(Meeting)
Morning arrived gently.
Not with chaos.
Not with shouting neighbors or blaring generators.
Just soft Lagos sunlight slipping through curtains and warming the small apartment inch by inch.
Jennifer woke slowly beneath her light purple bedsheets, blinking sleep from her eyes while the fan turned lazily overhead. For a few seconds she simply lay there listening.
Birds somewhere outside.
A distant motorcycle engine.
Pots clanging from another apartment.
Life beginning again.
Her chest felt strangely light.
Today was shop hunting day.
The thought returned instantly and made her smile into the pillow.
She pushed herself upright, stretching slowly before shuffling toward the bathroom. By the time she finished bathing, steam still clung faintly to the small mirror while she stood deciding what to wear.
Not too flashy.
Not too plain.
Comfortable enough for walking all day.
Eventually she settled on a warm cream-colored fitted top and dark jeans. Simple sneakers. Small earrings Jessica had forced on her months ago after declaring:
"You cannot dress like retired criminal forever."
Jennifer had rolled her eyes then.
Now she wore them automatically.
As she adjusted the sleeves absentmindedly, something remained unnoticed.
The sleeves were shorter than usual.
Not enough to fully hide the faded scars crossing parts of her wrists and lower arms.
For the first time in years, she had dressed normally without consciously checking concealment first.
That alone said something about healing.
She ate the leftover fried rice from the night before while scrolling through decoration pages on her phone.
Soft café lights.
Tiny reading corners.
Wood shelves.
Warm yellow tones.
Her heart tightened happily.
Maybe one day.
Maybe truly.
Outside, the environment felt calmer than usual as she stepped out of the apartment building. The morning carried mild warmth instead of harsh heat. Women swept storefronts nearby. A radio played gospel music somewhere farther down the street. A few buses groaned awake beside the road.
For a moment her thoughts drifted back toward the landlords who had rejected her.
Three of them.
One became polite after hearing about prison.
Another visibly uncomfortable.
The third outright asked if she intended to "bring criminal people."
Jennifer remembered standing outside afterward pretending it did not hurt.
Her current landlord had been different.
Former soldier.
Quiet man.
Broad shoulders.
He had listened calmly, then simply shrugged.
"If prison corrected you," he had said, "then you are already ahead of many free people."
Then handed her the keys.
Jennifer never forgot it.
She adjusted her bag and headed toward the bus stop hoping to meet Jessica before the woman started complaining dramatically about abandonment.
KM Holdings
Across the city, another morning unfolded very differently.
John stepped out of the car beneath the towering glass structure of KM Holdings dressed in shades of light blue.
Not navy.
Not black.
Actual color.
Joseph nearly stopped walking.
Earlier that morning Mary had stared at him over breakfast like she had witnessed spiritual transformation.
"You look healthy," she said suspiciously.
"That sounds insulting."
"It is unfamiliar."
Now Joseph kept glancing sideways while they entered the lobby.
"You are dressing emotionally these days."
"I wore a shirt."
"You wore hope."
John ignored him.
They had arrived later than intended—10 AM exactly—because Joseph had overslept after staying awake too long.
As they approached the executive elevators Joseph adjusted his tie quickly.
"Miss Katherine Moreau called earlier. She arrived ahead of schedule."
"Why?"
"She claimed accidentally."
"No powerful woman arrives early accidentally."
Joseph nodded thoughtfully.
"True."
The elevator doors opened.
Staff greeted them nervously as they crossed the corridor toward the conference suite.
Inside, Precious already waited with visible frustration beside a middle-aged man who looked deeply uncomfortable in expensive furniture.
The moment John entered, everyone rose.
"Morning, Mr. John," Precious greeted.
"Morning to you," he replied calmly. "I see you are early. Please, let's sit and talk."
They settled.
Katherine Moreau sat elegantly near the tall windows overlooking Lagos traffic below.
Cream silk blouse.
Dark fitted trousers.
Gold jewelry kept minimal but expensive.
Every movement controlled without appearing stiff.
She looked toward John immediately.
"Enfin."
(Finally.)
John pulled out his chair calmly.
"Je vois que la patience reste difficile pour vous."
(I see patience is still difficult for you.)
A faint smirk touched Katherine's lips.
Joseph blinked between them.
"You people are fighting in rich language again."
Neither acknowledged him.
Katherine crossed one leg over the other gracefully.
"Vous êtes en retard."
(You are late.)
John sat down smoothly.
"Mon assistant a dormi comme un homme sans avenir."
(My assistant slept like a man without a future.)
Joseph pointed immediately.
"He insulted me."
"Yes," John replied in English. "Accurately."
Even Katherine laughed softly at that.
Joseph narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
The missing translator finally became noticeable.
Joseph looked around.
"Wait. Where's the translator?"
Katherine lifted one shoulder lightly.
"Le pauvre homme est malade aujourd'hui."
(The poor man fell sick today.)
Then she gestured toward the silver-haired man seated beside her.
"Voici Étienne Morel."
(This is Étienne Morel.)
The man nodded politely.
"Un réalisateur très célèbre en France."
(A very famous director in France.)
John translated smoothly for Precious and Joseph.
"This is Étienne Morel. One of the most respected film directors in France."
Precious straightened instantly.
Étienne extended his hand toward John.
"C'est un plaisir de rencontrer enfin l'auteur."
(It is a pleasure to finally meet the writer.)
John shook his hand politely.
"The pleasure is mutual."
Katherine continued in French.
"Il a insisté pour venir lui-même."
(He insisted on coming personally.)
Then John translated again.
"He insisted on meeting the writer directly."
Joseph leaned toward Precious whispering dramatically.
"This feels expensive."
Precious elbowed him immediately.
Katherine introduced the regional manager beside her before coffee arrived and the meeting deepened properly.
Business shifted quickly into literature.
Film rights.
Audience psychology.
International adaptation.
Character realism.
Themes of grief and emotional survival.
Katherine folded her hands neatly.
"Votre écriture est très cruelle émotionnellement."
(Your writing is emotionally cruel.)
John translated calmly.
"She says my novels are emotionally cruel."
Joseph nodded proudly.
"Correct."
Étienne leaned forward thoughtfully.
"Mais honnête."
(But honest.)
Then in slower English:
"Your stories hurt because they refuse comfort."
Silence settled briefly.
John's fingers tapped once lightly against the table.
Katherine watched him carefully before continuing.
"En Europe, beaucoup d'auteurs ont peur de la tristesse maintenant."
(In Europe, many writers are afraid of sadness now.)
John translated again.
"She says many modern writers soften sadness too much."
Étienne nodded.
"Vous, non."
(You do not.)
Then he added in English:
"You respect pain enough not to lie about it."
Joseph sat back quietly now.
For once without jokes.
Because even he noticed something shifting in the room.
Respect.
Real respect.
Not for John the executive.
Not for the businessman.
For the writer.
Katherine's eyes rested briefly on John again.
"Et vos personnages féminins…"
(And your female characters…)
She paused thoughtfully.
"On dirait que vous les écrivez avec beaucoup de compréhension."
(It feels like you write them with deep understanding.)
John translated the sentence evenly for the others.
But inwardly something tightened faintly.
Because that observation felt too close to truth.
Étienne spoke again.
"La protagoniste de Twinkle Twinkle…"
(The female lead of Twinkle Twinkle…)
He looked genuinely curious now.
"Elle ressemble à quelqu'un qui a vraiment survécu à quelque chose."
(She feels like someone who truly survived something.)
The room quieted.
Outside the windows, Lagos traffic moved endlessly beneath sunlight.
Inside, John answered softly in French first.
"Elle a été écrite honnêtement."
(She was written honestly.)
Then he translated it himself into English.
"She was written honestly."
Katherine studied him silently after that.
And Joseph—
watching from the side—
suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that this meeting was becoming far more personal than business.
Morning arrived gently.
Not with chaos.
Not with shouting neighbors or blaring generators.
Just soft Lagos sunlight slipping through curtains and warming the small apartment inch by inch.
Jennifer woke slowly beneath her light purple bedsheets, blinking sleep from her eyes while the fan turned lazily overhead. For a few seconds she simply lay there listening.
Birds somewhere outside.
A distant motorcycle engine.
Pots clanging from another apartment.
Life beginning again.
Her chest felt strangely light.
Today was shop hunting day.
The thought returned instantly and made her smile into the pillow.
She pushed herself upright, stretching slowly before shuffling toward the bathroom. By the time she finished bathing, steam still clung faintly to the small mirror while she stood deciding what to wear.
Not too flashy.
Not too plain.
Comfortable enough for walking all day.
Eventually she settled on a warm cream-colored fitted top and dark jeans. Simple sneakers. Small earrings Jessica had forced on her months ago after declaring:
"You cannot dress like retired criminal forever."
Jennifer had rolled her eyes then.
Now she wore them automatically.
As she adjusted the sleeves absentmindedly, something remained unnoticed.
The sleeves were shorter than usual.
Not enough to fully hide the faded scars crossing parts of her wrists and lower arms.
For the first time in years, she had dressed normally without consciously checking concealment first.
That alone said something about healing.
She ate the leftover fried rice from the night before while scrolling through decoration pages on her phone.
Soft café lights.
Tiny reading corners.
Wood shelves.
Warm yellow tones.
Her heart tightened happily.
Maybe one day.
Maybe truly.
Outside, the environment felt calmer than usual as she stepped out of the apartment building. The morning carried mild warmth instead of harsh heat. Women swept storefronts nearby. A radio played gospel music somewhere farther down the street. A few buses groaned awake beside the road.
For a moment her thoughts drifted back toward the landlords who had rejected her.
Three of them.
One became polite after hearing about prison.
Another visibly uncomfortable.
The third outright asked if she intended to "bring criminal people."
Jennifer remembered standing outside afterward pretending it did not hurt.
Her current landlord had been different.
Former soldier.
Quiet man.
Broad shoulders.
He had listened calmly, then simply shrugged.
"If prison corrected you," he had said, "then you are already ahead of many free people."
Then handed her the keys.
Jennifer never forgot it.
She adjusted her bag and headed toward the bus stop hoping to meet Jessica before the woman started complaining dramatically about abandonment.
KM Holdings
Across the city, another morning unfolded very differently.
John stepped out of the car beneath the towering glass structure of KM Holdings dressed in shades of light blue.
Not navy.
Not black.
Actual color.
Joseph nearly stopped walking.
Earlier that morning Mary had stared at him over breakfast like she had witnessed spiritual transformation.
"You look healthy," she said suspiciously.
"That sounds insulting."
"It is unfamiliar."
Now Joseph kept glancing sideways while they entered the lobby.
"You are dressing emotionally these days."
"I wore a shirt."
"You wore hope."
John ignored him.
They had arrived later than intended—10 AM exactly—because Joseph had overslept after staying awake too long.
As they approached the executive elevators Joseph adjusted his tie quickly.
"Miss Katherine Moreau called earlier. She arrived ahead of schedule."
"Why?"
"She claimed accidentally."
"No powerful woman arrives early accidentally."
Joseph nodded thoughtfully.
"True."
The elevator doors opened.
Staff greeted them nervously as they crossed the corridor toward the conference suite.
Inside, Precious already waited with visible frustration beside a middle-aged man who looked deeply uncomfortable in expensive furniture.
The moment John entered, everyone rose.
"Morning, Mr. John," Precious greeted.
"Morning to you," he replied calmly. "I see you are early. Please, let's sit and talk."
They settled.
Katherine Moreau sat elegantly near the tall windows overlooking Lagos traffic below.
Cream silk blouse.
Dark fitted trousers.
Gold jewelry kept minimal but expensive.
Every movement controlled without appearing stiff.
She looked toward John immediately.
"Enfin."
(Finally.)
John pulled out his chair calmly.
"Je vois que la patience reste difficile pour vous."
(I see patience is still difficult for you.)
A faint smirk touched Katherine's lips.
Joseph blinked between them.
"You people are fighting in rich language again."
Neither acknowledged him.
Katherine crossed one leg over the other gracefully.
"Vous êtes en retard."
(You are late.)
John sat down smoothly.
"Mon assistant a dormi comme un homme sans avenir."
(My assistant slept like a man without a future.)
Joseph pointed immediately.
"He insulted me."
"Yes," John replied in English. "Accurately."
Even Katherine laughed softly at that.
Joseph narrowed his eyes suspiciously.
The missing translator finally became noticeable.
Joseph looked around.
"Wait. Where's the translator?"
Katherine lifted one shoulder lightly.
"Le pauvre homme est malade aujourd'hui."
(The poor man fell sick today.)
Then she gestured toward the silver-haired man seated beside her.
"Voici Étienne Morel."
(This is Étienne Morel.)
The man nodded politely.
"Un réalisateur très célèbre en France."
(A very famous director in France.)
John translated smoothly for Precious and Joseph.
"This is Étienne Morel. One of the most respected film directors in France."
Precious straightened instantly.
Étienne extended his hand toward John.
"C'est un plaisir de rencontrer enfin l'auteur."
(It is a pleasure to finally meet the writer.)
John shook his hand politely.
"The pleasure is mutual."
Katherine continued in French.
"Il a insisté pour venir lui-même."
(He insisted on coming personally.)
Then John translated again.
"He insisted on meeting the writer directly."
Joseph leaned toward Precious whispering dramatically.
"This feels expensive."
Precious elbowed him immediately.
Katherine introduced the regional manager beside her before coffee arrived and the meeting deepened properly.
Business shifted quickly into literature.
Film rights.
Audience psychology.
International adaptation.
Character realism.
Themes of grief and emotional survival.
Katherine folded her hands neatly.
"Votre écriture est très cruelle émotionnellement."
(Your writing is emotionally cruel.)
John translated calmly.
"She says my novels are emotionally cruel."
Joseph nodded proudly.
"Correct."
Étienne leaned forward thoughtfully.
"Mais honnête."
(But honest.)
Then in slower English:
"Your stories hurt because they refuse comfort."
Silence settled briefly.
John's fingers tapped once lightly against the table.
Katherine watched him carefully before continuing.
"En Europe, beaucoup d'auteurs ont peur de la tristesse maintenant."
(In Europe, many writers are afraid of sadness now.)
John translated again.
"She says many modern writers soften sadness too much."
Étienne nodded.
"Vous, non."
(You do not.)
Then he added in English:
"You respect pain enough not to lie about it."
Joseph sat back quietly now.
For once without jokes.
Because even he noticed something shifting in the room.
Respect.
Real respect.
Not for John the executive.
Not for the businessman.
For the writer.
Katherine's eyes rested briefly on John again.
"Et vos personnages féminins…"
(And your female characters…)
She paused thoughtfully.
"On dirait que vous les écrivez avec beaucoup de compréhension."
(It feels like you write them with deep understanding.)
John translated the sentence evenly for the others.
But inwardly something tightened faintly.
Because that observation felt too close to truth.
Étienne spoke again.
"La protagoniste de Twinkle Twinkle…"
(The female lead of Twinkle Twinkle…)
He looked genuinely curious now.
"Elle ressemble à quelqu'un qui a vraiment survécu à quelque chose."
(She feels like someone who truly survived something.)
The room quieted.
Outside the windows, Lagos traffic moved endlessly beneath sunlight.
Inside, John answered softly in French first.
"Elle a été écrite honnêtement."
(She was written honestly.)
Then he translated it himself into English.
"She was written honestly."
Katherine studied him silently after that.
And Joseph—
watching from the side—
suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that this meeting was becoming far more personal than business.