Red Flag District.

Chapter Three (Part 7): Morolake; Wife Material.

FOLARIN’S P.O.V:

Sunday lunch at my mother’s house was not something you casually attended. It was tradition. Structure.

The kind of family ritual that held in spite of heartbreak, fuel scarcity, emotional confusion and whatever new economic punishment Nigeria decided to invent that week.

Come rain or shine, Mama Folake expected her children to show up at her house, 1pm, every Sunday afternoon.

By the time Morolake and I arrived, the house already smelled alive. Stew bubbling somewhere deep in the kitchen. Fried plantain. Rice washed properly. Pepper. Meat.

Real meat. Not those tiny decorative cubes restaurants use to disrespect full grown adults.

Voices drifted from the living room in overlapping layers— football analysis, laughter, somebody arguing too passionately about fuel prices like NNPC had personally requested his opinion.

Morolake adjusted the sleeve of the cream two-piece we just bought and glanced at the house carefully.

“You’re nervous,” I said.

“I’m not nervous.”

“You’ve adjusted your sleeve three times.”

“That means I pay attention to detail.”

“That means you’re nervous.”

She looked at me briefly. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“Yes.”

That made her smile despite herself.

I knocked once before opening the door.

Folahan appeared almost immediately and froze dramatically when she saw Morolake standing behind me.

“Ahn ahn.”

I sighed immediately.

“No.”

“No, what?” she demanded. “You entered this house with this fine woman and expected peace?”

Morolake laughed softly beside me.

Folahan stepped aside at once. “Please come inside jare fine girl.

“My family is deeply embarrassing,” I muttered.

“Yes,” Folahan replied calmly. “But we are warm.”

That part was true.

The room reacted almost instantly once we entered properly.

Chuks stood first, greeting Morolake with the calm steadiness he carried into every room. Our family doctor.

Chuks always gave me the vibe of a man who if somebody collapsed during lunch, he would save the person without increasing anybody’s blood pressure.

Ade followed next from the sofa, pausing his football argument long enough to grin at me knowingly.

“So this is why you dressed properly today.”

“I’ve always dressed properly.”

“No,” Folahan replied immediately. “Recently you were dressing like someone recovering from betrayal.”

Morolake laughed again and unfortunately everybody liked the sound immediately.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

Folákẹ emerged from the hallway carrying her son against one hip, moving with the calm competence she carried into everything.

Her hair was tied back loosely and she still somehow looked arranged despite clearly having spent half the day cooking and parenting simultaneously.

She looked at Morolake once, then at me.

Interesting.

That one glance said interesting.

Then she smiled warmly.

“This is Morolake.” I said,

Morolake greeted respectfully and Folákẹ hugged her almost immediately before shifting her son higher against her hip.

“My brother finally looks alive again,” she said casually.

“Folákẹ,” I warned.

“What?” she replied calmly. “Am I lying?”

Even Chuks laughed softly at that.

My mother emerged from the dining area moments later, wiping her hands with a kitchen towel. She looked at Morolake once and I saw it happen immediately.

Interest. Not full approval. Yoruba mothers don’t give that away quickly. But interest. Which was somehow worse.

“Good afternoon, ma,” Morolake greeted respectfully.

My mother smiled softly and hugged her almost immediately.

“Folarin and beautiful girls,” my mother said calmly.

“Mummy.”

“What?” she replied innocently. “Am I lying?”

The room laughed again.

Morolake handled it perfectly though. That was part of the problem. She wasn’t awkward. She wasn’t trying too hard. She entered the room naturally, greeting properly, smiling warmly.

Then, after a few minutes of conversation, she stood.

“Ma, can I help you in the kitchen?”

The room shifted almost imperceptibly.

My mother blinked once. “No, no, you’re a visitor.”

“I know,” Morolake said softly, “but I’d still like to help.”

My mother smiled slowly then.

Folahan looked at me immediately.

Then at Folákẹ.

A look was exchanged between them. That thing women do when they don’t want men to hear their thoughts.

Dangerous behavior.

My mother finally nodded. “Okay, come.”

Morolake followed her toward the kitchen naturally, not dramatically eager, just willing.

And somehow— that unsettled my sisters slightly.

Folahan leaned closer to Folákẹ immediately after they disappeared into the kitchen.

“She’s very giving,” she murmured.

Folákẹ glanced toward the kitchen thoughtfully. “Very.”

I frowned. “You people sound suspicious.”

Folahan looked at me. “Not suspicious.”

“Then what?”

She shrugged lightly. “Just observing.”

“That’s ominous.”

“No,” Folákẹ replied calmly. “It’s feminine intuition.”

“That phrase has destroyed many innocent men.”

Chuks laughed softly from the couch. “Mostly guilty men.”

Traitor.

The kitchen absorbed Morolake quickly after that.

By the time I entered later, she was helping my mother arrange serving dishes while listening attentively to a story about one distant cousin’s failed marriage and another cousin’s questionable career decisions.

Folahan stood nearby eating meat directly from a serving bowl while contributing absolutely nothing useful.

“You see?” she announced the moment she saw me. “This is a woman with home training.”

“I also have home training,” I replied.

“No,” she said calmly. “You have arrogance. And it’s not like we didn’t train you o…”

Even my mother laughed quietly at that.

But Folákẹ said nothing.

She just watched Morolake quietly for a moment longer than everybody else.

Carefully.

And honestly— I understood why. Morolake fit too quickly.

She blended into the rhythm of the house naturally. She knew when to speak and when to simply smile. She wasn’t intimidated by warmth, which meant she relaxed into it instead of performing around it.

And watching her there— with my mother, with my sisters, carrying plates around my childhood home like she had always existed somewhere inside this rhythm—I felt something settle quietly in my chest.

This could work. Maybe peace was what grown people eventually chose. That thought followed me all through lunch.

Morolake sat beside me now while Ade and Chuks argued loudly about football and fuel prices with the misplaced confidence men always carry into conversations they cannot personally solve.

Folahan interrupted everybody every five minutes with unrelated commentary. My nephew threw rice on the floor and received immediate forgiveness because apparently babies operate outside legal systems.

And through all of it, Morolake moved comfortably.

Laughing at the right moments. Passing plates naturally. Listening properly. Not trying too hard. My mother watched her several times throughout the meal. Quietly. Carefully.

And each time, the look on her face softened slightly more. That should have comforted me.

Instead, it made the relationship feel suddenly real in a way I had not fully processed before.

After lunch, while everybody settled into post-food laziness and football arguments continued in the living room, Folákẹ found me alone briefly in the kitchen.

She rinsed a glass quietly before speaking.

“She’s lovely.”

I nodded once. “She is.”

Folákẹ glanced at me carefully then. Observant in the way older sisters become after years of loving you correctly.

“You seem calmer.”

That word again.

Calmer.

“I am calmer,” I admitted.

She nodded slowly.

Then after a moment she asked gently, “Do you actually like her, Flo?”

I frowned slightly. “What kind of question is that?”

“A real one.”

“I’m dating her, aren’t I?”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I leaned back slightly against the counter.

Folákẹ dried her hands slowly before continuing.

“You know what worries me?”

I sighed. “I’m about to hear it anyway.”

“You’ve gone from heartbreak to comfort very quickly.”

I looked away briefly.

“That doesn’t mean it’s fake,” she added quickly. “I’m not saying that. I just…” She paused carefully. “I want to make sure you’re choosing her because you truly want her. Not because she arrived when you were emotionally tired.”

That was so on the nose, it was almost scripture.

“She makes things easier,” I admitted quietly.

Folákẹ nodded once. “I can see that.”

Silence sat between us briefly.

Then she added softly, “Just be careful that ease doesn’t become avoidance.”

I frowned slightly. “What does that mean?”

“It means grief delayed is still grief.”

That irritated me because it was true. And I was getting increasingly tired of people saying true things to me recently.

“She’s good to me,” I said finally.

Folákẹ smiled faintly. “I know.”

Then she touched my arm lightly before walking back toward the living room.

And I stayed there alone for a moment longer than necessary.

Because somewhere beneath the warmth of the afternoon… beneath the laughter… beneath the comfort… a small part of me knew exactly what she meant.

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