Chapter 2: Not That Kind of Guy
Friday. 10:56 a.m.
The café was tucked behind an art gallery just off Awolowo Road—one of those airy boutique places with overpriced coffee and too many potted plants. The kind where everyone’s on a laptop pretending to work while secretly hoping to be seen.
Efe arrived early.
She always did. Punctuality wasn’t just a discipline—it was armor. Control.
She chose a seat by the window, facing the entrance. White button-down. Light gold hoops. Minimal foundation. Her laptop open, PDF contract loaded, ready.
She hated surprises.
At exactly 11:01 a.m., she looked up—and saw him.
Tochukwu Nnaji walked in wearing a charcoal grey polo shirt, jeans, and black sneakers. Clean. Simple. Zero effort to impress, and yet… he stood out.
No swagger. No fake phone call to look busy. No dramatic entrance.
He spotted her, nodded once, and walked over.
“Hi, Efe,” he said, calm like the sea before rain. “Sorry I’m a minute late. The gate at my compound locked me in.”
Efe raised a brow. “Was it divine timing, or just bad estate management?”
He let out a short laugh. “Bit of both.”
He sat. No perfume. Just the faint scent of clean laundry and whatever soap men like him used—practical, unscented, probably bought in bulk.
She slid her laptop slightly toward him. “I sent the draft last night. Just wanted to go through key clauses together.”
“Got it,” he said, already pulling out a slim notebook. Not a tablet. Not a fancy iPad. A real, physical notebook. Black cover. Worn edges.
He flipped it open, revealing handwritten notes in small, precise lettering.
“You took notes?” she asked, a little surprised.
“I like to understand what I’m signing.”
“Hm. Rare.”
She began walking him through the document—legalese about NDAs, ownership rights, termination clauses. Her voice smooth, practiced. She’d done this a hundred times.
Tochukwu didn’t interrupt. He listened, asked one or two sharp questions, and nodded occasionally—like someone who didn’t speak to be clever, only when necessary.
When they got to her fee, he glanced once at the figure and nodded again.
“No problem.”
She blinked. “That’s it?”
“Why would I negotiate trust?”
She tilted her head. “That’s not how Lagos works.”
“I’m not Lagos.”
There it was again—that unsettling steadiness. Not confidence in the usual, aggressive sense. No chest-puffing or overexplaining. Just… clarity. No noise.
Efe caught herself adjusting her posture, suddenly unsure why.
“You don’t ask a lot of questions,” she said, voice lighter now, curious.
“I prefer to observe first.”
“And then?”
“Ask better ones.”
She studied him for a beat, then looked away, pretending to click something on her screen. “You’re very… measured.”
“I’ve made mistakes being impulsive. This is better.”
“Is that a rehearsed answer?”
“No. It’s just true.”
Their drinks came—her usual iced latte, his plain black coffee. He stirred it absentmindedly without adding anything.
“You drink it like that?” she asked, half-teasing.
“Yep.”
“No sugar? No milk?”
“Life is bitter enough. Coffee should prepare you.”
She chuckled. “You talk like someone’s uncle.”
“I’ve been told I have old man energy.”
“It shows.”
He sipped. Unbothered.
From the window, a young couple walked by, laughing too loudly. She followed them with her eyes for a second.
Tochukwu spoke again. “You don’t seem impressed by much.”
She looked back at him. “And you don’t seem interested in impressing anyone.”
“Maybe we’re both where we need to be.”
The way he said it—flat, gentle, unflinching—made her feel like the ground beneath her just shifted a little.
She cleared her throat. “Well. That’s all the major clauses. I’ll send the countersigned version today.”
“Good.”
She began packing her things. Tochukwu stayed seated, still sipping his bitter coffee like it held secrets.
As they rose together, he moved slightly toward her side of the table, holding the door open as they exited the café.
“You drove?” he asked.
“Yeah. Parked just down the street.”
“Alright. I’ll walk you.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s hot. And Lagos isn’t gentle to women who walk alone.”
He said it so plainly. No heroics. No overreach.
Just facts.
They walked in silence past a plant vendor sitting under a sun-faded umbrella. Efe slowed a bit, looking at a row of potted peace lilies.
She nodded toward them. “Most men only buy flowers when they mess up.”
Tochukwu didn’t laugh. He just said:
“I’d rather do the right thing than apologize for the wrong one.”
It wasn’t a line. It didn’t even sound like he meant for her to remember it.
But she would.
Because she felt it settle into her.
Like a truth.
They reached her car in under two minutes. A white Kia Sportage, dusty from rain residue and a minor heartbreak she hadn’t washed off since Tuesday.
Tochukwu stood beside the driver’s side door, his hands in his pockets, face relaxed. Not smiling. Not staring. Just present.
“You don’t say much,” she said, unlocking the car.
“I don’t need to.”
“You know most women hate that, right?”
“I’m not most men.”
Efe raised an eyebrow. “Confident.”
“Certain.”
She pulled open the driver’s door but didn’t enter yet.
Most men would take this moment to ask a question—personal or probing. Try to extend the interaction. Test the waters. Compliment her outfit. Make it clear they’d like to see her again.
But Tochukwu?
Nothing.
He didn’t even glance at his watch. He simply waited for her to decide if the conversation was over.
Efe leaned slightly against the car and crossed her arms. “You don’t have a ‘social setting’ mode?”
“I do,” he said. “I just don’t use it to sell myself.”
“Why?”
“Because if I have to sell who I am… you can return it later.”
That made her pause.
He hadn’t meant it as a clapback. His tone was calm, almost too quiet for Lagos traffic. But it hit like one.
No performance. No charisma gymnastics. Just an unflinching statement—like his presence didn’t rely on her reaction.
Efe wasn’t used to this. She was used to men trying to win her over—through cleverness, charm, money, or at least false humility.
This one?
He didn’t chase. He didn’t bow.
And yet… he wasn’t cold.
He was just sure.
That made her… uncomfortable.
She glanced at him, trying to read past his stillness. “So you’re not curious about me?”
“I’m observant.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I’ll know when you want to be known.”
That one hit differently.
For a moment, Efe didn’t know what to say. She looked down, pretending to adjust her wristwatch, then opened the car door wider.
“Well,” she said, blinking the weight off, “thanks for the walk.”
Tochukwu gave a small nod. “You’re welcome. I’ll wait for your updated version of the contract.”
“You’ll get it tonight.”
“Have a good rest of your day, Efe.”
She climbed into the car. Closed the door. Turned the ignition. Rolled down the window halfway.
“You always like this?” she asked, not smiling.
“Like what?”
“Calm. Measured. Annoyingly honest.”
Tochukwu shrugged. “Most of the time.”
She considered that.
Then, slowly, a small smile teased the corner of her mouth. “Weird.”
“Necessary.”
He stepped back, gave her car a polite two-finger tap near the trunk, and walked away.
No lingering look.
No “talk soon.”
Just a quiet man disappearing into the late morning sun, like he’d never needed to be seen to feel solid.
Efe sat still, engine running. The city buzzed outside her half-lowered window, but the air inside the car felt different now.
Lighter. But also… unsettling.
She reached for her water bottle, took a long sip, and stared at the rearview mirror.
He hadn’t complimented her once.
He hadn’t looked twice at her curves.
He hadn’t even tried to be memorable.
And yet somehow, she couldn’t forget him.
Friday. 2:44 p.m.
Efe was back at her desk, eyes on a licensing agreement she’d read three times without processing a single sentence.
Her assistant, Mayowa, tapped once on the glass. “Madam, your 3 p.m. Zoom with the U.S. firm has been shifted to 4:30. They just emailed.”
Efe nodded, barely looking up. “Okay, thanks.”
Mayowa lingered a second longer than usual. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.”
Another nod. The door clicked shut.
She exhaled and glanced at her phone, which lit up with a message from an unsaved number she still recognized from memory.
Tega A.
Hey, E. Was thinking of you today. No drama. Just something quick. Business.
She stared at it.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then another message followed:
It’s something your firm might want in on. Can we meet? Even just coffee. Name the time.
No emojis. No “miss you.” No direct mention of the past.
But somehow, every word was perfectly weighted—professional enough not to alarm her, personal enough to make her pause.
She didn’t reply.
Instead, she opened her Photos app.
Scrolled back eight months.
Stopped at a picture she should’ve deleted.
Tega in a black kaftan, seated on her family’s balcony, holding a Bible and smiling like he'd just been forgiven for sins he hadn’t confessed.
That day, he'd fasted with her parents.
Three days later, she'd found a different girl’s name saved in his phone under Brother Uche Cell.
When she confronted him, he’d smiled and said: “The devil’s real goal is to steal your peace.”
She had stared at him, stunned, while he asked if they could pray about her attitude.
She locked her phone and leaned back in her chair.
Now he wanted to talk “business.”
She knew him.
Tega never came empty-handed.
There’d be an opportunity involved. A contract with weight. A name big enough to tempt her managing partner. Probably a “Christian-owned” platform for optics.
And somewhere in the middle of all that, he’d slip in one of his signature phrases:
“I just thought of you, and I remembered how powerful you were beside me.”
He never said what he meant.
He always let her fill in the blanks.
That was his talent.
Her eyes drifted back to her inbox.
One unread message from Tochukwu: a simple document confirming receipt of her contract draft.
No small talk.
No “You looked nice today.”
Just Received. Looks clean. Let me know when you’re ready to proceed.
She re-read it. Twice.
Then she opened Tega’s message again.
And slowly typed:
I’ll think about it. I’m slammed this week.
Then she deleted it.
Typed again:
Will let you know when I have breathing space.
Deleted that too.
Finally, she just replied:
Not this week.
She hit send.
Then turned her phone face-down, like it had the power to talk back.
Friday. 9:13 p.m.
Efe sat curled on her couch, barefoot, loose T-shirt, bowl of mango slices in her lap. The TV was on but muted. An episode of Shark Tank flickered in front of her like background noise.
Her mind wasn’t in the room.
She picked up her phone again, opened WhatsApp, and scrolled back to Tochukwu’s last message:
Received. Looks good on my end. Thanks for the thorough work—seriously. Let me know if you’d like to discuss any edits live.
—T
It wasn’t long.
But it didn’t feel short.
There was a tone under the words. Not flirtation. Not indifference.
Just… thoughtfulness.
She typed:
Glad it works. Appreciate your clarity—it’s refreshing.
And to her own surprise, she hit send.
Within seconds, the reply came:
Honestly? Same here. I’m used to explaining myself ten times. You read the room before I had to talk. That’s rare.
—T
Efe stared at the screen. Smiled a little.
Then replied:
Don’t get used to it. I can be a terror when I need to be. 😈
He replied a moment later:
Fair. I can handle sharpness. Just don’t go soft on the facts.
That’s what keeps things clean.
—T
Then added:
Goodnight, Efe.
Sleep clear. Not deep.
(Deep sleep is when the dreams start.)
She blinked.
It wasn’t romantic.
But it felt… close.
And that last line?
It stayed with her.
She closed her phone, set it down beside her bowl, and leaned back.
She thought of Tega.
The way he used to flood her with words, spinning visions of a future laced with ambition, private jets, partnerships, and Bible verses.
Then she thought of Tochukwu.
He didn’t promise anything.
He just… responded. Fully present. No flash, no fog.
She whispered aloud:
“He doesn’t sell dreams.”
And for once, she didn’t feel like chasing one.
She sat still.
Mango juice on her fingers. Legs tucked under her. Ceiling fan humming quietly above.
And somewhere in her chest—buried beneath logic and scars and sarcasm—was the faint, terrifying echo of a new thought:
What if peace… is what attraction’s supposed to feel like?
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