Lagos bound

December Glow and January Shadow. Chapter 2, Scene 1 and 2

Lagos Bound

Chapter 2: December Glow and January Shadows.

The rest of December unfolded like a fever dream neither of them wanted to wake from.

They moved through the city like it belonged to them alone. Mornings started late—brunch at a hidden spot in Ikoyi where the avocado toast came with chili oil and the coffee was strong enough to reset the soul. Afternoons were for boat rides on the lagoon, Kunle steering while Leila leaned against the rail, locs whipping in the breeze, both of them laughing at how ridiculous it felt to be this happy in traffic-jammed Lagos. Evenings dissolved into rooftop bars, beach parties in Lekki, secret gigs in mainland joints where the crowd knew every lyric and no one cared who you were supposed to be.

They danced until their feet ached, kissed under fairy lights on rooftop terraces, stole moments in the back of Ubers when the driver pretended not to notice. Kunle showed her the Lagos he loved—the quiet corners no guidebook mentioned: a suya spot that stayed open till dawn, an art gallery tucked behind a church in Yaba, the stretch of beach at Tarkwa Bay where the water felt cleaner and the world quieter. Leila shared stories of her split worlds—her father Canadian-born, a quiet engineer from Vancouver who'd met her mother during a work stint in Abuja, leading to her own Canadian citizenship by birthright. But it was her mother's side, the Igbo roots from Anambra, that tied her to Lagos through her aunt in Lekki, the one who'd insisted on this holiday visit to "keep the blood alive." Kunle listened, fascinated, teasing her about her "half-snow, half-jollof" heritage.

They made playlists for each other—hers full of SZA and Daniel Caesar, his heavy on old-school Fela and newer Rema. They took too many photos, posted none. It felt private, sacred, theirs.

New Year’s Eve arrived like the grand finale of the month. They chose a private beach club on the Lagos side of the Atlantic—low-key enough to feel intimate, extravagant enough to match the occasion. Fireworks were scheduled at midnight, but they barely noticed when the clock struck twelve. They were on the sand, barefoot, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist, watching the sky explode in red and gold.

Kunle turned to her just as the last burst faded.

“Leila,” he said, voice low against the sound of waves and distant cheers. “I don’t know what next year looks like. But I know I want you in it. All of it. Forever kind of in it.”

She lifted her head, eyes shining under the moonlight. “Forever’s a long time, Kunle.”

“Not long enough,” he answered, brushing a thumb across her cheek. “I want forever with you. I want the arguments and the quiet mornings and the way you look at me like I’m the only person in the room. I want it all.”

She smiled, soft and sure. “Then let’s make it forever. Starting right now.”

They kissed as the new year officially began—slow, deep, full of promises neither had spoken aloud before. When they pulled apart, both whispering “I love you” at the exact same moment, the words landed like truth.

January 2nd felt like the first real test.

Kunle drove her to the family house in Ikoyi—an imposing white mansion with manicured lawns and security gates that hummed open at his approach. His father, Chief Adebayo, was waiting in the living room, newspapers spread across the coffee table, glasses perched on his nose. He rose when they entered, tall and imposing even in casual kaftan, his presence filling the space.

“Dad, this is Leila,” Kunle said, hand steady at the small of her back. “Leila, my father.”

Chief Adebayo studied her—polite smile, but eyes sharp. “Welcome, my dear. Kunle has spoken highly of you.”

They sat. Small talk flowed for a few minutes—weather, the holidays, her aunt’s house in Lekki. Then the conversation turned.

“You’re from Canada?” the Chief asked.

“Born there, yes sir. My father’s Canadian—Vancouver roots. But my mother’s Igbo, from Anambra. That’s how I connect to my aunt here; she’s my mum’s sister.”

A flicker crossed the older man’s face. He set his teacup down carefully.

“I see.” A pause. “Kunle, may I speak with you privately?”

Kunle’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. Leila excused herself to the garden, heart already sinking.

Inside, the words came fast and heavy, laced with old pain.

“I will not stand in the way of your happiness, Kunle—but I will not pretend this is wise. You know my story, but let me remind you fully so you understand why I say this. Before your mother, there was another. Her name was Ngozi. Igbo, like Leila’s family. We met young, in university. I loved her deeply—thought she was the one. But her parents? They disapproved from the start. ‘Yoruba boy,’ they said. ‘No future.’ And when they saw I had nothing then—no money, no connections, just dreams—they pushed her to leave. She did. Married some rich man from their circle instead. Broke me, son. Left me questioning everything.”

Kunle shifted, uncomfortable. “Dad, that was years ago. People change.”

Chief Adebayo shook his head, eyes distant. “After her, I met your mother. Yoruba, like us. From the same soil, same ways. She didn’t care that I had nothing. She helped me—stood by me through the lean years, worked side by side until we built this.” He gestured at the room, the house, the life. “We became who we are because we understood each other. No outside pressures tearing at the seams. When she passed, it hurt like nothing else—but it wasn’t because of tribe or greed. It was clean pain, not poisoned by regret.”

He leaned forward, voice dropping. “I won’t watch you go through that. I won’t lose you to hurt because of a woman—especially one from another tribe. They’re all the same in the end: greedy, selfish, looking out for their own. Her parents will come calling one day, or she will, chasing something better. You’re my only son. The company, the name—it’s yours. But don’t throw it away on this.”

Kunle’s voice was low, edged with anger. “Dad, Leila isn’t Ngozi. She’s not greedy. She’s building her own life—law degree, aiming for Monaco. This isn’t about tribe for us.”

“It’s never about tribe until it is.” Chief Adebayo’s eyes softened, but his resolve didn’t. “Love her if you must. But I cannot bless what I know will bring you sorrow. I’ve lived it. I won’t see you hurt like that.”

Kunle stood, fists clenched. “I’m not asking for permission. I’m telling you who I love.”

The Chief sighed. “Then go. But remember my words when the cracks show.”

Kunle left the room without another word.

Outside, Leila waited under a frangipani tree, arms wrapped around herself. When he reached her, she searched his face.

“He doesn’t approve,” Kunle said quietly. “Because of tribe. Because of an old heartbreak—an Igbo woman who left him for money, pushed by her family. He met Mom after, same tribe, and they built everything together. Now he thinks all ‘others’ are greedy, selfish. He’s scared I’ll end up like him—broken.”

Leila exhaled, slow and shaky, tears welling. “I’m not like that. My family isn’t… we’re not greedy.”

“I know.” He pulled her close, forehead against hers. “But it hurts, doesn’t it? Knowing his past colors everything. That he sees you through that lens.”

She nodded, voice breaking. “It makes me question if we can fight this. If it’s worth the pain—for you, for us.”

“You’re worth everything.” Kunle cupped her face. “We’ll figure this out. Together. Even if it’s hard. Even if it takes time.”

They stood like that for a long while—two people holding onto each other while the city hummed beyond the gates, indifferent to the fracture that had just deepened inside the walls.

The glow of December lingered, but January had already cast its first shadow, darker now with echoes of old wounds.

And still, they held on.

Lagos bound, but now tested.