Chapter 8: The Walk
Sunday. 7:06 a.m.
The streets were still quiet.
No horns.
No shouting.
Just birds, wind, and the soft shuffle of slippers on tarred road.
Efe pulled her hoodie over her head, not for the cold, but to disappear a bit. Her face was fresh—no makeup, no earrings. Just skin, calm and rested.
She had left her phone in her back pocket. Earphones too.
Today wasn’t for music.
Today was for… silence.
And maybe him.
Tochukwu was already waiting outside the estate gate when she arrived.
Black joggers. Plain grey T-shirt. Water bottle in hand. AirPods in his ears, but not playing anything.
He saw her coming and took them out.
“Good morning,” he said.
She smiled. “You look like you’ve been up since 5.”
“I have.”
“Because of this walk?”
“No. Habit.”
They started walking.
The first ten minutes were mostly quiet.
They walked past closed shops, silent balconies, and one woman watering her flowers while humming “You are Yahweh.”
Efe stretched her arms a little. “I haven’t done this in years.”
“Walk?”
“Walk without needing to be anywhere. Or look a certain way.”
“You look fine.”
“I look like I just escaped NYSC camp.”
“Still fine.”
She chuckled. “You’re not going to say something like ‘you look beautiful without effort’?”
“I would,” he said. “But it’s not necessary. You’re already breathing.”
She blinked.
“Meaning?” she asked.
“You don’t need praise to prove presence. You’re here. That’s enough.”
They walked some more.
Passed a mosque. Two kids playing with a used tyre.
She looked at him.
“You always talk like that?” she asked.
“Like what?”
“Calm. Measured. Like you’re mid-devotion.”
He smiled. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just learned that the world doesn’t need more noise.”
“You weren’t always like this, right?”
“No,” he said. “I used to be very fast. Rushing into rooms. Trying to prove I was useful.”
“And now?”
“Now I prove it by not rushing.”
Efe paused. “That’s deep. But also slightly annoying.”
He laughed—a real one.
She smiled. She liked that sound.
As they turned onto a smaller street with fewer cars and more sand, she said:
“Do you think we’ll stay like this? Peaceful?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then said:
“I think peace isn’t something you find once. You have to keep choosing it.”
“Even when it gets boring?”
“Especially then.”
She nodded. Let that sit for a minute.
“I used to think love was supposed to be fire,” she said. “Loud. All-consuming.”
He looked ahead. “That’s how fires burn things down.”
“And what about water?”
“That’s how things grow.”
They walked a little longer.
Passed a vendor setting up his akara stand.
A little girl riding a pink bicycle wobbling behind them.
No music.
No hand-holding.
No Instagram-worthy moments.
Just steady steps.
Breathing. Talking.
And for the first time in a very long time…
Efe didn’t feel watched.
Didn’t feel judged.
Didn’t feel like she had to show up as the “sharp, clean, perfect” version of herself.
She was just there.
With someone who didn’t need her to earn the space beside him.
Sunday. 8:04 a.m.
They had walked almost 40 minutes now and were beginning to feel it.
Not tired.
Just stretched.
Tochukwu stopped beside a small wooden fruit table at the corner of a street junction.
“No sugar,” he said, pointing at the bright orange mangoes. “Just hydration.”
Efe smiled. “You don’t eat biscuits?”
“I do. But I ration them like a pensioner.”
The fruit seller—a slim woman with fast hands—cut the mango neatly and packed it in a nylon. Efe grabbed a bottle of water. Tochukwu paid without asking.
They stepped aside to share the mango, each taking a piece with their fingers, no tissue, no stress.
Efe was licking juice off her thumb when a familiar voice called out.
“Efe? Ah! Sister Efe!”
She turned.
It was Sister Gloria—from her small prayer cell. Married, late thirties, always wore flat shoes and bright lipstick.
She walked up, smiling politely, eyeing both of them.
“Good morning o,” Gloria said. “It’s you I saw walking with such confidence!”
Efe laughed. “We’re just stretching the legs, ma.”
Gloria turned to Tochukwu. “Good morning, sir.”
Tochukwu smiled, warm and brief. “Good morning.”
“God bless your morning,” Gloria added.
“And yours,” he said.
Then she gave one last smile—and left.
Ten minutes later, as they resumed walking, Efe’s phone buzzed in her pocket.
She checked it.
Gloria 💄
That your friend seems deep o. Not your usual type sha. But he looks gentle. God bless your decision.
Efe snorted. “Wow.”
Tochukwu glanced at her. “What?”
“She just messaged me.”
“Your friend?”
“Church aunty.”
“What did she say?”
Efe hesitated. Then read it aloud, almost laughing.
He didn’t blink.
Just nodded. “Hmm.”
Efe looked at him. “Does that annoy you?”
He shook his head. “Not really.”
“She basically said I normally go for louder guys.”
“Maybe she’s right.”
Efe raised an eyebrow. “You’re not offended?”
He shook his head again.
Then said:
“That’s her version of me. Not mine.”
Efe slowed her steps.
“You say that like you’ve had practice.”
“I have,” he said. “People always assume they know what quiet means.”
“Like what?”
“Shy. Weak. Passive. Boring.”
“Is that not a little accurate sometimes?”
He smiled. “I’m quiet because I know noise doesn’t mean depth. That’s not weakness. That’s awareness.”
She let that sit.
Then said softly:
“I think I’ve believed their versions of me too.”
He glanced at her.
“Then maybe you need to rewrite your own.”
They kept walking now, slowly.
The fruit juice was gone.
But something sweet lingered.
She didn’t feel like defending him.
Or defending herself.
She just felt… clear.
And for once, she wasn’t trying to control how the moment looked.
She was just in it.
Side by side.
Wednesday. 10:38 a.m.
The building was in Yaba—four floors, shared workspace, no branding on the outside except a small green sticker near the buzzer that read:
Quiet minds inside.
Efe rang.
Tochukwu opened the door himself.
Black T-shirt. Cargo pants. Slides.
He looked like someone who worked better barefoot.
“Hey,” he said, stepping aside. “I was just about to make tea.”
“Please don’t offer me lemongrass or turmeric.”
He grinned. “You’ll take whatever is in the kitchen.”
She walked in, smiling.
The office space was small. Clean. White walls, two standing desks, one long meeting table, and soft jazz playing from a speaker tucked into the corner.
There were no posters.
No startup slogans.
No drama.
Just two people already working quietly on laptops.
One of them looked up and waved.
“That’s Soji,” Tochukwu said. “He handles backend and reminds us to eat.”
The guy smiled. “Nice to meet you.”
“You too,” Efe said.
They walked toward the corner of the room, where a small shelf held mugs, green tea, and chinchin in a recycled jar.
“I thought tech bros ran on Red Bull and chaos,” Efe said, pouring herself warm water.
“I used to,” Tochukwu replied. “Then I crashed. Twice.”
“Hospital?”
“No. Worse—therapy.”
She laughed. “How’s that worse?”
“Because therapy makes you sit still. Can’t hustle your way out of yourself.”
They sat on the couch, chinchin between them.
“So,” she asked, “what exactly do you guys build here?”
“Fintech tools for community cooperatives. Credit tracking. Low-interest lending. Financial discipleship for people who don’t trust banks.”
“That’s… oddly specific.”
“It works.”
She sipped her tea. “Is it growing?”
He nodded. “Slowly.”
“Intentionally?”
He looked at her. “Everything I want to last will grow slow.”
They were quiet for a bit as Soji came over to plug something into the printer. Then returned to his desk.
“I’ve worked with three founders,” Efe said. “All of them were loud, charming, overworked, and constantly on the edge of a breakdown.”
Tochukwu smiled. “Sounds like Twitter.”
“You’re not like them.”
“No.”
“You don’t even look like someone who checks pitch decks.”
“I check them. I just don’t let them define me.”
She looked around again. “You run this place like a retreat.”
“I run it like I don’t want to burn out.”
She tilted her head, genuinely curious now. “So… what’s your goal? IPO? Buyout?”
He shook his head. “My goal is to build something clean. Small, scalable, honest.”
“Just that?”
“Also—pay my staff well. Go home early. Have peace.”
She laughed again. “You keep mentioning peace like it’s oxygen.”
“It is.”
Efe looked at him.
Really looked.
She had dated men who ran large teams, closed million-dollar deals, walked around with power like perfume.
But this man?
He had none of that… and yet somehow, she felt more grounded just sitting beside him.
“I’m not used to slow people,” she said softly.
“I know.”
“But I think I’m starting to respect it.”
He nodded once. “Good.”
And then, just as softly, he added:
“Because what we’re doing… this? It won’t work fast.”
She didn’t ask what “this” meant.
She didn’t need to.
Wednesday. 9:47 p.m.
Efe sat on her bed in her night shirt, legs crossed, laptop shut, the soft glow of her phone screen lighting her face.
The day had been… peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Which is why the message hit harder than it should have.
Tega Arinze
Still rooting for your brilliance. Always.
No full stop.
No emoji.
Just a quiet, polite thread… tugging on memory.
She stared at the message.
It wasn’t seductive.
Wasn’t even inappropriate.
But it wasn’t innocent either.
It was what Tega was best at—sending just enough kindness to stay in her mind… without being direct enough to shut the door in his face.
She sat up straighter.
Started typing.
Thanks. Means a lot. Hope the deal is moving well on your end.
She paused.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Appreciate that. Rooting for your integrity too.
She laughed to herself at that one. Deleted it too.
Typed a third one.
I hope you mean it.
Then just sat there.
Phone in hand.
Thumb hovering.
She let her hand fall to her lap.
Looked around the room.
It was quiet.
Soft fan turning.
Peppermint oil still faint in the air from her diffuser.
And she asked herself—out loud, softly:
“What do I gain by replying?”
And she knew the answer.
Nothing.
Tega didn’t want closure.
He wanted access.
Not to her body.
Not even to her heart.
Just… her attention.
And for the first time, she didn’t feel the need to give it.
She locked her phone.
Tossed it beside her on the bed.
And whispered, not proudly, but simply:
“Not every message deserves an answer.”
She pulled the covers over her legs.
Took a long sip of her water.
Then smiled.
Small.
Real.
Because growth wasn’t always loud.
Sometimes it was just… not texting back.
Saturday. 1:14 p.m.
Efe sat at an outdoor café in Ikoyi, sunglasses on, mango smoothie in front of her, half-listening to Isioma and Tomisin argue over whether or not to attend a Christian singles hangout later that evening.
“Last time I went, a man asked if I would ‘submit to his destiny,’” Tomisin said, rolling her eyes. “I just want puff-puff and worship, not marriage proposals.”
“You’re too harsh,” Isioma replied. “It’s a hangout, not a ring fair.”
Efe smiled faintly but didn’t add anything.
Tomisin turned to her suddenly. “Wait. Efe’s been suspiciously quiet.”
“I noticed that too,” Isioma said. “You’ve had this strange peace-glow since midweek. Are you in love or just eating better?”
Efe took a long sip from her smoothie.
Then said, calmly: “Neither.”
They both stared at her.
She added, “I’m just… walking.”
“Walking where?” Isioma asked, confused.
“With someone,” Efe said. “No title. No drama. Just… forward.”
Tomisin squinted. “You’re dodging gist.”
“I’m living gist,” Efe replied. “There’s nothing to announce yet. But I feel calm. And I like who I am when I’m with him.”
That made them quiet.
Then Tomisin said, softly, “Wow. That’s new for you.”
Efe nodded. “It’s new for me too.”
Saturday. 7:39 p.m.
Tochukwu was already at the table when she arrived.
Roadside spot again.
Same one as before.
Plastic chairs. Smell of pepper. Soft evening breeze.
“Late,” he said with a smile.
“I was busy being accused of glowing.”
He smiled wider. “You are, though.”
She sat, dropped her purse on the bench beside her.
“Do you get tired of being this peaceful?” she asked.
“Sometimes,” he replied. “But not when I’m beside someone who respects it.”
She looked at him.
He didn’t ask for affection.
Didn’t lean in.
Didn’t say anything dramatic.
But she felt safe.
The kind of safety that says:
I’m not here to impress you. I’m here to keep showing up.
As the waiter brought two bowls of catfish pepper soup, Efe looked at him and said:
“I’m not sure where this is going.”
Tochukwu nodded. “That’s fine.”
“But I’m not pretending anymore.”
“Good,” he said. “I’d rather walk with someone honest than run with someone impressive.”
She smiled.
They clinked water bottles in a quiet toast.
No label.
No big moment.
Just peace.
And that, for now, was more than enough.
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