Saturday arrived with a heavy, expectant stillness. Exactly seven days since the smoke of the Suya stand had brought them together, the world had rearranged itself.
Ademola sat in his apartment, the morning light reflecting off the glass of his framed certificates. His room was a sanctuary of order books aligned by size, shirts color-coded, the air smelling of lemon polish. But for the first time in a year, the order felt… hollow. He found himself looking at the empty chair across from his desk, wondering if a person could truly be "neat" while their heart was under reconstruction.
His phone chimed. A message from Omolayo: Mathew is heading back to Abuja tonight. Sarah's boxes are by the gate. It's quiet here. Too quiet.
Ademola typed back: The silence after a storm isn't a vacuum, Mola. It's a clean slate.
He stood up, grabbing his keys. He had one final piece of the "Saturday Plan" to dismantle.
At the Omolayo compound, the atmosphere was clinical. Sarah was standing by the pedestrian gate, her designer luggage looking like a pile of colorful corpses on the gravel. She wasn't crying anymore. That would imply regret. Instead, she was staring at her phone, likely already scouting for the next "trophy" to replace the one Mathew had shattered.
Mr. Gateman was pointedly ignoring her, hum-singing a discordant tune while he swept the driveway with a broom made of palm fronds. The shhh-shhh of the broom was the only sound in the yard.
"Baba G," Sarah snapped, "stop that noise. You're getting dust on my bags."
The old man stopped, leaned on his broom, and looked at her with a pity that cut deeper than any insult. "Madam, the dust on the bags can be washed. But the dust in the heart? That one stays until you scrub it with truth. And I don't see any soap in your hand."
Sarah opened her mouth to lash out, but the sound of a familiar engine cut her off. It wasn't Tokunbo's SUV. It was Babatunde's battered Toyota, coughing its way to the curb.
Ademola stepped out. He didn't look at Sarah. He walked straight past her, through the gate, and toward the porch where Omolayo was standing. She was wearing a simple white sundress, her hair free of the tight bun from a week ago. She looked like she had finally started breathing again.
"You're late," she said as he reached the steps.
"Babatunde had a 'crisis'," Ademola explained, gesturing to the car where his friend was currently arguing with a hawker over the price of plantain chips. "He insisted that the car wouldn't move until he had a snack for the 'emotional journey'."
Omolayo laughed a real, vibrant sound that made Mr. Gateman smile.
Ademola's expression turned serious. "Is she gone?"
"Mathew is taking her to the park in ten minutes. He's paying for her way back to the village. She told him he was dead to her. He told her he'd send her a wreath for the funeral."
They stood in silence for a moment, watching the drama of a family ending and a new life beginning.
"Ademola," Omolayo said, stepping down to his level. "About Sarah. About the 'ex' factor. I don't want to be the person you use to forget her. I'm not a bandage."
"I know," Ademola replied. He took her hands in his. His palms were slightly damp a human flaw he didn't try to hide. "The irony is, I thought I was the one helping you. But seeing you stand up to her, seeing you choose yourself over a man like Tokunbo… it reminded me that I've been hiding behind my ironed shirts for a year. I wasn't being neat. I was being invisible."
He stepped closer, the scent of the Nim tree from a week ago seeming to drift between them again. "I don't want a trophy, Omolayo. And I don't want a bandage. I just want to see where this goes when there are no more secrets to uncover."
The final reckoning came when Mathew stepped out of the house, carrying Sarah's smallest bag the one with the Valentino shoes. He looked at Ademola and gave a curt, respectful nod.
"Lawyer," Mathew said. "Take care of my sister. If I hear her voice shaking on the phone because of you, I don't care how many Law degrees you have. I will find you."
"I'd expect nothing less, Sir," Ademola said, standing straight.
Sarah watched from the gate as they loaded her things. She looked at Omolayo and Ademola standing together a 400-level student with too much pride and a girl who had finally found her voice. For a second, a flicker of something like envy crossed her face, but she quickly masked it with a sneer.
"Enjoy the Suya scraps, Mola," Sarah yelled as she climbed into the back seat of Mathew's car. "He'll grow tired of your 'goodness' eventually!"
The car pulled away, tires spitting gravel.
Silence returned to the street, but it was no longer heavy. It was light. It was open.
Babatunde leaned out of the car window, waving a half-eaten plantain chip. "O boy! The drama is over! Can we go now? My fuel light is blinking like a disco ball!"
Ademola laughed, a sound that felt like the final piece of the puzzle clicking into place. He turned to Omolayo. "Are you ready?"
"For what?"
"A stroll," he said, mirroring his words from their first night. "But this time, no Suya Mallams, no hidden SUVs, and definitely no Valentino shoes. Just us. And maybe some very loud music in Tunde's car."
Omolayo took his arm, her grip firm and sure. "I think I can handle that."
As they walked toward the car, Mr. Gateman closed the big iron gates with a heavy thud.
The seven-day week was over. The mystery was solved. And in the heart of the Lagos heat, under a sky that was finally clear of smoke, two people were walking into a future that was perfectly, beautifully un-ironed.