By evening, Ifeoma was back home in her shared mini-flat at Bariga, brushing off powder from her blouse. The bridal job had gone well — client happy, small tip received, and no Lagos wahala on the return trip.
She tossed her phone on the bed, kicked off her shoes, and sank into the mattress.
Then she saw it.
Two missed calls. Unknown number.
She frowned, then the message dropped:
"Hey, it's Jide. Hope you made it on time. I owe you another keke ride."
She smiled, small and real.
For a guy she met in traffic, his text felt... soft.
She typed: "Barely made it. You owe me jollof too 😂"
Then paused. Deleted the laughing emoji. Replaced it with:
"Thanks. You're not bad for a stranger."
She sent it.
That night, while her flatmates argued over PHCN and who used all the water, Ifeoma lay awake, staring at her ceiling.
She didn't believe in chance. Lagos was too wild for coincidences.
But something about Jide's calm energy stuck with her.
Somewhere across town, in a one-room apartment near Yaba, Jide stared at her number, smiling to himself.
He'd been ghosting the world lately… but this one girl in a danfo just broke through.