Chapter 13– Ibtisam
He told me to wear something comfortable. That was it. No address. No itinerary. Just, "Be ready by four." Like I wasn't a CEO with a packed schedule and a mind that refused silence. Like I didn't need to overthink everything, plan for every outcome, build walls to protect myself from softness.
I almost cancelled. Just to feel in control. Just to prove that I could still walk away when things got too gentle.
But then he showed up.
A sand-coloured Hilux pulled up to the curb like it belonged there—quiet, confident, waiting. Saal stepped out wearing a black kaftan that fit him like it was stitched by someone who knew his secrets. His sleeves were rolled slightly, forearms bare, wristwatch glinting in the evening sun like an afterthought. No smile. No performance. Just him, looking at me like I was the only thing left that made sense.
My breath caught. I hated that.
He leaned against the door and nodded at the passenger seat. "Ready?"
"Where are we going?" I asked, sliding in.
"You'll see," he said—and handed me a chilled bottle of zobo from the cup holder like it was part of the plan. Like he knew my moods well enough to disarm them.
"You bribing me with hibiscus?" I raised a brow.
"Only the best," he murmured.
I sipped. Cold. Tangy. Sweet. Like him—when he wanted to be.
The drive was quiet in the most disarming way. Not awkward. Not tense. Just... open. The kind of silence that invites honesty but doesn't demand it. Abuja unfolded around us in long boulevards and restless traffic. We passed gated estates with names that sounded like promises, their walls too high to see the lives inside. Motorcycles buzzed past us like rumors. Streetlights flickered on one by one as the sun dipped, leaving a warm blush on the skyline.
Asokoro blurred behind us. The houses grew smaller. Trees stretched taller. The city softened. I cracked the window open. The air smelled different out here—less ambition, more earth.
Eventually, the road turned to gravel beneath us. We slowed. The Hilux bumped gently down a hidden path lined with tall grass and silence. At the end, the trees opened up to reveal Jabi Lake—still, wide, almost silver in the late light. Not the part tourists crowd into with cameras and life jackets. This was quieter. Raw. The kind of place the city tried to forget.
There was an old wooden canoe tied at the edge, its paint peeling in lazy flakes. Beside it stood an older man in a faded cap, nodding at Saal with a half-smile.
"I know someone," Saal said, gesturing toward the boat. "He owes me one."
I raised an eyebrow. "You planned a boat ride?"
He shrugged, stepping out to open my door. "You said you liked water."
I hadn't. Not directly. But I remembered telling him once, half-asleep in a waiting room, about how lakes made my head quieter. How water felt like pause. I didn't think he'd remembered.
He held my hand as I stepped in—his grip steady, eyes pretending not to linger at my waist. I said nothing. Maybe because I didn't want to ruin it. Maybe because my words were busy hiding behind my ribs.
The boat rocked gently as we pushed off. The lake spread out like a mirror, holding the sky in its wide palms. A few ducks glided past, unbothered. The call to prayer echoed faintly from a distant mosque—low and warm, like a memory you didn't want to wake from.
"You did this on purpose," I said. "The zobo. The lake. The peace."
He smirked. "You like control. But you also like quiet. I'm giving you both."
I laughed under my breath. "And what do you get?"
He turned then, not smiling, not joking. Just looking. Really looking.
"You. For an afternoon."
My breath betrayed me. Skipped a beat. Maybe two. I turned away, watching a bird dive into the water. But I felt his gaze. Like warmth. Like truth.
The paddles moved slow. The breeze tugged my scarf loose. He reached out before I could, catching the soft fabric mid-air. Our fingers brushed.
"Thanks," I said.
"Barka da hantsi," he murmured.
I glanced at him. "It's evening."
"I know."
Silence wrapped around us again. This time, it didn't feel like waiting. It felt like knowing. Like everything that needed to be said was already in the air, resting between us like breath.
We didn't stay long on the lake. Long enough to forget our names for a moment. Long enough to remember how to be soft.
Back on land, we sat beneath a mango tree while the old man tied up the canoe. A woman roasted corn nearby, her voice singing out prices in Hausa. Her hands were blackened from the fire, but her smile was bright.
Saal walked over and returned with two ears of corn. Handed me one like he knew I'd say no if he asked. It was hot. Burnt just right. I bit in without a word.
We ate in silence. The sunset draped gold over everything.
"I used to come here with my mum," I said quietly. "Before the noise took over."
He didn't ask what the noise was. He didn't poke at the wound. He just nodded like he'd been there too. Like he knew the noise wasn't always outside.
"You think we're running?" I asked.
"Maybe," he said. "But sometimes running is how you survive."
I leaned back against the tree trunk, corn half-finished in my lap. "This feels like a lie."
"What does?"
"This peace. You. Me. The corn. The sunset."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe it is. But it's ours. For now."
And somehow, that was enough.
Even if it ended tomorrow. Even if it unraveled. This moment—borrowed, soft, imperfect—was something I'd carry.
In the middle of all my chaos, he
gave me this: one afternoon of quiet.
And I didn't know if I should thank him. Or run faster.