Chapter 6: The Room
Saturday. 6:42 p.m.
Efe’s car smelled like new perfume and mild panic. The AC hummed, soft jazz played low from the speakers, and she kept checking the rearview mirror like it might judge her for overthinking.
She had dressed carefully—fitted green dress, light gold heels, soft glam makeup. Not dramatic, but deliberate.
Her seatbelt clicked just as she turned onto the street to Tochukwu’s compound. He was already outside.
Wearing a clean black native with a subtle woven pattern—simple, perfectly tailored, no flash. Brown leather sandals. No wristwatch. No jewelry. Just one small black notebook in his hand.
He opened the car door gently and got in.
“Evening,” he said.
She smiled. “You look good.”
“Thank you. You look… expensive.”
She laughed, tension breaking slightly. “That’s the goal.”
They started moving. Quiet again. The kind that stretched between people who both had things to say but weren’t sure which one mattered first.
The road to Ikoyi wasn’t long, but it felt like her mind was driving faster than the car.
She kept glancing at him in the corner of her eye.
He didn’t fidget. Didn’t adjust anything. Just sat there calmly, watching the road. Comfortable in his skin. Too comfortable.
It was unnerving.
She cleared her throat. “This thing tonight—it’s formal, but not rigid. A lot of power people. Business-faith mix.”
“I figured,” he said.
“No pressure to be anything… just saying it might get performative.”
“I won’t perform.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Silence again.
He glanced at her, finally. “You’re tense.”
“I’m focused.”
“No. You’re calculating.”
She blinked. “Is that a bad thing?”
“No,” he said, voice even. “But it means you’re expecting me to be something I’m not.”
She didn’t reply.
He looked back out the window. Then said:
“You’re not used to showing up with someone like me, are you?”
Her hands tightened slightly on the wheel.
He didn’t say it harshly. He wasn’t angry.
But the truth of it landed like heat under her collar.
“I didn’t mean—” she started.
“I didn’t say it to shame you,” he said quickly. “Just… I know how rooms like this work. I know how people look.”
Efe focused on the road. “You’ll be fine.”
“I’m not worried about me.”
She glanced at him now. “Then what?”
“I just hope you won’t start explaining me with your eyes before I’ve even said a word.”
That shut her up.
Not because he was wrong.
But because she had already practiced a few lines in her head—
“He’s quiet, but very sharp.”
“He’s not flashy, but he’s solid.”
“He’s just… lowkey.”
She wasn’t going to say them out loud.
But she was planning to say them with her smile.
To soften him.
Make him easier to digest.
Less… different.
They reached the gates of the event venue—a polished house-turned-hall with gold lettering, white lights, and security guards in crisp black.
Tochukwu leaned back in his seat, looking out calmly.
“Just breathe,” he said, before she could.
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
She smiled faintly. “You always know what I’m thinking?”
“No,” he replied. “But I know what insecurity smells like. I’ve carried it before.”
And just like that, she had nothing left to say.
Saturday. 7:13 p.m.
The room was glass and light.
Gold accents. White-draped chairs. Waiters gliding past with mocktails and sparkling water. Worship music played softly in the background—instrumental only, just enough to keep the room spiritual, but not too serious.
Everyone looked ready to sell something.
Or meet someone who could.
Efe stepped in first, her hand clutching her purse like it was armor.
Tochukwu walked beside her—steady, calm, no need to adjust his stride. No hunger in his eyes. No fake smiles.
Which made him stand out more than anyone else.
A few heads turned as they passed the entryway.
Not because they made a scene.
But because they didn’t.
He wasn’t scanning the room like a networker.
She wasn’t grinning like someone chasing influence.
That quiet drew attention.
The wrong kind.
Then she saw him.
Tega.
Standing with two people Efe recognized from YouTube sermons and Forbes Africa blurbs. Tailored burgundy suit. Loafers that probably had a brand name you had to Google.
He laughed at something one of them said.
Then looked up.
Saw her.
His smile didn’t break.
But something in it changed.
Eyes moved to Tochukwu.
Scanned him.
Measured.
Dismissed?
Tega nodded in greeting.
Tochukwu didn’t wave. Just held Efe’s pace, unmoved.
She nodded back once, then looked away.
A few minutes later, Efe spotted Isioma and Tomisin waving her over. She and Tochukwu walked toward them.
“You came!” Isioma whispered, hugging her. “And you brought the mystery man.”
Tomisin turned, smile tight. “We’ve heard things.”
Tochukwu extended his hand politely. “Nice to meet you both.”
They shook, said hello, did that awkward “half-smile, nod” thing.
Then they all sat.
Tochukwu pulled out her chair before taking his own.
Tomisin leaned toward Efe with a half-whisper. “He’s so quiet… is he okay?”
Efe forced a smile. “He’s fine.”
“Ah. That’s deep. He looks like someone who will analyze your prayer life before dating you.”
Efe laughed, short and tense. “He’s not that serious.”
But Tochukwu heard. She knew he did.
And he didn’t flinch.
The conversations flowed across the table.
Big deals. Church collabs. Vision. Purpose. Brand partnerships with God in the name.
Tochukwu mostly listened.
He didn’t offer commentary unless asked.
When he did speak, it was clear, brief, thoughtful.
But no one remembered brief and thoughtful in rooms like this.
They remembered who made them laugh.
Who dropped soundbites.
Who quoted scripture with swag.
And Efe?
She started to feel it.
The weight of sitting next to a man who refused to put on a mask.
The way her own confidence started… folding.
Not because of him.
But because of them.
Saturday. 8:02 p.m.
The dinner was underway.
Long tables. Crystal glasses. Fancy name cards.
Every plate had three spoons and one fork no one could figure out.
People were talking loud now.
The kind of loud that happens when the food is decent, the lights are soft, and everyone is halfway through their second glass of juice they’re pretending is wine.
Efe sat beside Tochukwu at the far end of one table.
Across from them was Mr. Okonkwo, one of the more “popular” faith-based businessmen.
Big smile. Big voice. Big ego.
He had told two stories about “accidentally” making his first hundred million already.
Now, he was talking about humility in leadership.
“I tell my team, I don’t care if you’re loud or quiet. Even the quiet ones can be dangerous. In fact, those are the ones carrying calculators in their back pockets, waiting to correct you.”
Laughter.
He looked across the table. Right at Tochukwu.
Smirked.
“Abi, bro? You look like someone who’s always calculating. Serious face. No jokes.”
More laughter.
Not malicious.
But careless.
Tochukwu gave a small smile. Not a fake one. Just enough.
He didn’t respond.
Didn’t defend.
Didn’t return the joke.
He sipped his water slowly. Like nothing had touched him.
But Efe… felt her whole face get hot.
Not because the joke was that bad.
But because Tochukwu didn’t fight back.
She glanced at him. He was fine.
Or at least, looked fine.
And something in her hated that too.
She could feel the questions rising.
Why didn’t he say anything?
Why does he just… take these things?
Why won’t he protect himself?
She wanted to jump in. To fix it. To “lightly” say something sharp to balance the room.
But that would only draw more attention.
So she smiled too.
A stiff one.
And her insides folded.
It hit her halfway through dessert.
She wasn’t ashamed of the joke.
She wasn’t ashamed of Tochukwu.
She was ashamed that she had to sit through people misunderstanding him… and say nothing.
Not because she agreed.
But because she was too afraid of seeming too serious, too sensitive, too protective of someone she wasn’t even “officially with.”
And the worst part?
Tochukwu didn’t look like he needed defending.
He just looked… secure.
Saturday. 9:26 p.m.
The event was winding down.
Waiters were clearing plates.
People were standing now, hugging, laughing louder, switching to networking mode. A few guests had pulled out their phones and were casually “capturing atmosphere” for Instagram stories.
Efe stood near the exit, hands wrapped around her clutch.
Tochukwu was already outside. He’d stepped out a few minutes earlier—said he needed air.
She watched him from the doorway now, standing under a quiet tree near the parking lot, his hands in his pockets, head slightly tilted back like he was letting the night breathe on him.
She took a breath.
Then walked toward him.
He noticed her coming and turned slightly, but didn’t speak.
She joined him under the tree. Close, but not too close.
“I wanted to say sorry,” she said.
Tochukwu looked at her. Not confused. Not cold. Just listening.
She went on. “That comment back there—what Okonkwo said—I should’ve said something. Or… I don’t know. Shut it down.”
He raised an eyebrow slightly. “Why?”
She blinked. “Because it was unnecessary. And it was said in front of people.”
Tochukwu was quiet for a second.
Then he said, “I wasn’t offended.”
“I know. But—”
He cut her off. Softly. “You weren’t embarrassed by what he said, Efe.”
Her chest tightened.
“You were embarrassed,” he continued, “that I didn’t fight back.”
She swallowed. Said nothing.
He kept going—his tone gentle, not sharp. Just… honest.
“You were sitting beside a man who didn’t play the game. Didn’t joke his way out. Didn’t match the room’s energy. And for a second, you didn’t know how to explain me.”
She looked down at her shoes.
He wasn’t wrong.
He wasn’t even being harsh.
That was what made it sting.
Tochukwu turned toward her now, facing her fully.
“I don’t perform, Efe,” he said quietly. “Not because I can’t. But because I’ve spent too many years trying to look impressive in rooms that didn’t even know what they were clapping for.”
Efe blinked hard.
He wasn’t raising his voice.
He wasn’t making a speech.
But he was making it clear.
“I won’t shrink who I am,” he said, “just to make silence more comfortable for other people.”
She wanted to say something.
Anything.
But no words came out.
All she could do was nod.
Not in agreement.
In surrender.
Because he’d said the thing she hadn’t even admitted to herself.
Tochukwu looked up at the tree above them. A single fruit bat flapped past.
Then he looked back at her and said:
“Next time, just be sure who you’re standing beside… before you ask them to walk into the room with you.”
And with that, he stepped away.
Not angry.
Not sulking.
Just… done with the performance.
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