Lagos
The afternoon heat sat in the bungalow like an only child.
Kitchen smelled like soap and soup.
Not fresh soup.
The kind that had been reheated until it stopped trying.
A tall woman with soft jerry curls stood at the sink, washing dishes as if the plates had offended her.
Okro clung stubbornly to ceramic.
It always did.
Water ran.
Plate.
Rinse.
Stack.
Behind her, Lanre sat on a small wooden chair in the living room—the biggest part of the bungalow, which didn't say much. The house was tight. Everything connected. Arranged. Neat enough to pretend it was beautiful.
"Something exciting come up?" Charity asked, familiar with the sound of his boot.
She didn't turn.
Lanre pulled the lace tight. The knot resisted.
Of course it did.
"New development," he said.
"Tell the girl I'll be back."
Later, he would remember that moment.
Not because it mattered.
Because it was the first crack.
The plate snapped in Charity's hand.
Not dropped.
Crushed.
Porcelain broke with a sharp, deliberate sound.
Lanre blinked.
That… was new.
"That plate didn't deserve that," he said, forcing a smile.
She froze.
Just for a moment.
Then she bent and began picking up the shards.
"It's not my fault," she said, gathering the larger pieces.
"You don't get to decide and run off like that."
Lanre finished one boot. Moved to the next.
"Just one week." He said.
She snorts.
"Sounds like the number of days I haven't slept."
A breath.
"That child, Lanre… is work."
Lanre frowned slightly.
He thought she loved children. She always did. Always reaching for them. Always smiling.
"I miss when you still liked them."
She dropped the broken pieces into the bin.
"I also miss you mentioning her name."
Lanre paused.
He tilted his head toward the baby's room.
Ours?
"The one you named," she said, returning to the sink.
"The one I named," he echoed.
"You used a microphone at the naming ceremony."
"It's a girl…"
The words drifted.
For a moment, both of them stopped.
Lanre thought. For far too long.
It was already a problem.
Charity moved first.
The cup left her hand fast.
Lanre jerked back. Chair legs scraped. Balance slipped. The cup missed his head by an inch and bounced out behind him.
A bead of sweat slid down his temple.
He laughed.
Light.
Careful.
"Charity."
He didn't know what to say.
So he reached for the worst option.
"Calm down."
He should have stayed quiet.
Charity stared at him hard.
The sunset framed her in orange light. Soft. Warm.
The shard in her hand wasn't.
She held it between her fingers.
Steady.
Intentional.
"Her name," she said quietly, "is Darasim."
Lanre paused.
Right.
He named her.
He forgot.
Same reason. Four years now.
From where Charity stood, he already looked distant.
Not leaving.
Just… not there.
Lanre grabbed the door.
"Tell Dara I'll be back."
He left before another conversation could come of it
SLAM.
Charity stood alone.
She sighed.
Small.
Tired.
Outside, the estate sat in its usual silence. Clean. Arranged. Uninterested.
Lanre stepped onto the porch.
Stopped.
Paced.
Careful not to step on the neatly arranged shoes.
Why was I going again?
The thought slipped.
The phone rang.
He fumbled it out while walking.
His boot clipped a vase.
It wobbled.
Balanced.
Then, it gave up.
It shattered across the floor.
Lanre looked down.
"…Right," he remembered
To fix something.
Yes.
That sounded correct.
He answered.
"Hello?"
"I hear you've found something."
The voice was already irritated.
Lanre stepped over the pieces.
"Yes. Locals say it's the resting place of a deity."
His tone sharpened.
Alive now.
"We may finally prove some divines exist—"
He kept walking.
"—and it's clear they demanded sacrifices in exchange for—"
"Lanre."
Cold.
Flat.
"Details bore me."
Lanre stopped.
"Get to the site. Show results. You're the only one excited to see the dolls idiots pray to."
His jaw tightened.
"…Yes, sir."
CLICK.
Silence.
Lanre stared at the phone.
Then nodded once.
That was it.
Mystery.
Proof.
Validation.
That his father hadn't just been talking to himself for no reason.
The supernatural existed and he was going to fix it.
He slipped the phone away.
Still excited.
That should have meant something.
It didn't.
He stepped off the porch—
And stopped.
Charity was beside him.
He hadn't heard the door.
Hadn't heard her steps.
This was worse than the shard.
She crouched beside the broken vase.
Flowers were scattered across the ground.
Petals mixed with ceramic.
"You're getting a new one," she said.
Calm.
Measured.
Lanre looked at his hand.
His wedding ring caught the light.
"With flowers," she added.
"Of course."
Too fast.
Too easy.
He smiled.
Because she had picked up another shard.
And this one rested gently against his throat.
Careful.
Almost thoughtful.
Domestic life.
Poorly advertised.
"Pick your calls," she said softly.
"It's reassuring."
Lanre didn't move.
Didn't swallow.
"I will."
Inside—
I love her.
The thought came clean.
And immediately felt inconvenient.
Charity lowered the shard.
Slowly.
Her grip tightened before her hand dropped.
For a second—
nothing.
Then he saw her properly.
Her eyes were wet.
They had been.
Even before the plate.
"Come back early," she said.
Quiet.
"Okay?"
He nodded.
Because anything else would be wrong.
Behind her words sat what she didn't say.
I love this idiot.
Lanre understood it.
He always did.
Just never when it mattered.
I'll protect them, he told himself.
It sounded solid.
Reliable.
Like something a man in control would say.
Which was the problem
Because in a few hours—
He would find something that did not care about love.
Or restraint.
Or being left alone.
And the worst part?
He was still looking forward to