Tale of a Virtuous Woman

 MAN! A creature made with so many meaning even the divine being called angel cannot understand what is so special about him. The desire to be led yet still be free. The longing to know and discover things. There’s something mysterious about man. Even when nothing makes sense, we still believe. We believe in something — even when that "something" is nothing. It’s like a hidden wiring in us, an inbuilt system installed before birth: the ability to believe. Man is a creature of faith. Not just religious faith, but the tendency to hope, to long, to attach meaning. Even the atheist who says "There is no God" still believes in something — maybe in logic, science, energy, or self. No one truly walks this life without believing in something. But belief is not the only craving hardwired into us. Take companionship, for instance. We like to act strong, independent, self-made. We post quotes about cutting people off and doing life alone. But deep inside? We all want to b...

  Tuesday. 9:23 a.m. The office was unusually quiet. Even the receptionist’s “Good morning” felt softer than usual. The kind of silence that comes before something heavy lands. Efe had just finished replying to emails when her boss, Mr. Bayo , stepped into her office holding a slim, dark brown folder. He tapped it twice in his palm before placing it on her desk. “You’ve been selected for something delicate,” he said. “Read it. Call me in when you’re ready.” She watched him leave, then opened the file. It was a client brief. Straightforward… on the surface. Client: A well-known Christian NGO leader — respected, rich, connected. Allegation: Funds were “redirected” from a women’s education program into real estate. Request: No court action yet. Client claims misunderstanding. Needs the firm to manage “reputation strategy” while a private investigation clears things up. In other words: Keep things quiet. Keep things clean. Protect the brand. Efe sat back. This w...

  Thursday. 3:22 p.m. The stew was warming on the stove. A fresh loaf of bread sat on the kitchen counter, untouched but releasing that soft, sweet smell only Lagos bakery bread can carry. Efe moved around barefoot in a plain shirt and wrapper, tying her hair into a lazy bun. She’d forgotten Tochukwu was coming until he texted: “Gate man said I should call when I’m downstairs. He’s forming policy.” She’d laughed out loud, texted back “Give him 100 naira and tell him you’re here for therapy,” and unlocked the door. Now, twenty minutes later, they were both seated cross-legged on the floor of her living room, with a low tray between them — bowls of rice, plantain, and stew. Tochukwu had already removed his wristwatch and glasses. He only did that when he was fully relaxed. “Why are you eating like someone who just came back from a mountain?” Efe teased, watching him tear bread into pieces with full focus. “I’ve been surviving on indomie and mangoes for two days,” he said...

  Sunday. 7:06 a.m. The streets were still quiet. No horns. No shouting. Just birds, wind, and the soft shuffle of slippers on tarred road. Efe pulled her hoodie over her head, not for the cold, but to disappear a bit. Her face was fresh—no makeup, no earrings. Just skin, calm and rested. She had left her phone in her back pocket. Earphones too. Today wasn’t for music. Today was for… silence. And maybe him. Tochukwu was already waiting outside the estate gate when she arrived. Black joggers. Plain grey T-shirt. Water bottle in hand. AirPods in his ears, but not playing anything. He saw her coming and took them out. “Good morning,” he said. She smiled. “You look like you’ve been up since 5.” “I have.” “Because of this walk?” “No. Habit.” They started walking. The first ten minutes were mostly quiet. They walked past closed shops, silent balconies, and one woman watering her flowers while humming “You are Yahweh.” Efe stretched her arms a little. “I haven’t don...