Chapter 3: Small Lies
Monday. 8:49 a.m.
The law firm’s glass doors whispered open with a soft pneumatic hiss as Efe stepped into the main floor. Cold air greeted her like judgment. The marble was spotless. The receptionist’s smile was automatic. In the background, the soft tick-tick of heels and keys created a low corporate rhythm.
She headed to her office—corner unit, high glass wall, good view of the Lagoon. She barely looked at it anymore.
Ten minutes later, her phone buzzed.
From: Bayo Adebimpe (Managing Partner)
Morning Efe. Quick one when you’re free. Boardroom 3B. New client briefing. 9 sharp.
She sighed.
There was no such thing as a “quick one.”
✦ The Briefing
The boardroom was already occupied when she arrived. Bayo—charismatic, always overdressed. Sandra from strategy. Two junior lawyers, one already typing.
A logo flickered on the wall screen:
HouseRoots Africa™ — “A faith-driven property platform.”
Efe raised an eyebrow. “We’re doing Christian real estate now?”
Bayo chuckled. “Apparently. Their founder is a rising star in the faith-business crossover scene.”
She didn't ask. She already knew who it was.
Tega.
Bayo stood. “They’re launching a digital marketplace—fractional ownership, co-op housing models, sermons on stewardship built into the interface. It’s niche, but money’s behind it. Big names.”
Efe kept her expression unreadable.
Bayo clicked to the next slide. “Legal wants us to review the user contract. You’ll lead. But there’s a detail I want flagged.”
He tapped the glass.
“Clause 6.3: All users are guaranteed that land listed on the platform has been verified through CAC and state-level property registration.”
Efe skimmed the clause on the projector.
“It’s clean,” she said. “If we have the documents.”
“We do—but not for all the states yet. Tega says a few are still in process.”
She looked up. “Then it’s misleading.”
Bayo smiled. “We can adjust the wording slightly. Something like ‘have been or are currently being verified.’ Present-progressive. Less aggressive.”
“But it implies full coverage.”
“It implies intent. Which is true. And it keeps investors relaxed.”
Efe hesitated. Her pen tapped once on her legal pad.
Technically, it wasn’t a lie.
But it wasn’t the truth either.
Just a smooth edge. A little blur.
✦ An Inner Shift
Bayo saw her face and tilted his head. “This isn’t the hill to die on, Efe. It’s a soft clause. We’re not promising miracles.”
She forced a smile. “Alright. I’ll edit the phrasing.”
“That’s my girl.”
The phrase stung more than it should’ve.
As they moved on, her mind wandered. Not to Tega—but to Tochukwu. To that plain black notebook he brought to the café. To the way he said:
“If I have to sell who I am, you can return it later.”
And now here she was—crafting returnable words.
✦ Back at Her Desk
She sat down. Drafted the update.
Changed “have been verified” to
“have been or are currently being verified.”
It looked harmless.
It was harmless.
Right?
She saved the draft and leaned back in her chair.
But something in her chest… stayed unsettled.
Like she’d just borrowed someone else’s voice.
Tuesday. 12:38 p.m.
The smell of gbegiri, firewood smoke, and bleach hit Efe the moment she stepped into the small buka.
It wasn’t aesthetic. No mood lighting. No menu boards. Just two ceiling fans on opposite ends, a faded blue wall, and the soft murmur of a Yoruba radio show playing in the background.
Tochukwu was already seated—third table by the window, metal tray in front of him, untouched food, eyes on the door.
She approached. He stood.
“You’re early,” she said, sitting.
He shrugged. “You’re early too.”
“No—I’m punctual. You’re early. That’s suspicious.”
He smiled slightly. “Maybe I like peace and quiet before the crowd hits.”
She nodded at his tray. “You didn’t start eating.”
“I was raised to wait.”
Efe raised an eyebrow. “That still happens?”
“Only in houses where mothers yell in Igbo and use Proverbs as weapons.”
She chuckled. “Say less.”
Efe placed her order at the counter—amala with ewedu, gbegiri, and assorted. She returned, wiping her hands with a small sanitizer sachet.
They began eating without further delay. First few bites were quiet. Just food. No performance. No camera angles.
“Okay,” Efe said, halfway through her goat meat. “I need to ask… how does a quiet fintech guy end up inviting someone to a buka?”
Tochukwu sipped his water and leaned back. “People always expect me to pick the fancy spot. I don’t mind those, but this place’s been here since I was in university. I like that it’s still standing.”
“You like consistency.”
“I like things that don’t perform to survive.”
That sat in the air for a second.
Efe nodded slowly. “You sound like you’ve fought with the world a few times.”
“I’ve sparred with image, yes.”
“Explain.”
He chewed quietly for a second. “My brother—Obinna—he thinks I’m too slow. He’s… bigger. Louder. Smarter, maybe. But I can’t move like him. I tried once. I lost money, peace, and my appetite for four months.”
Efe tilted her head. “What happened?”
“I took a deal I didn’t fully believe in. Just because everyone else said it was smart.”
“Let me guess. You prayed about it after signing?”
“No—I prayed before. But I wanted a ‘yes’ so badly, I ignored the ‘not yet.’”
Her hand froze mid-swipe with her serviette. “You don’t strike me as someone who hears God clearly all the time.”
“I don’t.”
“So how do you know when it’s Him?”
Tochukwu looked down at his bowl. “I don’t always. But if I have to argue with myself too much to get peace… that’s usually a sign.”
Efe sat back slowly. Her food was half-eaten now.
She didn’t realize it, but she was leaning in.
Not physically. Mentally.
Drawn in by how safe this conversation felt. Not in a “he won’t hurt me” way, but in a “he has nothing to prove” way.
“You ever feel… behind?” she asked.
“To what?”
“To the image of where we should be. At this age. In this city. In this economy.”
He nodded. “Every other week.”
“What do you do with that?”
“I remind myself I’m not building for attention. I’m building for accountability.”
Efe looked down at her tray. Quiet for a second. Then smiled.
“That sounds like a tweet from a wise uncle.”
“I said I have old man energy.”
They both laughed now. Not because the line was funny—but because it felt good to relax.
They finished the meal.
He paid without asking.
She didn’t protest.
Outside, the afternoon sun was aggressive. They stood under the buka’s faded canopy, waiting for her ride.
“Thanks for this,” Efe said.
“For what?”
“For not asking me a hundred ‘get to know you’ questions and pretending it’s chemistry.”
Tochukwu adjusted his backpack slightly. “I figure if we keep showing up, we’ll know what matters.”
She squinted up at him. “You always talk like this?”
“Sometimes I just grunt.”
Her car pulled up.
He stepped forward and opened the door. No flourish. Just smooth motion.
As she got in, he said:
“Let me know if the edits on the contract hit any friction. I don’t mind taking a slower route.”
Efe nodded. “Noted.”
He tapped the roof twice.
And that was it.
Not a date.
But it was something.
Wednesday. 3:17 p.m.
Efe was halfway through redlining a supplier agreement when Mayowa poked her head through the office door.
“Um… there’s someone here to see you.”
Efe didn’t look up. “Who?”
“Didn’t say. Just said he’s a… ‘familiar face.’”
Efe frowned. “That’s not even a category.”
Before Mayowa could clarify, a voice slipped in from behind her—
“Don’t scold her. It’s me. I come in peace.”
Tega.
In a navy suit. Open collar. No tie. Pocket square that somehow matched his cologne. Understated and expensive—just like the confidence in his voice.
Mayowa stepped back awkwardly as he entered.
Efe sat back in her chair, unreadable. “No appointment?”
“Who needs one when I bring gifts?”
He walked to the visitor chair opposite her desk and sat down like he owned it.
She said nothing. Just raised an eyebrow.
He chuckled. “Okay. Straight to it. No time for old times?”
“You want small talk or results?”
He placed a sleek black envelope on her desk.
“Proposal from HouseRoots. Strategic expansion, cross-jurisdiction compliance. I told them your firm was the only one that could handle it.”
Efe didn’t reach for the file.
“Why didn’t you email it?”
“Because I wanted to see your face when you realized I still know where excellence lives.”
She stared at him, flat. “That line might’ve worked in 2020.”
He smiled wider. “I’m not here to charm you, Efe.”
“You never had to. That was the problem.”
There was a flicker in his eye—just for a second—then it was gone.
Tega leaned forward, elbows on knees. His tone softened.
“This deal is legit. Real investors. We’re planning a launch event—press, prayer, the whole branding package. I want your name on the advisory board.”
She almost laughed. “That’s bold.”
“It’s vision.”
“It’s packaging.”
“Efe. Don’t do that. You know me. You know what I carry.”
She exhaled, finally reaching for the file, flipping the cover lazily. She didn’t read it. Just held it.
He watched her. Knew exactly when to lean back.
“We need faith-minded structure. And integrity. That’s what you bring. That’s why I came.”
She gave a small smirk. “Integrity… delivered in-person. No advance notice.”
“I’m just here to plant the seed. No pressure. But think about it.”
She nodded slowly. Said nothing.
And that was the problem.
He stood.
Didn’t shake her hand.
Didn’t touch her.
He didn’t have to.
“I’ll check in next week,” he said, already turning toward the door. “You’ll see. We’d be strong together.”
He didn’t mean as a couple.
But he didn’t not mean it, either.
And that’s what he was best at—leaving the suggestion in the room like a slow-diffusing perfume.
As the door closed behind him, Efe finally let her expression shift.
Not fear.
Not regret.
Just… tension.
The kind you only feel when something almost familiar is pulling you back with clean hands.
Wednesday. 9:41 p.m.
The flat was dimly lit, one kitchen light humming in the background. Efe was curled on the couch, legs under a throw blanket, half-watching an old Modern Family rerun on her tablet.
She wasn’t laughing.
Her mind was split—half on the black proposal envelope still sitting on her desk… and half on the silence in her chest.
Then her phone buzzed.
Tochukwu.
You alright?
Something about your energy today felt… distracted. Hope you're okay.
—T
No emojis. No pressure. Just a message that sounded like a hand gently placed on your shoulder.
She stared at it.
Deleted three different responses before typing:
Just work stuff. I’m good. Appreciate you checking in.
She sent it.
Instantly regretted it.
Because it was clean.
Safe.
But not honest.
She put the phone down on her lap. Didn't open his reply.
Tochukwu had looked at her today like he was seeing through the outline she wore at work.
He hadn’t asked what was wrong.
He’d just… observed.
And now she’d chosen the default setting: “I’m fine.”
Not because she didn’t want to talk.
But because the truth was embarrassing.
She didn’t want to say,
“My ex came by and said the right words and I didn’t rebuke him with fire. I just… nodded.”
She didn’t want to admit,
“There’s a part of me that still likes being wanted by people who shouldn’t have access to me.”
She didn’t want to say,
“I compromised today, and I can’t even point to what part of it was wrong. But I felt it. I felt it shift.”
Instead, she typed “I’m good.”
And now the silence between them felt louder than anything Tega ever said.
She picked her phone back up. No new message yet.
She whispered to the empty room, just loud enough for herself to hear:
“You noticed.”
And somehow… that mattered more than anything.
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