Chapter 4: Shared Tables
Thursday. 7:32 p.m.
The traffic on Third Mainland was crawling like a lazy river, brake lights stretched into the distance like tiny red warnings. Efe leaned her head against the window of her Bolt, arms folded tight. No makeup. No earrings. Just the soft rustle of her braid tips brushing against the collar of her oversized T-shirt.
She hadn’t planned to see anyone tonight.
In fact, she’d already changed into her “house clothes” before she’d picked up her phone, typed the message… and stared at it for ten straight minutes before finally hitting send.
You eaten yet?
No emoji. No context.
Just the question.
Tochukwu replied five minutes later:
Not yet. Why? You want to go and judge suya vendors with me?
Efe stared at the message.
Then smiled.
Just a little.
8:10 p.m.
They met outside a quiet pepper soup spot tucked behind a printing press in Yaba—low tin roof, shaky plastic tables, and a banner that read "Best Catfish in Mainland (No Cap)" with the “No Cap” awkwardly in Comic Sans.
There was no ambience.
Just the smell of white pepper, the sound of far-off generators, and the kind of night heat that made your upper lip sticky even when you weren’t sweating.
Tochukwu was already there, seated at a corner table.
No laptop.
No fancy shirt.
Just him.
Grey T-shirt. Slides. A plastic water bottle already sweating in front of him.
He stood slightly when she approached. “You found it.”
“I used Google Maps like a real adult,” she said.
“No small miracle. This place doesn’t exist digitally.”
“Good. Neither do I after 8 p.m.”
He chuckled as they sat. “So what are we judging tonight—catfish or goat meat?”
“Let’s do goat. I need something spicy enough to punish me for existing.”
He signaled the vendor without looking. “Two bowls. Goat. Spicy. Separate pepper. Add yam.”
Efe raised an eyebrow. “You order like someone who’s been here since NYSC.”
“I used to live two streets from here. When I was broke and pretending not to be.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m less broke… and still pretending.”
That made her laugh.
Not loud.
But real.
They waited for the food in silence at first. But it wasn’t awkward. The kind of quiet that felt shared, not empty.
“So… why pepper soup?” she asked eventually.
Tochukwu leaned back slightly. “Because you don’t eat pepper soup with distractions. No phones. No small chops. You sit down and sweat through it.”
She nodded slowly. “Therapy, basically.”
“Exactly. But cheaper.”
The vendor arrived with two bowls—clear broth, steam rising like incense. Two sweating bottles of water. A roll of tissue.
Efe picked up her spoon, blew once, and took a sip.
She winced. “Oh wow. This is… medicinal.”
“Good,” he said. “Let it rebuke you properly.”
She smiled. “You don’t seem like the type who enjoys suffering.”
“I don’t. But I respect it.”
She looked up. “How do you mean?”
“Anything that doesn’t kill you, teaches you. If it tastes sweet all the time, you won’t learn.”
Efe stirred her broth. “That sounds like something someone’s father would say.”
“I told you. Old man energy.”
They ate slowly, speaking in fragments.
About random Lagos nonsense.
About the fact that Uber drivers were becoming therapists.
About someone on Twitter who claimed people without an iPhone couldn't hear God clearly.
Nothing deep.
But the longer they sat, the more safe it felt. Like the space between them wasn’t asking for performance. It was just… letting them be.
She glanced at him over her tissue. “So this is what you do on Thursday nights? Sit in back-alley joints and serve parables?”
“Sometimes. Other nights I stay in my flat and cook oats badly.”
“That’s depressing.”
“It builds humility.”
Efe laughed again—twice in the same night.
She looked at him now, really looked.
He wasn’t doing anything special.
Wasn’t leaning in.
Wasn’t trying to turn the moment romantic.
And maybe that was why it felt like one.
The broth was halfway gone now. Efe had picked the meat clean, and Tochukwu was crunching a piece of soft yam between his molars when the air between them shifted.
Not because of anything loud.
But because she went quiet.
Completely.
He noticed.
“Too much pepper?” he asked, eyes scanning hers.
She shook her head. “No. It’s… good. Just reminded me of something.”
Tochukwu didn’t ask what. He just let the silence settle again. Waited.
Then she said it.
“My dad used to make pepper soup on Sunday nights. Not like this—his own had too much ginger. But he’d bring it to the sitting room and say it would ‘clear our sins from the week.’”
Tochukwu smiled gently. “I like him already.”
“He passed four years ago. Suddenly. No warning.”
The words left her like a shrug. But he saw her jaw flex slightly after she said them, like her body knew the grief wasn’t small even if her voice made it sound that way.
“I’m sorry,” he said, voice low. “That kind of loss… doesn’t adjust easily.”
She looked down at the tissue she was folding between her fingers. “Everyone expected me to be the strong one. Especially as the first daughter. I handled the will, the land documents, the burial plans. I didn’t even cry until two weeks after everything was done.”
“You were carrying everyone else.”
“Yeah.”
“And who carried you?”
She paused.
Looked up.
Said nothing.
And he didn’t push.
Tochukwu leaned back in his chair, the plastic creaking softly under him.
He wasn’t one to fill silence with verses or solutions.
Instead, he said something else. Something quiet.
“I lost someone too. Not to death—but it felt like grief.”
Efe looked at him.
“Engagement,” he said simply. “Two years ago.”
“What happened?”
“I kept adjusting my standards so we’d ‘work.’ Thought that was what patience looked like. Turns out it was just me slowly stepping away from who I was.”
Efe blinked. “You stayed long?”
“Too long.”
“You catch her cheating?”
“No. She wasn’t a villain. She just… wasn’t called to the version of life I was building.”
Efe studied his face.
There was no bitterness. No pride.
Just a man remembering a version of himself he didn’t want to return to.
“She ended it?” she asked softly.
“No. I did.”
“Why?”
He looked up at her now.
Still calm.
Still composed.
But there was weight in his voice.
“Because I don’t believe love should feel like you're slowly dying.”
Efe’s fingers stilled on the folded tissue.
And for a moment, the silence between them felt like a third presence.
Not awkward.
Just… deep.
She leaned forward on her elbows. “You talk about all this calmly. Don’t you get tired of always being composed?”
“Who said I’m always composed?”
“You haven’t raised your voice once since I met you.”
He gave a short laugh. “Maybe I just don’t think volume is proof of conviction.”
“You sound like someone who’s rehearsed that line before.”
“I’ve lived it.”
Efe tilted her head, curious. “Ever punch a wall?”
“Once.”
“Fought anyone?”
“My brother. Once. We were ten.”
“Broken anything?”
He smiled. “One glass cup. During NEPA outage. Not out of rage. I just missed the sink.”
She laughed again, despite herself. “So basically… you’re still a mystery.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“I know. That’s what’s throwing me off.”
He didn’t ask what she meant.
But she could tell he understood it.
A waiter came by and cleared the trays. They both mumbled thanks.
Efe stared out toward the road, at the flickering headlamps of passing cars, and murmured:
“You ever sit with someone and feel like… peace shouldn’t feel this strange?”
Tochukwu didn’t answer immediately.
Then, softly:
“Peace feels strange when you’ve lived too long in chaos.”
Thursday. 9:04 p.m.
They were still seated outside the pepper soup joint, though their empty bowls had long been cleared. No rush to leave. Just quiet. Stillness. Traffic swelled and shrank in waves behind them, the night humming like Lagos always does—busy, but not listening.
Efe looked at the condensation building on her water bottle. Then at her hands. Then finally, at him.
“I lied,” she said.
Tochukwu didn’t flinch. “Okay.”
“On WhatsApp. When you asked if I was alright.”
He nodded slowly. “I thought so.”
Her brows lifted. “You didn’t say anything.”
“You said you were fine. I didn’t want to argue with you about your own heart.”
There was no sarcasm in his voice. No passive aggression.
Just… clarity.
Efe leaned back, lips pressed. “It wasn’t some huge thing. Just… someone came back into the picture. Briefly. It stirred some things I didn’t want stirred.”
“You don’t owe me details.”
“I’m not protecting them. I’m protecting you.”
His expression didn’t change.
So she added: “You seem like someone who hasn’t let dirt get on his shoes in a long time.”
He cracked a smile. “I live in Yaba. My shoes are always dusty.”
She smirked, then shook her head. “I mean spiritually. Emotionally.”
“Ah.”
She looked down again. “I’ve been through a few messes, Toks. And I’m still unlearning some things. I didn’t want to drag you into that.”
For the first time all evening, he leaned forward—not in intensity, but intention. Like he needed her to see the next sentence clearly.
“You don’t have to protect me from your mess.”
A pause.
Then—
“I have my own.”
He didn’t go on. Didn’t explain.
He just let it sit there, like a glass of water between them.
Efe swallowed. Her throat was suddenly dry.
She looked away.
Not because she didn’t believe him—but because, somehow, that sentence hit deeper than anything Tega had ever shouted in his most passionate voice.
“I’m used to people only wanting the version of me that’s already sorted,” she said.
“I’m not interested in versions.”
She met his eyes then.
They held.
Not in a romantic movie way.
Just… real.
“I didn’t expect to like talking to you,” she admitted, voice quiet.
“Because I’m boring?”
“Because you don’t rush.”
“Some things lose value when they’re rushed.”
She smiled faintly. “You have a proverb for everything.”
“I’ve lived long in silence. When I speak, I want it to count.”
A short pause.
Then she added, barely above a whisper:
“You noticed when I wasn’t okay.”
He nodded again. “Of course I did.”
“Most people don’t.”
His reply came gently.
“Then you’ve been with the wrong people.”
Thursday. 9:48 p.m.
The pepper soup joint was almost empty now. The vendor had started stacking plates near the back. Someone had switched the radio to a football commentary—low, buzzy, incoherent.
Efe still hadn’t stood up.
Neither had Tochukwu.
It was like their bodies knew the second they moved, something about the moment would shift—and neither of them was ready to let that happen.
Efe stared at the tabletop. Scratched initials. Faint oil stains. A crack that had been patched with clear tape.
“This is going to sound like a stupid question,” she said.
“I doubt it.”
“Do you ever get tired of… holding it all together?”
He looked at her, eyes narrowing—not in judgment, but focus.
She went on.
“I mean—your self-control. Your consistency. The way you seem to always know what you believe and why. Doesn’t that exhaust you?”
He leaned back, arms crossed loosely. Thought for a second before answering.
“Sometimes,” he said. “But I’ve learned that chaos gets expensive. When I wasn’t centered, I lost things I didn’t know I valued.”
“Like what?”
“My ability to hear God clearly. My integrity. My peace.”
“You lost all of that from one relationship?”
“It wasn’t just the relationship. It was the way I let it define my value. I made someone else’s approval my mirror.”
Efe was silent.
Then softly: “Same.”
She pulled her legs up slightly, knees tucked against the chair. Voice quieter now.
“Sometimes I wake up and wonder if I’m just… curating a woman who looks like me.”
Tochukwu tilted his head. “Explain.”
“I mean… the way I dress. Speak. Work. Smile. I know how to package Efe Alabi. I know which version gets praise. Which version lands clients. Which version won’t scare men away.”
He didn’t speak. He was letting her go further.
She looked up, eyes clearer now.
“But I don’t know if I’ve left room for the version of me who panics at night. Who doubts her own wisdom. Who doesn’t always believe her prayers work.”
Tochukwu finally leaned forward.
“Elijah outran horses and called down fire… then sat under a tree begging to die.”
Efe blinked. “That’s a random Bible flex.”
“No. It’s a reminder.”
“Of what?”
“That even the strongest prophet crashed. God didn’t scold him. He gave him rest.”
She stared at him now.
Unblinking.
Breathing quietly.
“I don’t think I know how to rest,” she whispered. “Not just sleep. I mean… let go of the image.”
“I’m still learning too.”
“You make it look easy.”
“I don’t post the parts that don’t look good.”
They both smiled now.
Small. Real.
No flirtation.
Just understanding.
Like they’d walked into each other’s shadows and found space there.
He stood first. Collected their bottled waters. Dropped the plastic into a dustbin nearby.
She stood too, slowly.
They walked side by side toward the road.
Not touching.
Not talking.
Just… aware of the air between them.
It wasn’t charged.
It wasn’t tense.
It was something better.
Safe.
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