Episode 4

Timothy walked into the study with Maryann trailing behind him. His eyes quickly scanned the room and landed on Aunty Tina sitting by the window with a little girl beside her. The girl looked no older than four, her big, curious eyes gazing out the window, jumping excitedly with a smile.

 

“Oh,” Timothy said, pausing. “Aunty Tina, you have a guest.”

 

Maryann, already heading toward the bookshelves, smiled knowingly but said nothing. She turned her attention to the shelves and began scanning for the book she had come for. “Hi, sweetheart,” she greeted the little girl, but the child remained facing away.

 

Aunty Tina chuckled awkwardly. “No, she’s not my guest. It’s Tari’s makeup artist. She came with her daughter. The little one hasn’t said much, but she’s been good.”

 

Timothy frowned slightly, curiosity piqued. “Makeup artist?” he asked, glancing at the little girl. “I didn’t know someone brought a child.”

 

Aunty Tina shrugged. “She’s just here while they finish the makeup. Pretty little thing, full of energy.”

 

Timothy nodded absently and turned toward Maryann, who was still pretending to search for the book. “Maryann,” he called, stepping over to her. “Let me help you with that.”

 

Maryann glanced back with a grateful smile. “Oh, thank you, Timothy. I can’t seem to find it.”

 

Timothy reached for a higher shelf, pulling out a book with ease. “Here it is: Battlefield of the Mind. It’s a good one. You’ll enjoy it.”

 

Maryann took the book from him, her eyes lighting up. “Thank you so much. I’ll return it in a week.”

 

Timothy smiled faintly. “Take your time. A month, even. Just make sure you read it.”

 

Maryann laughed softly. “Now that you’re motivating me, I’ll be sure to read it. I’m looking forward to discussing it with you.”

 

Timothy nodded, his attention shifting back to the little girl who was now quietly holding his hand. He glanced down at her, and for a moment, his heart skipped a beat. Something about her face—her features—felt startlingly familiar, and he knew why. 

 

“What’s your name, little one?” he asked gently, kneeling to meet her eye level. 

 

The girl turned her head away, her small hand tightening around his fingers. Aunty Tina sighed. “She doesn’t talk much. I think she’s shy.”

 

Before Timothy could respond, the girl suddenly tugged at his hand, pulling him toward the other window. He followed her lead, bemused. A faint, garbled sound left her lips, almost like a song. 

 

“She’s singing,” Aunty Tina said, surprised. “Not very clearly, but it sounds like she’s trying. Poor thing hasn’t smiled or said much since she got here.”

 

The little girl hummed, the faint melody resembling The Wheels on the Bus. Timothy smiled warmly. “Oh, you like music, huh? That’s nice.”

 

Maryann, standing near the door, glanced at her phone as it rang. “Excuse me,” she said, stepping aside to answer. “Hello, Tari? Yes, I got the water, but now I’m in the study. I’ll be with you in a minute.” She ended the call and turned back toward Timothy. “I should head back before Tari gets upset.”

 

Timothy nodded distractedly, still focused on the little girl. “Yeah, you better go. She’s probably waiting.”  He crouched beside the child, softly humming the song she had been trying to sing. 

 

Suddenly, the girl began coughing—a small, dry sound that quickly turned into a harsh, rattling fit. Timothy stood quickly, concern etched across his face. “Aunty Tina, is there water in her bag?”

 

“Yes, yes!” Aunty Tina scrambled to the child’s small backpack, pulling out a bottle of water. She opened it hastily and handed it to Timothy, who helped the girl take small sips. 

 

The coughing subsided slightly, but the girl’s breathing still sounded shallow. Timothy scooped her up without hesitation. “It’s stuffy here. Let’s take her somewhere with more air. The living room upstairs should be better.”

 

Aunty Tina nodded, gathering the girl’s bag and following closely as Timothy carried the little one out of the study. Maryann lingered in the hallway, watching them go. 

 

“Won’t you go back to Tari?” Timothy asked, pausing briefly to glance at her.

 

“I will,” Maryann said reluctantly, her tone light but her expression tense. “I just wanted to make sure everything’s fine here.”

 

Timothy shook his head. “It’s fine. I’ll handle this. Go on.”

 

With one last glance at the little girl cradled in Timothy’s arms, Maryann finally turned away, leaving them to climb the stairs toward the living room. Timothy looked down at the child, her head resting on his shoulder, and felt a tug at his heart he couldn’t explain. 

 

“What’s your name, little one?” he murmured again, though he didn’t expect an answer. 

 

The girl’s small hand clutched at his shirt, her breathing finally easing as they reached the airy, sunlit living room upstairs.

 

————————————————————————————————————————–

Maryann walked into the makeup room, holding a copy of Battlefield of the Mind. She had a triumphant look on her face as she waved the book slightly before sitting down. 

 

Tari glanced up from her phone. “Wow, where did you go? We’ve been waiting for you.” 

 

Maryann smiled innocently. “I needed a book from the study. Your brother helped me get it.”

 

Immediately, Amara’s hand froze mid-motion as she applied eye shadow on Tari’s crease. Her heart skipped a beat. Timothy had seen her child. She felt her breath quicken but forced herself to continue working as though nothing had happened.

 

Tari raised a suspicious brow, clearly catching on. “The study? Of all places? And Timothy was helping you? Maryann, what exactly are you up to?”

 

Maryann feigned offense. “Up to something? Please, I’m not up to anything. I’m a guest in this house. This is the first time I’ve taken a book from the library, and your brother was kind enough to help me. What’s so strange about that?”

 

Tari rolled her eyes. “Okay, no wahala. So, where is he now?”

 

Maryann sat back and crossed her legs, an almost imperceptible smirk tugging at her lips. “Oh, the little girl started coughing, so he and Aunty Tina took her somewhere. I didn’t really pay attention.”

 

Amara’s heart dropped. “She’s coughing?” she said, her voice laced with concern. “I think I need to check on her.”

 

Maryann waved dismissively. “There’s no need. It wasn’t anything serious.”

 

Tari added quickly, “Don’t worry, Aunty Tina is great with kids. She’ll call if there’s anything wrong. Just focus on your work. They’ll be fine.”

 

Amara hesitated but eventually nodded. “Okay, thank you.” She bent her head slightly, trying to steady her trembling hands as she returned to the task at hand. 

 

Maryann watched her for a moment, an almost predatory gleam in her eyes, and then leaned forward. “So,” she asked casually, “your husband—what does he do?”

 

Amara’s hand paused again, but this time she straightened up and looked Maryann directly in the eye. She sighed softly and replied, “I’m not married.”

 

Maryann raised her eyebrows in mock surprise. “Oh… oops, sorry.”

 

Tari immediately cut in, her tone sharp. “Maryann, please, enough. What’s wrong with you? Leave her alone. What’s your business, asking all these questions?”

 

Maryann leaned back, pretending to be affronted. “You just like making me look bad, Tari. It was an innocent question, for goodness’ sake.”

 

Amara smiled faintly, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s fine. No harm done. Thank you, ladies.”

 

The room fell into a strained silence as Amara resumed her work, her mind racing. She could feel Maryann’s gaze lingering on her, but she chose to ignore it. Meanwhile, Maryann sat back with a smug expression, thinking to herself, this girl isn’t going to win.

 

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

Timothy was sitting on the floor of the living room, watching as Ziora darted around with boundless energy. She climbed onto the couch, slid back down, and ran to hide behind the curtains. He shook his head, amazed. “Is this how active four-year-olds are?” he asked Aunty Tina, who was seated nearby, keeping a watchful eye.

 

Aunty Tina chuckled. “I don’t know about all four-year-olds, but this one certainly has a lot of energy. She’s been running non-stop since you brought her here.”

 

Timothy smiled faintly, though his mind was swirling with thoughts. Ziora’s high energy, her laughter, her random babbling—it was fascinating to watch. Yet there was something about her that tugged at his heart. Her face, her mannerisms—it was like a mirror reflecting someone he once knew so well. 

 

His thoughts kept circling back to Amara. Who is her husband? Where did they meet? What’s her life like now? Questions filled his mind, questions he couldn’t allow himself to dwell on. 

 

Ziora toddled over to him and grabbed his phone. “Hey, what’s this now? Do you want to watch something?” Timothy asked with a laugh, unlocking the phone.

 

She didn’t answer, of course, but she tapped the screen, navigating straight to YouTube. He raised a brow, impressed. “Wow, you know YouTube? What do you want to watch?”

 

Just then, Aunty Tina rose from her seat. “Ah, let me go and check on the cook, to ensure he has started dinner. I’ll leave her with you for a bit, sir.”

 

Timothy blinked. “Wait—what? You’re leaving me alone with her?”

 

Aunty Tina laughed. “You’ll be fine. She seems to like you.” She picked up her phone and headed out of the room, leaving Timothy alone with Ziora.

 

Timothy shook his head, watching as the little girl tried to maneuver her way on YouTube. He was still watching her when he heard footsteps approaching. Tari, Maryann, and Amara entered the room.

 

“Ah, there you are!” Tari said cheerfully. “How’s our little one?”

 

“She’s fine,” Timothy replied, standing up fully. “Though she’s been running me ragged. This little one has endless energy.”

 

Amara quickly walked forward, bowing her head slightly. “Thank you so much for babysitting. I really appreciate it.”

 

Timothy smiled politely. “It was nothing. I actually enjoyed our time together.” He glanced at Ziora, who was still clutching his phone. “She’s quite a handful, though.”

 

Amara knelt down to her daughter’s level. “Ziora, please give uncle his phone,” she said gently.

 

Tari glanced at her watch. “Maryann, let’s go. We’re late for the party.”

 

Maryann shrugged. “We’re not in that much of a hurry.”

 

Tari rolled her eyes. “Of course we are! Let’s go.”

 

Reluctantly, Maryann turned to Timothy. “Thank you for the book, by the way. I’ll see you later.” She gave Amara a lingering look, then followed Tari out of the room.

 

Now it was just Timothy, Amara, and Ziora.

 

Amara tried to take the phone from Ziora, but her daughter refused to let go, clutching it tightly. “Ziora, please give uncle his phone,” she repeated. She finally pried it loose and handed it to Timothy. “Thank you again, Timothy,” she said softly, still avoiding his gaze.

 

Timothy studied her for a moment. “Amara, why are you so uncomfortable around me? We’re not strangers.”

 

She hesitated, her hands fidgeting. “I don’t know,” she stammered. “It’s just… I guess I feel guilty. You didn’t deserve to be jilted like that. I was wrong. And now, facing you again, I just don’t feel worthy.”

 

Timothy suppressed a sigh, brushing his irritation aside. “Don’t feel worthy? What do you even mean by that?”

 

Before she could answer, Ziora began tugging on Amara’s hand, pulling her toward the bag of snacks on the floor. “I think she’s hungry,” Amara said quickly, eager to change the subject. “I should take her home.”

 

Timothy shook his head. “Why not let her eat here?”

 

Amara hesitated, then mumbled, “I just… I have to go home.”

 

Timothy frowned. “To your husband?”

 

Amara looked at him, startled. “What husband? I’m not married.”

 

Timothy’s eyes widened. “You’re not married? But I thought—”

 

“It’s a long story,” Amara said, cutting him off.

 

“Care to share?” Timothy pressed.

 

She shook her head. “I don’t want to bore you with my life.”

 

Timothy stepped closer, his voice soft. “But if I won’t be bored, will you tell me? I just want to catch up, Amara.”

 

She looked at him, her eyes glassy. “There is not much to catch up on. In summary, I’m not happy about my choices. I’m not happy about my life.”

 

Timothy gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Hey, calm down. How about this—let’s go have lunch. The three of us.”

 

Amara blinked. “Lunch? Timothy, where is this coming from?”

 

“It’s you, Amara,” he said simply. “You’re where this is coming from. When I’m around you, I just want to make things better. You’re my friend. Even if there’s nothing between us anymore, can’t we still be friends? I like you. I’ve always liked you. And I never stopped. So now that I have the chance to see you, to be around you, of course I want to make it last.”

 

Amara’s lips trembled. “Timothy, you haven’t changed.”

 

He smiled warmly. “I’ll get my driver.”

 

————————————————————————————————————————–

Amara knew she should have rejected the request. It would have been easier to keep the boundaries clear, to avoid stirring up feelings she thought she had buried long ago. But a part of her, the part that longed for the simplicity and joy she once knew, had allowed it. Now, sitting in the back of Timothy’s sleek Lexus SUV, with Ziora perched between them, the consequence of her decision bore down on her.

 

It didn’t feel right. The three of them almost felt like a family, an illusion of what her life could have been if she hadn’t made the choices that led to chaos. Timothy seemed so at ease, gently laughing as Ziora bounced up and down, trying to climb over to the driver’s seat. Amara, on the other hand, was restless. She looked out the tinted window, her heart heavy, unable to bring herself to look at him.

 

“Ziora, sit down,” she scolded softly, reaching to pull her daughter back. But Timothy waved her off, his tone gentle. 

 

“Let her be, Amara. I’ve got her,” he said, holding Ziora steady with one hand. “She’s just having fun.”

 

Amara leaned back, unsure what to do with herself. The quiet was only broken by Ziora’s giggles and Timothy’s occasional comments to the driver. Her thoughts swirled until she finally blurted out, “Timothy, you really shouldn’t be doing this. I mean, with your status…where are you even taking us, that people won’t recognise you? You don’t need to do this.”

 

Timothy glanced at her, his expression calm but firm. “I’m a grown man, Amara. I can do what I want to do. And anyway, I know places—exclusive ones, where we can go and not be disturbed.”

 

“Oh no, please don’t take us to one of those places,” she said quickly, shaking her head. “Those spots are too expensive. There’s no need. Honestly, you don’t have to—”

 

Timothy cut her off with a small smile. “It’s not about you, Amara. It’s for Ziora. Ziora is my friend now, and I must take my friend out. But since she’s underage, I need you as my chaperone. What about that? Does that work?”

 

Despite herself, Amara smiled. “You haven’t changed, Timothy. I don’t know why our classmates assumed you don’t talk a lot. Do people still think you’re quiet?”

 

Timothy chuckled softly. “With you, I have never been quiet.”

 

She rolled her eyes playfully, but the moment was interrupted by the sharp ringtone of her phone. Glancing at the screen, her heart sank. It was Anibo, her neighbor. Anibo never called unless something was terribly wrong.

 

“Hello, madam,” she answered, her voice wary. “How are you?”

 

“Ah, Amara,” Anibo’s voice was laced with frustration. “You forgot to turn off your tap again. Water is pouring everywhere! The tank has emptied twice this week. The landlord is furious. The house is flooded. Are you closeby?”

 

Amara’s heart plummeted. “Oh my God,” she whispered, panic setting in. “I’m so sorry. Please, I’ll be there soon.”

 

She ended the call and turned to Timothy, her voice trembling. “Timothy, please, raincheck on dinner. I need to get home now. It’s urgent.”

 

“What’s wrong?” Timothy asked, his brow furrowing.

 

“I forgot to turn off the tap,” she said quickly. “My house is flooded, and my landlord is furious. I’m so sorry, Timothy, but please, just drop us here. I’ll call an Uber.”

 

Timothy didn’t budge. “What’s your address?”

 

“No, Timothy, you don’t have to—”

 

“Amara,” he said, his voice steady but commanding, “you said your house is flooded. Of course I’m taking you there.”

 

“Timothy, this isn’t your problem,” she protested, her embarrassment rising. “I’ll handle it. Please, you don’t need to come.”

 

“Just give me the address,” he insisted.

 

Amara hesitated, but when she saw he wasn’t backing down, she reluctantly gave it. Timothy repeated it to the driver, who nodded and immediately turned the car around. 

 

As they headed toward her house, Amara’s stomach churned with shame. She badly needed to shield him from the mess her life had become. Yet, not only was he going to see where she lived, but he would see it in its worst possible state.

 

She sank into her seat, wishing the ground would swallow her whole. Timothy, on the other hand, seemed unfazed, focusing on calming Ziora, who was now tugging at his arm. His kindness only made her feel worse.

 

————————————————————————————————————————–

 

By the time they arrived at Amara’s place, it had been a 45-minute drive. Amara was grateful for the timing because if she had stayed any longer in the car, it would have been unbearable. Timothy and Ziora had been inseparable all through the ride, with Ziora eventually falling asleep in Timothy’s arms. Amara had tried to take her daughter back more than once, but between Timothy’s quiet insistence, “Don’t worry, I’ve got her”, and Ziora’s firm grip on his neck, Amara gave up. 

 

Her heart felt heavy as she watched them. This was supposed to be her life. Timothy was supposed to be the man she built a family with. Instead, here she was, getting a pity ride from him, through a neighborhood that screamed of struggle and survival.

 

As the car stopped, Amara quickly got out, avoiding Timothy’s gaze. The compound was teeming with life: kids ran barefoot on uneven concrete, women gathered in corners gossiping, and a few men lounged under makeshift shade structures. The air smelled of kerosene stoves and wet earth, the faint scent of decay wafting from a nearby gutter. 

 

The building itself was a typical Lagos ghetto structure: peeling paint, broken window louvres, and a muddy floor that sloped downward, ensuring that any spilled water would immediately find its way outside. A few drains were clogged, so puddles dotted the ground, adding to the mess. Timothy stepped out of the car, still holding Ziora, and the sight of him—a sharply dressed man cradling a sleeping child—drew immediate attention.

 

“Ah, so it’s you!” Mr. Chike, her next-door neighbor, called out loudly, his frustration spilling over. “Now we know why the water finishes so quickly in the tank! This is not good, Amara! This is wrong!”

 

Amara stiffened, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment. She kept her head low, muttering a quiet “I’m sorry” as she hurried into the building. She didn’t look back, not even when Anibo, the woman who had called her earlier, chimed in. 

 

“Amara, it’s always something with you,” Anibo said, shaking her head. “If it’s not leaving your tap running, it’s forgetting to lock your door. I was the one who locked it for you on Friday. You’re lucky the landlord hasn’t kicked you out yet.”

 

Timothy, still standing outside with Ziora, adjusted his hold on her and spoke up calmly. “Please, let’s all calm down. I’m sure it was an honest mistake.”

 

The compound fell quiet for a bit, but it was broken by a softer voice. 

 

“She’s a nice girl,” an older woman said gently. “We’re not trying to be hard on her. It’s just… it feels like the weight of the world is on her shoulders. She should think about going back to her parents’ house. Living alone like this is not easy.”

 

Timothy’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. He was about to head for the building when a younger girl suddenly pointed at him.

 

“Wait…is that…Minister Timothy?” she asked, her voice rising with excitement.

 

Within seconds, murmurs spread through the compound like wildfire. “It’s him!” someone exclaimed. “Minister Timothy! He’s the one! The gospel singer!”

 

Phones appeared as people scrambled to take pictures. “Minister Timothy! What are you doing here?” another voice called out, as others began edging closer.

 

Timothy exhaled quietly, his calm demeanor intact. “Please,” he said softly, “let me just go inside.”

 

With that, he turned and headed toward the building, stepping carefully to avoid the puddles. He nudged the door open with his foot, entered, and closed it firmly behind him. 

 

The noise of the crowd faded instantly, replaced by the faint dripping sound of water from the bathroom. Amara was in the kitchen, frantically trying to turn off the tap that had caused all the commotion. She didn’t look up as Timothy entered, Ziora still fast asleep on his shoulder.

 

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

 

As Amara closed the tap, her hands trembled, and tears streamed down her face. She wasn’t sobbing outright, but the silent tears betrayed her frustration. She wiped them away furiously, as if that would erase the feelings bubbling inside her. Timothy, still standing nearby, noticed and said gently, “Hey, slow down. Mistakes happen. Don’t let their words get to you.”

 

She shook her head, not meeting his gaze. “It’s fine. Thank you.” She moved toward him and reached for Ziora. “Thanks for coming, Timothy. You can go now.”

 

Timothy took a step back, a small smirk playing on his lips. “Not that fast, Amara. No, no, no. I’m not going anywhere yet.”

 

She sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Timothy. This whole place is a mess. The floor is soaked. I need to mop the house. I can’t have a guest right now.”

 

“Amara,” Timothy said, his tone steady, “calm down. It’s me. It’s Timothy. I’m not a stranger.”

 

Amara finally looked up, her eyes brimming with tears and exhaustion. “I haven’t seen you in ten years. Yes, you’re not a stranger, but I don’t even think I know you anymore.”

 

Timothy paused, taking her words in. “Amara, trust me, I’m still the same Timothy.” He glanced at a door down the hallway and asked, “Is that the room?”

 

Amara hesitated. “Yes, but don’t go there. I’ll handle it.”

 

Timothy nodded, then gently handed Ziora over to her. “Here, take her to the room. I’ll wait here.”

 

Amara took her daughter, disappearing into the room for a couple of minutes. When she returned, she found Timothy still standing in the living room. She tried again. “Thank you, Timothy, but I really think you need to leave.”

 

Instead of leaving, Timothy took her hand and guided her to the single couch in the room. “Amara,” he said softly, “sit down. Calm down. I can see you’re in a fix. And I—”

 

“No,” she interrupted, cutting him off. “Don’t finish your assessments. Yes, I’m not doing well. Fine. You don’t need to say it.”

 

“That’s not what I mean,” Timothy said patiently. “I just mean that things might be tough for you right now. But it’s not going to be tough forever. Life has seasons, Amara.”

 

“Seasons?” she scoffed. “Timothy, I’ve been to your house. I’ve seen the luxury you live in. It’s embarrassing that my life turned out this way.”

 

Timothy’s expression hardened slightly. “No, Amara. We’re not going to play that game. We won’t compare who turned out well and who didn’t. You’re a successful, hardworking woman. You’re raising your child the best way you know how. That’s good enough. It will always be good enough. Wealth? Comfort? Time and chance sometimes determine those things. But they don’t define who you are.”

 

His words broke something inside her. The tears she’d been holding back began to flow freely, and she whispered, “I’m just tired. Timothy, I’m so tired.”

 

Timothy leaned closer, his voice soft. “It’s okay, Amara. Let it out. I’m here.”

 

For a few minutes, she cried quietly while Timothy simply held her hand, letting her finish. When she finally composed herself, she said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have dumped all of this on you.”

 

“I’m glad I’m here,” Timothy replied firmly. “Amara, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be right now than here, comforting you.”

 

Then, he stood up and rubbed her shoulder gently. “Where’s the mop?”

 

Amara looked up, startled. “Oh, no, Timothy. Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up when you leave.”

 

Timothy shook his head. “No, we’re doing it together. And when we’re done, we will go get dinner.”

 

“Dinner?” Amara said, incredulous. “Timothy, I’m sure you have a thousand and one things you should be doing right now.”

 

Timothy smiled. “I’m exactly where I should be. I told you earlier, I still want to be your friend. Amara, from the first day I met you, I knew I wanted to be in your life. Even though you pushed me out, it doesn’t mean I can’t still be here now.”

 

Amara sighed. “But it’s been twelve years. We’re different people now.”

 

Timothy paused, then said quietly, “Do you know that every year on your birthday, I think about looking for you? Every year without fail, I take myself out to celebrate.”

 

Amara didn’t know how to respond. She stood up, grabbed the mop, and handed it to him. Then, with a small smirk, she grabbed the dustpan for herself. As she knelt down to start cleaning, she asked casually, “How do your girlfriends feel about that?”

 

Timothy stopped mopping and looked at her. “What girlfriends?”

 

She glanced at him. “I mean, your past girlfriends. Or maybe even your current girlfriend.”

 

Timothy smiled softly. “I haven’t had another girlfriend since you left me.”

 

Her heart skipped a beat. “What?” She stood up, suddenly flustered. “Timothy, I think you should leave.”

 

Timothy chuckled. “Not until we’re done cleaning. And we’re still going to get dinner.”

 

Amara sighed heavily, shaking her head. “Timothy, you haven’t changed.”

 

“I know,” Timothy said with a grin. “And that’s why I’m still here.”

 

—————————————————————————————————————————-

 

Two hours later, the house was finally back in order. Amara had mopped the floors, wiped down the furniture, and even spritzed some air freshener to rid the space of any lingering embarrassment. Timothy had helped with everything, ignoring her protests, and now they were in the kitchen, preparing a meal.

 

Amara glanced at him from the corner of her eye as he chopped vegetables at the counter. How was this her life right now? Timothy Ebele, a gospel sensation and her first love, standing in her tiny kitchen, casually helping her make Indomie. She shook her head, almost laughing at the absurdity of it.

 

They’d initially planned to go out for dinner, but the logistics didn’t add up. Amara couldn’t think of a place nearby that wasn’t overcrowded or noisy. And while Timothy hadn’t said it outright, she knew he was wary of being recognised. It wasn’t just about his privacy, he was trying to protect her from any unnecessary drama.  

 

“I still can’t believe we’re doing this,” she said, stirring the pot of noodles on the stove. “Indomie, Timothy? Out of all the meals in the world?”  

 

Timothy leaned on the counter, his sleeves rolled up, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “What’s wrong with Indomie? It’s quick, simple, and honestly, I’ve missed it. I can’t remember the last time I had some.”  

 

She turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Timothy, don’t lie. You’re just trying to make this easy for me, aren’t you? You think I can’t see through you?”  

 

He chuckled, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, you caught me. But, come on, doesn’t it smell amazing?”  

 

Amara shook her head, laughing softly. “You’ve not changed one bit.”  

 

“I am going to assume that is a compliment,” he quipped, winking at her.  

 

Their laughter filled the tiny kitchen, breaking through the tension that had lingered between them earlier. It felt natural, almost like old times, yet everything unsaid hung in the air.

 

Amara leaned against the counter, her gaze softening. “You’re something else, you know that?”  

 

“Something good, I hope,” he replied, his tone light.  

 

The sound of small footsteps interrupted them, and they both turned to see Ziora standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes sleepily. Without hesitation, she toddled over to Timothy and raised her arms.

 

“Ah, my little friend is awake,” Timothy said, scooping her up effortlessly. “Did you come to help us cook?”  

 

Amara watched, a pang of something she couldn’t quite name tugging at her chest. Seeing Ziora in his arms, so comfortable and at ease, was almost too much to bear.  

 

“I was hoping we’d finish eating before she woke up, so that I can cook her own meal” she admitted, her voice quieter now.  

 

“She can’t have Indomie?” Timothy asked, tilting his head toward her.  

 

“No,” Amara said softly. “The doctors recommended some dietary changes. It’s fine, though. I’ll make something for her later. She can have some oatmeal cookies first.”  

 

Timothy hesitated, glancing at Ziora. “Doctors? Is something wrong?”  

 

Amara turned back to the stove, stirring the noodles as if her life depended on it. “They said she has autism. It’s nothing major. She’s fine.”  

 

Timothy’s gaze lingered on her, but he didn’t press. “She’s amazing,” he said simply. “Just like her mum.”  

 

Amara bit her lip, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall. His kindness was her undoing.  “Thank you,” she murmured.  

 

They ate together at the small dining table, Ziora perched on Timothy’s lap, nibbling on the cookie while the adults shared stories. Amara asked about his travels and how he managed to avoid being mobbed by fans, and Timothy shared anecdotes about his quiet routines at home and occasional trips abroad.  

 

By the time they finished, the dishes were washed, and Timothy stood by the door, finally ready to go.

 

“Thank you for today,” he said, his voice warm but tinged with hesitation. “It was really great reconnecting with you. I hope I’ll see you again soon.”  

 

Amara leaned against the doorframe, her arms crossed. “I don’t know about that,” she said, her smile faint but genuine. “But yes, it was good to see you again.”  

 

Timothy nodded, his eyes lingering on hers for a moment before he turned to leave.  

 

As he walked away, she shut the door gently behind him, leaning her forehead against the cool wood. Tonight was like a scene from a movie.  

 

—————————————————————————————————————————-

Timothy sank into the plush seat of his Lexus SUV, leaning his head back against the headrest. He felt relaxed, light, and happy. It wasn’t just the dinner, something about spending the evening with Amara made him feel like himself again.

 

He rubbed his temples, chuckling softly to himself. What is this, Timothy? You’re acting like a teenager again. But he couldn’t deny the truth. Being around Amara had stirred something deep within him—something he thought he’d buried a long time ago.

 

“The Amara effect,” he muttered, smiling. “Gosh, I miss that girl. My girl.”

 

The memories came flooding back – the first time he saw her, when he was sixteen. She had walked into his life with a kind of quiet confidence that had instantly captivated him. She was everything: beautiful, smart, and driven. He thought she was going to be his forever. And now, all these years later, sitting here, he realised something that hit him like a truck.

 

“I love this woman,” he whispered to himself. “Gosh, I’m still in love.” It didn’t make sense but denying it would be lying to himself.

 

He sighed, running a hand down his face. He wanted to take care of her, take her away from that house, away from the noise and the struggle. She deserved better. He wanted to fix everything, to give her the life she should have had if—

 

His phone buzzed in his pocket, cutting off his thoughts. He frowned and pulled it out, seeing Tari’s name flashing on the screen.

 

“Hey Tari,” he answered, his voice tinged with playful irritation. “What’s up?”

 

Tari’s tone was serious. “Timothy, where are you?”

 

He sat up straight, her tone worried him. “Why are you asking me that? I’m on my way home. What’s the issue?”

 

“On your way home from where?” Tari pressed.

 

Timothy groaned, already regretting picking up the call. “Tari, please. Why are you sounding like you’re monitoring me? It’s weird.”

 

“Well,” she said slowly, “I wouldn’t be doing that if your face wasn’t all over the blogs.”

 

His heart skipped a beat. “The blogs? What do you mean, ‘the blogs’?”

 

Tari hesitated, her tone turning cautious. “Actually, it’s just one blog. Instablog Naija. Check it now and see what I mean.”

 

Timothy rolled his eyes, pulling the phone away from his ear to open Instagram. He didn’t even want to look, but curiosity—and dread—got the better of him. 

 

As he scrolled, Tari’s voice floated faintly through the speaker. “I just think you should know what people are saying…”

 

Timothy ended the call before she could continue, sighing deeply.  

 

Here we go, he thought.  

——————————————————————————————————

 

Seeing Timothy in his “lover boy” element is really interesting. We know you’re probably as happy as we are that Amara and Timothy are getting along… But bloggers? Hmm… Who knows what story is currently parading the internet. Oh dear Timothy…