Five Months, Three Weeks Later

The house was quiet.

Tobiloba was at the nursery. Folake was at work, and Emmanuel had taken Adesuwa out in the pram. For the first time in days, Yetunde had the place to herself.

She sat on her bed with her mother’s scissors in her lap, not sewing, just holding them and thinking.

Five months and three weeks.

That was how long she had been away from Lagos.

Long enough to miss things she once took for granted.

Her shop.

Shade.

The customers whose names filled her order book.

Sister Bisi, who had been managing everything patiently while Yetunde remained thousands of miles away.

Sometimes she missed Lagos so sharply she could almost smell it.

But things had become more complicated than that.

When she first arrived in England, going home had always been the plan.

Now she wasn’t so sure. She loved England too, largely because of Jide.

Somewhere between the voice notes and the video calls and the Saturday visits, he had stopped being a pleasant part of her life and became part of the future she was imagining.

And that was the problem.

Lagos was home.

Jide was here.

She turned her mother’s scissors over in her hands.

The orange handles were worn smooth from years of use. Her mother had held these same handles. Sometimes Yetunde thought about that, not with grief anymore, but the awareness that carrying them felt a little like carrying a piece of her mother with her.

Her phone lit up on the bedside table.

She smiled before she even looked.

Jide.

A voice note.

She picked up the phone and pressed play.

As his voice filled the room, she found herself smiling.

She wondered if he knew how much she would miss him when she left.

Then she immediately felt guilty for the thought.

Of course he knew.

He tried not to show it, but she knew him better now.

She also knew what Elizabeth had done to him. Trusting someone and discovering that trust had been misplaced had cost him more than he liked to admit, and now he had to do it again, with her.

He never spoke about it much anymore, but sometimes she heard it in the questions he didn’t ask. The way he always wanted to know she had arrived somewhere safely. The way he called every day without fail. The way he seemed determined to build something solid between them before distance had the chance to interfere.

He trusted her.

She knew that.

But she also suspected that the thought of her getting on a plane back to Lagos was harder for him than he let on.

She clicked the voice note.

“Hey babe. I got you a jersey from my club. I thought you should have one, especially now that you’re going back to Lagos. Somebody has to represent my people over there.”

Halfway through the voice note she heard the front door downstairs and Emmanuel’s voice carrying through the hallway. He was talking to Adesuwa, explaining the world to her as though she understood every word.

The body wash, lotion and face wash Jide sent last week were still sitting on the dressing table where she had left them, deciding it was best not to start using them till she gets to Lagos.

Yetunde looked at them and smiled.

This was the rhythm of the past five months.

Every week, without fail, something arrived.

Not always anything expensive. Sometimes it was a book she had mentioned wanting to read. Sometimes it was a snack she said she missed. Once, after she admitted she had been skipping meals because she was too tired, a week’s worth of smoothies had appeared at the door.

She had begged him to stop. Genuinely, more than once.

Jide always listened whenever she raised it.

Then he continued doing it anyway. Today it was a jersey, next week who knows what he would send.

Eventually she had realized this was simply how he loved, not with grand speeches or dramatic gestures, and had just let him be.

He listened when she spoke. He remembered things she forgot she had said. He noticed needs she barely acknowledged herself.

The gifts were evidence that he was paying attention.

The plan had been simple. Finish the visit. Help Madam Folake. Return to Lagos. Continue her life.

Then Jide happened.

That was what made everything difficult.

Lagos was still home.

But for the first time in her life, home was no longer the only place she wanted to be.

And if she was honest, that thought frightened her a little.

She heard Emmanuel on the stairs, then a knock.

“Come in, sir.”

He opened the door with a package under his arm and the look on his face that meant he already knew something and found it quietly amusing.

“For you,” he said. “Again.”

She stood. “Thank you, sir.”

He handed it over and she sat back on the bed, opening it. He stayed, which she had learned meant he wanted to talk.

Inside was a jersey. Chelsea blue. She turned it over.

Her name on the back. In white letters, neat and certain.

She looked at it.

“From your guy,” Emmanuel said.

“Yes, sir.”

He came in properly and sat in the chair by the window. 

“I see your glow,” he said. “I want you to know that I see it. You’ve been trying to hide this relationship from us but it’s not something you can hide. You’re happier than when you arrived.” 

He paused. 

“It’s a good thing. You don’t need to apologize for it.”

“I just didn’t want to make things uncomfortable, sir. Especially with Madam–”

“I know.” He looked out of the window, then back at her. “Yetunde, I want to say something to you. Something I should have said a long time ago.”

She waited.

“We brought you here,” he said. “And we called it a visit. But we both know what it really was. Our marriage was struggling. We were fighting. We needed help, and you were the person we knew we could count on.” 

He looked down briefly. 

“You came thinking it would be two months and it became almost six. You took on responsibilities that should never have become yours, and you carried them without complaint.” 

His eyes returned to hers.  “That wasn’t fair to you.”

A pause.

“I’m sorry.”

Yetunde held the jersey in her hands and said nothing.

“You’ve brought peace to this house,” Emmanuel said. “Genuine peace. Folake and I stopped fighting. The children are well. I was able to go on my exchange program and come back knowing everything was in order. And now you’re leaving next week and–” He stopped again. Something moved across his face. “It scares me, honestly. What happens to us after you go.”

“You’ll manage, sir. You will.”

“God willing.” He looked at her. “But I’m grateful. And I’m glad that something good has come out of it for you. This man makes me glad, Yetunde. You deserve something good from these months.” He paused. “Which brings me to this. Next Saturday, the day you travel, happens to be Adesuwa’s first birthday. Folake and I were already planning a small gathering. Nothing big, just family. And I thought—” He leaned forward slightly. “Why not invite Jide? He can come for the birthday, meet everyone properly, and then we’ll all take you to the airport together.”

Yetunde looked at him. “Really?”

“Folake agrees. She wants to meet him.” He saw her expression. “I know. Folake was afraid at the beginning that he would make you want to leave before your time was up. Now she has seen that isn’t the case. When she meets him in person, she will be easier on him.” 

“I would really appreciate that, sir. He means a lot to me, and I want him to meet my family.”

Emmanuel smiled. “Good. Then it’s decided. I am glad you know you are part of our family.” He paused. “But Yetunde. You should buy him something before you leave.”

She blinked. “Sir?”

“Have you ever given this man anything?”

She hesitated. “No. I have naira but I don’t know how to—-”

He was already reaching into his pocket.

She saw the notes before she understood what was happening. A hundred pounds, held out toward her.

“Sir, no—-”

“Take it. Buy him something thoughtful. It doesn’t have to be expensive. His love language is clearly gifting, look at what has been arriving at this house every week. Let him know that you see him too.” He kept his hand extended. “You can go to the city center tomorrow. I’ll be home with the children. ”

She looked at the money. Then she slid off the bed and went on her knees.

“Yetunde.” His voice was firm and gentle at the same time. He took her hands and pulled her up. “No. If anyone should be kneeling it is me. My mother found you in Osi and brought you to us in Lagos and you have been a blessing to this family from the beginning. We don’t take you for granted. I need you to know that.”

She could not speak.

Then she said, “Sir. Can I ask you something?”

“Go ahead.”

“I want to go and see him this weekend, before I leave on Saturday. He has always been the one coming to visit. I have never seen his home. Never seen where he lives, met his people properly.” She paused. “This relationship is serious now. I feel like I should know his world before I leave. I want to go to Birmingham.”

Emmanuel looked at her. Then he nodded.

“Go,” he said. “I’ll be home on Saturday. Folake will be home as well. We’ll stay with the children. You go.” He looked at her steadily. “But go with that gift. And be sure that you trust him.”

“I do,” she said. “I really do.”

“Then go.”

Her phone lit up on the nightstand.

Emmanuel looked at it, then at her. “Him again.”

“He’s probably just checking if I received the jersey.”

“Yetunde.” He said her name quietly, with a small smile. “You don’t have to explain why your boyfriend is calling you.”

He walked out and pulled the door behind him.

She picked the call.

“You got it?”

“Jide. A jersey. With my name on it.”

“Do you like it?”

“I like it, but that is not the point.”

He laughed. She could hear him settling somewhere, the sound of a chair, then quiet. “What is the point?”

“The point is that you have to stop. Every week something arrives at this house. Do you know how much money you are spending? You’re going to finish your salary on me.”

“My salary is fine.”

“It is not fine. A necklace, a book, food, perfume, chocolates, a bag, body healing set, and now a jersey. Jide. Who does this?”

“Someone who likes you.”

“Someone who will go broke.”

“I won’t be broke.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yetunde.” His voice had the warmth in it that undid her arguments before she finished making them. “I’m not going to be broke. And even if I were, it would be worth it.”

“It would not be worth it.”

“It would.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“Because it keeps being true.” She looked at the jersey in her lap. She ran her thumb across it. “It’s very fine though.”

He laughed. “I knew you would like it.”

“I didn’t say I like it.”

“You said it was fine.”

“Fine and like are two different things.”

“With you, they’re the same.”

She opened her mouth to respond, and then his line clicked.

“Sorry,” he said. “One second, it’s my boss.”

“Go. Pick it up.”

“I’ll call you back.”

“It’s okay, go, and thank you. I like it.”

The line went quiet.

She sat on the bed with the jersey in her hands thinking of the one gift that could compete with all of his, and fell short.

————————————————————————————————————–

Four Days Later

The house was asleep but Yetunde was still awake.

She sat on the edge of her bed with the lamp on its lowest setting, to avoid waking Adesuwa. The needles moved steadily in her hands. She held the cream wool, knitting, the blanket growing row by row across her lap. For three nights now she had worked on it, four hours each night after the house went quiet. She could hear Adesuwa breathing in the cot. She was almost done.

She finished the last row, held it up in the low light and looked at it. The rows were even and had consistent tension. The wool had a softness that would only improve with washing. Her grandmother would have approved. She folded it across her lap and felt, again, the same feeling she had felt in the city center three days ago.

Who gives a grown man a hand-knitted blanket.

She had stood in Coventry city center for almost an hour that afternoon. Walking slowly, picking things up, putting them down. What do you buy for a thoughtful man like Jide?

She had wished she was in Lagos. At home she would have known immediately. She would have gone to the fabric market, found something fine, and made him a shirt. She knew his measurements from the one time she had asked casually and filed them away, just like she filed everyone’s measurements, a habit so deep it had become reflex. She could have made him something beautiful in two days.

But she was not in Lagos. She was in Coventry.

Then she walked past the wool.

The idea came the way good ideas did, not announced, just present. She could knit. The hands would remember. She could make him something that nobody could order online and have delivered to a door. Something that had taken time. Something that had cost her nights.

She had bought the wool and walked home feeling certain.

By the time she reached her room the certainty was gone.

She had sat on the bed and thought: ‘this is foolish.’ He is a thirty-year-old software engineer. He sends gifts that come in proper packaging with proper labels. And she was going to give him something she knitted herself in the dark. Like a grandmother. 

She had almost put the wool back in the bag, but she had spent Emmanuel’s money on it and could not go empty-handed to see Jide.

She had not told Jide about the blanket though. When he called the evening after her conversation with Emmanuel she had told him she was coming to cook for him,  that was the real gift. An act of service. She would cook properly, fill his fridge, leave something of herself in his kitchen. She knew how to do that. 

The blanket was different. Private. She might not even give it to him.

He had been so happy about the cooking, and that she was coming to see him. She had heard it in his silence even before he said anything, then he voiced it. “You’re coming to cook for me?” As though he needed to say it out loud to believe it. He had told her to send him a list of what she needed for the meals, and he had said he would get them. He booked her train before they finished the call.

She smiled, remembering the conversation. Then she looked at the blanket in her lap.

Twelve hours of midnight work. Three nights. 

She folded the blanket, smoothing the edges, held it for a moment, then she put it in her bag. She didn’t decide if she was going to give him. She just put it in the bag and left the decision for tomorrow, for whatever the day became.

She turned off the lamp and lay down.

In the dark she said:

“Lord. I don’t know what I’m doing. But you do. So I’ll just go. Whatever happens, please be in it.”

She fell asleep shortly after.