Red Flag District.

Chapter Three (Part 8): Morolake; Wife Material.

LAMIDE’S P.O.V:

Healing was quieter than she expected.

That was the first thing she noticed after Christ Collective.

She thought returning to God would feel dramatic. Emotional. Violent somehow. Like thunder cracking open a sky she had sealed shut for years. She had expected weeping. An encounter. Something cinematic. Something earned.

Instead it felt… small.

Soft.

Simple.

Like opening a door she had spent a long time pretending did not exist.

A door she had closed quietly one Tuesday afternoon at the hospital, when the doctor finished a sentence she had stopped hearing halfway through.

A door she had refused to open again at the funeral.

A door she had decided would stay sealed forever.

Some mornings she still woke up angry. Some nights grief still sat on her chest unexpectedly, heavy as though another person laid on her till it hurt. She still missed her husband sometimes with an intensity that startled her,and she missed him in the strangest places. The petrol station where he used to laugh at her terrible parking. The aisle in Shoprite where she still automatically reached for his preferred toothpaste before remembering.

But now, instead of hardening around the pain that shot through her heart when she missed him, she carried it to God.

Awkwardly at first. Like someone approaching a person they had not spoken to properly in years and was not sure if they were still angry with each other.

That morning, she stood in her kitchen holding a mug of tea while Eniola babbled from her high chair behind her, and for the first time in a long time, she prayed honestly.

“I still don’t understand what happened.”

Steam curled slowly from the mug in her hands.

“I still miss him.”

Her throat tightened immediately after that.

Demilade.

Her husband.

The man she had buried in October.

The man whose shirts still hung in the back of her closet because she could not bring herself to give them to anyone yet—not even charity.

The man whose handwriting was still on the small notepad beside the fridge: Buy bread. Pay Iya Bisi for laundry. Remind L. about Saturday.

The man whose death had split her life into before and after, with no warning, no second chance, no version of her that got to say goodbye properly.

And somehow, saying it to God no longer felt pointless.

She leaned back against the counter and closed her eyes briefly.

“I’m trying not to be angry with you anymore.”

That one was harder.

Because anger had protected her for a long time.

Anger made grief feel cleaner. More controlled. Easier to carry than disappointment. Anger gave her somewhere to put the weight when nothing else could hold it. Anger had been the only thing in the house that had not asked her to be okay.

But PK’s words kept returning to her.

Jesus wept.

He didn’t explain to Mary how tears were pointless. He didn’t tell Martha what had happened and God knew best.

He wept with them. God grieving with people instead of standing outside their pain. Her high priest felt her pain as intensely as she felt it.

It changed something inside her. She was not completely healed. But she was healed enough. Enough that the door no longer felt locked. Enough that the room behind it no longer felt empty. God was right behind the door, waiting for her and right now, she was ready to lean into His arms again.

Eniola dropped her spoon dramatically onto the floor and immediately looked offended that gravity existed.

Lamide laughed despite herself and bent to pick it up.

“You are stressful.”

The baby grinned shamelessly, all four teeth on full display, banana stuck somewhere in her hair.

Lamide shook her head affectionately before placing the spoon back on the tray and wiping the banana off with the corner of a napkin.

Then quietly—without meaning to—her thoughts drifted toward Tunde. Again. Always… Recently.

She sighed softly and leaned against the counter once more.

“I miss him too.”

That confession embarrassed her immediately. She glanced upward like heaven might judge her timing, a widow grieving one man and longing for another in the same morning prayer.

“My life is very strange right now.”

Eniola slapped the tray happily in agreement.

She smiled faintly.

“I like him,” she admitted softly. “I think I really like him.”

And maybe the strangest thing was that she no longer felt guilty saying it. Not fully yet. She was still uncertain. She was still afraid that wanting someone again was a kind of betrayal of the man who could not protest.

But no longer guilty… and no longer angry at him either.

“I understand why he stepped back,” she continued quietly. “I do.”

That was the annoying part. Because once she stopped centering her own rejection, she finally saw what restraint must have cost him.

Tunde had wanted her. Deeply. She had seen it in his face that night. She had felt it in the way his hand had paused at her waist for one second longer than necessary before he had pulled away from her and said her name like an apology.

And still he chose caution. He chose honor. He chose discipline. That realization had ruined her peace completely. Because now she misses him constantly.

Not just physically.

She missed his steadiness. She missed the way he listened fully when she spoke, like nothing else in the room could compete for his attention. She missed the way his eyes softened when she laughed unexpectedly. She missed the way he never reached for her without first asking with his eyes. She missed the restraint that had once offended her and now felt strangely precious.

Very irritating man.

Eniola started whining for attention again and she moved toward her immediately, lifting her out of the high chair and balancing her on her hip.

“Yes, yes. Your mother is struggling emotionally. Give her a minute.”

The child blinked at her. Unimpressed. Then patted her cheek wetly with a banana-sticky hand.

Lamide laughed and kissed the top of her head.

The smell of her baby, the mix of baby powder, baby skin and banana, anchored her back into the morning.

************

Work helped temporarily.

The restaurant demanded too much attention for complete emotional wondering. Suppliers. Reservations. Staff problems. Lagos traffic delaying deliveries. Somebody complaining that medium steak was “too alive.” A customer who insisted he had been overcharged when she could see his bill in front of him.

Normal restaurant life. The kind of life that did not have time for grief or longing or theological reconciliation.

But sometime around late afternoon, between signing off on next week’s menu and approving a refund she did not actually owe, she realized something that unsettled her more than expected.

Tunde had stopped coming entirely. Not just to see her. To the restaurant itself. No business dinners. No quiet check-ins where he sat at his usual table near the window and pretended to read something on his phone while waiting for her shift to slow.

No texts saying I’m in the area, do you need anything?

Nothing.

It had been almost three weeks now.

And suddenly she missed him with fresh irritation.

“Nonsense man,” she muttered under her breath while reviewing invoices.

A knock sounded against her office door.

“Come in.”

One of her waiters, Biola, stepped in slightly.

“Madam, closing figures from upstairs—”

Lamide nodded distractedly and reached for the papers.

Then paused.

“Wait.”

Biola stopped.

She tried to make the question sound casual.

She failed.

“That man, Mr Tunde, hasn’t come in this week?”

Biola smiled immediately.

Traitor.

“No, madam.”

Lamide looked away instantly toward her computer screen, pretending to read something that suddenly demanded her full attention.

“Okay. Hmmmm. I don’t want us to lose a regular. You know what… don’t worry… Go.”

The waiter left still smiling, the door closing behind her with the soft click.

Very disrespectful staff.

Lamide exhaled slowly and rubbed a hand across her forehead.

Fine.

Whatever.

If Tunde Kabir wanted to disappear from her life completely, that was his business. She had survived worse things than emotionally responsible men.

It was not like she wanted to see him that much.

She told herself that twice. It did not become true either time.

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