Lagos isn't soft on anybody.

The day I stepped into Bunmi Holdings for the first time, the sun was scorching as if it had a grudge against me. My inexpensive black shoe was already protesting, my shirt was clinging to my back, and my heart was racing, not due to affection, but because I urgently required this job.

I am Nedu Okeke.

Okwu nwoke Igbo (Igbo boy).

Postgraduate.

Starving.

Resolved.

I arrived from Onitsha with lofty aspirations and limited funds. Lagos had consumed my last possibility, and this interview was my ultimate chance.

The receptionist glanced at me, fixed her glasses, and stated,

“Madam is ready to see you now.”

That’s how my life transformed.

I entered the office and halted.

Seated at the expansive mahogany desk was a woman I did not expect.

Madam Bunmi Adeyemo.

High.

Elegant.

Balanced.

She wore a tailored navy-blue dress that embraced her figure as if crafted by fate itself. Her headscarf was positioned flawlessly, and her complexion radiated gently beneath the office lighting. Her eyes, steady, keen, inscrutable, gradually rose from the document before her and engaged with mine.

I lost the ability to breathe.

“Good morning,” she stated, her tone calm, steady… commanding.

“G-good morning ma,” I faltered, standing up straighter like a soldier on display.

She observed me. Not the rushed type of gaze, no. This was the sort that moves from your face to your feet, assessing your assurance, your anxiety, your desire.

“You're Nedu Okeke,” she stated.

“Certainly, ma.”

“You belong to the Igbo tribe.”

"Indeed, ma."

A slight smile graced her lips.

“Unwind. "I won't bite."

My heart raced.

I was unsure of the reason.

She reclined a bit in her chair, crossing her legs with a serene grace that made the space seem noticeably tighter. Her presence held a certain quality — a subdued authority intertwined with melancholy... and resilience.

“I lost my husband three years back,” she suddenly stated, maintaining eye contact with me.

“I manage this business by myself.”

I gulped.

“Others believe that being a widow signifies weakness,” she went on.

“They are mistaken.”

“Of course, ma,” I responded gently, even though she hadn’t posed a question.

She shut the file.

“You will be my assistant,” she stated.

“Extended work hours.” Elevated anticipations. Unwavering allegiance.

I nodded rapidly.

"I won't let you down, ma."

Her lips again formed a slight curve.

“We will observe.”

As I started to walk away, she said,

“Nedu.”

I came to a halt.

“Greetings from Lagos,” she said.

“Welcome to my universe.”

I exited that office with employment…

However, I was unaware that I had just entered a narrative that would challenge my emotions, my heritage, my restraint, and my comprehension of love.

Loving your supervisor is risky.

Caring for a widow is complex.

And being in love with a Yoruba widow as an Igbo man in Lagos?

That particular one…

On a different plane.

*******

Traffic in Lagos will bring you down.

When I returned to work officially the following Monday, I had practiced my “Good morning ma” at least ten times inside the danfo. My shirt was pressed perfectly, my hair was cropped short, my shoes gleamed as if I had borrowed them from a wealthy person.

Nonetheless, my hands were perspiring.

Bunmi Holdings was in operation when I got there, phones buzzing, keyboards tapping, AC gently humming. Yet the instant I entered, a feeling informed me this place had changed.

Due to Madam Bunmi's presence.

“Nedu,” the receptionist murmured as I registered, “Madam don arrive since 7 am o.”

7 in the morning?

It was hardly 8:15.

I gulped.

Before I had the chance to sit at my desk, her office door swung open.

She walked outside.

Oh.

That lady.

She donned a cream blouse neatly tucked into a tailored black skirt that hugged her figure with subtle assurance. Everything was captured without exaggeration, her full bust rising softly as she strolled, her waist tapering beautifully before her hips broadened with gentle confidence. She took her time. She never hurried.

She spotted me right away.

“Good morning, ma,” I said hurriedly, getting up.

“Good morning, Nedu,” she said, her eyes holding mine for a moment longer than needed.

That moment had an effect on me.

"Step inside," she said.

Her office had a subtle scent of jasmine and a cozy aroma, reminiscent of home following a rain shower. She gave me a pile of documents.

"These contracts are still outstanding." Examine them. Emphasize mistakes. Provide insights.”

"Certainly, ma."

As I began to walk away, she said quietly,

“And Nedu...”

“Affirmative, ma?”

"Take off your jacket." "The heat of Lagos isn’t just an adversary for you."

I paused, then followed her instructions.

Her gaze shifted, not impolitely, not overtly, just enough to observe my shoulders, my arms filling the sleeves of my top.

She averted her gaze first.

I stepped outside feeling perplexed.

The day passed quickly. I labored as if the folks from my village were observing. But each time I raised my gaze, I sensed it.

Her gaze.

Observing.

At times, she would stroll by my desk, the sound of her heels softly clicking. Occasionally, she would stop.

"You type quickly," she remarked one time.

"Thanks, ma."

"Where were you taught?"

“NYSC… and starvation,” I said jokingly without any consideration.

She chuckled.

Not noisy.

Not compelled.

A genuine laugh.

It caught both of us off guard.

In the afternoon, she rang me once more.

“Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to the chair across from her.

She examined my notes attentively.

“You're meticulous,” she remarked.

“I enjoy that.”

"Thanks, ma."

A hush fell over the area. Not uncomfortable. Simply dense.

“You’re not wedded,” she remarked abruptly.

It was not a question.

"Not at all, ma."

“Partner?”

I nodded in disagreement.

She nodded gradually, tapping her pen on the tabletop.

“Lagos has the ability to toughen young men,” she murmured.

“Take caution with what you let into your heart.”

Her tone became gentler.

I’m curious, what makes you share this with me?

However, I did not.

As I prepared to depart, she said something once more, nearly to herself.

“Loneliness doesn’t make itself known… it simply lingers.”

For a short instant, her eyes appeared weary. Human being. Defenseless.

She stood up straight.

“Great job today, Nedu.”

That night, in my tiny bed in Surulere, slumber would not arrive.

Her voice echoed in my mind.

The way she smiles.

The way she gazed at me, as if she perceived something deeper.

I gave myself a stern reminder:

She is your superior.

She has lost her husband.

She belongs to the Yoruba ethnic group.

You belong to the Igbo ethnic group.

This is Lagos.

Yet my heart was already engaging in something risky.

And in that large house, she resided by herself…

I sensed that Madam Bunmi wasn't asleep either.

***********

Nights in Lagos are anything but peaceful.

Even when generators are buzzing, and cars are still honking outside by 10 p.m., something different occurs within offices like ours: secrets start to emerge.

On that Thursday, everyone was gone.

Everyone... apart from Madam Bunmi and me.

The wall clock indicated it was 9:17 p.m. My stomach was beginning to signal that garri and groundnut were waiting for me at home, yet I couldn’t depart. The lady was still at work.

“Nedu,” she shouted from her office.

"Indeed, ma."

“Take your laptop.”

Upon my entry, she had taken off her heels. Her feet lay softly on the rug, and her chair was tilted back a little. Her blouse sleeves were pushed up, exposing smooth arms that indicated care, not strain. Her hair was let down, just slightly, enough to alter the atmosphere in the room.

"We need to complete this proposal by tonight," she stated.

"The client is arriving by plane tomorrow morning."

“Sure thing, ma,” I responded, positioning myself close enough to share the desk.

Excessively near.

Our shoulders were nearly touching.

While we toiled, a silence enveloped us, one that is not void but rich. Whenever she leaned in to indicate something on the screen, her fragrance wafted by me. I noticed I was holding my breath without realizing the cause.

"Your typing pace is relaxed," she remarked abruptly.

"Many men hurry."

"I have acquired patience," I answered.

She gazed at me then.

“From where is that?”

I was unsure.

"Existence, ma."

She nodded gently.

“I got married when I was twenty-six,” she said softly.

"He was a kind person." Powerful. “Driven.”

I refrained from interrupting.

“When he passed away,” she went on, “everyone thought I would crumble.”

Her tone became gentler.

“I did not.”

I completely oriented myself towards her.

"Yet, power can be isolating," she remarked.

Once more, it appeared.

That truthfulness.

Our gazes met.

For an instant, merely an instant, the world came to a halt. No supervisor. There is no employee. Nary a widow. Neither Igbo nor Yoruba.

Simply a man and a woman lingering uncomfortably close in a serene office in Lagos.

She was the one to look away first.

“Let’s wrap this up,” she stated.

However, the tone had shifted.

We finished by 10:45 p.m.

She shut her laptop and exhaled heavily, extending her arms just enough to remind me she was a woman, not merely a title.

"You ought to leave," she remarked.

“Thanks for remaining.”

"It's my responsibility, ma."

She grinned.

“You consistently express the perfect words.”

While I was standing, she gently added,

“Nedu… next time, don’t hold back your thoughts.”

I nodded, uncertain of her true intentions.

Outside, the evening air seemed thicker.

While I made my way to the bus stop, my phone vibrated.

A note.

Unidentified Number:

Did you arrive home without any issues?

I ceased moving.

I focused on the display.

I had already identified who it was.

My fingers hovered just before I started to type a response.

Responding to that message seemed like crossing a boundary…

Not responding felt like being dishonest with myself.

In Lagos, crossing lines is simple.

And after having crossed...

Things never return to the way they were.