Blurb

Oluwalonimi Martins runs an NGO that provides free lesson tutorials and foreign educational aids for brilliant children from disadvantaged areas. She’s zeroed in on Bamboo Town, an illegal water-based shanty town, as her next project. But the Chairman of their Community Development Area won’t sign off on it unless she sees him in person. 

Writing proposals hasn’t convinced him, and Nimi knows why. There is a past they share and hearts that haven’t mended. She makes a trip into Bamboo Town despite the weather forecast to try to change his mind. The challenge is, this might just be payback. Aare Akosunle is no longer the sweet young man she fell for years ago. And his answer is still no.

ONE

At the end of the pier is a man in a wooden canoe and a woman on a makeshift bridge. While he wears a rumpled grey t-shirt over a black pair of tattered knee-length shorts, she is in a red, short-sleeved t-shirt over faded blue jeans. 

He yawns leisurely, flapping a hand to get rid of some flying insect. She squints into the sunlight, one hand over her brow, the other holding up a piece of cardboard paper. 

On the paper is a name. Mine. 

Behind them lies the famous backwater shanty municipality. Bamboo Town.

Glancing at the pair, my ivory-coloured silk shirt and loose, wide-leg navy blue trousers suddenly seem inappropriate. They’re too formal. I stand out. I feel like a glamorous peacock. I feel too luxurious to be among people who live below a dollar a day.

I’m wearing gold earrings and classy peep-toe Jimmy Choo sandals, but I’m hardly fazed. I’m here to conduct business. Here to bend the iron will of their glorious shanty town saviour to mine. 

I need him to approve a project I’m working on. I also need to remind myself that he no longer means anything to me. I don’t know if love can truly live for a decade, or if time fades all feelings. I know, though, I started to think about him again when he replied to our official request in his handwriting.

It made it personal, somehow. He made it like he was writing to me.

“Is that our welcome crew?” Shalewa, my assistant, asks, as she pulls her sunglasses away from her oval face.

I eye the pair. They’re looking in our direction. “Seems so.”

“Then we shouldn’t keep them waiting.”

Stepping on the first plank of the makeshift bridge, the tangy fusion of Bamboo’s odour—both good and bad—oozes from the surrounding area. The smell is frightful and unsavoury. Thick and crackling with smoke and weed. It reeks of refuse and dirt mixed with petrol and concentrated urine. It shadows the aroma of a stale town struggling to survive.

I hold my breath and make my way across the bridge. Being used to Lagos’ gutters and their wooden slab covers, I navigate them expertly without getting a heel stuck between the slats. I also pull my bag and folder together to avoid any collision with the other people jumping onto the bridge’s planks. Shalewa follows me closely, just as glamorously dressed as I am.

 Outsmarting thieves is part of the survival skills we unconsciously imbibe growing up in Lagos. It isn’t a town where you hang back like a gentleman and let others go first. It’s also not a place where you walk about carelessly or people will run you off the road, push you to the ground and snatch your money.

“Shalewa,” I say, to take my mind off the abominable stench, “tell me about Bamboo Town.”

“Yes, ma!” 

My cheerful assistant sounds happy to take on the challenge. 

“Bamboo is an illegal waterfront settlement that’s home to about twenty thousand people making a living off fishing, salt making, sand dredging and trading…”

I’m not listening. I know everything there is to know about Bamboo. What I don’t know is if this makeshift bridge will hold all our combined weights, or why Aare, the shanty town’s saviour and Chairman of their CDA, requested a face-to-face. 

He’s read my proposal and given his opinions with a less than flattering choice of words. He’s made up his mind. I’m not sure if this meeting will make any difference. But when you have orders from above and superiors to impress, you obey them, no questions asked.

“Na you be the madam wey wan start lesson for here?” the woman asks when we make it safely across the bridge.

“Yep, that’s me.”

“My name is Ejiro.” She waves a hand at the dirty canoe. “Oga dey wait una.”

Oga? Aare? The thought makes me smile. He’s climbed up pretty high and made a name for himself. 

You can’t talk about Bamboo Town without talking about Aare Akosunle. You can’t mention him without thinking about progress for illegally built communities battling a growing population. And you can’t ignore the town any longer, because a lot of brilliant kids seem to come from there. Probably something in the water they’re drinking.

What Aare has done in the last three years has made the government sit up and take notice. Now that they want to hand out an olive branch, I’m the scapegoat sent to extend it. Not that anyone knows how much of each other we know.

We sit carefully in the canoe. Ejiro, Shalewa and I. Criss-crossing their way within an interconnected network of narrow waterways and wooden housing structures, boats filled with school children, food canteens and whole supermarkets pass us by. They are selling cooked food and provisions. Living life despite the rot in the degrading environment. 

I’m impressed. These are the people I want to help. They are why I’m here.

The canoe man has his back to us, whistling a happy tune as he steers us along. He slaps his fellow canoe peddlers air hi-fives, and I’m worried he’ll tip us over if he doesn’t keep his hands on the oar. 

I’m more worried that taking up Aare’s face-to-face meeting will backfire because of the past we share. A past that leaves a knot in the middle of my stomach.

I notice I’m the subject of scrutiny. Either because of the fancy clothes or the ride on the canoe, appropriately tagged CDA. Either way, my bag holds my phone, cash and debit cards. I won’t deceive myself into thinking saints exist in this community. That they won’t mob us despite the good we want to do for them. So, I wrap my bag up in my arms and ignore the look of amusement Ejiro gives me. I work too hard for my money to lose it too cheaply.

“Built on the backwaters of a greyish, muddy offshoot of the Lagos Lagoon, the settlement is more than a century old,” Shalewa continues in a whisper beside me. “Somehow, it has survived various acts of reformations and struggles to earn the right to be called a modern town in transit, a part of Lagos.”

I’m not listening, yet I don’t want her to stop. Her voice distracts me. Keeps me from the present and saves me from the past. I’m curious about what awaits me at the end of my boat ride into the water-logged slum. Yet, I’m giddy with trepidation, steeling myself for another fight borne out of an age-old tiff and a year’s worth of paper-based squabbling.

Aare is the man who has blocked every attempt the government has made to vandalise Bamboo Town and erase it from existence. The man whose three-year stint as CDA Chairman has made efforts to clean up the waterways, caution the agberos, and re-order the inter-town canoe transportation. He is the man whose approval I need to integrate the town’s children into a private school lesson system. The one to whom every resident of Bamboo Town listens. 

Unfortunately, Aare is the man whose heart I broke a little over twelve years ago. This will be no easy feat. 

TWO

I saw him for the first time at a car wash. On a day when a trip to Oyingbo market made it a necessity for my sister’s car to be professionally cleaned. 

The drizzling rain kept her wind wipers swishing back and forth while we monitored from inside the car to ensure we didn’t get skipped over. 

Desola, my sister, and her best friend, Lati, had been ogling the car wash attendants, placing bets on which bare-chested eye candy would get the lucky pick of washing our car. To be honest, I was too. Sorting them by face and stature. Sixteen and considered the baby of the family, nobody ever bothered to include me in feminine gossip or ask my opinion of things. And as they perused the array of hardworking carwash boys, I set my gaze on one. 

The only one who caught my fancy that day.

He was tall. Lithe. Lean, with an abundance of strength, evidenced by the way he heaved up two plastic kegs of water and strode across the carwash grounds like they were nothing. His biceps strained against the weights, and his shoulder muscles tightened up in response. The kegs didn’t seem at all heavy. His face bore ease as he hoisted both onto the pushcart at the same time, and boredom as he stood back to receive the required fee from the Hausa mallam. 

Tucking the naira notes in the back pockets of his jeans, he turned at the sound of his name from inside the car wash’s grey-painted admin office. 

I learnt it by heart that day.

Aare. 

A name that carries character and weight. The title of a battlefield war general.

He had a genial face. Strict looking, but pleasant to look at. Stoic. Projecting seriousness as he moved in between the other young car wash attendants. I hoped that he would match his frame and good looks with intelligence because the others resembled hooligans whose sculpted bodies were only making up for faces that were unfriendly and language that sounded uneducated. He looked like he did.

He picked up a bucket and headed towards our car. I remember leaning into the backseat and watching in fascinated adoration as he dumped soapy water all over our car, started up the water hose pump and scrubbed its exterior with a large sponge. 

While Desola and Lati argued, I gave him a score. Nine out of ten. I hadn’t heard him speak, but I was hoping he wouldn’t disappoint. 

He was the first guy to ever get my heart banging against its confinement. The first I ever stared unabashedly at. 

The first day I walked into Bamboo Town, I never imagined I would ever meet him. Today, I have to meet him. And I want to. At the same time, I don’t.

“It’s amazing that the floor feels concrete. I thought the houses were just like their canoes, you know. Wooden and decrepit. Ideally to be torn down…”

I nod, anxious. Aare has kept us waiting in their town’s council office for over two hours. The building is a run-down hovel, featuring dusty furniture, a creepy looking wallpaper and cobwebs. The manager, Ejiro, is chewing gum and reading a novel. 

“I think it’s going to rain,” Shalewa says, scrolling through her phone. “NiMet is forecasting the annual one-week rain again. It might start today.”

“One week?” I glance at my watch and tap my foot impatiently. “Never trust the Nigerian weather forecasters. It was just three days last year, and they were predicting months of heavy downpour and severe flooding. Hey…” My anger is directed at Ejiro. “Where’s your boss?”

Ejiro looks up, mouth following a rhythmic side-to-side motion as she contemplates an answer. 

Since we’ve been waiting, she’s handled a crowd of angry fishermen, sorted two family feuds, advised a couple of women seeking the council’s help about a young boy detained by the police, and fought off a company of thugs protesting raised tax levies for canoe paddlers.

I’m sure she wants her boss in the office as much as I do. Maybe even more.

“He’s coming!” she spits, resuming her reading.

In truth, she has explained that he has lots of projects to oversee and people to attend to. But he gave me this date. He specifically asked that I report to Bamboo Town by 9 a.m. so we can look over my proposal in person. I’m not entirely ignorant of the fact that he could be paying me back for the past. Yet, I don’t recall Aare to be petty.

“It’s almost 12 p.m., I have other things to do today.”

“I’ll call him.”

“Please, do. Thank you.”

I stare out the window while Ejiro blows a bubble from the gum she’s chewing and dials her boss. Shalewa is right. It looks like rain.

The sky is overcast with clouds so thick and black they take a liking to how I feel he will receive me. Aare has never been one to hide his feelings. From the tone of his memos, ten years have done nothing to change that. Brash, uncouth, and straight to the point, you’re never in doubt of where you stand with him. Tall and nimble, with the frame of an athlete, I don’t know if he is still handsome. 

I do know, though, he squashed his athletic dreams years ago. Gave them up, so his brothers could go to school; so their family could have food on the table and much more than menial jobs in and around Bamboo.

I’m not surprised he chose to become their council chairman. He had always had the tenacity to become more in life than an ordinary canoe paddler.

I look down at my fingers and pull at them to distract myself. My heart is thudding at the idea of what he looks like. Contemplating if he’s changed. If his arms are still as taut and strong. If his smile is still as captivating. If his eyes leave me dancing on the edge of curiosity. 

If he’s forgiven me… 

“Madam, Aare say make you come his office.”

Ejiro’s comment snaps me from my daydream. I sigh in exasperation.

“I think he wants to meet us at another location,” Shalewa whispers.

“That’s ridiculous. Is he even around?” I turn my annoyed face to Ejiro.

“Madam, do you want to talk to him or not?”

I want to talk to him. 

Behind her is an open window, through which I can see that it’s drizzling. I can’t have come here for nothing. “Where is he?”

“Pushcart’s Market.”

Pushcart. The words pull memories from a different time into my mind and body. I see a four-corner room with the barest of nothing. Native mats rolled up beside a single burner stove with soot-laden pots and pans. A legless table, beside which the most brilliant guy I have ever met, sits cross-legged, scribbling formulas on a sheet of paper for three people. Why Pushcart’s market?

“He say make you come alone. No cameras, no crew, no assistants.” Ejiro’s jaws swing with each chew on her gum. “Just you.”

The memory hurts. I grit my teeth. “I didn’t come here with cameras.”

“Madam, no bi fight! Na wetin Aare talk bi that!”

I stand. Shalewa stands with me. She’s a little concerned that I’m going to travel to God-knows-where with a strange woman to meet an even stranger man whose word is now becoming questionable.

“I don’t think you should…”

“Take me to him.”

“Ms. Martins!” Shalewa pulls at my sleeve. “Can we trust these people?”

“I’ll be fine.” I hand my folders to her and keep my bag. “Let’s go.”

Ejiro steps out into the drizzle. I follow her to a wooden canoe that looks like it will capsize at any moment. It has CDA Council written on the sides in crude blue paint and has an eager young boy at its helm.

“This is Joe. He go carry you go.”

I want to be in and out of Bamboo as fast as I can be, but it seems Aare has decided to keep me here as long as he wills it. This is his territory and I’m not welcome. Maybe that’s what he is trying to say to me. He gave the appointment, but maybe he really doesn’t want me here.

“Ms. Martins…” Shalewa cautions.

“Mr. Adamu knows that I’m in here. I’ll be safe with Aare’s people.”

Ejiro swings her head in my direction. “Enter.” She points at the rickety canoe. The paddler has shifty looking eyes and wears nothing but a pair of knee-length shorts and bare feet. The canoe sways when I step in. I hope I’m safe.

“You’re not coming?” I say when Ejiro hangs back.

She shrugs. “Na person go stay for office, nau.”

My eyes turn to Shalewa. “I’ll be fine.”

She doesn’t look convinced.

The canoe sloshes through dirty brown waters, and I hold my breath at the stench. Diverse, colourful and multicultural, Bamboo shines despite the grey skies above and the polluted environment below. 

I’m transported past a row of other canoes, in between buildings, under buildings and around a vastly interconnected network of waterways built to sustain life in an unusual African Venice of sorts way. Bamboo hasn’t changed, neither have the people. It’s a town determined to survive amidst abject poverty. A town hell-bent on maintaining a sense of normalcy despite the prevailing economic challenges. A town that showcases the resilience of the average Nigerian.

For a moment, I root for Aare. It doesn’t matter that we have argued on and off via written memos for a whole year. It doesn’t matter that we share a painful past. I want him to succeed. I want him to build the town with all the ideas I’ve glimpsed from his writings. I’m hoping that corruption and nepotism won’t stand in his way. I’m hoping the past won’t stand between us.

We pull to a stop alongside an old, metallic, run-down yacht propped-up on thick wooden stilts burrowing deep into the ocean. A huge stash of refuse litter the water underneath it, but the air smells better here than at the council house.

“Chairman’s office.” Joe ties the canoe to a post. “You fit climb ladder?”

Office? I eye it in confusion. Is this where Aare rules Bamboo from?

“Of course!” 

The ladder is part metal and part rope, leading up to the wide deck area. The rusty rungs look like they’ll break off at any moment. When I pull at them, I’m surprised at how sturdy they are.

Yanking my Jimmy Choo off my feet, I hand them to Joe and climb, however much worry punches holes in my heart. This is a discussion that we need to have. I’m not going to let some fear of the past keep me from having it. 

My bare feet cling to the slippery rungs of the rope as the wind blows water droplets across my face, but I push all apprehension aside. At the top, I reach a one-foot-wide makeshift balcony for the yacht and hoist myself onto it. It’s the deck area, fitted with chairs, tables, a sunroof and no Aare.

Immediately ahead of me is an open doorway, and the first thing I encounter when I walk through it is the broad posterior frame of a hulking man who is wider than I recall Aare to be. 

He is bent over a table writing on some documents. Two men flank him on the left, another three on the right. Silence heightens the apprehension that grips me. I’m unsure who it is that I’ve been brought to meet. Or what game Aare is playing.

He takes his time writing. When he straightens and turns around, I’m granted the opportunity of perusing his face and physique. All my anger vaporizes into thin air.

It’s Aare.

THREE

He’s filled out. Face, torso and frame. His shirt barely contains his shoulders, and it’s obvious he’s bulked up intentionally to fit into his role as Chairman. In the three hours I’ve been here, I’ve seen the ruffians in town. Bamboo would need a handy, fist-ready person to maintain law and order, not a politician seeking money. I can understand Aare’s bulking up.

Tossing his head right to left, he urges the men out of the yacht with the tiny movement. They trail past me, tossing looks of curiosity my way as they file through the open doorway. A moment later, I hear the metal rungs clang as they descend one after the other. 

My attention shifts to him, mind steeled in readiness for an argument. I can’t deny that I’ve been caught unawares. Aare is better looking in person than I envisaged. Better looking than I remember.

He’s staring too, his eyes taking this slow perusal of me from top to bottom.

“Mr. Akosunle…”

“Nimi!” 

With a grin, he steps forward and clasps me in a hug so tight I can barely breathe. 

“It’s been an eternity.”

His whispered breath on my neck instils sweltering sensations that pour down my insides and leave me instantly aroused. 

I stiffen. What in the blazes? Where is that coming from? 

“My god, you’ve grown. I would never have recognized you had you walked by. You’re still as pretty, just as I imagined.”

He holds on and there’s warmth inside me. Relaxation as my nose picks up subtle hints of a sweet, balsamic vinegar scent that implies he’s just had wine or some kind of tart meal. I’m tingly and prickly. Happy for reasons that I cannot immediately explain. 

You’re still as pretty! 

I certainly hadn’t predicted this welcoming response from him.

“You got wet, ah, I’m sorry,” he says. “We will soon get you warm and dry.”

I retreat internally. I don’t understand this hug, or why I like it so much.

His memos had indicated that he knew who I was, remembered the past, and possessed a hidden desire to punish me for it. So, where is his anger? Most importantly, where is the coolness I’d hoped to employ to keep me buckled on the belt of reasoning?  Why am I still in his arms, not fighting to get out?

He leans back and observes me for a moment, his eyes black and unreadable in the darkened room. I blink. Everything about him might have changed but not his eyes. They’re just as intense. Just as beautiful. Super calm, despite the many disagreements we’ve had on paper. 

They look pleased, like he’s really happy to see me.

Which is weird.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” His voice is a low, throaty drawl that’s a cross between reprimand and relief.

“Well, I felt we had come to the point where we needed to discuss in person. I’ve run out of things to write to convince you.”

“I gathered. I’m glad you honoured my invite. I’m sorry I kept you waiting. Come on in.”

“Sorry won’t be enough payment for two hours of waiting,” I say and follow him further into a wide cabin area that’s been exquisitely furnished.

“My sincere apologies. What can I offer you to drink? Water, Soda? Tea?”

“Your signature on my proposal would be good. I believe that’s why I’m here.”

He laughs out loud and leans against the table with folded arms. “That would certainly make you happy, but I’m afraid that my answer still remains no. Our meeting is just to articulate my reasons more succinctly. I’ll have them prepare a meal while we catch up.”

It’s not the answer I want to hear, but my apprehension has eased with his cheerful welcome. There is a glimmer of hope that the past is the past, and he might be persuaded to fold. 

That we can recover a friendship that’s been on ice for years. At that moment, I remember when we first met. How much in love with him I was.

“Where are you going?”

Not expecting to find someone suddenly behind me, I whip around in surprise, but he makes it such that I have to turn a few degrees to get to see who has spoken. 

I know it’s a guy. The voice betrays.

“Need a ride?”

My eyes widen. It’s my crush from the car wash. I’m shocked to find him here, at the canoe disembark in Bamboo Town. He is dressed in a clean T-shirt, knee-length shorts and wellington boots. Clothes that fit the dress code in this muddy area.

“Ah… yeah… I need to get to Pushcart’s market.” I can’t believe how flustered I am.

“You do? Hop on.” He turns his back to me.

Hop on? “On your back?”

“Why not? We don’t want you putting those delicate feet in muddy water.”

Delicate feet?

I look around. All over the place, young, underprivileged looking boys are giving piggyback lifts to children and elderly women, or renting out wellington boots at cut-throat prices. I’m a little sceptical of the boots. I don’t know who has been in them or what kind of foot infection they may have, so it’s the piggyback option for me. I’m just a little self-conscious about getting on a strange man’s back. 

He looks clean and healthy. I’m intrigued that he speaks with such great finesse. Happy to see that I hadn’t made a mistake that day. ‘Ten out of ten’ my brain screams.  And, the guy is fine.

 “There are other willing passengers.” His gaze scours the area behind me. “In case you no longer want to go to Pushcart.”

Fear lets go of my brain and embarrassment replaces it as he turns around and I scoot onto his back. 

“What’s your name?” he asks, when I’m comfortably balanced.

“Nimi.”

“Nimi.” He picks his way carefully through the mud, hands firmly grasping my thighs. “I’m sure an extended version of that exists somewhere.”

I smile at his subtle joke, arms tight around his neck. “Oluwalonimi Martins.”

“Can you release your hold on me a little bit? I can’t breathe,” he says.

“Oh!” I unclasp my arms and grip his shoulders gently. “I’m sorry.”

They’re taut and strong. Just as I’d imagined.

“It’s okay. I’ll just go with Nimi. Easier to remember. Why are you going into Pushcart’s market?”

“I’m taking maths and physics lessons. I hear there’s a genius who lives there. I’m joining his lesson academy this summer holidays to prepare for GCE come October.”

“Hmm,” he says as we get to the wooden pier, and he turns around to drop me off on a path of roughly nailed planks between two houses. “If you follow the path down the side of this building, it’ll take you down to the market area, and you can ask about…what’s his name? This teacher? There are lots of them.”

“Bash!” I say with a lot of delight. “Bashorun. Extended version.”

He stares at me blankly for a second. “I see.” 

I hadn’t observed his face so much that day. I’d just been wrapped up in the euphoria of the piggyback ride. Now that I think about it, his eyes had flirted briefly away before returning to mine.

“How are you getting back?”

I recall confusion enveloping me. I hadn’t thought of that. “Er…by canoe, I guess. I assumed there would be some form of inter-town transport from there to the dock.”

“There are. Just not from Pushcart. It’s a little challenging to navigate with all the mud and sludge in that area. When will you be done?”

“Around 4.”

He nods. “Do you want my number? I could pick you up when you’re done.”

I gaze into his eyes for the first time since we met, and I notice them. They’re bold. Sooty. Intense. Enticing me into a trust I can’t completely verify, but don’t care to worry about. Giving him my number won’t hurt. I think.

I don’t hesitate to hand him my BlackBerry phone. 

Lowering his head, he types in his number. “I saw you at the car wash.” 

“You did?” 

I’m intrigued. There is no comment about the price of the phone or why a secondary school girl like me should have a phone that expensive. No judging.

“Yeah, in the red Corolla hatchback with some girls.” 

He hands back my phone and fixes his gaze on mine.

He noticed me! 

“That was my sister and her friends.”

“Don’t you want to know my name?” 

Aare. I know it. 

I shake my head. “I’ll just call you piggyback ride.” 

“Piggyback ride.” He loops back into the dirty water, wading backward. “I stored my number as Aare.” 

Dredging through the brown mud to the other side, he pivots into an empty canoe, picks up his paddle, and smiles at me. 

“It was nice meeting you.”

“I’ll call you,” I shout, and he raises his hand in a wave.

True to his word, he was waiting for me at the pier when I finished. Watching with a smile as I made my way toward the wooden stands by Pushcart’s market. We don’t talk as he hoists me onto his back for another ride to his canoe. I fold my arms gently around his neck and lean into him.

“How was your lesson?”

“It was good.”

‘Scandalous,’ my sister, Desola, would have said had she seen me pressing my chest onto the back of a man I barely know. But I’m in a fantasy in my head, dreaming dreams. I’ve met a boy I like a lot. And I think he likes me too.

“By the way,” he says. “Turns out your genius lesson teacher is my little brother. Small world, right?”

I suppose that’s when I began to break Aare’s heart and didn’t know it. On the same day we first spoke, in the hours between our first and second conversations.

After I met Bash.

FOUR

Aare shows me around the fancy yacht. It’s old and crumbling on the exterior, but the insides have been refurbished and turned into mini offices with two bedroom cabins. He tells me it’s a gift from a friend outside the country who’d heard about his appointment and wanted to make a difference.

“I’m not staying long.” 

I don’t want to stay. I’ve been a messy wreck since we met. Nothing that I planned to say is coming to mind. He’s more intimidating than I remember, a lot more approachable than I expected, and a great deal more handsome. 

Plus, I hadn’t expected that hug. Or the words, You’re still as pretty! 

“I planned for lunch with you while we discussed our disagreement, but something came up, and I have to leave for a bit.”

Again? “I can always come back.”

“No, let’s do it today.”

“My assistant—”

“Has been taken to your office and is safe. Call her to confirm. We have not seen in years, Nimi. There is a lot we need to talk about. I don’t want it rushed.” 

His eyes bait me with their smoky darkness. There is a lot I have forgotten, including the way his gaze silences every objection I have. 

“Wait for me. Please. I’d hoped you’d stay over.”

I hadn’t prepared to stay over. “I can’t…”

“Ah.” He looks contrite. “You’re concerned about the rain.”

“I’m not afraid of a little drizzle.” I glance out of the window at the rain. “I just– didn’t pack anything to change into. And my shoes are anything but appropriate.”

He stares at my feet. “I have crocs you can wear. They’re mine, and clean. I only wear them in here.” 

“You gave me a 9:00 a.m. appointment.”

“I did. I just didn’t expect my day to get overrun by an emergency.”

I eye him.

“Truth is, a ship lost its anchor and drifted so far out of sea it crashed here at dawn. A few homes have been destroyed, most of them housing businesses that serve the town. With the rain coming, this is an inconvenience….”

“Oh, my goodness! I hope no one was hurt.”

“Thankfully.” He takes in a deep breath, stares at me for a moment, then tilts his head. “Do you want to see it? The ship? It’s an ocean liner. It’s huge.”

My eyes widen. I’ve never seen a ship before. “Can I?”

“Sure. If you don’t mind the rain, or wearing my wellington boots.”

The first thing I do is call Shalewa to ensure she is at the office. She is, and more concerned about me than I am about her. Turns out my phone was on silent.

“Ms. Martins, I was so scared when you didn’t pick your calls.”

“I’m with him now, but I doubt I’ll return to the office today.” I’m folding into Aare’s invitation to see the ship. “Time is far spent.”

“Ah. Be careful, ma.”

I smile at that. I’m with Aare. I’m safe.

Just before we step onto the deck, Aare drapes a yellow life jacket over my head and fastens the straps. 

“For safety,” he says as his eyes encounter mine during the process. They send a silent thrill through me, and I shudder inside. I’ve been with him for just thirty minutes and my heart is reacting to his looks. They’re not amorous, but they thrill me in ways I can’t deny that I like.

 “We’re going into deeper waters. I’ll suggest you leave your bag on the yacht and wear the boots.”

After he dons his life jacket, he descends the yacht’s ladder, and I follow. The two men accompanying us are already waiting down below. 

As they detail the extent of the damages and the steps they have taken to mitigate the fallout, I listen with my eyes on Aare. I’m intrigued by his concern about the situation.

His responses are economical but precise. His suggestions are practical and action-oriented, and his solutions reflective of a man who’s used to dealing with problems and sorting them quickly. 

They show a leader with a heart for people. A man who loves what he does.

We take a covered speedboat to the site. It follows a route around the geographical border of Bamboo that I’m told will take us just ten minutes and cut out traffic congestion.

Sitting across from Aare, I find that he’s watching me loop my arms around my body to keep warm. The speed boat shields us from the rain but does nothing to stop the cold.

I don’t know what is going on behind his warm gaze, but they induce soft tingles on my skin and leave me unable to look at him directly. His unexpected amiability has disarmed me and left me befuddled about his impression of our past. I’d always thought he was angry.

Broaching the subject of my proposal doesn’t seem like a good conversation starter, so I rack my brain for something else to say. 

“How has it been being chairman?”

His mouth curves into a smile. “Exhausting. How has it been, running your own initiative?”

“It’s a public-private partnership with the government that has had its trying days, but has been good.”

“I can imagine.”

I nod and rub my arms against my damp sleeves to keep warm. “We’re getting a lot of support, which I’m grateful for.”

“Cold?” 

I smile. “A little bit.”

“Afeez, get her a blanket.”

I’m grateful when it comes. It doesn’t stop him from staring at me, but it does help with the cold.

 When our eyes meet across the seating area, I sense there’s a lot he wants to say. It’s been years, we are two grown adults, but the vibe is still there. That tingling tug of mutual attraction.

“These collapsed buildings, who pays for their repairs?”

His forehead furrows. “The ship’s owner should, essentially. But that’s a half-billion naira ocean liner losing money with each day that it remains grounded. He won’t care about a couple of broken shanty structures when his source of livelihood is gone.”

“You should reach out to him.”

“We will.” His eyes encounter mine again. “The payout may just be peanuts in contrast to what we will need to rebuild.”

“That’s sad. Has this ever happened before?”

“Once. We were lucky to get a million naira. Guy declared bankruptcy right away and shut everyone up.”

I’m appalled. “Couldn’t you take him to court?”

He shrugs. “With what money? We used it to sort the hospital bills for the victims and repair their houses. It was better than nothing. Truth is, this country isn’t kind to anyone, rich or poor. You can’t fight a man who’s lost his business. You just have to make the best of a bad situation.”

I watch him. There’s maturity in his words and reality in the way he says it. Being chairman has put him in a position where he has to make tough decisions all the time. I can’t fault that. 

Yet, I don’t understand why he’s brought me all the way here, just to talk. 

About what? About the past? Still, the past calls to me. I remember it vividly. Bash. Tall, brainy and brilliant Bash who got my interest in Aare divided into two. 

I remember the day I had to choose between the two of them. How I had thought I was making the right choice. How in the end it hadn’t mattered.

My gifted teacher, Bashorun, lived in a 9-foot square living space inhabited by him, his parents and four siblings. His two oldest brothers, Balogun and Aare, ran transport canoes in Bamboo. His mum and his older sister, Yejide, managed a canoe bukka. And Arole, their youngest brother, was a six-year-old kid with an inquisitive mind and a healthy appetite. 

Their father was a fisherman. Before he died.

Bashorun was the student with the third-highest Jamb score nationwide. Opening up their home as a Tutorial Academy while he sourced money for a higher institution was extra income. He had straight As in WAEC and the prettiest eyes I’d ever seen. Granted, discovering boys at a time when I was meant to be focused on my studies was the least on my parents’ plans for me, but I didn’t care. My only pet peeve was that they lived in an illegal structure in a community the government wanted torn down.

My mum threw tantrums about the idea of going into Bamboo for lessons, but my father thought it was a good way for me to learn about social class and the injustice of inequalities. 

So, four times a week, I took rides with Aare to and from Pushcart, and we talked about life in Bamboo Town. Four hours a week, I gazed into Bash’s eyes, and fell in love.

The ocean liner is bigger than I expect. Black. Beautiful! It possesses the capacity to carry about five thousand cars, maybe more, and just as many passengers. 

Aare tells me there were people aboard it. That they’d been drifting along without an anchor for over a month before they beached up at Bamboo Town’s Blackwater District.

From the safety of a nearby wooden bridge, we watch his men direct the company of workers brought in to shift the vessel back into open water, despite the rain. Grappling hooks, long cranes, and winches are being employed, but the ship doesn’t look like it will budge. Digging equipment is also in use, but nothing seems to be working. 

Aare’s orders are loud and explicit. His hand holds up an umbrella over my head, and it hasn’t tired in the thirty minutes since we’ve been here. I see his frustration. They’ve used up every idea that has come to mind and nothing has yielded fruit. 

The ship seems locked in, adamant at staying put.

I sneak a look at him. Twelve years have hardened his features and roughened his tone, but my heart still runs amok to look at him. 

His frame is manly, accentuated by the way he carries himself and moves his arms. His voice is powerful, enough to rise above the rain and communicate determination to his men. And his scent… I like a man who smells good.

At this moment, I’m drawn to him. To this idea of who we were before, and who we could be if this proposal wasn’t in between us. There is a sense of déjà vu that overwhelms me because it’s raining. I’m back in Bamboo Town, and Aare is doing something impressive enough to make me notice him. To make me wish the past hadn’t happened.

For a second, I wonder if he’s seeing someone. 

I close my eyes at the idiotic thought. I know from chatter that he is unmarried. I’m not looking for a relationship, but I can’t help but wonder if he is. I still like him. All day, I’ve gotten the feeling that it’s mutual. He still likes me too, but he won’t green-light my project despite it.

On the other side of the boat, the residents pick through the devastation to see what it is they can salvage from their homes. There is a sense of despondency in the air. More than ever, I’m convinced that my project will help.

Aare doesn’t think so, but I need to convince him. I need him to give me an answer that isn’t biased by the past. One that lets me know he’s not holding onto it. 

“I know this probably isn’t the best of times to bring up the issue, but we need to talk about the proposal. And your brother, Arole.”

 He exhales without looking at me. “Go ahead.”  

There is frost in his voice, but I forge on, regardless.

“There is a huge amount of foreign exchange tracking back into the country through the people in the diaspora. They always send money to their families back home.”

“Hmm.”

“Imagine if the people who lost their businesses today had children outside the country. You wouldn’t need to hound that ship’s owner for compensation. They’d have a few dollars they could trade for naira.”

“Right, and how long does it take to educate a child enough to make him or her a potential help?”

“Four to five years max.”

“Four to five years. So you pick three kids out of a region with five thousand, what happens to the rest of them? Where is the guarantee that the lucky ones will give back when they’re done?”

I sigh. “That’s why we came up with the lesson system. To identify and coach other kids who show promise in other areas.”

“Like Spanish and Mandarin?”

“And maths, and chess and stem subjects. With opportunities to travel abroad that their parents can only dream about.”

“I saw it all in your proposal. I’ll still favour saving a whole town over three kids. You’d have known that if you’d bothered to ask.”

I’m pricked at his chastisement. “We did a survey. You’d be surprised by the number of parents who have shown interest.”

“You can’t come with a proposal of what you think we need when you don’t live here and are not familiar with the challenges.”

“I lived here—for a while.”

“Summer spent taking JAMB lessons in Bamboo doesn’t count.” His eyes remain on the ship and the men. “Our biggest needs right now are clean water and good sanitation.”

“Which education will bring. In time.”

“They need to be healthy first,” he says, then turns to look at me. “They need to not have diarrhoea or malaria, to be in a classroom.”

“You said you would listen to me.”

“I am listening. I still haven’t heard anything that changes my mind.”

“And Arole?”

“No.”

I stare at him. Bash is still between us. “It’s a full scholarship…”

“Will it sort transport and feeding?”

“It’s a start. There are a billion other scholarships waiting for him and any other kid we pick once he gets there.”

He says nothing.

“Aare…”

“Nimi, these people live in extreme poverty. They need a stable environment to even be in the mood to learn anything. Look around you. Bamboo isn’t the romanticised version you have in your head about when you and I were kids. Things have grown worse. I’ve made a difference, yes, but I’ve barely scratched the surface. I want to empower them now, not in the future. It’ll take more than free education.”

“We are trying to harness the power of their minds. That’s empowerment.”

“Listen, bring me a programme that sorts waste, generates energy and provides micro-entrepreneurial opportunities to their parents, who, by the way, can’t read, and I’ll stand behind you solidly. No cap.”

I look away from him and hear nothing but the sound of rain and failure. I still don’t see why he doesn’t want to try. It might be a drop in the bucket, but it would help.

There is a sudden shout, and we’re drawn to the vibration of the bridge beneath our feet. I grab the railing behind me, startled.

“What was that?” 

“I don’t know.” Aare turns to his men.

They are waving their hands frantically and asking us to get out of the way. The digging has burrowed through the rain-soaked soil and caused the land under the foremost part of the ship to cave in. 

The ship still isn’t moving, but the surrounding area is.

“Nimi!” Aare’s tone is firm as he holds onto the bridge’s railings. “We need to get off this bridge.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

“Now!” 

He grabs my hand, ditches the umbrella and starts running. 

I follow, but the bridge is slippery. The floor gives way and I slide into it, my hand losing contact with his. 

I’m suddenly sucked into the black water.

“Aaarrrggghhh!” A scream tears from my throat as I fall.

“Nimi!” 

Aare’s frantic voice is the last sound I hear before I sink.

The rain drizzles hard from above, and I can’t hear or see anything. Pressure pushes me under and shock engulfs me as the surrounding water cuts off all semblance of air and sound. Everything is peaceful, but I’m panic-stricken.

I can’t swim!

It takes three more seconds of holding my breath before an arm appears out of nowhere and surrounds my midsection. It’s followed by a firm wall that slams into me from behind and keeps me from going further down. 

My arms hang limp as Aare drags me upward. We push out of the water and emerge into the heavy drizzle.

His strong hands hold on to me and I grab his shirt for support, coughing and spluttering as my lungs burn from needing air.

“Are you okay?” He wipes water from my face, but the rain just piles on more. I can’t breathe, or speak, but I won’t let go. I’m terrified.

He laughs. “Do you remember that day we got robbed?”

I cling to him and nod, trembling. I remember. 

“That was the day I realised you were special and I didn’t want to lose you. Took me two dives to find you.”

I’d been knocked into the water by hooligans trying to rob a boat full of people he’d been ferrying across. Aare hadn’t hesitated diving in. He’d grabbed me before I went too deep and swam to the nearest wooden bridge in that dark, disgusting water, dragging me with him.

I hadn’t made it to the lesson with Bash that day. Distraught about nearly dying, I’d clung to him and cried uncontrollably. My clothes were ruined, but he spent his entire day’s earnings to get me new ones from a friend of his who sold used items. 

I hadn’t minded.

“You still haven’t learnt how to swim, and you want to teach lessons in Bamboo,” he jokes softly, pulling me into a hug. “I’ve got you. You’re safe with me.”

I hug him back, not caring that I can hear the speedboat coming for us. I’m just glad I’m safe.

Getting back into the speedboat, I shiver uncontrollably. 

“I’m sorry.” He wraps a towel around me. “I should have left you on the yacht.” 

My hair is ruined, and my clothes are a mess. I’m sure I’m stinking from being dipped in Bamboo’s water, but there is this sense of security I get from being with him. It’s a feeling I always have when I’m with him.

“What about the crash site?”

“We’re pulling back to resume when the rain goes down. Besides, you’re a priority. I’d hate for you to catch a cold because of this.”

I keep my eyes on his face, judging his look unconsciously. He seems sincere.

“You’re not mad at me.”

“Mad at you?” His hands stop draping the towel around me. “What for?”

“Bash,” I exhale.

It’s the thought that’s been in my head since I stepped foot on Bamboo’s waters. 

His eyes dart to the side and look ahead of us. The amiability in his face is gone, but his hands remain on my shoulders.

I’m holding my breath at this point because I just need to know.

“Look!” A finger from his other hand points in a direction to my right. 

I turn my head, scared that I’ve ruined things again. It’s a surprise to see him indicating a large parcel of land as we speed by. “Is that…”

“Bamboo groove. I asked them to take this route, so I could show it to you.”

Featuring a whole forested area growing mainly Bamboo trees, we drive alongside it for at least 3 minutes. I’d only ever heard about it, never actually seen it.

“There’s a lot we can do to raise the town’s economy. That way, we don’t need handouts.”

I turn to him. “That’s going to take a lot of funding.”

“I know. I need the whole town to succeed. Not just a few kids. This is my plan. For that, I need partners. That’s what we need, Nimi.”

FIVE

Bamboo is lightweight, flexible, tough, high tensile and cheap. It has an evergreen property that is flame-resistant and can be an effective barrier in filtering water. 

It grows in this water-based community in copious amounts and has bestowed the town with its name. The people here have used it for flooring, charcoal, and furniture for years on end. So, it’s not a wonder that Aare feels he can turn this low-income earning community into a market for the sale of bamboo.

These are the things he explains to me as I sit opposite him, internally debating the pros and cons of agreeing to stay the night on the yacht. 

It’s evening, we’re dry, and I’m wearing one of his long-sleeved shirts and a new pair of shorts we got from a floating shop despite the rain. 

Aare has served me grilled turkey and fried rice with soft, perfectly fried plantain. The aroma filters around the cabin as we eat.

He doesn’t seem at all annoyed. Rather, he runs through the things that have happened in the years since we last saw each other, like it’s information he needs me to know.  Gives me a quick update on the community as a whole, and schools me on how he managed to pull funds together to educate himself enough to become the chairman of Bamboo. 

The community longs to keep itself apart from government policies, he tells me, because they can’t be trusted. In turn, they are well aware of the dangers of evacuating the slums and leaving people with nowhere to go and nothing to do. 

He doesn’t talk about the project, the main reason I’m here. He doesn’t talk about Bash, either, even though it’s the only thing that fills my mind as I silently listen to him. 

“Experiments most often fall flat on their faces here. You can’t do trial and error with people already biased by the numerous times their hopes have been dashed by outsiders to this community.”

The ease with which he moves from talking about himself to talking about the project catches me unawares. I recover quickly.

“This is not an experiment. Your brother has the highest jamb score in the country. He has perfect WAEC scores and a thousand four fifty in SAT. You can’t imagine how many more children like him exist in Bamboo, fighting to get out.”

His jaw tightens. “He can go to Unilag.”

I take a sip of my wine. He’s opened a bottle for me. I don’t take that lightly. 

“This is a better programme than before. It’ll be like a boarding school with supervision.”

“The elderly can’t leave Bamboo. This is their land. Those my age would if they could, but they can’t afford to lose any more of their children.”

“They’re not losing their children, Aare!” I bite back.

“Really…” His eyes aren’t hard, just frank, and startlingly black. Their murky depths hide whatever chagrined emotion he feels at that moment. “Tell that to my mother.”

The words hit me. Pain with it as we finally touch on the subject of Bash. It’s a pain that hasn’t gone away. One that mocks me with every passing year and makes me wonder what would have happened if I had chosen Aare instead. 

It’s not my fault, but I prefer to think it is. I think that he does too. I long to peel his face and strip him of the mask he wears. I don’t believe that he’s not angry.

“I just want to give them a language. Some kind of power. An avenue with which they can dialogue with the government.”

“Dialogue with the government?” 

I’m at the end of my rope at this point.

“Have you forgotten what happened in this country a mere four years ago? How young people tried to dialogue with the government and picked up a fist full of bullet casings?”

I raise my eyes to him. It’s amazing that I can hold them and not balk. Stare back and not betray the riotous turmoil he unearthed in me by our meeting again. 

“They don’t need dialogue, they need to make their own way.”

“Please understand what you’re turning down. This will educate them beyond basic primary school and eventually enrich them.”

“I’m fighting for parents who don’t fully understand the pros and cons of sending children abroad.”

“And I’m advocating for those who don’t have the means. The world has evolved. Soft skills matter more than basic education. With music, they can start a business. With foreign languages, they can find purpose outside the key job areas of medicine, engineering and law. With tech, they can embrace the future.”

It takes him a while to respond to me. 

“We need medical doctors to tend to our sick, engineers to build our houses and waterways, and lawyers to fight our cause, which nobody living outside this acclaimed shithole gives an actual damn about.”

“I give a damn. I care, that’s why I’m back here.” 

“Thank you for thinking of coming back, Nimi, but my answer is still no! And Arole’s name is not going on that list.”

The soft sound of rain falling fills the silence between us. I could easily take the project elsewhere and host it in another community, but my pride won’t let me. My family took something from him. I want to give it back.

“You’re still angry. That’s your real reason, isn’t it? You won’t green-light our offer because of Bash.”

“I’m not.” 

“I’m sorry about what happened to him, but you can’t base your decisions on the past.”

“I swear to you, I’m not!”

“By bringing you this proposal, I’m making you relieve the past again, but things are different now. Things are more structured.”

“They probably are, but I can’t let it happen again.”

“Aare…”

“Nimi…” he counters. “My brother has been trapped at the bottom of the ocean for twelve long years. I still can’t leave Pushcart, but the truth is, I’m over it. Know that you’re safe. I won’t throw you overboard for it.”

“Then there’s nothing more I’m doing here. I think it’s time I left.”

His eyes react with a trace of anger, and a calm countenance shrouds his face. “There are no canoes leaving Pushcart in this rain. I’m afraid you’re stuck here in Bamboo. Possibly for the next three days.”

My father was the Minister of Education. He chaired a committee that reached out to British and American universities for scholarships and exchange programs for children from disadvantaged homes. He tried to do the right thing.

A year after I’d gotten into the university, an opportunity came up. Bash was still looking for funds to get into a Nigerian university, and Aare was still paddling canoes. My father was searching for candidates. All the students who had ever scored high on JAMB and WAEC within a three-year period and who had no means to further their education were invited. I told him the tale of the two brothers from Bamboo Town whose father went fishing one day and never came home, and he folded. 

Every penny Aare ever made from odd jobs and paddling canoes went towards the family upkeep. When a pool of two hundred students from all over the southwest were scheduled for a qualifying exam, Aare and Bashorun made the list.

The scholarships were meant for just five candidates. My father could only pick one brother. The night he asked me which brother was better, I chose Bash.

I stand and walk to the open doorway. It leads to the deck area and is the only way to escape the tension that sparks the air between us. 

We’ve just had an argument, but I feel it’s about much more. Decisions shouldn’t be based on previous grievances. Not when people’s future lives are at stake. Not when his town can benefit from it, but Aare is holding something back.

I can feel it.

His chair scrapes the floor boards as he pushes it back, stands to his feet and takes his time walking across the dinning cabin toward me. My heart sinks with his every step. 

I can’t have him beside me. I can’t have him physically near me or my resolve will shatter like a piece of glass sculpture triggered by a tuning fork. I am not mad at him, no matter how angry he is, I’m attracted to him.

It’s a thought that explodes into me the closer he gets. Something I figured out the moment he hugged me out on that deck when I arrived.

He doesn’t even have to touch me to wreak havoc. All he needs to do is breathe and I’ll crumble. Look at me, and I’ll fumble. Smile and I’ll tumble into his bed for all I care to know because ten years haven’t erased all I worked hard to hide from myself. It’s part of why I want to leave.

I’m still in love with Aare Akosunle, and it’s possibly the reason I’m still single. No other guy could compare. Now that I’m here, everything from the past is merging into my present. Including the way that I feel about him. It’s no longer only about the project. It’s about him.

I stare bitterly at the torrents of water tumbling in from a sky that has just opened its massive vaults and let loose that evening. 

Aare is right. There is no going anywhere in this rain.

“The tempest has come and with it, rain,” he says. “I know you want to leave, but don’t. It’ll be dangerous in this rain.” 

“I’ll just wait till it dies down.”

“Don’t run into danger because you want to run from me. Three days of solid downpour is what we get this time of the year. Seven if we’re unlucky.”

“Three…seven?” My mouth drops open as I contemplate the volley of water being streamed down from the sky. 

He chuckles. “It’s not that bad, it’s actually calming. We can lie in bed and rest. Everyone will stay indoors and I won’t have to go and sort out some issue or the other. The ship can wait till the storm clears, and we can have more time to talk.”

We?

“You wanted me trapped here!” I turn to him, finally glad that it’s out in the open. “You wanted me to spend the rainy days in Bamboo with you.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” 

Spoken with a soft drawl, the words insinuate things to me that they have no business insinuating. 

I blink and struggle with an appropriate response. Whatever romantic ideas I had were less about the town and more about him. Whatever notions I had about forcing his will to mine drowned when we were in the water.

It was in the way he held me. Like I still mattered to him. Like he hadn’t forgotten the past either.

The rain falls fast and hard. Diagonally, like sheets of silver-coloured bars trapping me in a prison of Aare’s making. Barring my exit from the yacht. 

“I can’t believe that you’re here.”

Aare’s voice jerks me out of my reverie. 

“I’ve thought about having you come here for a while,” he continues as we both watch the rain. “But the time was just never right.”

“Turns out I shouldn’t have bothered.” 

His face is unreadable when he pivots toward me. “Why not? It was a productive meeting. I got to see you up close and hear your arguments. You got to hear mine.” 

I look at him.

“For what it’s worth, you’re still as pretty as you were back then. Maybe even prettier.” 

His gaze roams my face. “Have a nightcap with me. There is something I still want to tell you.”

I’m tempted. 

A nightcap means wine. Wine means lowered inhibitions. 

Rain. Night. An empty yacht. I and my romanticised version of us. This new mature Aare and reignited feelings…

“Okay.”

SIX

Sprawled on the sofa listening to the storm and spilling our guts about the past, I stay as far as I can manage away from him. Aare is all in. Comfortable on the other end, a mere two inches from me.

I steal glances at his face and regret my choices. I should have reached out earlier. Asked for a meeting first before piling on heaps of memos detailing my ideas. I should have tried to see if there could still be something between us, despite the tragedy that tore us apart.

“I don’t want him to be another Bash.”

“He won’t. This time, it will be different.”

“How? Your father used my brother to score a political post, sent him abroad and abandoned us when things went south. To be honest, I first thought you were doing it to score points for your NGO.”

I exhale. “That is not true—”

“Then tell me what is! They abandoned him, now he’s dead! What are you going to do differently if something like that comes up again?”

I look down at my feet as the accusation stings like the first time around. 

Aare had come to our house late that night and banged on our gate with ferociousness. His twenty-year-old voice had screamed with pain and rage as he barged into our compound and waved the letter in my father’s face. The letter informing them of Bash’s apparent dependency on promethazine and marijuana, and his subsequent overdose.

He’d been skipping classes, smoking in his dormitory and writing essays that signalled a mind on the verge of a psychotic breakdown. Bash couldn’t continue the program any longer. They sent him home after six months.

“It was insensitive of me to reach out with that proposal for Arole thinking time had passed.”

“Arole is not Bash, but…” He doesn’t finish the statement, but I can sense the fear in them. That affliction could arise again.

“I didn’t pick him because I thought he was the more brilliant brother,” I whisper, my eyes encountering Aare’s dark ones. There’s curiosity in them. Hope that perhaps there are words that I can say to make things better. “I picked him because I didn’t want to lose you. I didn’t want you to leave me and go abroad.”

There, I said it. Exposed the sin of my selfishness.

His silence is painful because I just need three simple words from him. 

I forgive you.

They don’t come, however. The words. They don’t come. 

The day Bash broke from their home in the middle of Pushcart and jumped into the middle of the ocean was the day I told Aare I had dropped his name. 

He never forgave my father for bringing the scholarship programme. I always thought he never forgave me for picking Bash.

“I did leave you. I didn’t want to have anything to do with you after he died.”

“Ah.” I swirl the wine in my glass. “Had I known the future, I’d have picked you.”

He drains his. “No guarantee anyone would have looked out for Bash here, either.”

I look at him. “What do you mean?”

“I knew he was on molly. He said it made his brain sharper. I thought it was just a passing thing and getting out of Bamboo would change him. It’s my fault too. I let him go to a place where there was no accountability or supervision. I practically killed him.”

“Aare…” I whisper, as it hits me why I’m here. 

“I’m done blaming you but, I can’t let it happen again.”

Our eyes meet. It’s as close as I will get to forgiveness. 

“Aare, please…let the project run. It won’t bring Bash back, but it will help many families.”

“I know.” 

His eyes pool to deep spots of sooty blackness. He leans close, as if to make his point, but the wine takes over. I reach for him. I can’t stand being apart from him any longer.

“I’m sorry.” I hug him and let my tears run. “I’m so sorry.”

His arms surround me and press me into him so hard, it forces my tears into sobs. “Hey, it was never your fault.”

“I just wanted you to stay behind. I didn’t want you to leave and forget me. That was the night I made the decision between the two of you. I chose you.”

He leans back and stares at me.

When we kiss, it’s a function of primal need and a lifetime of longing. Of what we’ve both been pushing aside since I stepped foot into the yacht. 

From the moment I saw his name on the memo listing him as the CDA Chairman of Bamboo Town, I’d been dreading the moment we would have to meet. From the minute I climbed into his office, I’d been destabilized. Reverting somewhat to that teenage girl who had seen him at the car wash and turned into mush.

I thought I had kept a lid on it. I thought I’d be able to handle seeing him again, but Aare’s kiss is tender and demanding. Thorough. Purging me of any lingering fear. Dismantling my composure and wiping away every first line I’d prepared to say to him.

When his mouth lets mine go, I open my eyes and settle a hazy gaze on him. I’m breathless. My ability to command any rational thought has disappeared into an abyss of his making. The shockwaves from his touch slather me in copious amounts of satiety, and I’m rendered speechless.

“Nimi…”

I’m drawn like a magnet toward him. I don’t want him to say anything else or apologize or ask me if I want this. I do. My lips silence his.

I don’t know when his shirt comes off or when he takes the buttons out of mine. I don’t know when the shirt slips over my shoulders or when his white vest comes over his head. I just know that my contact with his frame quells the raging tornado whipping inside me. 

Anger, guilt, heartbreak and a host of feelings that had needed his touch to be released are let loose as the rest of our clothes find space on the floor. In one minute, I’m in his arms and on the bed beneath him. In another, tears stain my cheeks as I recall how much time we have lost. 

He wipes it away with his fingers and his mouth while whispering how sorry he was that he never called me.

Perhaps it was better that way. We needed to grow and heal and find ways to put the past behind us.

The rain dances away on the roof of the yacht, but we both don’t hear it. We’re too focused. Communicating a thousand words in a thousand different ways. 

Forgiveness. 

It’s a gift we both need. One we held back from each other for too long.

EPILOGUE

I have never let my guard down so shamefully before. Never in my lifetime acted with such reckless abandon. For three days, I threw caution to the wind, ignored my beautiful home training and let my phone ring out to Shalewa’s frustration.

I can still smell Aare’s scent on my skin and hear his voice in my ear. I recall every embarrassing moment and the images tour my brain despite my best efforts.

I’m sane now. Cured of whatever. 

It is with gratefulness that I recall he had chosen to be safe and use a rubber. With regret that I tell myself that I will not directly be involved in any part of the project no matter how much I love teaching maths. I will oversee from afar and send the staff we have carefully picked. Funds have poured in and Bash’s memory is being honoured in the way that I’ve always imagined.

I’m happy. That’s all that matters. I dare not step foot in Bamboo Town again.

“No, sir, you cannot…”

I look up at the sound of commotion behind my office door. Aare barges in with confidence, his height and width dwarfing my assistant’s size in great proportions. She follows immediately after, wringing her hands in nervousness.

“I’m sorry, ma. I couldn’t…” Her worried eyes look larger than her spectacles. At that moment, I can’t even fault her. Aare can be intimidating when he wants to be.

“It’s okay, Shalewa. I’ll take it from here, you can leave. Close the door.”

“Yes, ma.” She promptly backs out of the office, leaving us to confront one another. 

He’s wearing a white t-shirt under a thick, dark brown jacket. Same colour cargo pants. His jacket’s sleeves are folded three-quarter-way up his forearms, but his carriage and the look on his face take away any casualness in his visit. 

He’s not here to chitchat. He’s here to fight.

He’s also holding a dozen or so long-stemmed roses encased in a silver gift-wrapping paper. This elicits a tiny frown of suspicion from me. Aare is as unsentimental as a plastic cup. I’m shocked that he’s come here with roses.

“What’s this I hear about you abandoning the project?” he says, head to the side as he walks up to the front of my table, unrepentant about barging like a hooligan into my office.

“I haven’t abandoned the project.”

“You’re not on it!”

I calm myself. He seems livid. “It was my job to secure the go-ahead from you and hire the staff meant to carry it out. Now that we have our yes and the residents are signing up their children, someone else can follow up.”

“I signed that contract with you. You alone.”

“I can’t do it all alone.” 

“They won’t be doing anything without you.” 

My eyes veer to the bunch of roses and up to his face. I can’t pretend I don’t know they’re for me, or that my heart is beating a little quicker just having him in the room with me. Ebbs of pleasure traverse my being and I can’t pretend that I didn’t go to Bamboo Town not knowing what could happen between us. 

I can’t pretend that I don’t want it to happen again.

But he’s a lout and a street guy, and he’s already gotten what he wanted from me. The roses may be some form of placating move to get me to come to him again, but I’ve already made up my mind. Once is enough for my sanity.

“I’m a very busy official. There are lots of other projects that I oversee.”

“I don’t care what you oversee,” he growls, the flowers dangling from his left hand as he stares me down. “If you’re not on that project, I’ll kick those clowns out of my town and scrap the school lesson venture.”

“Aare…”

“I’m not joking.”

I exhale, exasperated. He’s trimmed his beard and upped his dressing. Swapped his usual native bubas for an outfit that makes him the very man that he despises. The kind of man he thinks I want. 

“Come here.”

“This is an office.”

“Come…here!”

I’m not a puppet. 

I’m not his puppet. 

I don’t want to go to him, but his eyes pull me from my seat and propel me towards him. I drop my pen and rise to my feet. 

I love him. I still do. I always did. I always will.

He stands his ground and watches me walk over. “Why did you leave?” 

“You know why.”’

“I don’t. You snuck out of my bed like a thief stealing away from a crime scene, and you’ve ignored all my calls. I’m a very busy man, I don’t have time to chase after women.”

“I can’t… I’m too close to this.”

He doesn’t look shaken by the answer. He just picks up my hand and puts the flowers in it. “Let’s be clear on one thing, I’m not going to green-light that project if you’re not handling a class.”

“If I stay in Bamboo, you and I both know what will happen.”

He grins. “I can’t help that I find you irresistible.”

The comment floors me. Shakes out my blush from where I hid it and paints it as heat on my cheeks. “The project has less to do with me being in Bamboo, than the children being taught properly. And for no fee. The lessons can run without me. Arole will be fine with a close monitoring system and WhatsApp calls.”

His fist closes over mine and mine around the flowers’ stem. “Are you implying that you slept with me just to get my buy in?”

I sputter my annoyance at the paltry way he refers to those three nights. 

“Are you telling me that everything you said to me that night was a lie?” He doesn’t let go of my hand. He glances at it and looks up at me. “That your response to me was scripted, like everything else that happens in government.”

“Aare…” It’s a breath that flows out of me.

“Don’t call my name like that, or you’ll invite trouble.”

“I can’t come back to Bamboo Town.”

“Why not?”

Because you’re in it! 

“Because it will be a distraction if we start something that will hamper the project.”

He looks confused. “Hamper it how?”

Hamper me. It will destroy me if we start something that will lead nowhere and mean nothing to you. I look down and don’t say anything.

“Nimi.” It was a low, throaty sound. “I want you back.”

I shake my head. “Every time you look at me, you’ll think of him.”

Chuckling, he reaches an arm around my back and pulls me into himself, flowers and all. “All I wanted was to get you to come to me.”

I close my eyes and bury myself in his hug.

“The Lighthouse Foundation approached me about Arole first, but I told them I wouldn’t greenlight it except it came through your NGO.”

I’m shocked. “Why would you do that?”

“Because, you silly woman, I know you’ve been trying to save Bash through every child you educate for free. And instead of coming straight to me, you were busy writing me memos. Imagine how frustrated I was. I wanted to see you, not read your damn memos.”

Breath hitched, I force back tears.  Every single No had been an open invitation from him. “Why?”

“Truth is, it was not your fault.” Cupping my cheek, he raises my head with a soft exhalation, forcing me to look at him. “He was using drugs in Bamboo before he left. That’s why I’m fighting the drug war anyway I can. We need to clean up our house before we take on the government and blame the NGOs for failed projects. We need to train our children before we send them overseas.”

I sniff. “So why did you give me such a hard time?”

“Because it was fun. It took a good hammering of my pride to make me acknowledge the fact, but it was not your fault.”

He leans into me. “Come back to Bamboo with me.” His lips say against mine. “I won’t let that lesson run unless you’re running it.”

“Aare, I won’t sleep with you again.”

“Marry me then, damn it. I’ve loved you too long and too hard to let you slip away from me again. And like I said. I don’t have time to chase women. Too much to do in Bamboo Town. Too little time.”

Reluctance lurks behind my gaze, but holding unto my fear will only prolong my pain, so I kiss him. I kiss him long and hard because I’ve been on pause for so long, there are too many frustrated emotions.

Our love was on ice. Frozen and stunted in growth. It’s tough, yet brittle. Flexible, but strong. Its seedlings were hampered by frustration over the years. Then it shot up like a bamboo plant and towered over everything else we were bickering about.

Tag line: 

Nimi’s shared past with the intimidating Aare Akosunle threatens the good she wants to do in his community, especially because he is the only one that everybody listens to. Even her wayward heart.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Olufunmilola Adeniran writes as Feyi Aina, a Christian author and poet, crafting contemporary inspirational women’s fiction as well as historical stories infused with an African fantasy flavour.

 She is a Physiotherapist by day, a writer by night and the author of several short stories, and novels including Love’s Indenture, Love Happens Eventually, and most recently, AYANFE.

Her short stories have appeared in Brittle Paper, and in several anthologies, most notably Hell Hath No Fury, Healing Hearts and Hurts as well as Roses Aren’t Red. Her stories feature strong male and female lead characters in ‘what if’ scenarios created to epitomize good moral conduct while showing off the beautiful process of falling in love. 

Olufunmilola lives in Lagos with her husband and children. She is the RWOWA 2019 Author of the Year winner for her novel Love’s Indenture. Her short story, THE RIVER GOD, was sampled in the textbook Nature, Environment and Activism in Nigerian Literature, by Prof. Sule. E. Egya. When she’s not reading or writing, she loves cooking, traveling, and scouring the net for information about art, history, and ancient civilization.

Her e-books can be found on the following platforms: Amazon, Bambooks, Kobo, Scribd, Smash words, Selar, and Waterstone. Physical copies exist in popular bookshops across the country.

Social media handles:

Instagram – feyi_aina

Twitter – @feyi_aina

Website – www.feyiaina.com

Blog – www.dfunpen.wordpress.com

Facebook – Author Feyi Aina

BOOKS BY FEYI AINA

Notable Books:

Love’s Indenture

Love Happens Eventually

Home Cooked Love

Ayanfe

Like Whirlwind

Coming Soon:

Scandal

Like Sandstorm

Like Rainfall

Victoria and the Beast

The Cursed Prince

A Crash Affair (Part of the Wish Anthology)