Chapter 10: The Line and the Weight
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 wasn’t illegal.
Not yet.
But it wasn’t honest either.
They weren’t asking her to find out the truth.
They were asking her to control the story… in case the truth leaked.
There was even a handwritten note clipped to the top of the file:
“We know you’ll handle this delicately — especially with the faith connection.”
Delicately.
Not correctly.
Efe’s heart sank a little.
She remembered all the clients she’d turned down in the past.
All the small but honest companies she’d helped defend without cameras.
This… this was different.
This was public.
Clean.
Respectable.
And quietly… dirty.
She stared at the file.
She knew what this was.
It was a test.
But not one with a right or wrong answer.
It was the kind that asked:
“Are you willing to do a little less good, to gain a little more ground?”
She closed the file.
Stared at the name of the NGO leader printed neatly on the front.
Someone she’d seen preach on YouTube.
Someone who once led a worship session she cried through.
Now she was being asked to protect his image, not hold him accountable.
She whispered under her breath:
“God, this is neat. But it’s not clean.”
And she knew.
The real case wasn’t about the client.
It was about her.
Tuesday. 8:06 p.m.
The rain had just stopped.
The road outside her flat was shiny and wet, catching bits of streetlight.
Efe sat on the couch in her wrapper, one leg folded under the other, phone to her ear. Her laptop sat open on the table, with the same brown folder from earlier beside it.
She was quiet for a second.
Then said, “So… I got offered something today.”
Tochukwu’s voice came through gently. “Hmm. What kind of something?”
“High-level. Big client. Christian NGO type.”
“Sounds big.”
“It is.”
Silence.
Then she added, “But it’s not straightforward.”
She told him the whole thing.
The client.
The missing funds.
The request to manage the narrative, not find the truth.
When she finished, she sighed.
“It’s not illegal. Nothing’s been proven. I’d just be… helping shape the story. Quietly.”
Tochukwu didn’t interrupt.
Didn’t ask for details.
Then he asked:
“Do you want to do it?”
“I want to say yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s good for my career. Because it’s clean. Because it puts my name in the right rooms.”
“And?”
She hesitated.
“…Because if I say no, it’ll look like I can’t handle big work.”
Tochukwu was quiet for a second.
Then said:
“If no one ever finds out what you did… would you still respect yourself?”
Efe didn’t answer.
He waited.
She looked down at the folder again.
The name on it.
The smile on that man’s face in all those pictures online.
The words kept echoing in her mind.
“Would you still respect yourself?”
That wasn’t about reputation.
Or outcome.
Or legal safety.
It was about peace.
“I don’t want to feel like I lied,” she said softly. “Even if no one calls it a lie.”
“That’s your answer then.”
She rubbed her forehead.
“This adulting thing is hard.”
“Very hard,” he said. “But clean hearts sleep better.”
She smiled a little.
“You always say these quiet, wise things like you’re somebody’s granduncle.”
“I’m rehearsing for when I become one.”
She took a deep breath.
“I’ll sleep on it.”
“That’s okay.”
“But if I call you crying tomorrow, you better not say ‘I told you so.’”
“I’ll say ‘I’m proud of you.’”
She closed her eyes. Smiled.
“Goodnight, Toks.”
“Goodnight, Efe.”
Wednesday. 10:14 a.m.
Tochukwu sat in the conference room, laptop open, but unread.
The PDF was on the screen.
The offer letter.
Five pages. Clean. Respectful. Smartly worded.
Subject:
Early-stage investment to help them expand features and reach bigger clients.
The condition:
“Restructure the dashboard to prioritize mid–high income cooperatives.
Low-income clusters can be onboarded in Phase Two, depending on system readiness.”
That one paragraph was all it took.
No threats.
No force.
Just… a small change in direction.
A little delay.
A little filter.
And a lot of money.
He leaned back in the chair.
This wasn’t a scam. It wasn’t shady.
The investor was real.
The money was real.
Even the reason made sense.
“It’s just for now.”
“Let the platform grow first.”
“You can come back to your mission later.”
Tochukwu closed his eyes.
But “later” is how many people never come back.
Soji walked in, holding a plate of biscuit and cashew nuts.
“Have you replied them yet?” he asked.
“No.”
“They’re solid people, man. I’ve read the terms three times.”
“I know.”
“Think of what we can build in three months with that money. Real tools. Real users. No more patching.”
Tochukwu nodded.
“Even Jesus told that woman, ‘Let the children eat first,’” Soji added, joking.
Tochukwu gave a small smile, but didn’t laugh.
Because deep down…
he agreed.
That’s what made this harder.
By evening, the office was quiet.
Tochukwu stayed behind.
The generator was humming softly. The lights were yellow and warm.
He walked slowly to the whiteboard and looked at the first sentence he ever wrote there:
“Built for those who were left out.”
He stared at that line.
His chest felt tight.
Not from guilt.
But from fear.
Fear that this “slow and steady” thing he believed in…
might not be enough.
Fear that faith and patience could cost him something too big to replace.
He pulled out his phone.
Typed a message to Efe:
“I might be tested too.”
She replied almost immediately:
“Talk to me.”
But he didn’t hit send yet.
Because he wasn’t ready to explain.
Not until he faced this simple, quiet question:
If I go fast and lose my reason… did I really win?
Thursday. 9:08 a.m.
Efe stood outside her boss’s office, holding the file.
The brown one.
The same one that had been sitting on her dining table for two nights, untouched.
She knocked once.
“Come in.”
Mr. Bayo was at his desk, reading something on a tablet.
Without waiting to be asked, Efe stepped forward, placed the file on the table.
“I won’t be leading that case,” she said.
He looked up. Slowly.
“Sorry?”
“I read through it. I don’t think it’s a clean fit for me.”
His face didn’t change.
But his silence said everything.
“You’re aware of how important this client is?”
“I am.”
“And you’re also aware there’s nothing illegal in what we’re doing?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then why not take it?”
She took a breath.
“Because it might be legal, but it’s not right.”
Mr. Bayo exhaled through his nose.
Closed the folder. Set it aside.
“You’re building a good name here,” he said. “Don’t let your principles confuse your strategy.”
“I won’t,” she replied. “But I’d rather grow slowly than clean up messes I helped cover.”
He didn’t respond.
She nodded once. Turned.
And walked out.
Her palms were sweating.
But her back was straight.
Thursday. 11:34 a.m.
Tochukwu sat on a Zoom call with the investor team.
They smiled, polished and polite.
“We think this rollout will make your platform irresistible to corporate partners,” the lead said. “It’s a smart phase-one.”
Tochukwu smiled too.
Then said:
“We’re not interested.”
There was a pause.
“You’re not—?”
“We’re staying with our original roadmap. All communities launch together. No filter.”
A longer pause.
“That’s unusual,” the woman said carefully. “It limits your reach.”
“Maybe,” he replied. “But it protects our reason.”
After the call, he didn’t high-five Soji.
Didn’t take a victory lap.
He just stood for a moment.
Looked at the same whiteboard.
At the same sentence:
Built for those who were left out.
And finally…
he smiled.
Not big.
But deep.
Thursday. 8:50 p.m.
Tochukwu called her first.
“Hey,” he said. “You sleep well last night?”
“No,” Efe replied. “I was fighting imaginary court arguments with my pillow.”
He chuckled. “Did you win?”
“I walked away.”
“That’s growth.”
She paused.
Then said, “I turned it down.”
“I know,” he said softly. “I could hear it in your voice.”
Then she asked, “And you?”
“I said no.”
She smiled. “Proud of you.”
He smiled too. “Proud of us.”
They stayed on the phone for a while after that.
Not talking much.
Just breathing.
Just resting.
Because when you both carry weight without losing each other…
That’s when you know:
This isn’t just feelings anymore.
It’s foundation.
Friday. 6:18 p.m.
They met at one of those calm, hidden gardens behind a bookstore in Ikoyi.
Tables scattered under trees. Light jazz playing. Children laughing somewhere out of sight. The kind of place where conversations felt private, even in public.
Tochukwu was already seated when Efe arrived.
No laptop. No phone. Just a small notebook and a bottle of water.
She slid into the chair across from him and gave a tired smile.
He smiled back.
“You made it,” he said.
“You didn’t run away,” she replied.
They both laughed — light, soft, grateful.
They ordered roasted plantain with pepper sauce and drinks.
No heavy food.
No noise.
Just room.
After a few minutes of silence, Efe looked at him and said:
“I’ve never had a relationship this… quiet before.”
Tochukwu raised an eyebrow. “Good quiet or scary quiet?”
“Both.”
He nodded. “Same here.”
She took a sip from her drink, then looked up.
“Do you think we’re heading toward marriage?”
Tochukwu didn’t flinch.
He said simply:
“That’s what I’m planning for.”
She stared at him.
Not because it shocked her.
But because it felt so… clean.
No buildup.
No dramatic speech.
Just fact.
She nodded slowly. “Same here.”
They started talking.
Not in the usual romantic way.
They talked like people preparing to carry something.
What pace are we both comfortable with?
What are you afraid of when it comes to marriage?
How do you recharge when life gets overwhelming?
What do you need in a spouse — not just for love, but for mission?
Efe said: “I need to be with someone I don’t have to perform for.”
Tochukwu said: “I need a home that doesn’t make me choose between peace and purpose.”
She nodded. “That sounds like us.”
He said: “That’s why I haven’t rushed anything. I didn’t want to break what we were building.”
She smiled. “You didn’t.”
They didn’t start planning a wedding.
They didn’t start checking ring prices.
But something had changed.
Their laughter that night was heavier — not sad, just rooted.
They weren’t guessing anymore.
They were choosing.
As they stood to leave, Tochukwu gently touched her elbow.
“Efe…”
She turned.
“Whatever we do next,” he said, “let’s not do it for appearance.”
She looked at him for a second.
Then said:
“Let’s do it for peace.”
He nodded.
“Let’s do it for God.”
“And for growth.”
“And for real joy.”
They didn’t hug.
They just smiled.
But it felt louder than a proposal.
Because now they both knew:
We’re not hoping anymore.
We’re building.
Comments
Post a Comment