Chapter 1: The List
The buzz of generators hummed faintly in the background, competing with the pop music playing from someone’s Bluetooth speaker two stalls down. The air around the Lekki suya spot was thick with grilled spice and faint diesel. Overhead, the fluorescent bulb flickered above their plastic table like it was trying to give up.
Efe Alabi shifted in her seat, poking her straw into her chilled bottle of malt.
“Let me just say it plainly,” she began, voice dry, “if one more man sends me ‘Good morning, my Proverbs 31’ at 6:12 a.m., I might commit a crime.”
Across from her, Chisom snorted, nearly choking on her chin chin. “You’re so dramatic.”
“I’m dramatic?” Efe leaned forward, eyes wide. “This one was speaking in tongues during our first date. Tongues. In the middle of RSVP.”
Chisom laughed harder. “Wait, for real?”
“God is my witness. He said the Holy Spirit gave him a ‘strong conviction’ about me.”
“And what did you say?”
“I asked him if the Holy Spirit also told him it was okay to lie on his profile about owning a house in VGC.”
“Ouch.”
“He lives in Ogba. With his mother. She was the one that picked up when I called him the next morning.”
Chisom covered her face. “I’m actually embarrassed on his behalf.”
Efe shook her head, pulling her hair into a loose puff. Her makeup was still intact despite the humidity, but the disappointment in her tone had more to do with exhaustion than vanity. “You’d think Christian dating would be safer. Cleaner. At least… honest.”
There was a pause. A long one. The kind that sits between sisters when one of them is low-key bleeding inside but pretending she’s fine.
“Do you think your standards are too high?” Chisom asked, gentle now.
Efe blinked at her. “Is honesty now a high standard?”
“No, I mean… okay. Forget I said that.”
Efe leaned back and looked around the suya spot. A couple was fighting silently three tables away, their body language a full-blown drama. A Bolt driver was yelling into his phone. Somewhere behind them, the meat vendor banged his machete against a thick wood slab, hacking goat meat into pieces.
“Lagos is wild,” she muttered.
Chisom smiled. “That, it is.”
“Look, I’m not even asking for a husband,” Efe continued, swirling her malt bottle slowly, “just someone whose character and belief actually match. Someone who knows that being a man of God is more than quoting scripture with Instagram filters.”
“You’re still hurt from the last guy.”
“I’m not hurt. I’m just done.”
“Same thing.”
Efe didn’t respond immediately. Her face hardened a little—not out of anger, but self-defense. “He stood on my parents’ front porch and prayed with them. Quoted Psalm 127 while looking my dad in the eye. Then he turned around and tried to convince me to lie on my visa application ‘because it’s just protocol.’”
Chisom sighed. “Men will always test your boundaries. That’s not just Christian men.”
“But they’re the ones that weaponize the faith.” Efe tapped the table once, then again. “They’ll use your own convictions against you. And then when you catch them, they say ‘Nobody’s perfect.’ As if sin is a personality trait.”
Silence again. A motorbike zoomed past the street, its rider humming loudly and off-key.
“You know what I hate the most?” Efe asked.
“What?”
“They think the fact that I’m strong means I don’t need gentleness.”
Chisom rested her chin in her palm. “Okay, but not all Christian men are like that.”
Efe raised a brow. “Don’t say ‘not all men.’ You’re better than that.”
“Okay, fine. But… I might know someone.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard anything.”
“No, Chisom.”
“He’s not dramatic. I promise.”
“That’s what they all say. And then next thing, I’m fasting and praying for someone who’s not even trying.”
“He’s actually quiet.”
“Oh, so he’s boring?”
“No. Just… different.”
Efe crossed her arms. “Define ‘different.’ Is he in ministry?”
“No.”
“Does he post devotionals on WhatsApp status every morning?”
“No.”
“Has he ever called someone his destiny helper unironically?”
Chisom laughed. “No! Just listen—he’s my friend’s cousin. He’s a software guy. Fintech.”
Efe paused. “Tech bro?”
“No, not like that. No high-tops and hype. He’s… grounded.”
“Is this another setup?”
“No. Just a contact. He’s starting a company and might need legal help.”
Efe squinted. “So now I’m missionary dating with invoice.”
“Lawyer-slash-evangelist. You’ll wear a suit and carry a Bible.”
They both burst out laughing.
As the suya finally arrived, hot and wrapped in foil, Efe shook her head. “If he so much as says ‘God told me’ during the first meeting, I’m blocking him mid-sentence.”
Chisom was already pulling out her phone.
“What are you doing?” Efe asked suspiciously.
“Nothing.”
“Chisom.”
“Just… sending a quick voice note.”
“You better not be—”
“Relax. I’m just saying you’re a contact. No matchmaking. I swear.”
A few seconds passed. Then Chisom looked up, smug. “He said he’ll message you tonight.”
Efe groaned. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do. And if he sends me a Bible verse with love emojis, I’ll report you to Daddy.”
They laughed again, but beneath the teasing, Efe’s face had softened. Just a little.
Just enough.
The heat from the suya still clung to their fingers as they ate in silence, the kind only sisters could share comfortably. Efe bit into a spicy piece of kidney, eyes narrowed.
“So,” Chisom said, mouth half-full of masa, “are you going to reply him when he messages?”
Efe chewed slowly. Swallowed. “I’ll think about it.”
“Think about it or overthink it?”
Efe smirked. “Same thing, no?”
Chisom sat up straighter. “Okay. Real talk. What exactly are you looking for in a man? Like, if I had to write it down.”
Efe didn’t miss a beat. “Christian. Spirit-filled, not spirit-fake. Employed. Emotionally intelligent. Taller than me in heels. No weird slang. Must not abbreviate ‘please’ as ‘plix’. Good hygiene. No weird cough. No Bible verse tattoos. Able to hold a conversation without saying ‘As the Bible says’ every five minutes.”
Chisom blinked. “Wait. Did you say… no weird cough?”
“Yes.”
“As in, a specific… cough?”
“I’ve been traumatized, Chisom. Don’t ask questions you’re not ready to hear answers to.”
“Efe, your list sounds like a screening form for immigration.”
“Good. Let him pass the test before entering my borders.”
Chisom shook her head and wiped her hand with a napkin. “You know you sound mad, right?”
“I sound precise.”
“You sound like you want a 60-year-old bishop in a 33-year-old tech bro’s body.”
“I want peace.”
“You want control.”
Efe paused.
“Look, I’m not saying lower your standards,” Chisom continued, her tone softening, “but if you’re editing men out like it’s job applications, maybe the problem isn’t them.”
“I’ve done the vulnerable thing before,” Efe said quietly, almost to herself. “I’ve bent. I’ve prayed. I’ve waited. I let someone see all of me once. He used that trust like a weapon.”
“I know.”
“So forgive me if I’m not rushing to be ‘soft’ again.”
Silence sat between them again, thick like harmattan dust.
“Just because you guard your heart doesn’t mean you lock it in a safe,” Chisom said.
Efe didn’t answer. Her eyes followed a keke as it rattled past the suya joint, dragging along smoke and streetlight in its wake.
“So what’s this Tochukwu guy’s vibe, anyway?” Efe asked finally.
Chisom perked up. “Well, he’s Igbo. Grew up in Enugu. Lives in Yaba now. He’s co-founder of this fintech app that—”
“Yaba?” Efe cut in. “Why is it always Yaba? That place is the Silicon Valley of soft boys.”
“Relax. He’s not like that.”
“Does he wear those corduroy pants all the tech bros like? You know the ones.”
Chisom laughed. “He doesn’t even own Instagram.”
“Then how do we know he’s real?”
“Because he’s my friend’s cousin and I met him twice in real life. Not online. Not on Zoom. Real life.”
“Hmm.”
“You’re judging.”
“I’m scanning.”
“Efe.”
“I’m a lawyer. I scan for patterns.”
“You’re a woman. You scan for excuses.”
Efe gave a low whistle. “So you woke up with bars today, eh?”
“I came ready.”
Their laughter faded into the usual rhythm of the street—clinks of bottles, honks from impatient cars, a baby crying faintly somewhere nearby.
Efe rested her chin on her hand, watching the glow from the suya fire flicker.
“I don’t hate love, you know,” she said softly. “I just… don’t know if it still exists the way we need it to.”
Chisom didn’t speak right away. She reached across the table and nudged Efe’s arm. “Maybe don’t look for love like it’s some shiny, loud thing. Look for peace. Then check who makes it easier to keep.”
Efe looked down at her half-eaten suya. “What if peace is boring?”
Chisom smiled. “Then maybe boring is exactly what we need.”
The ride back to Efe’s flat in Ikate was slow thanks to construction traffic. They sat in the back seat of the Bolt, the AC barely holding back the Lagos heat. Chisom was scrolling through Instagram reels, half-laughing at something, while Efe watched streetlights smear across the glass window.
“So what’s the guy’s full name again?” Efe asked, sounding casual—too casual.
Chisom smirked but didn’t look up. “Tochukwu Nnaji.”
Efe turned. “Nnaji as in—?”
“No, not Genevieve's family. Calm down.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You were.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You literally were.”
“Fine. So—what’s his whole deal? Like… is he the intense type? Charismatic?”
“Nope.”
“Hyper spiritual?”
“Nope.”
“Church worker?”
“Nope.”
Efe frowned. “Does he… exist?”
Chisom finally looked up. “Yes. He’s just… normal.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
“No, I mean like—he's not pretending. He doesn’t curate his life. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t chase. He just shows up.”
Efe blinked. “Wait. So… what exactly do you like about him?”
Chisom shrugged. “He’s the same person all the time. That’s rare.”
The driver turned on his wipers as a short burst of rain started tapping the windshield. Lagos weather—the emotional equivalent of a mood swing.
Efe turned back to the window. “Alright. Send me his number.”
“Wow. That was fast.”
“I’ll text him. Just to see.”
“No expectations?”
“None.”
“No stalking his LinkedIn first?”
“I said no expectations, not no due diligence.”
Chisom forwarded the number and added: “His business page is called RightLoan. Clean stuff.”
Efe clicked the WhatsApp contact. Just a number. No profile pic. Status was blank. Not even an emoji. For some reason, that unnerved her more than it should have.
She thought for a moment, then typed:
Hi Tochukwu, this is Efe Alabi. Chisom gave me your number. She mentioned you’re working on a fintech product and might be exploring legal structuring. I specialize in compliance and tech contracts. Let me know if you'd like to discuss. No pressure at all.
—Efe
Simple. Professional. Unbothered.
She hit send.
Two ticks. Then… nothing.
Five minutes passed. Chisom was deep into a TikTok rabbit hole, snorting beside her. Efe refreshed the chat again.
Still no response.
She turned her phone face down.
“I knew it,” she muttered.
“Knew what?” Chisom asked without looking up.
“He’s not going to respond. The man probably saw the message and started speaking in tongues.”
Chisom didn’t reply. Her phone buzzed. Then Efe’s did.
She flipped it over.
Tochukwu Nnaji:
Good evening, Efe. Thank you for reaching out. I’d be glad to chat—whenever is convenient for you. Just let me know a time that works, and I’ll make it happen. —T.N.
No emojis. No weird abbreviations. No flirty sign-offs.
Efe stared at the screen.
Something about that response… unsettled her.
It was just so… unbothered. No chasing. No “hope you’re doing great, beautiful.” No pretending to be cooler than he was.
It felt like talking to a grown man who knew his own calendar.
And somehow… that felt more intimate than it should.
curiosity has been planted in Efe’s heart.
They were back in Efe’s flat—cool, minimalist, and spotless as always. The living room smelled faintly of bergamot and fabric softener. A Hillsong instrumental playlist hummed from the Bluetooth speaker in the corner.
Efe sat cross-legged on her grey sectional, scrolling through her phone with a blank expression, the way people scroll when they’re not looking for anything but are hoping to see something.
Chisom lay flat on the rug, her cheek resting on a throw pillow, chewing gum and flipping through an old copy of BusinessDay like it was a gossip mag.
“So…” Chisom said without looking up. “Did he reply?”
Efe didn’t answer.
“Don’t pretend you didn’t see the message.”
“I saw it.”
“And?”
“It was fine.”
“Fine?”
Efe tossed her phone onto the couch like it had offended her. “It was… brief.”
Chisom looked up now. “Brief as in rude?”
“No. Just… matter-of-fact. No personality.”
Chisom blinked. “Sis. He’s not applying for Big Brother.”
“I didn’t say I needed vibes. Just… I don’t know. Maybe a bit of warmth?”
“You wanted him to say ‘glory to God, I’ve been expecting your message’?”
Efe gave her the slow side-eye of death.
Chisom laughed, popping her gum. “What exactly were you expecting?”
“I don’t know! Maybe… something more than ‘just let me know a time that works.’ Like—who does that?”
“Grown men who have calendars.”
Efe sighed and slouched deeper into the couch. “He didn’t even use an emoji. Not even one accidental smiley.”
“You’re using emojis as a spiritual fruit now?”
“I just want to know he’s not a robot.”
Chisom sat up, adjusting her bonnet. “Okay, real question. What does romance look like to you now?”
Efe raised an eyebrow. “Now?”
“Yes. As in—at this age, after everything. What would make you feel seen?”
Efe went quiet for a few seconds.
Then, slowly, she said, “Honestly? It’s in the small things. Respecting my time. Listening properly. Not making me feel like I have to shrink myself just so he can feel like a man.”
Chisom nodded. “Love languages?”
“Acts of service. And lowkey reassurance. The subtle stuff.”
“You’re touch-averse though.”
“I’m not averse—I just don’t like being touched by people I don’t trust.”
“Fair.”
“And no loud grand gestures, abeg. I don’t want flowers in front of my office or gospel choirs at dinner.”
Chisom grinned. “So you want a man who plans, prays, but doesn’t post?”
“Exactly.”
“You basically want Jesus with Airtel data.”
Efe laughed for real this time. “I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
There was a comfortable silence again.
Then Efe said, more to herself, “He signs off as ‘T.N.’ Like he’s in MI6.”
Chisom raised an eyebrow. “And that’s a red flag?”
“No. It’s just… different.”
Efe picked up her phone again. Re-read the message. The same calm, professional tone stared back at her.
I’d be glad to chat—whenever is convenient for you. Just let me know a time that works, and I’ll make it happen. —T.N.
It wasn’t charming.
It wasn’t trying.
But it was solid.
That unsettled her more than she liked to admit.
She tapped open the calendar app.
“Thursday, 11 a.m.,” she said aloud.
Chisom raised her head. “What’s happening then?”
Efe typed a reply without looking up.
Thursday 11 a.m. works for me. I’ll send a Google Meet link.
—E
She hit send.
And for the first time in a long time, she had no idea what would happen next.
Thursday. 11:01 a.m.
Efe adjusted her laptop camera and clicked into the Google Meet link. Her background was neutral: bookshelf, framed print of “Faith is not passive” in cursive, and a filtered natural light that made her skin pop.
She’d kept her makeup minimal but precise. Subtle eyeliner, nude lipstick. Hair in a puff. White shirt with the collar slightly popped. Just enough presence.
She hated meetings, but she never showed up casual.
The screen loaded.
Connecting…
Then he appeared.
Muted.
Dark grey T-shirt. Clean, simple background—plain white wall, one large fan on the floor behind him. No plants. No aesthetic arrangement. Just… a man and a laptop.
Tochukwu unmuted. His voice was soft but deliberate.
“Good morning, Efe. Thanks for making time.”
“Morning,” she replied, offering a quick smile. “Thanks for being prompt.”
He nodded once. Didn’t smile, but didn’t look uncomfortable either.
“Should I share my screen?” he asked.
“Sure.”
He did.
The screen filled with a clean PowerPoint deck. Nothing flashy. No unnecessary animations. Just bullet points and logic.
The topic was his fintech product: a short-term lending tool designed to eliminate predatory rates and structure repayments in a way that respected people’s dignity.
“I know lending is saturated,” he said, still not selling, just explaining. “But most models assume borrowers are either greedy or lazy. Ours assumes they’re human. That changes how you code the penalties.”
Efe blinked. “That’s… a thoughtful angle.”
“Thanks. Most investors don’t think so.”
She glanced down at her notes. “You’ve never raised outside capital?”
“Not yet. We’ve had two offers, but both wanted more access to client data than I was comfortable with.”
That stopped her.
“You walked away from funding… over data ethics?”
“Yes.”
No defensiveness. No apology.
Efe leaned back. “That’s rare.”
He nodded once. “It’s non-negotiable.”
Efe had met men who were brilliant. Ambitious. Loud.
Tochukwu wasn’t loud. He wasn’t charming, either—not in the conventional way.
He didn’t make eye contact too long.
He didn’t interrupt.
He didn’t try to impress.
But every answer was deliberate. Steady. Grounded. Like he’d wrestled with it first, then trimmed it down before speaking.
“I’d like to retain you—if you’re open,” he said, after twenty minutes of clear, even dialogue. “We’re entering new territory. I need someone who won’t oversimplify the risks.”
“Sure,” Efe said slowly. “We can start with a six-week contract, then review. I’ll send over terms by this evening.”
“Sounds good.”
She hesitated a second. “You’re different, you know.”
He tilted his head slightly. “How?”
“Most guys I meet… try too hard to show me who they are.”
Tochukwu’s lips twitched. Just barely.
“I’ve never found pressure to be an effective intro.”
There was a short pause.
Then he said, “I like clarity, Efe. In work. In life. I hope that’s alright.”
She looked at the screen for a second, something flickering behind her expression. She didn’t smile.
She just said, “It is.”
Tochukwu nodded once more. “Then I’ll wait for your terms.”
“Alright. Bye, Tochukwu.”
“Bye.”
And then the call ended.
The screen went black. Just her reflection now, faint and backlit.
Efe sat still for several seconds. Not smiling. Not frowning. Just… thinking.
Then, almost to herself, she murmured:
“Well. That was… unexpected.”
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