VICTORIA ISLAND, LAGOS
SAMUEL
I wake up just before sunrise. The room is quiet, bathed in soft gold spilling through the curtains. For a few seconds, I lie still, listening to the sound of birds chirping outside and the low hum of morning silence. My chest rises slowly with each breath. Peaceful.
I swing my legs out of bed and plant my feet on the floor. The cold tiles bite a little. I rub the sleep from my eyes and head straight to the living room.
I start with push-ups. My palms press against the cold floor as I lower and lift my body in rhythm. Then sit-ups. Controlled. Focused. I lose count somewhere around thirty. The sweat comes slow and steady. After some jumping jacks and squats, I stretch, roll my neck, and head into the bathroom.
I brush my teeth, rinse my face, and hop into the shower. The water's cold at first, then warm. It wakes me up fully. The steam curls around me, cleansing more than just my skin. When I step out, a towel slung over my shoulders, I feel refreshed.
Back in the bedroom, Chioma stirs under the covers. I smile. Her eyes blink open, soft and sleepy.
"Mmm… look at you, waking up like Captain America," she says with a lazy grin.
I chuckle, drying my hair. "And you... still snoring like a backup generator."
She laughs, her voice husky and sweet. "You're lying."
She sits up, the duvet sliding down her shoulder. Her hair's a little wild. Her eyes meet mine, and there's something quiet between us—like the world paused just for this.
I walk over, kneel slightly beside the bed, and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.
"Good morning, Mrs. Vincent."
She smiles. "Good morning, my love."
I lean in, and our lips meet. It's not rushed. Just slow, tender, and warm—the kind of kiss that carries years of quiet affection. I feel her fingers brush my jaw as we pull slightly apart, our foreheads resting together for a beat.
"Go freshen up," I whisper. "I'll start the eggs."
She gives me a playful look. "Only if you promise not to burn them again."
I shake my head, laughing as I walk out.
---
We're both in the kitchen now. She's in one of my old T-shirts and a pair of shorts. I'm by the stove flipping pancakes while she slices tomatoes. The sizzle and aroma fill the room, and honestly, this is one of my favorite kinds of mornings.
She tosses a slice of tomato at me. I dodge it.
"Weaponized vegetables?" I ask.
"You dodged it," she grins. "I call that romantic teamwork."
I dip my finger in flour and smudge it on her nose. She gasps.
"You look better this way."
She smirks. "And you… need help."
We both laugh, and it feels like high school again—young, free, foolish in love.
---
The morning sunlight spills through the dining room windows, bathing everything in a golden glow. Chioma and I are at the table, laying out toast, eggs, sliced bananas and pineapple. She arranges everything with this quiet care that always gets me. I bring over the drinks—two soft drink cans, cups, and a bowl of cold watermelon cubes.
Jennifer walks in, barely looking up from her phone. Her thumbs are flying across the screen. Mom's already seated at the end of the table, dressed in one of her colorful wrappers, sipping something warm. Probably cocoa.
Chioma and I sit close—too close for it to be innocent. Our legs touch under the table. Her knee presses into mine and stays there.
"Remember when you tried to cook jollof rice and it came out like porridge?" she says, grinning between bites.
I groan. "Respect my growth, please. That was Phase One of my kitchen trauma."
She lets out a full laugh, tilting her head back. "Phase One? So what was Phase Two? When you burned instant noodles and blamed the pot?"
I shake my head. "You're really digging up ancient history now."
Jennifer chuckles under her breath but keeps her eyes on her phone. Mom sips her drink and joins in with a nostalgic smile.
"You've really come far, Samuel," she says, looking right at me. "When you were twelve, you hated the kitchen. All you knew was eating, playing phone games, and building toy cars and robots with scrap wire."
I grin, a little embarrassed. "Mama, I had a vision. Early innovation starts young."
Laughter circles the table again. I pick up the TV remote and click it on. The screen flickers for a second before settling on a live broadcast.
A female newscaster appears, visibly tense.
"This just in," she says. "Massive destruction reported in Chongqing City, China. Entire buildings flattened. Streetlights, road signs, cars—everything in ruins. Eyewitness footage points to an alien-related incident—"
The screen cuts to shaky phone footage. Dust clouds rise. Concrete litters the street. Then we see them—two figures stepping through smoke. One is massive—red-skinned, towering, with four arms and four glowing eyes. The second one is grey, human-sized, floating slightly off the ground, his eyes glowing white like lightning trapped in glass.
Chioma's hand tightens around her glass. I stop chewing. Jennifer's phone slips from her hand and clatters softly on the table. She picks it up, taps the screen quickly, staring with a strange focus.
"Jen?" Chioma says gently. "You okay?"
She shrugs without looking up. "I'm fine."
But she's barely touched her food.
I lean closer. "Talk to us. You've been on that phone since you walked in."
She hesitates, then lets out a breath. "It's John Kingsley. He didn't pick up yesterday. I called him again this morning. Nothing. I've texted. No response."
Chioma and I exchange a quick glance. The news is still playing behind us, a low hum of words like devastation, unidentified species, and military deployment.
Mom sets her mug down and reaches across the table to gently touch Jennifer's hand.
"I remember that feeling," she says. "When I was your age, I had strong feelings for your dad. But he only saw me as a friend. It hurt. I used to sit by the window for hours hoping he'd call or write. But years later… he did more than call. He came back for me. Loved me, properly. That's when we started dating."
Jennifer listens quietly, her phone face down now.
"Don't drown in waiting," Mom continues. "Focus on your books. On what you're building. That's what brought your dad back to me. And it'll bring what's meant for you too."
Jennifer nods, swallowing hard. "Thanks, Mom."
I try to add some big-brother perspective.
"John's probably dealing with school, house stuff, and maybe even hero duties. You know how complicated things get for people like us. Don't expect him to be online bright and early."
A little smile cracks through her worry. "Yeah. I guess you're right."
Chioma leans into me, head brushing my shoulder.
"It's been a while since I had breakfast this peaceful," she says. "Homemade food, soft morning light, everyone together."
I smirk. "Are you saying my toast counts as a delicacy?"
She grins. "I'm saying I want dinner outside tonight. A real restaurant. Big place. White napkins folded like swans."
I raise my glass. "By eight or nine?"
She nods. "Exactly."
"You've got it. Just don't ask me to dance in front of people again."
She laughs—soft, honest. That laugh is my peace.
We clink our glasses together gently.
Behind us, the news still rolls—cities falling, chaos halfway across the world. But right here, at our table, between the toast crumbs and warm voices, is something rare. Something worth fighting for.
Love.
In all its shapes.
8:00 P.M.
I stand in front of my wardrobe, door wide open, eyes scanning the rows of shirts like I'm picking a fighter for battle. I've got five minutes to choose a dinner outfit, and somehow it feels like a life-or-death decision.
After flipping past a few boring options, I pull out a crisp blue package shirt, matching deep blue trousers, a black tie with tiny white dots, and the real star of the show—my deep blue suit with that slick crossed belt design. I even dig out my matching shoes from the bottom shelf. The full package. I hold them all up like I just won a fashion jackpot.
"Hey, Jenny!" I call out, turning to show off the combo. "Check this out."
She doesn't even flinch. She's planted on my bed, fingers flying over her laptop keyboard like she's coding the next version of the Matrix.
"Jenny?" I try again.
"What's up?" she mutters, eyes still glued to the screen, typing like it's a typing speed competition.
"Would it kill you to pause whatever you're doing and look at this outfit?"
She sighs. "Just give me a minute…"
Her hands are still dancing across the keyboard. Not even a glance.
I raise an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
Nothing.
I drop the clothes on the bed with a dramatic flair, close the wardrobe like I'm done with the world, and take off my shirt. Whatever. I slip on a clean singlet, then start buttoning up the blue shirt like it's just another Tuesday.
"Alright! I'm done!" Jennifer suddenly announces, like she just ended a Zoom call with the president.
She finally looks up—right as I'm buttoning the cuffs.
"Umm...why the sudden wardrobe switch?" she asks, scrunching her face like I just told her I joined a boy band.
I don't answer. I just unbutton my trousers and let them drop.
"Seriously?" she shrieks, shielding her eyes like I'm some kind of scandal. "In front of a lady?!"
I look at her flatly. "You do realize this is my room, right?"
"That doesn't mean you should undress in front of me!"
"Your common sense should've told you to excuse your big brother for a minute."
She pouts. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry."
I slide into the deep blue trousers, secure the belt, and knot the tie like I've done this a hundred times.
"Wow," she says, her tone flipping into admiration mode. "Is this a new outfit?"
"Yup." I tighten the knot on the tie.
Then I grab the suit, slide into it, fasten the buttons, and strike a casual pose.
"So… how do I look?"
Jennifer gives me a slow once-over, then grins. "You look supernaturally hot."
I smirk. "Supernaturally, huh? I'll take it."
"You're not done though," she says, hopping off the bed and walking to my desk. "One more thing."
I raise an eyebrow. "What now?"
She grabs a pair of sunglasses and holds them out like they're the missing piece to Excalibur.
"Glasses."
I stare at her. Then at the sunglasses. Then back at her. "You want me to wear sunglasses… at night?"
"Yes." She's dead serious. "Without them, the look is incomplete."
I laugh, shaking my head as I sit to put on my shoes. "What do you know about men's fashion?"
"If I start talking fashion," she says proudly, "I can go on for three hours straight."
"Mmm. Dey play," I mutter, then glance at her. "So you want me to sit with you and have a three-hour conversation… about fashion?"
"Three hours isn't that long."
I pause, deadpan. "Three hours isn't that long?"
She nods.
I squint at her like she just asked me to give up food. "I'd rather play games or watch a movie. At least that has a happy ending."
She bursts into laughter. "So you're saying I waste time sewing all day?"
I open the door and pause dramatically in the doorway. "I didn't say that."
"You indirectly said that," she fires back, smug.
I grin as I step out. "Indirectly? That's fashionably accurate."
I step into the sitting room, but my chest tightens instead of loosening. My pulse races. Faster than it was upstairs.
What is this? I draw in a slow breath through my nose. Hold it. Let it out. Doesn't help. My palms are cold.
"Oh God…" I whisper under my breath, trying to find steady ground beneath me.
I don't understand it. I've gone out with Chioma plenty of times. But tonight... tonight feels different. Like I'm walking into something I can't see. Something waiting.
Then I hear it—quick footsteps pounding down the stairs behind me.
"Sam! Wait up!" Jennifer's voice cuts through my thoughts.
I turn as she skips the last few steps and lands beside me, holding out my wristwatch. "You left this," she says, placing it in my hand. Her eyes search mine. "Why are you scared?"
I blink. "I don't know, Jenny. I came down here and… something just hit me. Like this weight."
She tilts her head, concerned. "Nerves? You haven't gone on a date in a while."
I shake my head. "No, it's not that. This is different."
"Here," she says, pushing the watch gently into my hand. Her voice softens. "What do you feel exactly?"
I stare at the watch a second too long, then lift my eyes to hers. "I feel… strange. Like something bad's coming. Tonight."
She doesn't laugh. She doesn't dismiss it. Just frowns a little. "That's not good."
"I'll stay alert," I say, voice low. "Protect Chioma. And—"
My eyes drift past her, toward the staircase again—and then I see her.
Chioma.
The moment my eyes sight her—standing there, I freeze. It's like time folded in on itself for a second, just to highlight her.
She wears this elegant black dress, hugging her figure in all the right ways, detailed with soft yellow and pink flowers that looked like they'd been painted on with the gentlest brush. The colors aren't loud—they whispered. It makes the whole outfit feel like spring wrapped in mystery.
Her legs are long, smooth, graceful. Each step she takes in those blue-green heels add something unspoken to the room—like confidence, poise, maybe even a little danger. I watch the way she moves, like she belongs in an art gallery—not as a visitor, but as a masterpiece that people came to see.
Her hair flows down her back, a sleek black curtain that framed her shoulders and softened her jawline. And then there is the contrast—the deep red on her toenails, perfectly matching the subtle drama in her eyes. It is bold, yet refined.
She doesn't need to speak. Her presence said everything.
I catch myself smiling. Not because she is just beautiful, but because she make me feel something. Like I am staring at a story I don't want to end.
"You look…" I start, words catching somewhere between my chest and my throat.
"Awesome?" she teases, raising an eyebrow, lips curled into a playful smile.
"No," I say, grinning now. "I was going to say stunning. Pretty. And—"
"Sexy!" Jennifer throws in, elbowing me.
I shoot her a look. "Sexy?"
"Yeah," she says, shrugging. "At least she's not half-naked today."
"Jennifer!" my mom scolds from the hallway. "Do you realize you're talking to your elder brother's wife?"
Jennifer grins sheepishly. "Sorry, ma."
Chioma laughs lightly. I chuckle too. The tension in the room lifts just a little.
"It's fine," I say, stepping closer to Chioma.
She meets me halfway. Our eyes lock, just for a second, and I slide my arm around her shoulder. She fits into me like she always has—like home.
"Enjoy your dinner, my son," Mom says, her voice warm and proud.
"Take care of her, big bro," Jennifer calls out with a wink.
I reach for the door, but pause. I turn around, taking one last look at them—my family, the warmth of this house, the safety of this moment.
Then I wave.
For now.
I unlock the car, and Chioma gets in, her perfume lingering as she settles into the seat. The interior light fades as I close the door. I start the engine, and the dashboard glows soft blue against the dark. Streetlights paint the windshield in passing gold.
We pull onto the road, the city quieter now. Horns are rare. The night has a rhythm of its own—calmer, but watchful. Her silhouette beside me is framed by the lights outside, and every now and then, I catch her sneaking a glance at me.
She's still waiting for me to say where we're going. I don't. I just drive.
The hum of the tires on the road fills the silence. It's not uncomfortable, just… expectant. The kind of silence that feels like a held breath.
Fifteen minutes later, I turn onto a quieter street. The restaurant comes into view—soft amber lights glowing behind floor-to-ceiling windows, a few couples laughing quietly at the outdoor tables. I pull into a spot near the entrance and park with care, easing the car in like it matters.
We step out and Chioma looks around. Her eyes catch the palm trees. Ahead of us, the building rises—sharp angles and minimalist grace. Two bold walls, matte-white and charcoal-black, jut skyward like twin sails frozen mid-motion. Between them, a tall glass entrance glows like a lantern, throwing soft amber light across the dark pavement.
On the left, a dramatic slope of black-framed windows stretches back at an angle, the entire wall a grid of glass reflecting soft garden lights. Inside, silhouettes of diners move gracefully—hands lifting wine glasses, heads thrown back in laughter. The light inside is warm, golden, almost cinematic. You don't just walk in. You arrive.
To the right, clean concrete stretches smooth and unadorned—except for two cone-shaped wall lights casting sharp, twin beams upward and downward. Just beneath them, the name says it all: R.S.V.P.—simple, silver, and confident. It doesn't shout. It knows you're already curious.
Palm trees lean gently over the tiled yard, their shadows swaying across the walls like dancers. Somewhere behind the building, you catch the faint sound of jazz teasing the air, and a subtle scent—citrus, smoke, maybe something grilled—pulls you forward like a whisper.
This place doesn't just invite her in.
It seduces her—quietly, completely.
She turns to me. "Wow… seriously?" A smile tugs at her lips. "How did you even know about this place?"
I shrug lightly. "I've been here before."
She raises a brow. "With who?"
I hesitate. Briefly. But I'm not going to lie.
"My ex."
Her smile falters.
Just like that, the air changes.
The warmth in her eyes dims. Her jaw tightens, not enough to be cold, but enough that I feel it.
"We had our first date here," I say, quietly. "That's all."
She doesn't respond right away. Just looks at the building, then back at me. There's something unreadable in her eyes now—not anger, exactly. Not jealousy either. Just… the sting of something she wasn't expecting to feel.
Without another word, she turns and walks toward the entrance. I follow.
And as I catch up, I wonder if this night just got a little harder to recover.
To be continued....