Chapter 7: The Choice
Sunday. 10:41 a.m.
The sun streamed into Chisom’s small living room through cream curtains that fluttered in the breeze from the open window. Gospel music played faintly from her Bluetooth speaker—Nathaniel Bassey, barely audible.
Efe sat cross-legged on the floor, wearing one of Chisom’s old university T-shirts and leggings, cradling a mug of Lipton like it could solve the war in her chest.
She wasn’t crying.
Just… flat.
Like someone who hadn’t been hit, but had definitely been knocked off balance.
Chisom sat on the couch behind her, twisting her hair into loose plaits, half-listening until Efe finally said:
“He didn’t fight me.”
Chisom paused. “Tochukwu?”
Efe nodded slowly. “I tried to apologize. For not defending him. For freezing when people laughed. He didn’t even argue. He just… said what he saw.”
“What did he say?”
“That I wasn’t ashamed of what was said. I was ashamed of him not fighting back.”
Chisom exhaled through her teeth. “Whew. Okay.”
Efe stared into her tea.
“I thought maybe he’d—” She stopped herself.
Chisom leaned forward. “You thought maybe he’d do what?”
“Push back. Reassure me. Say it didn’t matter.”
“Why?”
Efe was quiet again.
“Because if he had,” she whispered, “I could have kept pretending I was fine.”
Chisom let that sit for a minute.
Then she said, softly:
“Maybe you’re not upset he left.”
Efe looked up slowly.
Chisom didn’t blink.
“Maybe you’re upset he didn’t fight for you. He made you face yourself.”
That line went straight through Efe’s ribs.
She didn’t move.
Chisom kept going.
“You’ve dated men who shouted, chased, cried, quoted scripture. And you left all of them because the noise didn’t make it true.”
“Now you’ve met someone who won’t shout… and it scares you.”
Efe looked down again, blinking too fast.
“I don’t know if I’m built for someone that steady,” she said quietly.
Chisom tilted her head. “Or maybe you’ve only ever practiced reacting to chaos. So peace just feels unfamiliar.”
Efe closed her eyes.
She wasn’t mad.
She was… seen.
And that was worse.
“I don’t think he’s angry,” Efe said. “He just… stopped trying.”
Chisom reached for her hand. “Maybe he’s not trying to prove anything anymore.”
“And I have to decide,” Efe finished, “if I’m okay with that.”
The speaker hummed faintly in the background.
Nathaniel Bassey’s trumpet lifted.
But in the room?
Silence did all the work.
Sunday. 3:19 p.m.
Efe had just returned to her flat.
Her dress from the night before was folded on the arm of the couch, makeup brushes still lying on the dining table, untouched. Her handbag was half-unzipped, and she hadn’t even plugged her phone in.
She stood barefoot in the middle of her kitchen, a glass of water in one hand, and her phone in the other—just staring at the lock screen.
One notification.
From him.
Tochukwu T. Nnaji
Hope you got home safe. No pressure to talk. Just know I still respect you.
—T
She didn’t open it.
Just… looked at it.
Like it was written in another language.
It wasn’t long.
It wasn’t emotional.
It wasn’t reaching.
But it landed.
Because it said:
-
I noticed you left without closure.
-
I’m not chasing, but I’m not cutting you off.
-
I haven’t changed. I’m just not going to make you choose me out of pity.
And more than that, it didn’t say:
-
Where’s your apology?
-
You made me feel small.
-
Let’s fix this.
It was the kind of message only someone secure could send.
Someone who knew what they carried.
And that was the part Efe couldn’t shake.
She set the glass down, walked into the living room, and collapsed into the couch.
Held the phone.
Read it again.
Just know I still respect you.
Just that line alone.
She’d been in conversations with men who twisted mistakes into lectures.
Who used silence like punishment.
Who made her feel like grace came with conditions.
This wasn’t that.
This was… permission.
Permission to not perform.
To not defend herself.
To just… be.
And somehow, that was harder than a fight.
Efe opened the message app.
Typed.
Thanks. You didn’t deserve what happened.
She stared at it.
Deleted it.
Typed again:
I feel stupid. I froze when I should’ve spoken.
Deleted again.
Typed a third time:
You’re more gracious than I am.
Then stopped.
Because she realized—none of these messages were honest.
They were polite.
Grateful.
Clever.
But not real.
So she closed the app.
And let the message sit.
Unanswered.
The stillness in the room was loud.
Not uncomfortable.
Just… convicting.
Like the silence was a mirror.
And she didn’t like what she saw.
Not because she was a bad person.
But because she wasn’t as brave as she thought.
And Tochukwu?
He didn’t make her feel small for that.
But he wasn’t shrinking himself either.
People talk a lot about love.
They don’t talk about respect.
They don’t talk about how rare it is to meet someone who can be wounded without wounding back.
She set the phone down.
Closed her eyes.
And for the first time in a long time, didn’t feel the urge to explain herself.
She just sat in it.
The discomfort.
The quiet.
The respect.
Monday. 12:09 p.m.
The restaurant was cool, expensive, and too quiet for lunch hour. The kind of place where the waiters didn’t hover, and the menus didn’t have prices.
Efe sat at a corner table, dressed in work neutrals: navy trousers, cream blouse, low heels. Professional. Sharp. Guarded.
Tega arrived two minutes late.
Button-down shirt, no tie. A wristwatch that glinted more than it needed to.
He smiled as he approached—warm, familiar, but not too much.
“You’re still early to everything,” he said, sliding into the seat across from her.
“And you’re still two minutes late to everything.”
He grinned. “Some balance is necessary.”
They didn’t hug.
Didn’t ask about each other’s weekend.
There was no need.
Too much history makes small talk irrelevant.
“So,” Efe said, folding her napkin. “Why am I here, Tega?”
He opened a brown envelope and slid it across the table. No games.
“Public-private initiative,” he said. “Smart city infrastructure. Housing meets tech. We’re talking Lagos State backing, three private financiers, and two foreign partners already circling.”
Efe opened the folder.
Flipped through the pages.
Feasibility. Projections. Names she recognized.
“This is clean,” she said, brows slightly raised. “Too clean.”
Tega leaned forward slightly. “That’s why I want you.”
She looked up. “You mean my firm?”
“No,” he said. “I mean you.”
Efe stared at him.
He didn’t smile.
Didn’t blink.
Just let the words hang there.
“I want you leading the advisory end. Your name, not just your firm’s. You get lead counsel credit. Direct pipeline to the Governor’s office. Full visibility.”
She tilted her head. “Why me?”
“Because you know how to hold spiritual language and corporate logic in the same room.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And because I know how to keep secrets?”
He gave a soft laugh. “I don’t need secrets. I need stability. You offer that.”
“Do I?”
Tega’s voice softened slightly. “You’ve always had the thing most people in this space fake—discernment. I don’t want hype. I want credibility. And you are that.”
For a second, Efe didn’t speak.
The documents in front of her were real.
The deal made sense.
The money, the names, the politics — all checked out.
But something didn’t.
Not on paper.
In tone.
This wasn’t a business opportunity.
It was a recruitment.
And not just for the project.
For alignment.
“I’ll review it properly,” she said, voice cool.
“Of course.”
“But I’ll need to involve the firm officially if it moves forward.”
Tega nodded slowly. “Naturally.”
But the delay in his response was just a breath too long.
And that pause?
Told her everything.
He wasn’t just here for legal strategy.
He wanted her name on the deal, not just her signature on a document.
Tega closed the envelope. Sat back.
“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said casually. “I don’t see you in the usual circles anymore.”
“I’ve been… choosing peace.”
“Peace is good,” he said. “But don’t let it dull your edge.”
“I’m not dull,” she said.
“No,” he said, locking eyes with her. “But you’re quieter. Less… visible.”
She didn’t reply.
Tega reached for the check without asking.
“Think about it,” he said.
“I will.”
“I mean it, Efe. This could change everything.”
She folded her arms. “I know.”
And that’s exactly why I need to look at it twice.
Monday. 9:58 p.m.
The city outside her window was alive—cars in motion, horns soft in the distance, generators humming like insects.
Inside Efe’s flat, everything was still.
Her laptop was open, the documents from Tega neatly organized in folders.
Her room smelled like peppermint tea and printer ink.
She wasn’t sleepy.
She was reading.
But more than that, she was… listening.
Not to the documents.
To her chest.
And the strange, low tug that had been bothering her since lunch.
The first file: Land allocation terms.
All solid. Verified.
Second file: Financing structure.
Tight. Clean. Nothing strange.
Third: Timeline.
Rapid. Very rapid.
Too rapid.
That’s when she paused.
Two weeks from approval to kickoff? For a project that needed five separate signatures and two inter-ministerial memos?
She scrolled back. Checked the dates again.
Everything looked fine.
But the speed was off.
She pushed her chair back.
Stood. Walked to the window.
Folded her arms.
Then asked, out loud:
“Why was this brought to me personally… and not the firm?”
It wasn’t a rhetorical question.
It was a test.
She waited.
Let the question float.
Tochukwu’s voice echoed faintly in her head:
“If I have to argue with myself too much to get peace… that’s usually a sign.”
She turned slowly, looked at the brown folder again.
Clean pages. Clear fonts. Legal beauty.
But peace?
Absent.
If she said no?
She’d look difficult.
Uncooperative.
Maybe even paranoid.
Tega wouldn’t say it.
But it would change how he saw her.
How he spoke about her.
And this wasn’t just any deal.
This was visibility. Profile. Power.
But clarity?
Clarity meant delay. Meant caution. Meant choosing truth when everyone else was sprinting.
She sat back down.
Closed the folder.
Opened a blank page.
Started drafting a list of questions.
Not because she didn’t understand the deal.
But because she wanted to understand the intention behind it.
And this time… she didn’t rush.
By midnight, she had a full memo of legal questions and one note to herself:
“I will not be flattered into agreement.”
Then she closed her laptop.
Stared at the ceiling for a long time.
And said, quietly:
“This is what clarity feels like.”
Not loud.
Not clean.
But true.
Tuesday. 6:43 a.m.
Efe sat at the edge of her bed, robe tied loosely, phone in one hand, the other resting on her knee.
She’d barely slept.
Not from anxiety.
But from clarity.
The folder was packed and ready for delivery to her firm’s senior partner. Her legal memo on the Tega proposal was clear: strong potential, but premature timeline, non-neutral recruitment approach, and questionable scope overlap with existing agencies.
She hadn’t spoken to Tega again.
She didn’t need to.
Her head was clear.
Now… her heart needed to catch up.
✦ The Message
She opened her chat with Tochukwu.
The last message from him still sat quietly at the bottom of the screen:
Hope you got home safe. No pressure to talk. Just know I still respect you.
She let out a slow breath.
Then typed:
You didn’t hurt me.
You just made me stop pretending.
That’s what scared me.
She stared at it.
No emojis.
No apology.
No “how are you?”
Just truth.
She hit send.
He called almost immediately.
The screen lit up:
T.T. Nnaji calling...
She hesitated for one ring.
Then answered.
She didn’t say hello.
He didn’t either.
There was just a pause.
Then he said:
“I read your message.”
She nodded, even though he couldn’t see.
“Thank you for saying it like that.”
Efe didn’t speak.
She didn’t trust her voice.
Then he asked:
“Now that the pretending has stopped… what do you want?”
Not what are we doing.
Not where do we stand.
Not do you like me.
Just—What do you want?
The question hit like still water.
Not forceful.
But deep.
She looked around her room.
Her wall of books. Her neat shoes. Her untouched alarm clock. Her perfectly folded throw blanket.
Her perfect life.
And realized—
“I want someone who doesn’t need to shout to be strong.”
She paused.
Then added:
“And I want to stop trying to explain peace to people who can’t sit still long enough to feel it.”
He was quiet.
Then, softly:
“I don’t need anything from you.”
Another pause.
Then—
“But if you want to walk with me… walk fully.”
She closed her eyes.
And said, with no hesitation:
“I’m ready.”
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