have never been a man in a hurry.
Not for power, not for love, not even for marriage—the very thing society insists should be draped on the shoulders of every man who has "made it."
Lagos does not forgive hesitation. Its skyscrapers pierce the sky like silent claims of ownership, gleaming in the morning sun, while streets below pulse with restless chaos. Danfos honk impatiently, motorbikes weave between traffic, and street vendors call their wares in sing-song rhythms. The city smells of wet asphalt from last night's drizzle, fresh bread from bakeries, and faint exhaust fumes. Its heartbeat is relentless, and yet, as I move through my morning routine, I feel removed—above the chaos, untouchable.
***
The house is quiet, as it always is at six-thirty. My housekeeper has already laid out breakfast with meticulous precision. Eggs curl gently in the pan, toast browns evenly, and tea curls in a delicate plume of steam. I rarely touch it, but the ritual is comforting—an anchor before the day pulls me into the unpredictable currents of Lagos.
On the dining table lie the morning papers: political scandal, naira fluctuations, oil firms posting profit while chaos reigns elsewhere. I do not need to read; I already know the rhythm of this city, the endless cycle of ambition, failure, and showmanship.
I slip into a tailored jacket, every line pressed to perfection, cufflinks glinting in the subdued morning light. Shoes polished to mirror shine. Lagos respects polish, and polish is power. I glance briefly at the reflection in the foyer mirror, straighten my tie, and leave the house.
***
The car waits outside, black and silent, a private cocoon in the city's pulse. My driver threads through traffic with practiced precision. From my tinted window, Lagos awakens in a muted chaos. Joggers stretch along Ikoyi streets, shopkeepers pull up shutters, and the smell of fresh bread mingles with faint exhaust fumes. Motorbikes weave cautiously between cars, while danfos begin their predictable honking symphony. Street life pulses below, alive and insistent, yet I remain detached—observing, cataloguing, calculating.
Music leaks from open windows. Voices call greetings, haggles, and orders. Coffee drifts from roadside cafés. Pastries are carried in the arms of early vendors, each step deliberate, each voice rising against the city's constant murmur. And yet I remain untouched, my mind fixed on the day ahead—on Stonewall Enterprises, the empire I built through discipline, foresight, and calculated silence.
***
The building rises ahead, glass and steel reflecting sunlight like a jewel. Stonewall Enterprises, my domain, a testament to order amid Lagos's chaos. In the lobby, conversation pauses. Not out of fear, but habit. People are careful. My words are few, deliberate; my silence, louder than any speech.
As I move through the office corridors, I note familiar faces: analysts peering nervously from behind computer screens, managers straightening papers in a desperate attempt to seem composed, the receptionist pretending not to glance at my reflection in the glass walls. It is always the same. Some admire me, some fear me, most misunderstand me. And I do not correct them.
***
The first meeting of the day begins in the glass-walled boardroom, sunlight slicing through blinds and landing across polished mahogany. Managers, senior analysts, and partners sit with calculated expressions, papers arranged with military precision.
"Quarterly projections are favorable," one analyst says, clicking through a presentation. "Revenue in the Lagos branch is up twelve percent."
I nod. Observing. Waiting. Calculating the weight behind their words.
"But the expansion to Port Harcourt…" another begins, hesitant. "Costs may exceed projections."
I lift a hand, stopping him. "Cost is only a problem if you cannot convert it to value. What is the projected ROI after factoring in the operational overhead?"
He swallows, blinking. "Approximately eighteen percent."
I lean back, fingers steepled. "And if unforeseen taxes or tariffs impact this?"
He falters, and the room shifts subtly. Silence stretches, oppressive, like velvet. My staff are trained, but even the most seasoned analyst can feel the weight of observation.
I do not scold. I do not yell. My presence alone enforces precision. I am Stonewall Enterprises' silent benchmark—the standard against which performance is measured.
***
As the meeting ended, Partners lean forward, smiles polite but forced.
"When will we drink the wine at your wedding, sir?"
"You know, in Lagos, success isn't complete without a beautiful wife by your side."
I smile, the mask of indifference polished over decades. It confirms nothing, denies nothing. Indifference is my armor.
Marriage has always felt like a performance: Eko Hotel's chandeliers, the music, women smiling as though calculating charm's ROI. I observe. I listen. I remain untouched.
They call me aloof. I call it freedom.
***
By midday, the Metropolitan Club offers a rare calm. Sunlight slants through the windows, illuminating the green leather chairs. Polished wood smells faintly of history and quiet authority. My father's old friend waits, cautious, aware that his request carries weight beyond money.
"She has just returned from America," he begins. His voice bears concern. "My daughter. Bright, brilliant—but things are… difficult now."
I study him. He has known me since boyhood, seen me grow into the man I am. He once told me that polish is learned not abroad, but in how a man carries silence in a noisy world. I respected him then. I respect him still.
He does not ask for money. Men of his generation rarely do. Instead, he asks for a place for his daughter at Stonewall Enterprises.
"She studied in the States. Business Administration. She needs stability, a chance to build something of her own. I cannot… I cannot give her what I once promised."
I nod. Loyalty is simple when it is owed. "I will see to it," I say.
The conversation ends, but a spark of curiosity lingers. A new variable has entered the equations of my life, and I do not yet know its weight.
***
Her name reaches me before She does:
Magnolia.
Deliberate. Almost prophetic. I have not seen her, yet the whispers arrive first: stubbornly intelligent, unafraid, her father's fire, her mother's grace. America shaped her, but it did not erase her.
Still, I remain unmoved. Names are names. Stories are stories. Until she walks into Stonewall Enterprises next week.
***
Monday brings its usual chaos: horns blaring, shopkeepers calling, generators humming. I review a quarterly report, glasses perched low, when my assistant announces:
"She's here, sir. Miss Magnolia."
I gesture for the door.
She enters not like someone walking into a room, but as though she is reshaping it. Shoulders squared, determination in every step. Silk blouse, modest yet perfectly fitted, tucked into tailored trousers. Hair falls in waves, catching sunlight. But it is her eyes—dark, unflinching, searching.
She is not here to charm. She is here to work.
"Good morning, sir," she says, voice steady.
And for the first time in years, something stirs. Not love. Not yet. Something sharper, something dangerous, cracking the shell of indifference I have worn for decades.
***
She sits, hands folded neatly. I ask the usual questions—background, studies, vision. Her answers are precise, deliberate, measured. No charm, no nervousness, no need to impress. Just presence.
In her poise, I glimpse her father—the man who once mentored me, now diminished.
"You'll start in Strategy," I say finally. "My assistant will brief you."
Her lips part slightly, a hint of surprise, but no challenge. I have given her ground.
"Thank you, sir," she says.
Long after she leaves, I stare at the empty chair. Something has shifted.
***
The city wears dusk like a veil: streetlights flicker, shopkeepers close shutters, early evening traffic hums along the bridges. Life pulses everywhere except in my mind, which replays her gaze, the calm certainty in her voice.
Indifference has been my armor. But it cracks in one moment, one look, one presence.
For the first time, I wonder what it might mean to let someone in.
Someone like Magnolia.