The Abuja morning was unusually quiet not the kind of quiet born from peace, but the suspended stillness that follows a storm, when the air feels thick and every sound is muffled by unseen weight.
Mike sat on the edge of his hotel bed, his elbows resting on his knees, palms slack between them. A sliver of dawn light spilled through the half-closed blinds, catching the edge of the investment proposal lying untouched on the table beside him. Pages neatly clipped, diagrams printed in color, figures circled in red. The culmination of months of work. His name in bold at the top.
He hadn't even looked at it.
His phone buzzed once with a notification — some automated email from a platform thanking him for his pitch — and then fell silent again. All night, his inbox had overflowed. Program mentors sent enthusiastic notes. Fellow participants posted pictures from the award dinner, tagging him with captions like "the man of the hour." Investors dropped contact cards and invitations to coffee.
It was everything he had worked for. Everything he thought he wanted.
But none of it stirred joy in him.
The silence in the room wasn't peaceful. It was hollow, like something vital had been removed and no one had noticed.
He picked up his phone and opened Danika's last message.
Just don't forget why you started.
The words blurred on the screen. He read them again, whispering them to himself like a mantra he had long forgotten the meaning of.
He knew she hadn't sent it as a jab. It was a reminder gentle but firm. A reminder she didn't need to say out loud: You weren't doing this for applause. You were doing it for us. For the life we dreamed of.
He exhaled, long and slow. His chest ached not from guilt, not exactly. It was the ache of realization, of arriving somewhere alone and wondering why the destination suddenly felt meaningless.
He started to type a reply.
The room was full of people, but it felt like you were the only one missing.
His finger hovered over the Send button.
Then he tapped the screen. Back. Delete.
And placed the phone face down on the table.
Across the country, Lagos was waking too. But Danika had already been up for hours. Sleep had barely touched her.
She moved slowly through the small salon, sweeping the tiled floor not because it was messy, but because her hands needed something to do. The shop smelled of coconut oil and the faint perfume of lavender from the diffuser in the corner. Morning sunlight slanted through the glass windows, catching the glint of combs arranged like tools in a sacred ritual.
There was a weight in her chest she couldn't name.
It wasn't anger. Not quite sadness either. It was something more complicated a low, persistent hum of disconnection. The kind of ache that comes from missing someone and missing a version of yourself you weren't sure how to return to.
Her phone lay on the counter beside her, screen dark. She hadn't heard from Mike in over a day, and despite her best attempts to stay busy, her mind returned to him with frustrating regularity.
When the bell above the door jingled, she turned, masking her emotions with practiced grace.
A young mother entered, her headscarf slightly askew, her eyes tired but warm. Beside her, a little girl no more than four clung to the hem of her wrapper, chewing the corner of a biscuit.
"Good morning," Danika said, voice soft but bright.
"Morning, sis," the woman replied. "I know I came a bit early…"
"You're fine," Danika said with a smile. "Come in. You look like you could use a break."
The woman chuckled, sinking into the salon chair. "Na small small o. This one," she gestured to the child, "has energy for ten people."
Danika reached for the comb and parted the woman's thick hair with gentle fingers. As she worked, the rhythmic motion of braiding calmed her a slow, methodical art that gave shape to chaos.
The little girl sat in a corner of the room with her toy, humming to herself.
Danika found herself watching the child. There was something about her innocence the way she played without worry, without hesitation that made her throat tighten.
Peace.
Love.
Laughter without conditions.
That was all she wanted. That was all she and Mike had talked about late into the night on his balcony months ago, when the stars above Lagos felt like promises. They'd spoken of dreams, of raising a family with honesty and joy building something not just for survival, but for meaning.
And now?
She braided another section tightly, her fingers pausing mid-motion.
Now, I don't even know if we're still building the same house.
That night, after locking up the salon and forcing herself to eat half a bowl of rice, Danika answered a call from Lance.
"How are you holding up?" he asked gently.
She sat on the balcony, legs tucked under her, a wrapper around her shoulders despite the warm breeze. The street below buzzed with night traffic. Somewhere nearby, someone was playing an old love song through a cracked speaker.
"I'm okay," she said after a pause. "I think I'm just tired."
"Of waiting?"
She nodded, then realized he couldn't see her. "Yeah. Tired of waiting for someone who might be choosing something else."
Lance was quiet for a moment. "You think he's changed?"
"No," she said honestly. "But I think life changed him. And me too."
"That doesn't have to be a bad thing."
"I know," she said. "It's just... when we started, we were both hungry for the same thing. Now, I don't know what he's hungry for. Maybe even he doesn't."
"You don't sound angry."
"I'm not. I'm just… ready to stop standing still."
Her voice cracked slightly, and she blinked hard. She wasn't trying to be brave. She was just tired of feeling like her heart was always on hold paused until Mike figured himself out.
"I miss him," she admitted. "But I miss myself too. The version of me who used to believe in things without needing proof. Who dreamed without fear."
In Abuja, the night was louder than the day.
Mike wandered the business district, the neon signs of banks and restaurants blinking like city heartbeat monitors. People passed him in suits, laughter echoing from rooftop bars. The world was alive with movement, ambition, urgency.
He felt like a ghost.
He had never imagined that success could feel this lonely.
The energy that had once thrilled him the possibility of funding, of scale, of change now felt hollow. Like a song sung in the wrong key.
He found a small roadside kiosk near a closed pharmacy, sat down, and ordered a bottle of water. The vendor nodded, unsmiling, then turned back to his football radio.
Mike twisted the bottle cap slowly, staring at the rising moon. The stars were faint but visible, scattered above the city like shy witnesses.
He took a sip and closed his eyes.
"Did I come all this way to lose her?" he whispered.
No one answered. Not the wind. Not the stars. Not the god he sometimes prayed to but hadn't spoken to in months.
The silence around him felt heavier than all the noise in the city.
He wanted to call her. God, he wanted to.
But what would he say?
That he missed her? That she was right? That his success meant nothing without her? That the dream felt half-born without her laughter in it?
He pulled out his phone again. Her chat was still at the top. No new messages. Just her last words:
Don't forget why you started.
He typed:
"Maybe I needed to win to realize what I've been losing."
He hovered again.
Send. Don't send.
Speak. Don't speak.
Stay. Let go.
Finally, he locked the phone and placed it in his pocket.
He'd go back to the hotel. Shower. Think. Maybe fly to Lagos early. Maybe walk into her shop tomorrow and say everything he hadn't known how to say.
Maybe.
But for now, he just sat under the stars, letting the silence press against him like a question he didn't yet know how to answer.