Red Flag District.
Chapter Three (Part 3): Morolake; Wife Material.
FOLARIN’S P.O.V:
It didn’t become anything overnight. That was the thing. There was no moment where I decided, oh, I like her. It just… continued.
Day 1
Morolake: Eat today.
I ate. Not because she told me to. But because when I looked at the clock later and realized I hadn’t, I remembered her message.
And for some reason… I didn’t want her to be right about me.
Day 2
She sent a picture. Not of herself. Of food. Jollof rice. Neatly plated. Chicken placed like it had intention.
Morolake: Evidence.
I stared at it.
Folarin: Are you reporting to me?
Morolake: Yes.
Folarin: Why?
Morolake: Accountability. So you don’t think I am just chasing you to eat. I am eating too.
I shook my head. Smiling.
Day 3
First voice note. I almost didn’t play it. Voice notes feel like access. Like someone stepping into your space without knocking. I pressed play anyway.
Her voice was softer than I expected. Gone was the calm efficiency from the wedding. This was warmer. Lighter.
“Hi… I just realized I’ve been sending you instructions like I’m your supervisor. I’m actually very nice in real life, I promise.”
I laughed out loud.
Then I replayed it. Once. Then again. Not because it was funny but because it felt… soothing.
I replied with a voice note too. Against my better judgement.
“Are you though? Because so far I’ve been monitored, fed, and scheduled.”
She replied almost immediately.
“Don’t complain. Some people pay for this level of care.”
Hmmm. True.
Day 5
She called. Not texted. Called. I stared at my phone for a second. We had graduated from chats, to voice notes and now calls.
Interesting.
I picked the call.
“Hello?”
“Hi.”
No introduction. No hesitation. Like this had always been allowed.
“Were you sleeping?” she asked.
“No.”
“You sound like you were.”
“That’s offensive.”
She laughed.
“Oh well.”
Pause.
“Why did you call?”
“Because typing is stressful.”
“That is a wild statement.”
“It’s accurate.”
I leaned back in my chair. Smiling without planning to.
The calls didn’t last long. That was the thing. She never overextended. Ten minutes. Fifteen. Twenty, if we lost track.
Then:
“Okay, go and work.”
Or:
“I have to go now.”
She didn’t drag the conversations. She didn’t do any emotional anchoring. Just… presence. Then space.
It was perfect.
Day 7
She started sending voice notes more often.
Small things.
Observations.
“Someone just tried to park inside a space that doesn’t exist. Nigerians are very optimistic people.”
Or:
“I think you’re the kind of person that reads instructions after using something.”
That one offended me.
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
I smiled the entire time.
Day 9
She asked:
“What are you doing?”
I stared at the message. Simple question. But it felt different. It didn’t feel intrusive. But it still felt personal. I answered anyway.
Folarin: Working.
Morolake: Of course you are.
Folarin: What does that mean?
Morolake: It means you look like someone who hides inside work.
I paused. Typed. Deleted.
Then: That’s not entirely false.
She didn’t respond immediately.
Then: Eat.
I laughed again.
Day 11
We spoke late into the night. It was not planned. It just… happened. The conversation drifted. From work. To family. To nothing.
And then—silence. Not awkward. Just there. She didn’t rush to fill it. Neither did I.
“You’re quiet,” she said finally.
“So are you.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
She paused.
“You sound lighter.”
I didn’t respond immediately. Because she was right. And I hadn’t noticed until she said it.
Day 13
She sent:
Morolake: Are you going out this weekend?
Folarin: Why?
Morolake: Just asking.
Folarin: Maybe.
Pause.
Then: Don’t disappear.
I smiled.
It was subtle. There was no pressure. No intensity. No need to prove anything. She didn’t demand attention. She didn’t withdraw it either. She just…stayed. Consistently. Lightly. Present.
And somewhere between: “Eat.” and “You sound lighter.” and “Don’t disappear.” Our relationship changed.
Morolake felt like a Lagos beach. Not the curated ones. Not the influencer ones with cabanas and curated cocktails.
A real Lagos beach.
The kind you go to when your head is too full. The kind where the sand isn’t perfectly clean.
The chairs are slightly unstable. The suya guy is shouting. Children are running. Someone is playing music too loudly.
And yet— somehow, you sit. You breathe. You watch the water. And the noise stops mattering.
That was what she felt like.
Morolake didn’t demand anything. She didn’t challenge my thoughts. Didn’t dissect my words. Didn’t test my intentions.
She just…soothed. Relaxed. Stayed. And without realizing it, I had started to look forward to her messages.
Not because they were exciting, but because they were… steady. Like waves. Predictable. Coming and Going. Calming. Softly teasing your legs. Drawing you in slowly without asking permission.
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