Chapter 9: Pressure Points
Thursday. 3:22 p.m.
The stew was warming on the stove.
A fresh loaf of bread sat on the kitchen counter, untouched but releasing that soft, sweet smell only Lagos bakery bread can carry.
Efe moved around barefoot in a plain shirt and wrapper, tying her hair into a lazy bun. She’d forgotten Tochukwu was coming until he texted:
“Gate man said I should call when I’m downstairs. He’s forming policy.”
She’d laughed out loud, texted back “Give him 100 naira and tell him you’re here for therapy,” and unlocked the door.
Now, twenty minutes later, they were both seated cross-legged on the floor of her living room, with a low tray between them — bowls of rice, plantain, and stew.
Tochukwu had already removed his wristwatch and glasses.
He only did that when he was fully relaxed.
“Why are you eating like someone who just came back from a mountain?” Efe teased, watching him tear bread into pieces with full focus.
“I’ve been surviving on indomie and mangoes for two days,” he said. “This is ministry.”
She laughed. “So I’m now your pastor.”
“You’ve been laying hands on my appetite.”
They kept eating, laughing in between, mostly about nothing — a vendor who called him Tofunky, a guy on YouTube who tried to sell “Holy Ghost anointing courses.”
But underneath the jokes, something had shifted.
Their closeness was no longer “new.” It was real.
The way she looked at him had changed — softer, slower.
The way he leaned forward when she spoke — not flirtation. Attention.
Efe set her spoon down. Sat back a bit. Looked at him carefully.
Tochukwu noticed.
“What?”
She chewed her bottom lip.
Then said, carefully:
“So… what exactly are we doing?”
He looked at her.
Not shocked.
Not tense.
Just… ready.
She added quickly, “I know we said we’re walking, and I know we don’t need to rush, and I know we both like peace and silence and ginger tea and all that…”
He smiled slowly.
“…but I just—at this point—I need to know if this is an actual thing or I’m just feeding you in faith.”
He laughed — loudly now. “Feeding me in faith?”
“I need to know if I should start fasting or start journaling about my future husband.”
He put his spoon down.
Wiped his hand on a napkin.
Then looked at her — not too deep, not too serious, just with calm weight.
“Efe… I’m not just walking with you.”
She stayed quiet.
He leaned slightly forward.
“I’m preparing with you.”
That line went straight into her chest.
No performance.
Just clarity.
She exhaled. “Okay… but why didn’t you say that earlier?”
“I assumed it was clear.”
“It wasn’t. You were too calm.”
He nodded, thinking. “Fair.”
“You need to use more words.”
“I’m not a poet. I’m an engineer.”
“Well, your engineer spirit needs to update the software.”
He smiled again. “Then consider this a software patch. We’re not playing. We’re building.”
They didn’t kiss.
Didn’t hold hands.
Just went back to eating.
But the silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore.
It was safe.
Comfortable.
Because now, it had direction.
Saturday. 7:45 a.m.
The plan was simple.
-
Fast till 3 p.m.
-
Spend time reading the same scripture.
-
Pray together over a video call.
-
Share reflections at the end of the day.
It sounded beautiful in Efe’s notebook.
She even colour-coded it.
But by 9:17 a.m., she was already regretting it.
She sat on the couch with her Bible open and two devotionals beside her. Her head was pounding slightly — no tea, no breakfast — and she was trying to focus on Isaiah 58, but her neighbour’s generator was making everything sound like a factory.
Tochukwu had sent her a voice note earlier:
“Just finished reading John 15. I’m stuck on ‘abide in me.’ Deep, deep stuff. Let’s stay there a while.”
She liked the verse.
But the way he said “let’s stay there a while” made it sound like they were entering monk mode.
She replied with a short “Noted.”
Ten minutes later, he sent another one.
“What stood out to you personally? I think we should pick a specific area to pray into. Maybe pride, or discipline, or rest?”
Efe stared at her phone like it had insulted her.
By 11:30 a.m., she was fully lying on her carpet, face up, scrolling Instagram and feeling slightly guilty.
Then the phone rang.
It was Tochukwu.
She picked up.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he said. “Just checking in. How’s the silence treating you?”
She exhaled. “I’m hungry.”
He laughed. “Same here.”
“But seriously,” she added, “I feel like you’re out here doing seminary while I’m over here trying not to kill my neighbour for frying fish during my fast.”
He chuckled. “The flesh is weak.”
“The fish is strong,” she muttered.
There was a pause.
Then she said:
“I think maybe I’m not as spiritual as you thought.”
He was quiet. Then said gently:
“I never said you had to be me.”
Efe sat up straighter.
He continued:
“We’re not trying to perform holiness for each other. We’re just aligning.”
She blinked. “But I feel like you’re outpacing me.”
“Then say so,” he replied, still calm. “Don’t turn it into pressure. Just say ‘Toks, slow down. I’m not there yet.’”
She rubbed her temple. “Okay then. Toks… slow down. I’m not there yet.”
He smiled. “Thank you.”
At 2:45 p.m., she called him.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ve finally read the chapter.”
“What stood out?”
“Honestly? Just one line: ‘Apart from me, you can do nothing.’ And I think that includes pretending to be spiritually deep when I’m just tired and hungry and trying not to cuss on a Saturday.’”
He laughed out loud. “That’s the realest exegesis I’ve heard today.”
And finally, she laughed too.
Because this was it.
Not vibes.
Not perfection.
Not matching “spiritual levels.”
Just two people learning how to grow together — messy, hungry, honest.
And still choosing to try again.
Monday. 4:17 p.m.
The WhatsApp message came while Efe was reviewing a lease agreement:
Tochukwu:
“Small shake on my end. We’ll be fine, just cashflow pause. Praying for wisdom.”
She read it twice.
No voice note.
No request.
Just information.
Typical Tochukwu.
She replied:
“Anything you need?”
He didn’t reply for an hour.
Then finally:
“Just grace to hold the line. I’ll call you later.”
By 6:30 p.m., she had packed two food flasks.
White rice. Goat meat. That peppery vegetable sauce he once said “tastes like Sunday afternoons.”
She didn’t tell him she was coming.
She just went.
No lipstick.
No heels.
Just jeans, a loose shirt, and quiet intentions.
When she arrived, the office lights were still on.
The front desk light buzzed softly.
She knocked.
No answer.
She opened the door.
Inside, Tochukwu sat alone at the white table, laptop in front of him, a spreadsheet open, forehead resting on one palm.
He looked up, surprised.
“Hey,” he said. Voice tired, but kind. “You didn’t say—”
“I brought rice,” she said.
He blinked. Closed the laptop slowly.
“Of course you did.”
She set the food on the table.
He opened one of the flasks and sighed—visibly.
He didn’t rush.
He just breathed for a second, like the smell itself gave him back part of his mind.
“Thank you,” he said.
She sat down beside him. Crossed her legs. Said nothing.
After a while, he finally spoke:
“We were supposed to get that second round of money last Friday. Now it’s sitting in review. No one is giving answers. And my co-founder is already panicking.”
Efe nodded.
He went on.
“I’m trying not to spiral. I’ve seen what compromise looks like under pressure. I don’t want to be that guy.”
“You’re not,” she said.
“But it’s hard.”
“I know.”
No preaching.
No Bible quotes.
Just presence.
He took a bite. Chewed slowly.
Then looked at her.
“You didn’t tell me to have faith.”
“No.”
“You didn’t remind me of how ‘everything works together for good.’”
“Nope.”
“You just came here… with pepper and meat.”
She smiled.
He smiled back.
“I didn’t need a fixer,” he said. “Just someone to let me be tired.”
As he kept eating, Efe sat quietly.
And suddenly realized: this was new for her too.
She was used to being the tired one.
The one people tried to encourage, uplift, guide.
She never really imagined being the one to hold someone else’s calm.
But here she was.
Not talking.
Not teaching.
Just sitting.
And for the first time, she understood:
Real love isn’t loud. Sometimes, it just stays when nothing is going well.
Thursday. 8:12 p.m.
They were on Efe’s balcony.
Tochukwu had come over with suya and cold malt. No heavy dinner this time—just meat, spice, and that special silence that Lagos evenings allow when NEPA behaves.
The street below was quiet.
Dogs barking two compounds away.
Efe sat with her legs stretched, leaning against the railing.
Tochukwu sat on a low stool, arms resting on his knees.
It had been a long day for both of them.
No drama.
Just work.
Emails.
Traffic.
Life.
But this—this quiet space?
It felt like oxygen.
“I don’t know if I’m wife material,” Efe said suddenly, in that low, half-serious voice people use when they’re trying to act like they’re joking.
Tochukwu looked up. Chewed a little slower.
He didn’t ask why yet.
He just waited.
She shrugged. “I mean… I cook. I clean. I earn. I pray. All the checklist stuff.”
He nodded. “But?”
She sighed.
“I’m not soft.”
Tochukwu looked at her now—really looked.
Efe didn’t meet his eyes.
“I don’t know how to play that quiet, gentle wife thing,” she said. “I speak plainly. I don’t submit emotionally until I’m safe. I argue when I care. I think deeply. I challenge ideas. I question everything.”
Pause.
She added, “I know how to lead. I don’t always know how to follow.”
She laughed once, dryly.
“Sometimes I think I’ll be the kind of wife that men… tolerate. Until they find someone ‘softer’ to confide in.”
Tochukwu was still quiet.
No head shakes.
No romantic interjections.
Just stillness.
That scared her more than disagreement.
He finally spoke.
“Efe… I didn’t come close to you because I wanted someone small.”
She turned to him.
“I know you’re strong. That’s part of why I respect you.”
“I don’t need a woman who will always agree with me or act like she’s smaller just to keep peace. That’s not peace — that’s pretending.”
He leaned forward a little.
“What I want is someone who can stand beside me. Someone who sees clearly when I’m tired, and can speak sense when I’m missing something.”
“You’re not too much. You’re the right size for the kind of life I want to build.”
He paused, then added:
“Some men don’t like women who speak up, not because it’s wrong… but because they’re not ready. But me? I’m not afraid of your strength. I’m thankful for it.”
Her throat felt warm.
Not from crying.
But from unclenching.
She’d said that line—“I’m not soft”—to herself in so many versions, for so many years.
And now… someone had finally replied with something other than “You’re strong, but…”
Tochukwu wasn’t allowing her strength.
He was ready for it.
They didn’t hold hands.
They just went back to eating suya.
After a while, she smiled faintly.
“You know what scares me the most?”
“What?”
She looked at him and said:
“I think I might actually believe you.”
He smiled.
“Good.”
Saturday. 5:56 p.m.
Efe’s message had been short:
“Shawarma + Fanta date or you’re unserious.”
Tochukwu replied instantly:
“Meet me at Chicken Express. Come hungry. Come humble.”
She had shown up in joggers and a baggy T-shirt that said “Not Every Day Deep” — a gift from herself to herself.
He wore jeans, sandals, and a shirt that said “Psalm 23 but in streetwear.”
The moment they saw each other, they both started laughing.
“This is what we’ve become?”
“Comfort over chemistry?”
“Unapologetically.”
The chicken was dry.
The cabbage was too crunchy.
The Fanta was perfect.
They sat at a plastic table under a noisy fan, wiping their mouths with serviettes that fell apart in their hands.
“Your shirt is giving pastor’s son who sells crypto,” Efe said.
Tochukwu pointed at her. “You look like you lead intercession and rob ATMs on weekends.”
They laughed for nearly two minutes.
The kind of laugh that turns heads.
The kind that says:
We’re not here for your approval. We’re here for each other.
“Okay,” Efe said, wiping her hands. “If we ever have four children, who names them?”
Tochukwu raised a brow. “I’m sorry… if? Four?”
“Just answer.”
“Okay. I name the boys. You name the girls.”
“What if all four are girls?”
“Then we’ll know God is humbling me on purpose.”
She laughed.
“Alright, your turn.”
Tochukwu leaned back, sipping his drink.
“If I go bald in five years, what’s your honest reaction?”
Efe squinted. “Full bald or patchy bald?”
“Patchy.”
She nodded. “Then I’d support you… as you fully shave your head.”
“Wow.”
“And I’d help you moisturize.”
“Romantic.”
The sun was starting to drop.
Shadows stretched across the sidewalk.
Their laughter slowed.
But not the joy.
Tochukwu looked at her for a moment.
Just looked.
“You’re easy to be around,” he said.
Efe’s smile softened. “Same.”
Then he added:
“This—this part right here? The laughter? I want to protect it.”
She nodded slowly.
“I do too.”
They stood, cleaned up their table, and walked outside.
The breeze was soft.
As they reached her car, Efe looked at him.
“You know what scares me?”
He leaned on the passenger door.
“What?”
“That I could get used to this.”
Tochukwu looked her in the eyes.
“You should.”
Then he opened the door for her.
No performance.
Just care.
And she got in, smiling.
Not giddy.
Just… full.
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