I have decided that Lagos never sleeps.

That is the only explanation for the endless blur of headlights speeding past us and the relentless honking from impatient drivers, announcing their displeasure with how slow you were going. The city remained ever moving, ever noisy, ever chaotic.

A stark contrast to the silence in the car - or how the night had began.

From the moment you had walked up to me in the restaurant, with this incredulous look on your face as you exclaimed, “Ahn ahn, Kemi is this you?” - the conversation flowed effortlessly, like we hadn’t spent a decade apart.

Even when we got into the car, we continued talking—until now. Reality is settling in. In mere moments, I will step out of the car, and we will once again be strangers separated by time and choices, was finally settling in.

The only sound left now is your soft humming of Ayra Starr’s Control and your fingers drumming absently against the steering wheel.

I steal a glance at you. Your face is different now, yet the same. The seventeen-year-old boy I once knew is still there, with his furrowed brows and pursed lips. Just with sharper features, a neatly trimmed beard and eyes that have traded their wildness for depth and restraint.

“Turn left onto Adebisi Joseph street,” the GPS announces.

You slow down as we approach the gate of the street. One of the security guards moves closer peering into the car. He recognises me the moment he spots me and waves us through. His comrades hail you as we drive past, hoping you would drop something for them before leaving.

“It’s just four houses down on the right,” I say, though I know the GPS will repeat it in a few seconds.

“Your destination is on the right,” the AI obliges.

You whistle as you take in the massive white duplex, “Wow!”

“I know,” I reply. The house is nothing short of impressive—though a bit too ostentatious for the otherwise unremarkable street. The low white fence, accented with gold, matches the grand lion-head fountain at the entrance. Perfectly sculpted trees surround the compound and three Toyota Prados sit just beyond the fence, an unmistakable statement of wealth. My sister was always one for a show.

“They’re doing really well for themselves,” you observe.

“They are,” I turn to you, only to find your eyes already on me.

A moment stretches between us, thick with unspoken words.

Lagos suits you. It’s evident in the quiet elegance of your tailored clothes, the understated jewelry, the sleek car. I see you’ve found a life here. A good one.

I smile softly. “Thank you for the ride, Tunde.”

“Don’t mention it.” Your smile is smaller, sadder. “It’s the least I could do… after everything.”

“Water under the bridge,” I shrug and smile wider.

You don’t respond but your fingers tighten momentarily around the wheel. “You’ll be back in Lagos in a few weeks?”

“The interview went well, so yes. I’m officially a Lagos babe,” I joke, fiddling with my purse. A thought creeps into my head - maybe I could reject the offer and stay in Ibadan. But to do what? Papa is gone. My only living family is here, in that big white house, and has been encouraging me to move for months.

You shake your head in disbelief, “I still can’t believe you’re really moving to Lagos.”

“Me neither,” I admit. A strange queasiness settles in my stomach. “How did it feel leaving home?”

Your brow furrows. “Home?”

“Ibadan? When you left, how did it feel?”

You hesitate for just a moment. “Ibadan was never home.”

A pang settles in my chest. I know what you mean.

The memories flash—me watching fifteen-year-old you follow Uncle Tobi into his house from my bedroom window. Mama gently explaining during dinner that you were his nephew and had just lost your parents. Papa nodding solemnly, commending your uncle’s kindness. Then months later, in Mama’s kitchen, you yanking your shirt down, hiding a bruise that told the truth—his family was anything but kind.

“That’s true,” I murmur, staring at the dashboard.

“It hurt,” you offer, “Not immediately, but once I got here, it hurt.”

I blink. “How could it have hurt?”

A soft smile ghosts over your lips. “I discovered that there were parts I missed; people I wish I gave a proper goodbye.”

Our eyes meet. The weight of your words hangs between us.

The night you ran away replays in my mind.

Uncle Tobi’s cold stare as he dismissed my questions; his flat, unbothered tone as he said, 'He’s gone.' My voice, raw with frustration, demanding answers. The never-ending stream of tears that followed.

Almost as if reading my mind, you say my name softly. “Kemi.” It is barely above a whisper. Your fingers tap against the steering wheel like you’re trying to decide something. Then, finally, you inhale. “I shouldn’t have left the way I did.”

I shake my head, pushing down years of buried hurt “It’s—”

“No,” you cut in gently. “It’s not just water under the bridge. I can see that it hurt you.”

How could it not? I swallow, pushing back my tears.  “I wouldn’t have asked you to stay.”

“I know.” You nod, exhaling deeply. “But I should have at least said goodbye.”

Silence.

Then, filled with emotion, you say: “I’m sorry.”

The confession sits between us, raw and exposed. The two words comforting the girl who cried herself to sleep that night.

“If it’s any consolation,” you continue, voice thick, “I would go back in time and do it differently. I was such an idiot.”

“You were doing what was best for you.”

“Was I?”

Something in your tone makes me still. I lean in slightly, searching your face, “Were you not?”

You exhale, and when you speak again, your voice is raw, like the weight of the past is finally pressing too hard against your ribs, demanding to be set free. “I mean that was part of it but…I was in a dark place then. And even though I was too stubborn to admit it, you were proof that there was still good in my world. You were constant, steady - something I didn’t think I deserved. And before I knew it, I was falling for you. Hard. Fast. In a way I know now I could never feel for anyone else.”

My breath catches. You don’t notice and continue.

“But the deeper I fell for you, the more I convinced myself that I didn’t deserve you. Every good thing in my life up until that point had been ripped away. So why would you—why would something as good, as bright as you—be any different?” You clench your jaw, “And when I decided to leave, I told myself not telling you goodbye would be for the best.” You shake your head “I was so stupid.”

You finally meet my eyes, and this time, there is no restraint, only you “I loved you Kemi. I was too foolish to realise it then but I loved you. Hell, I still do. I doubt I ever stopped,” A soft, almost breathless laugh leaves you. “I don’t think there’s a world where I could stop. I’ve been in love with you since the first time you came to my uncle’s house with that bowl of moi-moi your mother made. Do you remember that?”

I am too stunned to speak so I nod instead, as the memory plays in my mind.

“It wasn’t even anything special. But you smiled at me—this big, open, unguarded smile—and that was it. I was done for. Not like I ever stood a chance.”

You pause, hesitating for just a second before reaching for the dashboard, grabbing a slip of paper and a pen. “I’m not asking for forgiveness - I don’t deserve it. But I’d be a fool to let you walk out of this car without telling you how I feel.” Your hands tremble slightly as you scribble something down.

You press the paper into my hand, your fingers lingering just a moment too long. Then, your voice dips lower. “This is for when you’re back in Lagos...if you ever feel like giving us another shot.”

The silence envelopes us again as my fingers tighten around the paper, memorising the numbers inked onto it. My chest feels too full, my heart pounding, every beat an echo of emotions I can barely contain.

It’s all too much and I’m certain I might never speak again but finally I find my voice. And though it shakes, it is certain.

“I loved you too,”  I look at you, “I fear I never stopped.”

A slow, disbelieving smile spreads across your lips. Our gazes remain locked, the wounds of the past placed on display but as I look into your eyes, I see something new in them - hope.