that made her thighs clench without permission. No. She turned away, pushed forward faster. Stupid. Heatstroke. Low blood sugar. Anything but this. But he moved. SUV door slammed. Boots on asphalt. People parted for him without argument—the way Lagos parts for men who carry danger like aftershave. “Aisha.” Her name in his mouth was low, rough, certain. She froze. “How do you know my name?” She spun, voice sharper than intended. He stopped a few feet away. Close enough she could see the gold flecks in his brown eyes. “I don’t. But I do.” The pull tightened, rope around her waist. Skin too small. She wanted to run. Wanted to step closer. Wanted to bite something. “You’re late,” he said, nodding toward the Island. “For the pitch.” She blinked. “How—” “Doesn’t matter.” He glanced at the sky—sun climbing, moon long gone but somehow still present in the dilation of his pupils. “You need to get there. But you’re not going alone.” She laughed—scared, sharp. “I don’t know you.” “You will.” He stepped closer. The scent hit harder—musk, heat, promise. Her body betrayed her: n*****s tightening under the blouse, breath shallow. “I’m Kola,” he said. “And you’re mine.” The words landed like slap and caress at once. Rage flared hot. “Yours?” She stepped back. “This is Lagos, not Nollywood. I belong to myself.” His jaw tightened, but his eyes softened with pain. “The moon doesn’t ask permission. Neither does the bond.” Bond. The word echoed in her blood. Invisible thread, ancient, unbreakable. Part of her wanted to claw it out. Part wanted to wrap it around him and never let go. A horn blared. Reality crashed back. She turned and walked—fast, limping slightly. He didn’t follow. Not yet. But she knew he would. Because in this city, under this sun, some things don’t wait for traffic to clear. Some things hunt. She made it to Eko Atlantic by 8:58—on foot the last stretch, heels ruined, blouse damp, pitch deck creased. The security guard waved her through with pity. Inside, air-con was mercy. She smoothed her skirt in the mirrored elevator, forced another smile. Floor 14. Conference room. Four suits waiting—two men, two women—scrolling phones. “Good morning. Aisha Adebayo, here for the digital solutions pitch.” They nodded. She launched in—slides, stats, promises of inclusion that sounded noble even to her. But halfway through blockchain for micro-lending, the scent hit again. Pine. Iron. Wet earth. She faltered. Mid-sentence. “Miss Adebayo?” the HR woman asked. “You okay?” Aisha blinked. Forced her eyes to the screen. But her skin buzzed. She could feel him—somewhere close. Too close. The presentation limped to an end. Polite questions. Thank-yous. “We’ll be in touch.” She left before the door closed fully. In the corridor she leaned against cool glass, breathing hard. The bond tugged southward—toward the lobby, the street, toward him. She took the stairs down three floors. When she stepped into the lobby, there he was. Kola stood near the revolving doors, arms crossed, watching the flow of people like a predator counting sheep. Their eyes met across the marble. He nodded once—like they’d already agreed. Aisha’s feet moved before she told them to. She stopped a meter away, arms folded tight. “You followed me.” “I didn’t have to.” His voice gravel and velvet. “I felt you the whole way.” She swallowed. “That’s not normal.” “Normal left when the moon decided you’re mine.” She laughed—disbelieving. “I’m not anyone’s. Least of all some stranger who thinks smelling good gives rights.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then up. Hunger. Restraint. “It’s not about rights,” he said quietly. “It’s about need. Yours. Mine. The pack’s. You feel it too.” She did. God help her, she did. “I have a life,” she said. “A job. A mother who expects grandbabies from an accountant, not… this.” Kola stepped closer—not touching. Just close enough his scent drowned the lemon cleaner. “This doesn’t erase your life. It makes it louder. Sharper. Dangerous.” “Dangerous how?” He glanced around—quick, assessing—then back. “There are rules. Territories. Rogues who don’t follow them. My pack runs security for half the night economy—clubs, markets, some of these offices. We keep monsters out. But if you’re marked as mine, you’re in the middle.” “Marked?” “Not yet.” Voice dropped. “But the bond won’t wait forever. It pulls harder every hour. Every full moon it’ll be worse. You’ll dream of me. Ache for me. One night you’ll come looking.” She shook her head, backing until shoulders hit wall. “I don’t want this.” “I know.” Pain crossed his face—quick, raw. “I didn’t ask either. But the moon doesn’t care what we want.” Silence stretched, thick as traffic. He reached into his pocket. Small black card—no name, just a number and silver crescent moon. “When you’re ready,” he said, pressing it into her palm. Fingers brushed hers. Fire. Electric. She gasped. He pulled back like burned too. “Call if you need me,” he said. “Or if you don’t. I’ll know.” He turned. Walked out revolving doors. Sun caught him, turned skin bronze, then gone—swallowed by crowd and heat. Aisha stared at the card. Fingers trembled. She should throw it away. Tear it. Block the number. Instead she slipped it into her bra—against racing heart. Because deep down—under fear, anger, denial—she felt the truth clawing up. The moon had chosen. And in Lagos, some choices don’t let you say no.