The serve was Jide’s and he was losing.

Not because James was the better player, James was never the better player, but Jide had been standing at the baseline for the last four minutes with his phone out, scrolling, the tennis ball sitting untouched in his left hand.

“Are you going to serve,” James said from the other side of the net, “or are you going to shop all day?”

“Give me a second.”

“You said that three points ago.” James walked to the net and leaned on his racket, watching him. “We’re in the middle of a set.”

“I know.”

“You’re losing.”

“I know.”

“And you don’t care?”

Jide held up one finger without looking up.

James stood at the net and looked at him. They did this once a month, synced their days off deliberately, the one standing arrangement they had kept for three years, and it was supposed to be the one morning when work and phones and everything else waited. The court was mostly empty, one other pair at the far end, an older man working on his serve alone near the back wall. 

Jide was on the Nike page. He had been on it for twenty minutes. He had narrowed it down to two options and was now, somehow, back to seven.

“What are you buying?” James asked.

“Sneakers.”

“For yourself?”

Jide said nothing.

“Right.” James looked at the ceiling briefly. “For her.”

Still nothing.

“Jide,” James said, the way he called his name before dropping an opinion. “You’ve been on that phone since we got here. You were on it in the car park, and the changing room. Now you’re on it in the middle of a match you are losing.” He paused. “Who buys sneakers for a woman they’ve spoken to for only one month?”

“Someone who noticed she had sandals on a plane to England last month.”

James went quiet, not getting the point.

“She had sandals,” Jide said, still looking at the screen. “On the flight. It didn’t mean anything then. But for the past month every time we talk late she says something about the cold. How it gets into her feet. How she didn’t pack right for this weather.” He scrolled past a pair and stopped. “She packed for two months. She’s staying almost six. She needs to have at least one pair of sneakers.”

“We’re approaching summer,” James said. “Sandals will be fine by then.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jide said. “Better she has options.”

James looked at him for a long moment.

“You remembered the sandals,” he said. “From the plane.”

“I remember everything about her.” Jide said it simply, without drama, which made it worse. “She had orange sandals.” 

James straightened up from the net. He picked up his racket, ready to keep playing.

“The white ones,” he said.

Jide looked up. “What?”

“The white sneakers on the page, buy it. White is simple, and clean, goes with everything.” He walked back to his baseline. “And then put your phone away and serve. Because I would like to finish this match before I’m old.”

Jide looked back at the screen. His thumb hovered over the white pair, then added them to the cart.

“How do you know what she would like?” he asked James.

“I don’t. But you’ve been on that page long enough for me to have an opinion, and like I said earlier, white goes with everything.” James bounced a ball. “Serve.” Jide put the phone in his pocket and tossed the ball up and served. James returned it hard down the line. Jide let it go.

“She keeps saying no,” Jide said, picking up another ball.

“To what?”

“To me coming to see her. Every time I mention it she changes the subject or says she’s busy or says it’s not a good time.”

“Yet you’re buying her sneakers.”

“Yes.”

James watched him. “How long has this been going on?”

“One month.”

“You’ve spoken every day for one month?”

“More than spoken. Add up the calls and messages, there’s no day we haven’t talked for at least four hours, and the sweet thing is that we never want it to end.” He bounced the ball once. “I’ve never had that with anyone, not even Elizabeth, in the four years we were together.”

James said nothing. He had the look he got when he was deciding whether to say the thing he was thinking.

“She taught me to make egusi soup,” Jide said. “Over the phone. It took forty-five minutes. I burnt the first batch and she talked me through it again.”

“She taught you to make soup?”

“Over the phone. Yes.”

James shook his head slowly. “Serve,” he said. “And tell me everything.”

———————————————————————————————————————

The baby had been crying for eleven minutes.

Yetunde knew because she had looked at the clock when it started, the way she always did now, a habit she had developed in the first week: mark the time, it helps you hold on. Adesuwa was not a difficult baby. She was simply a baby who communicated everything with full force. Right now, she was communicating that the diaper situation was unacceptable and had been that way for some time.

“I know,” Yetunde told her. “I know. Give me your leg.”

The house was empty. Folake had left for work at half past seven. Emmanuel shortly after. Tobiloba was at the nursery. It was Yetunde and Adesuwa at home now. She had one leg free and was reaching for the clean diaper when her phone rang.

She looked at the screen.

Jide.

Her heart did something she did not examine. She shook it off immediately, the way you shake off a thought that has no business forming. She was changing the baby, and was busy. She should let it go to missed calls, she thought. Yet, she picked up.

“I’ve caught you at a bad time,” he said immediately when he heard Adesuwa’s cry. “I’m sorry, I’ll…”

“No, it’s fine. I’m just changing the baby.”

“Can I see her?”

She almost said no, because it meant he would see her too, and she wasn’t looking so put together, but instead she said, “Why not?” and switched to video.

Then he was there on her screen.

She took a breath. Seeing him almost made her do a double take.

She crouched on the floor beside Adesuwa, lifting the baby’s legs with one hand while tossing the old diaper into a trash bag with the other. A fresh one was already waiting. She had done this enough times now to move through the process without thinking, efficient and practiced.

Jide didn’t say anything. He just watched her work.

“How is your day going?” he asked eventually.

“Tiring. This one did not sleep well last night. She was up at two and again at four. I’m just hoping she’ll go down now so I can sleep a little before dinner.”

“You were up with her at four in the morning?”

“She was crying. What would I do, leave her?”

Jide was quiet. “Where is her mother? 

“At work.”

“But—” He stopped himself. Started again. “You’re saying that you slept with the baby. That you got up at two and four in the morning for someone else’s child?”

“Her mother has to work. I’m home all day. It makes sense.”

“It doesn’t make sense, Yetunde. That is her child. People take care of their own children.”

“Jide.” She fastened the diaper tabs and lifted Adesuwa onto her hip. “You’re from Nigeria. You know how these things work. When there is someone in your house, you trust them with your baby. You let them help you, while you focus on other things.”

“Not from my side. People take care of their own children. When people help you, it’s just for a period of time, no one simply takes over.”

“Well…” She shifted the baby to her shoulder, patting her back in slow circles. “I am here. They have to go to work. For the time I am with them, I help as much as I can.”

He looked at her for a long moment through the screen. “You have a heart of gold.”

She smiled without meaning to. “Stop.”

“I mean it. And the way you’re holding that baby…” He let out a breath. “It makes me want to have a child myself.”

She laughed, a real laugh, quick and warm. “Jide, calm down. These babies, they look nice when you’re carrying them. But if you want a child, want a child because you want a life in the world after you. Not because of cuteness. The cuteness passes and one day you will want to run and leave the baby behind.”

He laughed. Then: “Well. If I had a wife like you, I probably wouldn’t.”

He stopped.

“I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable–”

“It’s fine,” she said, deciding not to read any meaning to it, then adjusted the baby on her shoulder. Adesuwa was already quieting, her small fist curled against Yetunde’s collarbone. 

“So,” he said. “What’s your shoe size?”

Yetunde blinked. The change of subject caught her off guard, though she followed it easily enough.

“Why do you want to know my shoe size?”

“I just want to know.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “What’s yours?”

“Forty-four.”

“Ah.” She laughed. “Your leg is long.”

“It really isn’t. My friend James wears forty-seven.”

Yetunde stared at him. “Forty-seven?”

“Forty-seven.”

“I didn’t even know shoe sizes extended to forty-seven.”

“They do.”

She shook her head. “Mine is big thirty-eight, small thirty-nine.”

Jide frowned. “What does that even mean?”

“It means sometimes thirty-eight is tight and sometimes thirty-nine is big. But thirty-nine is usually safe.”

He nodded slowly. “Big thirty-eight, small thirty-nine.”

“Yes.”

“That means you’re a thirty-eight point five.”

Yetunde looked genuinely surprised.

“There is thirty-eight point five?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know that.” She smiled. “Thank you for telling me. I’ll remember it in case somebody wants to buy me shoes.”

“Well,” Jide said.

She looked at him.

“I want to buy you shoes.”

“She shifted the baby. Jide, don’t spend your money.”

“Thank God you said it’s my money. Then I will spend it on what I want to.”

“Ha.” She looked at him again. “What have I done to deserve a gift?”

“You don’t have to do something to deserve a gift. A gift is a gift.”

“Okay. What kind of shoes?”

“Sneakers.”

“Yay!” The word came out before she could overthink it. “That is very good, I don’t have one. Here, everybody wears sneakers. Even in church on Sunday. I have some in Lagos but I didn’t bring them.”

“White Nike,” he said. “Clean and simple.”

“White?” She made a face. “Please buy black. Black goes with everything.”

“White goes with everything too.”

She considered this. “Actually, that’s true. Okay, white is fine.” She shook her head. “I have always admired those ladies who wear white sneakers on ankara dresses. Pure white.”

He laughed. “Send me your address. I’ll dispatch it.”

She went still.

“You want the address,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Of this house.”

“Yes.”

She looked at him through the screen. He looked back at her like a man who has played his hand and knows it.

“Jide,” she said slowly. “I’ve caught you.”

He opened his mouth.

“This shoe. The sneakers. It’s not just a gift. You want to know the address so that you can come”. He tried to hold his face. He couldn’t.

“Partly,” he started. “but I genuinely want to give you the shoes. Both things are true.”

Yetunde laughed, startling Adesuwa slightly. The baby lifted her head and then settled again. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll send it. But let me ask you something first. Why do you want to know this address so badly? Why do you want to come and see me?”

He was quiet. When he spoke again, something had shifted in his voice. “Because I’m not sure you can go out. Every time I call, you are in that house, cooking or cleaning or with the baby. You said they are family but they are not your family. They brought you here and I don’t know if you are free. I just—” He stopped. “I wanted to know where you are. In case…”

She stared at him, “In case what? You think they are trafficking me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” She shook her head, laughing a little despite herself. “Jide, I am a grown adult. Nobody can traffick me.”

“If that’s the case then you should be able to go out. Come to Birmingham. Coventry to Birmingham is nothing.”

She looked at him. “Okay. But listen to yourself, I met you on a plane. What if I come to Birmingham and you are the one who steals me? How will they find me?”

“That’s a valid concern,” he said seriously. “I could steal you exactly the way I think these people could. Keep you in my house.”

“And then you’ll just marry me there, because if you’re keeping me in your house we might as well.”

“I don’t mind. We can arrange the wedding”

“Jide.” She gave him the look. “You don’t know when someone is joking. What wedding? Go”

He was grinning.

“Anyway,” she said, “on Saturday, Madam Folake will be home and I should have the afternoon. You can come, but we will meet outside, at a restaurant or a mall. But come to the house first because I won’t know how to find you. You can tell them you are the man who helped me on the plane.”

“Oh! I am meeting the in-laws already. Nice!”

“You are such a joker.”

“This is how I will joke my way into achieving my goals,” he said.

“How many goals did you have?”

“Three. One, to know your address, two, to give you the gift, three, I will tell you when I see you before you change your mind.”

“Ha! Jide,” She shifted the baby, who was now fully asleep against her shoulder, mouth slightly open, one fist still pressed to Yetunde’s collarbone.

“No more surprises.”

He laughed.

“I can listen to you all day. I like how you say things.”

“Go,” she said, but she was smiling

“The baby is sleeping. I have to go and put her down”.

“Go and sleep ”

“I will.”

“Thank you, Yetunde. Bye.”

“For what?”

But he had already said goodbye, and the call ended, and she was standing in the living room with a sleeping baby on her shoulder and something in her chest that had no name yet.

She stood there for a moment, then walked to her room and put the baby down.

Looking to the ceiling, she said, God. I’m beginning to like this man. What am I doing? If I should not be liking him, please cancel it. Help me.

She laughed softly at herself, and added, I think he likes me too.

———————————————————————————————————————

Jide won, as he usually did.

Not by much. James made him work for it, the way James always did when he had something to prove, but the game was his by the time they walked off the court, and Jide was as satisfied as a man who had been briefly distracted and then returned to himself and still came out on top.

They went into the restaurant afterwards, sweaty, hungry, and already arguing about points neither of them could now prove.

Jide ordered first.

“The chicken,” he said.

James looked at him.

“What?”

“You always get the chicken.”

“It’s a good chicken.”

“You’ve been coming here for three years.”

“And for three years it’s been good.”

James shook his head and ordered his own meal. The waitress left.

Neither of them spoke.

Then James leaned back in his chair.

“Mate.”

Jide looked up.

“You spent the entire walk over here checking your phone.”

“I checked it twice.”

“Four times.”

Jide opened his mouth, then closed it again.

James nodded.

“Exactly.”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

“You hate texting.”

“I don’t hate texting.”

“You once left me on read for nine days.”

“I replied eventually.”

“With a thumbs-up.”

Jide laughed despite himself.

James pointed across the table.

“And there it is. You’ve been smiling like that all afternoon.”

“You are really gone for this girl.”

Jide laughed. “What did I do to give that away? I won the game.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“How?”

“Because I spent half the match watching you. You were smiling to yourself.”

“I was not.”

“You were. Standing there at the baseline looking like a man remembering a private joke.”

Jide looked away.

James immediately pointed again.

“That. That thing you just did.”

“What thing?”

“The refusing-to-deny-it thing.”

A reluctant smile appeared on Jide’s face.

James threw up his hands.

“Exactly. You’ve met this girl once. Once. And you’ve spent the last month looking like somebody whose life has suddenly become a lot more interesting.”

Jide was quiet.

Then he said, “You’re not wrong.”

“I know.”

“She’s different.”

James nodded slowly.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s the part I’m worried about.”

“You’ve met this girl once, and just like your faithful chicken order of three years, you’ve been faithful to her for a month, and I use that word deliberately, faithful, because that’s what it looks like. You look like a man who has already decided that you want more from her.”

Jide was quiet. Then: “You’re not wrong.”

“I know.”

“It’s not just one month.” Jide leaned forward slightly. “It’s an understatement to say that we speak at least four hours in a day. There’s no day we’ve not called or chatted since we met. That’s more than I gave Elizabeth in our best months. And I was going to marry Elizabeth.” He paused. “I’ve never had that with a woman. I’ve always wanted it. I didn’t know it was possible until this one.”

James was listening. He didn’t press. He just listened, the way James did when he had decided something was worth paying rapt attention to.

“I’m not going to say I’m in love with her, even though it already feels that way,” Jide said. “I don’t know her the way you know someone you love. I am not sure I do. But what I feel for her, whatever this is, is stronger than what I felt for Elizabeth. And Elizabeth was the woman I bought a ring for.” He looked at the table. “So now I’m asking myself, if this feeling exists, what was it I had with Elizabeth? Could that have also been love? I honestly don’t know. I can’t even explain it.”

“Take it easy,” James said. It wasn’t a warning. It was something more like care. “I like what I’m seeing in you. I mean that. Everything you’ve told me about her, she sounds like someone really great. But you were hurt, Jide. Even if you don’t feel it in the way you expected to feel it.”

“Yes,” Jide said, and he said it slowly, the way he said things he was still discovering as he spoke them. “ I don’t think I was hurt by Elizabeth the way I should have been. The pain disappeared as soon as Yetunde became my friend. And maybe that tells me something too. Maybe I was not as far in as I told myself I was.” He picked up his water. “Either way, she’s agreed to see me. Saturday. I’m going to Coventry. And when I look at her one more time I’ll know. I’ll know exactly what this is.”

James nodded once. “You’re a praying man.”

“We both are.”

“So what do you feel when you pray about it?”

Jide was quiet. He thought about the morning four years ago. The dream he had and the certainty that had settled on him like a hand.

“I feel the hand of the Lord,” he said. “That’s the only way I know how to say it. It feels exactly the way it felt when I woke up years ago, convinced that there was a girl in Nigeria who was mine. I built four years on that conviction without continuing to seek. I stopped listening.” He set his glass down. “Before I go to Coventry, I’m going into prayer, properly. I want clarity. I want clearance, because if God tells me what I think He’s been telling me, then I’m going after this girl. She will become my girlfriend. That is the next step and I’m not going in slow motion.”

James looked at him for a long moment, then said, “Praying about it is the right call.”

The chicken arrived and Jide ate in silence. For the first time his mind wasn’t on the taste he always came here for. He was thinking about her, and hoped she was thinking about him too.