Red Flag District.
Chapter Two (Part 5): Derin; No Stress, No Bills.
Lamide’s P.O.V:
He texted that night, after their date. Not immediately. Not before she got home. Not while she was driving. It seemed like he mapped her journey home and estimated when she would be settled and texted then.
At 10:42 p.m.
Tunde:
Thank you for tonight. I enjoyed it.
Simple. Clean. No emoji.
She stared at the message longer than necessary. It was so simple yet it unfolded something inside her.
This man was not going to flood her phone with unnecessary messages. He was not going to overstep his bounds. He was definitely not going to perform in the art of declaring his interest in her.
This one? Even his texting was precise.
Measured.
She typed.
Deleted.
Typed again.
Lamide:
You’re welcome. You survived my restaurant choice. That’s impressive.
He replied three minutes later.
Tunde:
I’ve survived Lagos traffic. I can survive most things.
She smiled at that.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Tunde:
Can I call you tomorrow? Properly?
Her smile widened.
She didn’t know why, but she liked that he asked.
Lamide:
Yes.
That was how it started.
He called the next evening. Not long. Not rambling. He asked about her day. She told him about a supplier who tried to renegotiate a contract mid-delivery.
He listened. Actually listened. He didn’t interrupt with solutions.
“Would you like advice or just to vent?” he’d asked at some point.
She paused. Who asks that?
“Vent,” she replied.
“Okay,” he said calmly. “Proceed.”
She laughed. That was the first time. Not polite laughter. Real. The kind that starts in your stomach.
After that, it became… rhythm. Not constant texting. Not good-morning-good-night obligations. But daily meaningful connection.
Somehow. He would call. Or she would.
Sometimes just ten minutes. Sometimes forty-five.
Sometimes she’d put him on speaker while she stirred soup.
Sometimes he’d stay quiet while she folded laundry.
“Your house sounds alive,” he said once.
“It is,” she replied. “I have a small dictator.”
“Ah. So I must prepare for interrogation.”
“You must prepare for inspection.”
He chuckled softly.
“I don’t scare easily.”
“We’ll see.”
******************
Dates were not frequent. They couldn’t be. There was a baby. There were logistics. There was the grief that didn’t announce itself but sat quietly in corners.
But when they met? It was easy. Coffee in Ikoyi once. Dinner in Victoria Island another time. A short walk by the water where she talked too much and then caught herself.
“Am I boring you?” she said suddenly.
“No,” he replied.
“Well, I’ve been talking for a while now”
“I don’t mind,”
“Most men do.”
“I’m not most men.”
She tilted her head.
“That’s what most men say.”
That made him smile properly.
And when Tunde smiles properly, it changes his entire face.
She noticed.
She noticed everything.
*******
He never rushed her.
Not physically.
Not emotionally.
If she cancelled because her daughter had a fever, he didn’t sulk.
If she said she was tired, he didn’t insist.
If she said, “Let’s reschedule,” he replied, “Okay. Tell me when works.”
It was infuriating.
In the best way.
Because she couldn’t accuse him of pressure.
And without pressure… she had to confront her own fear… she was falling for him and she wasn’t quite ready for it yet.
**************
They were supposed to meet today. Dinner. Small place in Lekki. She had even picked out a dress. Nothing dramatic. Just something that made her feel like a woman and not only a mother.
Then Ladi called.
“I can’t tonight,” her twin said apologetically. “Something unexpected came up. I’ll try to get there but I can’t promise.”
She stood in her room staring at the dress. Her daughter was asleep in the cot, tiny chest rising and falling. Life had rearranged itself since widowhood. Spontaneity was now a luxury.
She picked up her phone and called him.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hi.”
“I have to cancel.”
No preamble. It was better to get to the point fast… to stem the disappointment.
He didn’t sound annoyed.
“Okay.”
“Ladi can’t come.”
“Alright.”
Silence.
She waited for the subtle disappointment. The polite masking. The shift. Instead—
“Do you still want to see me?”
She blinked.
“Yes.”
“Then I’ll come.”
She frowned slightly.
“Come where?”
“To you.”
“With my daughter?”
“Yes.”
“You’ve never met her.”
“I know.”
“Hmmm… That’s huge.”
“I know.”
She paced slowly across her room.
“Tunde.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
She went quiet.
“You’ll have to drive to the mainland.” she said.
“I have fuel.”
“You’ll have to deal with cartoons.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
“You’ll have to eat whatever I cook.”
“I trust you.”
She laughed despite herself.
“You’re very calm.”
“Is there any reason I shouldn’t be?”
She inhaled slowly.
“You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
A pause.
And then, softer:
“I’m not trying to disrupt your life, Lamide. I’m trying to join it.”
Her throat tightened slightly.
That sentence. That sentence was dangerous.
“Okay,” she said finally.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll be there in forty minutes.”
“Forty-five to an hour. Traffic.”
He exhaled lightly.
“Yes, ma.”
She smiled after she hung up. Not a small smile. A wide one.
Then she looked at herself in the mirror.
“You’re smiling too much,” she muttered.
Her daughter stirred slightly in the cot. Lamide walked over and adjusted the blanket.
“My dear Eniola. You are about to meet man. Mummy’s man,” she whispered softly. “Behave.”
The baby yawned. Unimpressed.
Lamide laughed.
And for the first time in a long time— The thought didn’t scare her. The thought of someone entering her space.
Not as a visitor. As possibility.
Tunde’s P.O.V:
He left immediately. He was not one to dramatically rush to places. Neither was he given to speeding. But he wanted to get there in time. The earlier he got there, the more time they had together.
Forty-five minutes, she had said.
He gave himself thirty-five. Not to impress. To be on time.
Tunde Kabir was never flustered. He was never breathless. He was never uncertain. Then why did he feel like his heart was about to beat its way out of his chest. Why did his mouth suddenly feel dry.
Offering to meet her at her house was risky… given his past. But what could happen with a baby in the house.
How about after the baby goes to sleep?
“I’d leave.” He said aloud
He did his routine movements to steady himself. Checked his mirrors. Checked his shirt.
Kabir, get a hold of yourself. He had met clients with less internal calibration.
He adjusted the AC slightly. Turned the radio down. Silence felt more appropriate. Better to hear his thoughts and mentally prepare for tonight and which direction he could stir it in.
Meeting her child. That wasn’t a date. That was entry into territory you don’t treat casually.
He exhaled slowly. He had known from his observations of her at the restaurant that Lamide was not light. She was bright, but anchored.
As a result, if she had allowed him to meet with her child, then he must mean… this must mean something to her. Well it meant a whole lot to him too.
He enjoyed getting to know her these past few weeks. Widowhood sits differently on people. Some collapse. Some calcify.
From his observations, she had neither collapsed nor hardened. She had… reorganised her priorities. He respected that. And respect, for Tunde, always came before attraction.
But attraction was there. Oh it was there.
Which is why a date at her house is a bad idea?
What’s the big deal? He said aloud. “Most people can have a perfectly normal date in relaxed settings like a house”
Well you are not most people.
He moved on from the voice in his head and focused on Lamide. He replayed the way she laughed. Head tilting slightly back. Teeth visible. Unrestrained.
He liked that she forgot to be careful sometimes. He noticed she held herself back from giving him too much too fast. But those times when she forgot herself, her brightness seeped through and he loved it.
He liked that she talked with her hands when she was passionate. He liked that she teased him about being punctual like it was a personality flaw.
“You set alarms for enjoyment,” she had said once.
“I schedule it,” he corrected.
She had laughed for almost thirty seconds.
“I am sure you would schedule fights in a relationship.” She said, after she caught her breath.
He had shrugged in response.
She had dropped her fork at this.
“Really?” She asked
“Well, it’s actually a very effective way for conflict resolution. It helps both parties prepare for the conversation… and then they can have it without it escalating into a full fledged argument.”
She had stared at him mouth ajar as if he had just sprouted horns.
He smiled faintly at the memory. Then his face grew serious again. A child. He was not intimidated. But he was aware.
There are men who date women with children because it feels grown. Because it feels noble. Because it feels like a badge.
But he was not interested in performance.
If he entered that house tonight, it would not be as a man sampling. It would be as a man considering. And consideration requires weight.
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel slightly. Not nerves. Focus.
He thought of the way she had paused on the phone.
“You’ve never met her.”
That had not been a warning. That had been vulnerability. She was not introducing him to her daughter casually. She was allowing him to see her real life.
Her unfiltered life.
Hair undone.
Cartoons playing.
Baby toys in corners.
Possibly exhaustion.
That kind of intimacy is louder than candlelight.
He liked that she didn’t try to curate herself for him.
He liked that she said,
“You’ll have to eat whatever I cook.”
He would.
Gladly.
The traffic slowed near Ojota.
He didn’t curse. He didn’t sigh loudly. He used the time.
Asked himself the only question that mattered.
Are you prepared for this?
Not prepared to babysit.
Not prepared to impress.
Prepared to stay?
The word lingered.
He had seen men disappear from women like Lamide. Disappear when grief got inconvenient. Disappear when responsibility felt heavy. Disappear when the baby cried too long.
He did not disappear. He simply did not start what he could not sustain. That was his discipline.
His heart was not loud anymore. It was steady. The conversation with himself had worked.
He checked the time. Right on track.
He imagined her opening the door. Maybe barefoot with a baby on her hip. Maybe with that half-smile she used when she was amused but pretending not to be.
He felt something then.
Not nerves. Anticipation. And underneath it— Something softer.
Hope.
He turned into her street, parked carefully and turned off the engine. Then he sat for a second.
Not to gather courage.
Yeah right
To settle intention.
He was not walking into a date. He was walking into a life. And for the first time in a while—He wanted to.
Lamide’s P.O.V:
She saw his headlights before she heard the knock. That alone did something to her chest.
He was here.
She glanced at the clock. On time. Of course he was.
Her daughter was awake now. Wide-eyed. Suspicious of everything.
“Listen,” Lamide said softly, adjusting the tiny pink headband that kept sliding sideways. “Be charming. Not cantankerous.”
The baby blinked. Unmoved.
Lamide laughed nervously.
Why are you nervous? It’s just Tunde.
Just.
She walked to the door. Paused. Looked down at herself.
Simple house dress.
Hair tied up loosely.
No restaurant lighting tonight
This is me, she told herself.
And then she opened the door.
He was standing straight. Not leaning. Not casual. Ram-rod straight.
He wore dark jeans with a plain shirt. The sleeves were rolled just enough to suggest warmth without effort.
He looked at her first.
Then at the baby.
Then back at her.
His face changed.
Not dramatic.
Softened.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she replied.
A beat.
“You weren’t joking about cartoons,” he added, glancing inside as animated voices floated faintly from the TV.
“I don’t joke about children,” she replied.
He smiled.
There it was again.
That smile that unfastened something in her.
She stepped aside.
“Come in.”
He entered carefully.
Not like a guest inspecting.
Not like a man asserting space.
Just… stepping into her world.
His eyes moved across the room.
Toys in one corner.
A folded laundry basket.
Baby bottles drying on the rack.
A faint scent of shea butter and dinner.
He didn’t comment.
Didn’t joke.
Didn’t pretend not to see it either.
He took it in.
Respectfully.
Her daughter stared at him now.
Serious.
Assessing.
“This is the small dictator,” Lamide said lightly.
Tunde bent his head.
“Good evening,” he said calmly. “I hear you run this house.”
The baby blinked. Still suspicious.
Lamide bit back a smile.
“You’re greeting her like she’s a shareholder.”
“She is,” he replied evenly.
She laughed.
And something about that exchange loosened the air.
The baby reached for his watch. He didn’t pull away. He let her grab it. Let her tug slightly.
“You’re brave,” Lamide said.
“She’s curious,” he replied. “That’s a good trait.”
Her daughter babbled something incoherent.
Tunde nodded seriously.
“Ah. Noted.”
Lamide stared at him.
“You’re not awkward.”
“Should I be?”
“Most men are.”
“I’m not most men.”
She rolled her eyes.
“Yes, yes. I’ve heard.”
He stood slowly.
Their proximity shifted.
Different now.
He looked at her again.
Really looked.
“You look…” he paused.
She raised a brow.
“... like yourself,” he finished.
Her heart betrayed her with one unnecessary flip. It wasn’t what he said, but how he said it. Like he was stunned.
“Is that a compliment or a statement of observation?” she asked.
“Yes. You are beautiful… especially like this”
She held his gaze for a second longer than she should have.
He didn’t fill the silence. He just stayed there. Steady.
“I made jollof,” she said abruptly, turning toward the kitchen. “And grilled chicken. Nothing spectacular.”
“I trust you,” he replied again.
She hated that phrase. Because it sounded like stability. And stability is seductive. She moved to the stove, plating food. He followed slowly, but not hovering.
Her daughter crawled toward him.
He picked her up gently. Checked her reaction to see if she was comfortable. She didn’t cry. She grabbed his collar instead.
“Ah,” he murmured calmly. “We’re negotiating fabric ownership now.”
Lamide laughed.
Real laughter.
The kind that made her bend slightly over the counter.
And she caught herself.
Stop. You’re too comfortable.
She turned to look at him. He was holding her daughter carefully. Securely. Her chest tightened unexpectedly.
Not fear. Recognition.
This man could fit here.
That thought frightened her more than attraction ever had.
“You can sit,” she said quickly.
He nodded and moved to the dining table, still holding the baby.
“Do you want me to put her down?”
“No,” she said before thinking.
Then corrected herself.
“If you’re comfortable.”
“I am.”
He adjusted slightly in his seat, balancing her daughter on one knee.
The baby leaned against him.
Unbothered.
Lamide froze for half a second.
Children don’t fake comfort. They decide. And her daughter had decided.
Tunde looked up at her. He caught the flicker in her expression.
“I won’t rush this,” he said quietly.
She swallowed.
“You’re not rushing anything.”
“I know.”
Silence stretched.
Soft.
Heavy.
Alive.
“You didn’t have to come,” she said again, more quietly this time.
“Yes,” he replied. “I did. I wanted to”
Her heart did that thing again. Uninvited. Unhelpful.
She sat opposite him. Studied them.
Him.
Her daughter.
Her living room.
This was not a date. This was something else.
And for the first time since widowhood— The possibility of someone not visiting… But staying…
Didn’t only terrify her. It excited her. And that was far more dangerous.
*******************
Dinner was chaos. Small, soft, sticky-fingered chaos.
Her daughter refused to sit still. Tunde attempted spoon-feeding. Missed twice. Got rice on his sleeve.
Lamide gasped dramatically.
“You’ve offended her,” she said. “She wants her food exactly when she wants it.
“She lunged,” he replied calmly.
“She’s going to do that. She’s 13 months old.”
“Well, she’s decisive for a toddler.”
The baby squealed. Tunde adjusted, patient. He let her grab the spoon. Let her attempt independence. Rice fell everywhere.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t sigh.
“I’m so sorry” Lamide said
“It’s okay. Making a mess is part of learning,” he said.
Lamide stared at him.
“Do you rehearse these lines?”
“No.”
“You sound like a parenting podcast.”
“I read.”
She laughed.
Really laughed.
And somewhere between wiping tiny hands and moving plates out of danger, she noticed something she hadn’t planned to notice.
He wasn’t trying to impress her. He wasn’t trying to “prove” he could handle a child. He was just present.
There’s a difference.
After dinner, bath time became negotiation time.
She expected him to step back.
Instead—
“Do you need help?” he asked.
She hesitated.
Not because she needed help.
Because letting him help meant letting him closer and she wanted to include him without giving too much.
“Can you clear her toys from the sitting rooml?” she asked carefully.
He nodded.
And when he was done, he stood just outside the bedroom. Not intrusive. Just available.
When the baby was finally dry and dressed in tiny pyjamas, sleep arrived quickly. Too quickly. Like children sense emotional shifts and decide not to interfere.
Tunde stood near the crib. Not touching. Just watching.
The baby stirred once. Then settled.
He leaned slightly forward. Not to kiss. Just to look.
Lamide stood, watching him. And something hit her in the chest. Not butterflies. Not infatuation. Recognition.
This man could stay.
There it was again. She wanted him to stay. And the thought didn’t feel like betrayal of her late husband. It felt like survival. And that terrified her.
She swallowed.
“You were good with her,” she said softly.
“I’m calm,” he replied. “Children respond to calm.”
She nodded slowly. And realised— She hadn’t felt calm around a man in years.
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