SHALEWA

Three years ago, I became a mother, not a wife, not a partner, just a mother. A boy mom. At first, it was overwhelming, carrying this tiny life on my own,😭 trying to balance sleepless nights with building a career that could put food on our table.

I wasn’t just working for me anymore; every decision I made had his little face attached to it.

Some days, I felt strong. Other days, I felt like life had robbed me of something soft. People don’t talk enough about how being a single mother changes the way you see love.

It wasn’t just about me anymore. If love came knocking, it had to knock twice, once for me, and once for my son.

So, I built walls. I carried myself with a smile, worked harder than anyone else, and poured all my free time into my boy.

When he turned two, I got a job at Eko Hotel, one of the biggest hotels in Lagos. I worked as a staff attendant, moving from housekeeping to restaurant shifts depending on the day.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was steady, and it paid enough to keep the lights on and to start saving little by little for Jason’s school fees.

The job came with crazy hours. Sometimes my shift was 12pm to 7pm, sometimes overnight.

I would rush back home just in time to prepare his breakfast, and then drop him at crèche. The days felt endless, like I was living two lives at once, a worker in uniform, bowing and smiling for strangers, then a mother, rushing to read bedtime stories, pack his bag and pray he stayed healthy so I wouldn’t miss work.

I wasn’t suffering, no. But it wasn’t easy either. I was surviving. I was learning to stretch money, learning to smile when I was tired, learning to keep my faith that things would one day get easier.

I wanted Jason to grow up proud of me, not seeing a mother who gave up too early.

By the time he started crèche, I began to breathe a little. I could drop him off, rush for my shift, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like maybe I was getting a grip on life again.

And it was during one of those shifts, tired and hurrying along the hotel corridor in my staff uniform, that I bumped into him. Or rather, he bumped into me.

I had just finished a long shift at the hotel, balancing a tray in my hands, when someone brushed past me so hard I almost lost grip. No “sorry,” no glance back, nothing.

Something in me snapped. I turned and said sharply, “Excuse me, You almost made me spill everything!”

He stopped. Slowly. Turned. Looked at me like I had just offended his throne. He was tall, well-dressed, the type of man you could smell money on before he even spoke.

“You just bumped into me,” I said, my chest was already rising and falling,😭

The uniform on me making me feel invisible in his eyes. “The least you could say is ‘sorry.’”

His lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “And if I don’t say it… what will happen?”

I blinked, caught between irritation and surprise at his boldness. “Then it shows the kind of person you are,” I shot back, voice steady even though my heart was pounding.

Instead of apologizing, he just looked at me and started to walk away.

I was already so angry, I dropped everything with me, walked up to him, blocked him from leaving, I tightened my jaw, my hand still raised like I meant it. “If you try to walk away without saying sorry, I’ll give you the dirtiest slap you’ve ever received in your entire life.”

He froze, staring at me like he couldn’t believe what he just heard. For a moment, his lips twitched, almost like he wanted to laugh at the audacity. But his eyes, sharp, cold, offended, burned into mine.

No one had ever spoken to him like that. Not here. Not anywhere.

When he tried to sidestep me again, I moved quickly, blocking him once more. My chest was heaving but I didn’t care. “Say it,” I demanded, voice low but firm. “You’re not leaving my presence until you do.”

We stood there locked in silence, people were already staring, staff moving quickly past us but stealing glances. My supervisor would have my head if word got around that I was creating a scene with a guest, but at that moment, I didn’t care.

I was tired of being invisible, tired of being stepped on like I didn’t matter. Finally, his jaw tightened, and through clenched teeth he spat the word like it was poison.

“Sorry.”

I stared at him, measuring the weight of the word, the way it almost burned him to let it out. I looked at him from head to toe, I felt so irritated omggg😭, my lips curled slightly. “Fine.”

Then I stepped aside, grabbed my tray, and walked off without another word.

I didn’t look back, but I could feel his gaze boring into me, following me until I disappeared.

Weeks later, I had already forgotten about him sef. Or at least, I told myself I had.

Then one afternoon, during my shift, my friend Titi leaned close, whispering like she was dropping the hottest gist.

“You know that man,” she said.

I frowned. “Which man?”

“That rich and fine man (well, he looks very ugly to me) the one you dragged matter with that day,” she said, eyes wide with excitement. “He came last week. He was asking of you.”

My heart skipped. “Asking of me?”

Titi nodded eagerly. “He came twice sef. But you weren’t on duty. We told him. He just left. Said he’ll come back.”

I blinked, completely thrown. “What? Why would he…?” I trailed off, shaking my head quickly. “Abeg, forget it. I don’t know anybody.”

But that night, as I lay in my narrow bed, the words replayed in my head like an echo I couldn’t silence. He came. He was looking for me.

What could a man like that possibly want from me?

The next day when I clocked in, I didn’t expect to see him. But there he was. Standing by the reception desk like he owned the place, hands in his pockets, watching me the way someone waits for a storm to notice them.

I froze for half a second before rolling my eyes and walking straight past him. But of course, he followed.

“Finally,” he said, as if we had an appointment. “I’ve been here two, three times, but every time I come, you’re never on duty.”

I turned, sharp. “What exactly do you want from me? Why are you looking for me?” My tone was clipped, professional, but my eyes made it clear I was two seconds away from chasing him out myself.

He raised his hands slightly, as if to pacify me. “Calm down. You’re so hard on me.”

Something flickered in his gaze, half amusement, half wounded pride. Still, he chuckled low. “You think you know the kind of person I am. You don’t. I’m not what you think.”

“I have no reason to believe that. And frankly, no reason to care. Why are you looking for me? Say it quickly, because I have work to do.”

That was when his expression shifted. At a point, the cocky act slipped just a little. He looked almost… serious.

“Because…” he paused, as if the word itself was heavy. Then he looked at me, straight in the eye. “…because I can’t stop thinking about you.”

The silence between us was sharp enough to cut glass.

I scoffed, folding my arms. “That’s your problem, not mine.” I turned to leave.

But he stepped in front of me, lowering his voice. “You can keep hating me if you want. Fight me, insult me, block me at doors like you did the last time. But don’t pretend you don’t feel this tension too. It’s not one-sided.”

I glared at him, heat rushing to my face. “Tension? The only tension here is my patience running out. Move.”

For the first time, his smile faltered. He looked at me with a quiet, stubborn intensity, as if my anger only pulled him deeper instead of pushing him away.

And against my will, I felt my chest tighten. And then he…

I stepped to the side, but he mirrored me. I moved again, and again he blocked me, his smirk returning like he enjoyed testing my limits.

“Why are you like this?” he asked, almost laughing, like he found my irritation entertaining.

“Why are you like this?” I shot back, lowering my voice so I wouldn’t cause a scene. “You don’t know me. I don’t know you. Yet you’re showing up here like you own me, like you have a right to even speak to me.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “Maybe because you’re the first person who’s ever looked me in the face and threatened to slap me.”

I folded my arms. “Then you should’ve stayed far away. Because I wasn’t joking.”

Instead of being offended, he laughed under his breath. Not a loud laugh, but that kind of low, rich laugh that made my skin prickle with irritation.

“You know what? Forget it,” I said, shaking my head. “I don’t have time for your games if you don’t need a room cleaned, or food served, or anything that concerns my actual job, stop calling me over.”

This time, I walked past him. He didn’t block me again, but I could feel his eyes following me with that stubborn, quiet intensity.

And for the rest of my shift, I kept catching glimpses of him around, by the lounge, near the elevator, outside the restaurant, like a shadow refusing to leave.

By the time I clocked out, my coworkers were whispering, teasing.

“Babe, that fine man came back for you again o.”

“Girlll, abeg give us the secret nau, which charm you use on him?”

I ignored them all, my face set in stone.😭

That evening, I was exhausted. My shift had been long, and all I wanted was to get home to Jason, give him his dinner, and collapse into bed. I signed out, changed out of my uniform, and stepped out of the hotel lobby into the cool night air.

Then I froze.

Leaning casually against a black SUV parked right by the entrance was him. The same man I’d been trying to shake off inside the hotel. His jacket was off this time, shirt sleeves rolled, hands tucked into his pockets like he had been waiting a while.

My heart dropped into my stomach.

I muttered under my breath, “Oh God, not again…” and tried to stride past quickly, ignoring him like air.

But of course, he noticed.

“Finally,” he said, straightening. “I was beginning to think you’d escaped through the back door.”

I stopped short, turned to him sharply. “Why are you here? Don’t tell me you’ve been standing outside waiting for me.”

He gave a slow shrug, a little too calm for my liking. “Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn’t. Does it matter?”

“Yes, it matters,” I snapped. “Because this is my life, not your playground. You can’t just… hover around me everywhere I go.”

He stepped closer, not enough to touch, but enough that I could smell the faint cologne on him. “You talk like I’m stalking you.”

I folded my arms, glaring. “Aren’t you? You’ve come to the hotel, asked for me, now you’re here outside waiting for me. What does that look like to you?”

“It looks like… I’m not used to being ignored. And you…” his eyes lingered on me, steady, “…you’re ignoring me better than anyone ever has.”

I blinked, caught off guard. My chest tightened, but I forced myself to scoff. “Then go and find someone who cares. Because I don’t.”

I pushed past him, my steps fast, almost angry, partly because I didn’t want him to see how my heart was racing.

Behind me, his voice floated in the night air, calm, assured:

“We’ll see about that.”

And I hated how those words followed me all the way home.

My name is Shalewa. I don’t always introduce myself this way, but sometimes I feel like saying it out loud reminds me that I am still my own person not just “Jason’s mum.” I’m 28, and yeah a single mother.

Most days, my life runs on routine. Wake up, prepare Jason for school, rush to catch the staff bus, plaster on my professional smile for guests, endure long hours of people talking down at me, then drag myself home to start all over again.

It sounds exhausting when I say it like this, but it’s mine. My life. My choices. My survival.

And honestly I’ve made peace with it. I don’t need anyone to come and “rescue” me. I just want enough money to care for my boy and give him the life I never had.

Love? That door is closed. Bolted.

Because of Jason’s father.

I met him when I was in my early twenties. I was young, wide-eyed, and honestly just hungry for affection.

He was older and very handsome. At first, he made me feel seen. Special. I thought it was love. I wanted it to be love.

Then I got pregnant.

That was when everything changed. The charming smile disappeared, the promises evaporated.

Suddenly, I was “too demanding,” “too emotional,” “too expensive.” He pulled away, little by little, until he was gone completely.

The last time we spoke, he said, “You’ll figure it out, Shalewa. You’re strong.”

That was it.

No money. No support. No hand to hold in the hospital when I pushed Jason into the world. Just me.

So, I figured it out. Alone.

Raising Jason has been the hardest, most beautiful thing I’ve ever done. Nights when he had a fever and I cried quietly while sponging him down.

Days when I had to choose between transport fare and food. Moments when I wanted to scream, “Why me?” but had to smile for his sake.

Through all of it, I learned one truth: men are not my salvation.

I made a vow to myself the day I held Jason for the first time: I will never beg a man for love, money, or attention again. If it means working double shifts, fine. If it means missing out on companionship, so be it.

My focus is Jason. My work. My peace.

That’s why when some stranger tries to hover around me, I shut him down. Not because I’m bitter, but because I’m protective of myself, of my boy, of the little stability I’ve managed to build.

And if that makes me “hard,” then so be it.

The lobby was alive as usual. Laughter spilling from groups of guests, the sound of trolley wheels rolling over marble, the faint scent of coffee drifting from the café. Eko Hotel never really slept, it only shifted moods.

Behind the reception desk, I adjusted my name tag, Shalewa, and slipped into my mask for the day. A polite smile here, a nod there, the careful balance of being welcoming but never too familiar. Guests wanted efficiency, not stories.

It had been two years at this job, and I’d learned the rhythm well. Type, click, swipe, hand over keys. Always on my feet, always composed. Inside though, it was different. Inside, I was tired.

Inside, I was thinking about Jason’s fees, about what to cook for dinner, about the vow that had carved a wall between me and any man who thought his attention was a gift.

That wall was my safety.

So when I felt his presence, the man who had been showing up lately, the one who annoyed me with his audacity, it was almost like the universe was mocking me. He wasn’t even at the counter yet, but I could feel it.

That heavy, unsettling awareness when someone you’d rather ignore is nearby.

I inhaled, tightened my smile, and focused on the guest in front of me. My voice was calm, professional:

“Welcome to Eko Hotel, sir. Please, may I have your card?”

The day stretched long, as usual. Guests checked in and out, suitcases rolled across the marble floor, and the staff moved in quiet rhythm like a well-trained orchestra. Behind the front desk, I kept my shoulders straight, my uniform neat, and my smile steady.

It was my shift till evening, and I was already counting the hours till I could rush home to Jason. My thoughts were somewhere between his homework and what groceries I could afford on my way back when the lobby doors swung open.

He walked in.

Today, he wasn’t alone, three other men trailed behind him, all in sharp suits, briefcases in hand. They looked like they had money to discuss and decisions to make.

My pulse jumped without my permission, but I quickly pushed it down. I wasn’t here for distractions.

I adjusted my name tag and shifted my attention to the guest in front of me.

“Your room key, sir. Breakfast is served from 7am to 10am. Welcome to Eko Hotel.”

As I handed the key card, I dared a glance toward the group. He didn’t even glance back. Not a flicker of recognition, not even the arrogance of our last encounter.

He walked past the reception desk like I was invisible, his voice deep and smooth as he spoke to one of his men about the meeting room arrangements.

And just like that, he was gone, into the elevator, swallowed up by mirrored doors.

For a short moment, something inside me burned. Not because I missed him, no. It was anger. The way he ignored me shouldn’t have gotten to me, but it did.

After everything, the bump, the harsh words, him looking for me when I didn’t want him to, he now acted like I wasn’t even there.

I clenched my jaw, smiled at the next guest, and went back to work.

I had made myself a promise: men were not my focus. Jason was. My son was. My job was.

The week went by like usual, long shifts, quick meals, reading a story to Jason before bed, then falling asleep myself.

He was always around.

Not every day, but enough for me to notice. Sometimes with investors, sometimes with business partners. His voice carried across the lobby, calm but firm.

And every single time, he never looked at me.

Not once.

It felt almost planned, the way his eyes skipped me like I was part of the wall, the way he spoke to every staff member but me. Even when I stood right there, he would ask the person beside me instead of asking me.

Well it hurt.

Not because I wanted his attention, God forbid, but because it felt like a game. Like after that day, after I made him say sorry, this was his way of paying me back. Silence as punishment.

Even other staff noticed.

“Ah, that man dey come here steady o,” one colleague whispered. “Na big man. You never attend to him?”

I forced a laugh. “Me? No o. He doesn’t even know I exist.”

I left it at that. Or at least I tried.

But later, while clearing trays, I saw him again. Sitting by the chair, jacket on the chair, sleeves rolled up, his watch shining. He was listening to the man across from him.

Then, for just a second, his eyes met mine.

Cold. Blank. Just enough to make my heart skip, before he looked away like I wasn’t even there.

I bent to pick another plate, hiding my face.

If this was a game, I didn’t want to play. My son was waiting for me at home.

That night, the banquet hall was glowing. Soft lights on the chandeliers, waiters moving fast with trays, the smell of perfume and alcohol in the air.

I had been called last minute to cover the evening shift.

Big dinner, important clients, investors in town, everybody had to be perfect.

My name was already on the list, so I had no choice.

When I walked in, dressed in my uniform,

There he was.

At the center table, of course.

Surrounded by men in fine suits and women with perfect makeup. Laughing, talking like he owned the place.

I thought I could avoid him. Just serve other tables, keep my head down.

But no.

“Shalewa, table five. VIP,” my supervisor whispered, pointing at his table.

I almost sighed out loud.

Carrying the tray of drinks, I walked to the table. My steps steady, my face blank. I kept my eyes on the glasses.

Then his voice.

“Red for me,” he said. Low. Directed at me.

I acted like I didn’t hear.

I turned to the man beside him. “Red or white, sir?”

“Yes, red. Thank you,” the man said.

I nodded, served him, and acted like that was all.

But then his voice came again, sharper. “I said red.”

This time, I lifted my head just a little. Met his eyes for one second, then looked away quickly, like he wasn’t worth my time.

I placed the glass in front of the woman next to him.

“Excuse me,” the woman said, “I didn’t ask for…”

“I’ll have it,” he cut in, still looking at me, something burning in his calm face.

I set the tray down, bowed politely, and walked away without looking back.

My heart was beating fast, but I refused to turn.

If he wanted to play silence, I could play louder.

I didn’t care what happened at that table after. I went back to serving other guests, smiling when I had to, clearing plates, moving like nothing happened.

But inside, I was boiling.

Not because of him, but because life kept putting him in my way. First in the corridor, then him “looking for me,” now this. This man who thought ignoring me would shake me, now trying to call me out in front of his people.

I wasn’t giving him that satisfaction.

So I straightened my back, adjusted my tray, and kept working like he didn’t exist. Every time I felt his eyes on me, I bent over another table, laughed with a colleague, or just looked away.

When the dinner ended, I waited until his table was empty before clearing it. His chair was still warm. The empty glass still there. I picked it up like it was nothing and kept moving.

But deep down, I knew I had touched a nerve.

I had just finished a long shift on a Wednesday, my head pounding, my feet aching in those stiff hotel shoes. Jason’s crèche had called earlier that I should pick him up, so I rushed there before swinging back to the hotel lobby to quickly submit a report my supervisor needed.

Jason, in all his three-year-old energy, wriggled out of my hand the moment we stepped into the grand lobby. The polished floors, the bright chandelier lights, everything made him too excited. “Mummy, see big light! See big chair!” he shouted, running off before I could grab him.

“Jason!” I called, trying not to draw too much attention. I was halfway after him when he bumped straight into someone.

My heart froze when I saw who it was. Him. The same man who had been ignoring me for weeks now, like I was just another shadow in uniform.

Jason bounced back from the impact, about to fall, but the man caught him with quick hands. Instead of brushing him off or calling for security like most people would, he crouched down. On the marble floor of Eko Hotel, in his expensive suit, he bent to Jason’s level.

“Hey, champ,” his voice was softer than I had ever heard it. “Where are you running to like that?”

Jason blinked up at him with wide eyes. “I was going to show my mummy light.”

He chuckled, an actual chuckle, and it was so out of character from the cold, dismissive man I knew. “The lights will wait. You don’t want mummy chasing you, do you?”

Jason giggled. “No.”

I finally caught up, grabbing Jason’s hand firmly. “Jason, I told you not to run off.” My tone was sharp, partly because of exhaustion, but mostly because he was standing there.

I expected him to rise and ignore me like always.

But he looked up at me slowly, still crouched, and for a second… his gaze wasn’t harsh, wasn’t mocking. It was something else. Something dangerously close to warmth.

I swallowed, tightened my grip on Jason, and muttered, “Let’s go.”

And just like that, I turned away before I could read deeper into that look.

But as we walked out of the lobby, I could still feel his eyes following us, not with the arrogance I was used to though.

On the ride home, Jason wouldn’t stop talking.

“Mummy,” he said in that sing-song way kids use when they’re trying to make you answer.

“Yes, Jason?” I replied, distracted, eyes on the danfo buses cutting dangerously in front of our cab.

“That uncle is nice.”

My heart skipped. I pretended not to understand. “Which uncle?”

“The one that hold me when I nearly fall. He talk to me.” Jason’s little voice was full of wonder. “He bend down to my size. He say I should not make you chase me.”

I tightened my jaw, staring out the window. “Jason, not everyone who smiles at you is nice.”

“But he’s nice,” Jason insisted with the innocent stubbornness only a child could carry. “He look at me like he know me. I like him.”

I forced a smile and reached over to smooth his small curls. “It doesn’t matter, baby. You don’t have to like every stranger you meet.”

But long after Jason’s head rested on my lap, drifting into sleep, his words refused to leave me.

“He look at me like he know me.”

I hated that it echoed in my chest. I hated even more that, for a second back in that lobby, I had almost seen the same thing too.

It was another late evening at Eko Hotel. My shift had dragged me into overtime, and by the time I finally signed out, all I wanted was to get home, eat whatever was left in the pot, and curl up beside Jason.

But as I stepped out into the cool night breeze, adjusting my bag on my shoulder, I saw him.

Leaning casually on a sleek black SUV, his hands in his pockets, as if the whole Lagos traffic waited for him.

My stomach sank. I almost turned back inside, but it was too late.

His eyes were already on me.

“Shalewa,” he called, his voice steady, not raised, but carrying enough weight to pull me toward him.

I walked faster. I didn’t answer.

He moved, cutting into my path like he had rehearsed it. “Why do you avoid me like this? What is it exactly? What have I done that makes you treat me like a plague?”

I stopped, finally, my heartbeat loud in my ears. For a moment, I just looked at him.

Then I exhaled sharply. “Because I don’t want to have anything to do with you.”

His jaw tightened, but his eyes didn’t leave mine. “Why?”

“Because men like you…” I shook my head, heat rising in my chest.

“Men who think they can push people around, who think apologies are beneath them… I’ve had enough of that. I don’t want your words, your attention, nothing. Just let me be.”

The night seemed to hold still between us.

I pulled my bag higher on my shoulder, walked past him, and refused to look back.

But then I heard him move. He wasn’t chasing me. He wasn’t trying to block me like before. It was just one step, slow and careful.

“Shalewa,” he called my name. His voice was soft now. Not the strong, proud tone. Not the arrogant voice of a man who liked to ignore me. This one was low, steady, almost careful.

I stopped walking. My mind told me not to stop, but my legs refused to move.

“I didn’t know,” he said quietly. “I didn’t know someone had already made you feel that way before.”

My chest grew tight. I had never told him details. But the way he said it, sounded like a man who had finally seen a locked door in front of him that he could not just push open.

It confused me.

He let out a deep breath. “I thought you were only being difficult with me. But now I see… it is more than that.”

The wind blew between us. Silence rested heavy in the air. I clenched my teeth, trying not to let my face soften.

“Don’t… don’t try to act like my therapist,” I said sharply. My voice was harder than I planned. “I told you before. Just leave me alone.”

He nodded slowly, but his eyes stayed on me. Softer now, “If that is what you want, I will do it. But Shalewa…”

His voice dropped even lower. “…I don’t think I can stay away. I have tried, I promise you. But it is not possible.”

Then, he stepped back. He gave me space.

I walked away into the night. But his words clung to me like the heavy Lagos heat, suffocating, impossible to remove.

One evening, I was carrying a tray during dinner service when I heard his voice behind me. Not loud. Not commanding. Just low. “You are working too hard. Don’t you ever rest?”

I didn’t answer. I walked past, my face blank. But inside, my chest squeezed.

Because he did not say it like a man trying to flirt. He said it like a man who was watching closely, like he noticed me.

And when I brushed him off, he didn’t argue. He didn’t insist. He just kept quiet, like he understood.

That was worse.

His silence, his softness, it forced me to think. It made me remember Jason’s little laugh when the man knelt in the lobby. It made me remember so many things.

And I hated that. I hated that some small part of me was starting to wonder if maybe, just maybe, he meant his words.

So I buried myself in work. I drowned in the hotel, shift after shift, pretending I did not see him waiting. Pretending I did not feel his patience pressing against me.

One night, past 11 p.m., I dragged myself out of the hotel. I was exhausted.

Jason was already at home, my sister had picked him up from crèche, so at least I didn’t have to worry about him.

But when I reached the roadside, I saw the car. Black. Clean. Waiting.

The window came down slowly. “Let me take you home, Shalewa.”

I froze. My jaw tightened. “I already told you, I don’t need a ride.”

“Not need,” he said calmly. “Maybe you want. You’ve been on your feet all day. Let someone help carry the weight, just for once.”

“Hmmm. Please, allow me. Let me take you home.”

I sighed loudly. I was irritated. But my legs were too tired to fight. Against my better judgment, I entered the car. I told myself it was only because I was too tired to start dragging with taxis and bus stops that night.😭😂

The car was quiet at first. Only the sound of the engine and the noise of Lagos outside. I kept my eyes on the road, refusing to look at him.

But he spoke, of course.

“You really don’t like me, do you?”

“Don’t ask me questions,” I snapped. “I don’t owe you answers.”

“True,” he said softly. “You don’t.”

And then he kept quiet. That silence was heavier than his arrogance had ever been.

We kept driving. Streetlights flashed across his face.

Still, I refused to soften. “Listen, I just want to work, make money, and go home to my son. That’s all. I don’t want anything else. I don’t need anyone else complicating my life.”

His hands stayed firm on the steering wheel. “Then I will stay simple,” he said quietly.

I turned, his eyes stayed on the road, but I felt the weight of his words.

The rest of the drive was silent. Heavy.

When we reached my gate, I quickly opened the door, ready to leave. But before stepping out, the question slipped out of my mouth.

“What’s your name, anyway?”

For the first time since we met, a real smile spread across his face. Not mocking. Not arrogant. Just warm.

“Olawale,” he said. “But you can call me Wale.”

I shut the door and walked away, whispering his name under my breath.

The rides became a thing, though I would never admit it out loud.

At first, I told myself it was just convenience. That I was too tired after my shifts, and if a car was waiting, why not?

Still, every time I opened that door, I carried my armor with me.

The first few rides, I said nothing. Just “good evening” and “please drop me here.” My voice clipped, my body turned towards the window. He didn’t complain. He just drove. Sometimes with music low in the background, sometimes in silence.

One night, after an especially rough shift, I let out a sigh I hadn’t planned to. He glanced at me. “Long day?”

I almost snapped back, “Don’t ask me questions.” But the words stuck in my throat. Instead, I just muttered, “Something like that.”

It felt strange. Letting even that much slip.

Two days after that night, Lagos traffic stretched the drive longer than usual. He adjusted the AC and reached for the radio, tuning it to an old Yoruba highlife song.

I didn’t mean to hum along, but when I caught myself, he was smiling faintly, eyes still on the road.

“Don’t read meaning into it,” I warned. “I just like the song.”

“Noted,” he said, lips curving.

He didn’t push further.

And that was the thing about Olawale, he wasn’t fighting me with force anymore. He was… waiting. Patient. Letting me burn myself out.

One week later, the rain came down hard, beating against the car roof like a drum.

I slipped off my shoes in the backseat, too tired to care, my feet aching from hours of standing. When I caught him looking in the rearview mirror, I straightened immediately.

“What?” I demanded.

He shook his head lightly. “Nothing. Just… you’re always carrying yourself like a warrior. I wonder if you ever get to rest.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

Because for the first time since Jason’s father walked out, someone had seen me past the armor.

I turned to the window again, the city lights blurring through the rain, my heart beating faster than it should.

I didn’t like it.

I didn’t like him.

And yet…

The rides were getting harder to refuse.

It happened on a night I wasn’t expecting.

The hotel had hosted one of those endless corporate dinners, the kind where people left the table messy with half-drunk wine glasses and napkins crumpled everywhere. My shift ended later than usual, my head pounding from pretending to smile at rude guests.

When I stepped outside, his car was there. Of course.

I slid in without a word, sinking into the seat. My whole body was tired, the kind of tired that lived in my bones.

For a while, silence stretched. The hum of the engine, the faint traffic sounds, the city lights streaming by. Then, out of nowhere, he said:

“You know, the way you frown could frighten a lion.”

I turned my head sharply. “Excuse me?”

He smirked, his eyes still on the road. “I’m serious. The way you squeezed your face when you sat down, if a lion saw you, it would just quietly go back into the bush.”

I tried to hold it. I swear, I tried.

But the image of a lion retreating because of me was so ridiculous… the laugh slipped out before I could stop it. Just a small one. Quick.

But it was there.

And when I realized, I froze. My hand went straight to my lips as if I could shove the sound back inside.

He looked at me briefly, then back to the road. And that smile, that knowing smile, spread slowly across his face. Not cocky. Not mocking. Just… warm.

I hated that it made my chest tighten.

“Don’t look too pleased with yourself,” I muttered, turning to the window. “That was an accident.”

“Hmm,” he said, dragging the sound out in that way that meant he didn’t believe me for a second.

I didn’t talk for the rest of the ride. But my reflection in the window betrayed me, my lips still curved so slightly upward, even though I kept forcing them straight.

And for the first time, I wondered if maybe… just maybe… Olawale wasn’t the enemy I had painted him to be.

The smiles became harder to hide.

At first, it was that one night. But then, it kept happening.

One evening, as he drove, he asked if hotel guests ever complained too much.

I went off, ranting about a woman who had asked me to “change the air” in her room as if I was God Himself.

I didn’t even realize how animated I’d become until Olawale started laughing deep, genuine laughter that shook his chest.

I wanted to stay annoyed, but the way he looked at me while laughing… I laughed too. Small at first. Then fuller. And when our eyes met in the middle of it, I looked away so fast my cheeks burned.

Then he offered me groundnuts he had bought from a roadside seller. I wrinkled my nose and said, “Do I look like a groundnut type of girl to you?” He just grinned and said, “You’ll be shocked.” I popped one in my mouth to prove him wrong.

Five minutes later, the whole bottle was empty. His grin said everything. My lips betrayed me with another reluctant smile.

And then there were the quiet ones. Moments when he didn’t even try to be funny.

Like when he asked, “Are you eating well?” after a long shift, and I caught myself smiling at the unexpected softness in his tone.

I hated it. Not him. But the way he was sneaking past my guard. Every smile felt like I was giving away something I swore to protect.

So, I doubled back. I would smile, laugh, then quickly fold my arms and remind him, “Don’t think this means anything. I still don’t like you.”

Each time, he’d just nod with that maddening calmness, like he had all the time in the world.

Like he knew I was already losing the battle I didn’t even want to admit existed.

And maybe… just maybe… I was.

Sometimes, we didn’t even talk much. The car would hum along the Lagos roads, the streetlights flickering past, and I’d catch myself humming a song under my breath.

One night, Olawale caught it and quietly turned down the radio. “Sing it louder,” he said. I scoffed, “Please, I’m not singing for you.” But my lips curved up in a smile I couldn’t hide, and he grinned like he’d won a trophy.

He pulled up in front of the hotel few days later after my shift and surprised me with a steaming pack of amala and ewedu. “I passed Mama Nike’s on my way,” he said casually, as if it wasn’t a big deal. I tried to keep my face straight, but the aroma betrayed me.

I took it, muttered “thanks,” and the first swallow I had in the car made me laugh out loud. “You’re lucky this is sweet,” I said between bites. He only replied, “I told you, I know what you like.” That smile snuck onto my lips again.

On Friday, Olawale happened to drop by when I was outside with Jason, trying to get him to finish his biscuit before we left for crèche. Jason, in all his cheekiness, pointed at Olawale and shouted, “Mummy’s friend!” I nearly choked. “He’s not my friend!”

I corrected quickly, shooting Olawale a warning glare. But Jason had already run up to him, tugging his trousers and giggling. Olawale bent down, gave him a high five, and whispered something that made Jason laugh so hard he fell on the floor.

I rolled my eyes, but my lips betrayed me again, stretching into another smile.

Even small things, like when he’d show up with cold bottled water on a particularly hot afternoon, or when he cracked a ridiculous joke during a ride just to see if I’d laugh, they started to add up.

It was annoying. How easy it was. How natural.

I’d catch myself smiling, then immediately fold my arms like a shield. I’d even mutter, “Don’t think this changes anything.”

But deep down, I knew something was shifting.

And he knew too.

One of those days, the city lights were all over the car windows, bright yellow and white colors passing by like moving paint. I sat in the passenger seat, quiet, with my hands squeezed together too tight on my lap.

It almost felt like I was waiting for something I couldn’t explain. Normally, our car rides were usually not too silent. For him, it felt normal, maybe even interesting. But for me, it always felt heavy, like I was carrying something alone.

But this particular night, Olawale decided to break that silence.

“Shalewa,” he said. His voice wasn’t harsh. It was calm. Almost like he was picking his words carefully.

“Are you married?”

“Lollll, I was beginning to think you were never going to ask” I mentioned.

“Nahh, I didn’t want to be forward. As at then you treated me like someone you hate so much so there’s no way I would have asked you in that situation.” He replied.

That single question hit me straight in the chest. My shoulders got stiff. My breath caught for a moment, and I just stared out of the window.

The road was filled with endless traffic lights flickering like tiny stars, and I almost felt like maybe the answer I needed was hiding out there.

After a pause that felt like forever, I said one word, flat, sharp. “No.”

He didn’t reply immediately, and I thought maybe that was the end. But then he started again. “Then why…”

Before he could finish, I turned sharply to look at him. “Don’t ask me that.” My voice came out harder this time. “Not today. Not now. I’m not in the mood for that talk.”

And then the car went quiet again, heavier than before. I could feel him glance at me, just once, then look away. He didn’t press further, didn’t argue, didn’t try to dig. And that, strangely, made me more irritated. A part of me wanted him to keep talking, to insist.

But instead, he gave me space. He respected the wall I had just pulled up.

I turned back to the window, trying to calm my breathing. My heart was beating so loudly, too loud for just one simple question. Why did it shake me so much? Why did I react like that?

I hated that he had seen me flinch, hated that I couldn’t hide it well enough.

The drive continued like that, with only the sound of the car filling the space between us.

My thoughts ran in circles, back to Jason, back to the life I had built on my own, back to why I didn’t want to give any man room in it. And yet, here I was, every night, sitting in Olawale’s car, letting him into a corner of my life I swore I had locked up tight.

When we finally got to my street, I was already preparing for the usual routine. He would park neatly by the corner, I’d say a quick goodbye, and then rush out before he thought of saying anything else. That’s how it had always been. But that night turned out different.

He slowed down, stopped, but didn’t unlock the doors. Instead, he turned to me fully. His eyes were steady, focused on me in a way that made my throat tight.

“Shalewa,” he said again, but this time his voice was softer, gentler, like he was trying not to scare me away. “I don’t want to just drive you home. Can I see you outside of this car? Outside of work? Just once. A date please.”

I almost laughed, but not because it was funny. More like because my whole body was fighting two different feelings at once. My first instinct was to say no, to brush it off, to remind him I wasn’t interested. I wanted to throw the words at him quickly...

I rolled my eyes and turned back to the window. “We’ll see,” I muttered, trying to sound dismissive. But even I could hear the small crack in my voice.

A few minutes later, I stepped out of the car, and while I walked away, one truth hit me, even though I refused to admit it to him, or to myself.

Olawale had gotten further than I ever planned to let him.