More Than Pretend - Chapter 3
with a little surprise at the end of this chapter!
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER THREE 👇🏾
Chapter Three
Ava
I was home.
Before the taxi stopped, the gate was wide open, and Luchi stood in the driveway, jumping. The house was a two-story building, and large, intimidatingly so. The windows weren’t as large as the popular ones now; they were like those I saw in old country cottages. Similarly, they were mullioned, but that’s where the old-world charm ended. It was a single-level home with inviting front porches shaded by roof overhangs.
I ran out of the car and threw myself at her. “I’m so happy to be home,” I whispered.
We walked into the living room; the windows drew in the light, adding to the house’s beauty. The wall was painted white, with a brown leather sofa toning down the bright colors, while the TV stand had all our pictures from when we were babies to becoming adults. My eyes shifted to the writing décor on the wall since I was six, reading: “In our home, let love abide and bless those who step inside.”
The tears I had been holding all day flowed effortlessly. The sofa was there to catch me as I sank and wept. Luchi immediately pulled me into a hug, so tight that it didn’t matter because it seemed to calm me down.
“It’s okay, just let it all out,” she whispered. “You’re home now, and big sis is here for you.”
It seemed like all hope was lost because of the plan to start a family with someone I thought loved me, someone I thought was my better half — it was gone.
Grandma walked into the living room. “Luchi, what happened?” she asked.
“Davis and Instagram,” Luchi replied.
Mama pulled Luchi aside and sat beside me. “Avaline, what happened? You didn’t tell me anything. What did Davis do now?”
“Mama, that’s a lot of questions for one person,” Luchi added, knowing she knew everything already.
I had to tell them. It was the only way I would have some sort of peace, even though I knew Grandma wouldn't let me hear the last of this. I spent at least twenty minutes relieving each moment of hurt as I narrated the whole story to them.
“Now, I’m home, and everything will be alright,” I concluded. “You know what? No more worries about finding the right man. I’m here to have fun and enjoy my life on my terms.”
“No, o!” Grandma shouted. She walked closer and sat on the other side of the couch. “I don't know why you'll put life on shisha media…”
Luchi laughed. “Social media, mama.”
Mama waved at her. “Shisha or social, you know what I'm talking about. Ava, because some Americana broke up with you does not mean you won’t find a husband. See, there are fine men here in Port Harcourt. I even talked to my….”
“Mama!” Luchi shouted.
She stuck her nose in the air. “I’m just stating the truth. I don’t want anyone having the single woman’s enjoyment in this house because that means there’s no hope of marriage, just like Luchi. If you were a doctor as we told you to be instead of a painter….”
“Freelance Graphic designer,” I reminded her and buried my face in my hands.
She waved her hand again and cleared her throat. “I’ve heard, and I know I didn't go to school, but please let me finish. You’re back home, no man to show, and definitely no plan for your future.”
I looked up at her. “I have a plan.” Did I though? I always did, but this whole thing with Davis and struggling to get clients made me disorganized, and I didn’t know what I needed anymore.
“She will be fine,” Luchi reassured her, then turned to me. “If Mama tries to peddle, you will be on the next plane back to the US.”
Grandma raised her hands in defense. “Ah! It hasn’t gotten to that. But am I going to die without seeing my grandchildren get married?”
I managed to laugh, but couldn’t ignore the weight in my chest. I yearned for that same happiness, yet I felt lacking because I wasn’t ready to embark on the journey Mama wanted for me.
“So what will you eat?” Mama asked.
“Bole and roasted fish,” everyone said at once, and rolled into laughter.
Luchi stood up and pointed to my suitcase by the door. “Before I go get you lunch, I hope there are a lot of goodies in there for me.”
“Let’s wait and find out after I eat,” I replied.
“There better be if you want to go to the bole festival next weekend! It will be the beginning of your adventure, and if we’re lucky, we get to meet some fine men!” She lifted her hand to her lips and kissed her fingertips.
My eyebrows shot up. “Bole festival? Fine men?”
She winked at me.
The next day, I decided to go out rather than stay home and bore myself out. The hum of the taxi’s air conditioning blended with the bustling sounds of Pitakwa, as we called it in pidgin. We glided through the streets of a symphony of controlled chaos swirling around us. Horns blared in discordant notes while street vendors hawked their wares in a melodic hum that underscored the city’s frenetic pace. Dilapidated taxis jostled with sleek SUVs, both dodging potholes that marred the asphalt. Tall buildings proudly wore a layer of city grime, while billboards advertised the latest tech gadgets. Even in this congested landscape, the lush greenery fought for its space.
Luchi was at work, and Grandma was busy at her friend’s shop. I couldn’t help but relish the freedom I felt. No client emails pinging my phone, no urgent design revisions—just me, my braids neatly wrapped in a bun, dressed in my laid-back ensemble of jeans and a shirt. I was back in Nigeria, and today, I was headed to Havana, a restaurant that’s the epitome of Afro-chic.
As I sat in the back seat, my fingers danced over my phone, capturing snippets of my journey for my Bookstagram followers. “Just a girl taking her taste buds on a joyride and rediscovering the flavors of home, one frame at a time,” I mumbled and chuckled.
My destination today was Havana. I’d seen its rave reviews and mouth-watering Instagram posts. I knew it for its artsy décor and gourmet dishes. It was the perfect setting to savor some local flavors and take photos that would make my followers drool. Today wasn’t about work but embracing my roots and enjoying the little things that made life savory. And if I got a sumptuous meal and some killer Bookstagram content out of it? Well, that would be the cherry on top.
As the car pulled up to the restaurant, a burst of excitement bubbled within me. I thanked the driver and stepped out of the vehicle. With my phone in hand, I took pictures of the restaurant’s exterior—a lovely blend of modern architecture and Nigerian art. “Smile, Havana. You’re going on my Bookstagram,” I whispered to my phone as I took the perfect shot.
I walked in, and the music hit me right away—Afro beats pulsing through the air, a mix of Wizkid and Burna Boy. They scattered paintings and sculptures around, turning the place into an art gallery as much as a restaurant. It felt like a cultural hug, and I was here for it.
I noticed a few extra security guards milling around, their eyes scanning the room. “Hmm, someone important must be here,” I thought, but my curiosity died down when a waiter approached me.
“Sorry, ma’am, we’re not serving anyone for the next hour,” he said. His voice was polite but firm.
“Are you kidding me?” I said, feeling my eyebrows jump up. “Why not?”
He glanced at the security detail, then back at me, and shrugged. “Special guest,” he mouthed, as if he’d spill national secrets.
“Let me guess,” I rolled my eyes, “the President of Nigeria is having jollof rice in the VIP section?”
He chuckled nervously, obviously relieved I took it with humor. “Something like that,” he gestured discreetly toward the back.
Great. I came all this way, battled Port Harcourt traffic, evaded potholes like a video game, and now no food? My foodie dreams were being put on hold because some VIP needed the entire place. I can’t believe this. And then my stomach gave a disappointed grumble, echoing my feelings.
Just as I was about to voice my displeasure louder, a man approached us. He looked so charming in simple black pants and a white, buttoned-up shirt; I forgot I was annoyed. His eyes caught me—deep brown pools that held stories and secrets. They met mine and everything stilled for an aching second.
“I’m really sorry for the inconvenience,” he said. His voice was a harmonious blend of authority and charm, the kind of baritone that could probably talk you into anything.
As he spoke, I couldn’t help but notice his well-manicured fingers as they gestured slightly. His hands looked equally suited for a pen as they did for something more intense. My gaze slipped to his lips, expertly framed by a neat beard. They moved in sync with his words, and for a second, I wondered how they’d feel pressed against —
What on earth was I thinking?
He chuckled softly, pulling me out of my inappropriate musings. “I’m the reason the restaurant is temporarily closed. Would you consider joining me for lunch?”
My inner debate team rallied for a fierce argument. On one hand, he was a stranger; on the other, this restaurant served the best pepper soup in town. Plus, it’s not like he asked me to follow him to a dark corner or his house. I was in a public space and was fully capable of causing a scene if needed.
“I hope this isn’t some kidnapping plot,” I quipped, trying to lighten the mood.
He chuckled, a sound that reminded me of late-night jazz—smooth and inviting. “I assure you, it’s nothing of the sort, but I understand if you say no. My name is Nimi, by the way.”
“Ava.” I smiled. “Just so you know, I am not one to pass up a plate of good food,” I said, following him toward the secluded area. As we walked, I couldn’t shake off the strange electricity in the air.
Seated at a tastefully arranged table, with decorative china and vibrant florals that seemed to get someone’s attention, I looked across at Nimi. “This place knows how to make a statement, right?” I said.
He chuckled, his eyes gleaming. “True. But it’s not just about the aesthetics. The food is also top-notch. Do you have any preferences? I don’t want to assume.”
“None. Surprise me,” I replied, secretly thrilled at the prospect of experiencing his choice.
“How about some jambalaya?” he suggested, revealing his comfort with local cuisine.
“Okay, I’ve heard so much about it, but haven’t tried it,” I said.
His eyes widened. “Okay, who in Nigeria hasn’t eaten it?”
I laughed. “If you can’t tell, I’m what they call an ajebutter.”
He waved his hand. “Even if you’re so bougie, that doesn’t mean you’ve not tasted it. Jambalaya is pretty much Creole ‘jollof rice’ cooked with many goodies, including smoked sausages and some Creole seasonings. I don’t like sausage, so they use salmon for me instead.”
“Now, who’s been all bougie?” I laughed.
He smiled, and my eyes inadvertently traced the contours of his well-manicured fingers as he signaled for the waiter.
As the dishes arrived half an hour later, the scent of snail-peppered sauce and the unique aroma of jambalaya rice wafted through the air. Nimi chuckled as I awkwardly attempted to balance my rice on the fork. “You can use a spoon, you know. We’re not in a Hollywood movie.”
I wanted to show I had good home training but failed when the fork and knife weren’t working as I’d expected. “A spoon makes more sense for rice,” I laughed, swapping my fork for a spoon.
Nimi took a bite and looked up. “I have a feeling you’re more comfortable behind a camera. I saw you taking photos earlier.”
“Busted,” I said. “I’m a freelance graphic designer, and I run a bookstagram. Good food and great books are my thing.”
“What about politics?” he asked, pausing for a sip of water.
“Ugh, politics is a minefield I try to avoid. Too much drama for me,” I said candidly.
“Fair enough. Life is already complicated as it is,” he responded, his eyes momentarily lingering on mine.
There it was again—the unspoken connection, the magnetic pull that seemed almost tangible. It was the pause in conversation as we savored our food, the subtle laughter that came a little too quickly, and the inexplicable sense of familiarity.
I felt something. It was more than the sizzling chemistry or the rare comfort in the company of a stranger. It was a magnetic pull, making me hyper-aware of his presence. His eyes crinkled when he laughed, the warm timbre of his voice filling the space between us, and the subtle scent of his cologne — a captivating blend of citrus and musk.
It was then that it hit me. The chemistry was natural, and both of us felt it. It was clear in the lingered eye contact, the slight touch of his hand as he passed the pepper. And the easy flow of conversation seemed like we had known each other for years rather than minutes.
Ava, are you alright? I cautioned myself, suddenly aware of how easily I was getting swept away.
“So, why are you in Nigeria? Family?” he probed, snapping me out of my daydream.
“How do you know I’m visiting?”
He sat back and looked at me. “Your accent.”
I jerked my head back with a smirk. “What do you mean, my accent?” I knew what he meant. I just wanted to hear him say it.
He smiled again. “Your accent is a mix of Nigerian and American. So, who are you visiting?”
“Visiting my grandma and taking a break from the grind of a freelancer, you know?”
“I know now,” he nodded. “Sometimes, stepping back and reconnecting with your roots is essential. Keeps you grounded, in my opinion.”
The words rang true, especially coming from him. But who was he, really? A man comfortable in high-end places, yet familiar with local delicacies and in tune with the importance of ‘roots.’
Then there was silence as we ate, sneaking glances at each other and smiling.
“You know, the more I think about it, the more familiar you look. Are you sure you’re not a Nollywood actor or a musician hiding under a different name?” I teased, leaning back in my chair. The lingering spiciness of the jambalaya rice was an aftertaste that perfectly matched the spark of our conversation.
He chuckled; his eyes twinkled like stars in the Port Harcourt night sky. “No, not at all. Though I’ve always thought I’d make a great romantic lead,” Nimi said, lifting an eyebrow playfully.
“Ah, so you’re a heartthrob in disguise!” I fired back, unable to contain my laughter.
“Disguise is a strong word, but who knows?” He smiled. “You, on the other hand, with your dual-life, you could be a superhero. Graphic designer by day, Bookstagrammer by night.”
I felt my cheeks warm up. “Well, you know, I’m the Batman of the book world,” I quipped. “I love books, not just the stories they tell, but how they look. The cover of a book can be a story. And let’s be real, there’s a gaping need for more representation on book covers, especially for black people.”
Nimi leaned in, captivated. “That’s fascinating, genuinely. We often overlook the packaging, don’t we? And you’re spot on about representation. It’s the tiny details that often make the most impact.”
His words resonated with me. It was as if he had an inherent understanding of the dual worlds I lived in—one built on pixels and the other on prose. At that moment, I felt the atmosphere around us shift subtly; it was still casual but had layers now.
He continued, “I’ve always felt books were more than just pages. They’re entities with faces and souls.”
I burst into laughter again. “Entities with faces and souls? Wow, are you sure you’re not a writer hiding behind that smile?”
He laughed too. Our laughter filled the space, pushing away the formalities and reservations you’d expect between two strangers. “Well, I appreciate a well-told story, especially those that go beyond the ink.”
My heart did a little dance, a mixture of the azonto and skelewu. What was this? How could a random lunch feel like a scene ripped from one of the romance novels I often read?
Nimi placed his fork down next to his empty plate and looked up. His eyes took on a playful sparkle as his gaze met mine. “You know, Ava, you’re like a… refreshing plot twist in a terribly written novel.”
Ah! This man was flirting with me. I couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, I hope I’m not the plot twist that makes readers throw the book across the room.”
He chuckled, which effortlessly blended with the restaurant’s ambient music. “More like the kind that has them eagerly flipping to the next chapter.”
I felt my cheeks warm up and couldn’t help but think that this man had a way of making a simple meal feel like a prelude to something bigger.
“So, what do you think? Is this a standalone episode, or is it the start of a series?” he queried, the twinkle in his eye now turning into a flirtatious glint.
His bookish flirtation made me question the reality of our chemistry. Was this genuine? A part of me wanted to bookmark this page and never leave, yet another part whispered words of caution.
“Well,” I replied, engaging in his narrative play, “I think we’re still in the early chapters. Too soon to tell if it’s a saga or a novella.”
His laughter filled the air.
Just as I was about to entertain the idea that we were characters in a rom-com destined for a happy ending, the ping of a message from Luchi sounded through the air like an editor’s red pen. I pulled out my phone and glanced at the screen.
“Grandma is wondering if you’re missing. Come home ASAP,” her text read.
Damn, reality had to come knocking so fast, like that ever-present antagonist lurking around the corner of every daydream. I typed a quick reply: “On my way.” I thought of my original plot—a freelance graphic designer visiting Nigeria for family and some Bookstagram-worthy moments, not a spontaneous romance.
For a fleeting moment, Davis, my ex, crossed my mind like a deleted scene. I’d almost forgotten the whole reason I cherished this trip was the distance it put between me and the mess back home.
“I have to go,” I announced.
“Understood.” he nodded, his eyes a little dimmer, but still warm. “Real life calls, and we must answer.”
As I picked up my purse, Nimi gestured to the waiter to bring the bill. “Please, let me take care of this,” he said, his voice smooth as the pages of a well-bound hardcover.
“Are you sure? I can at least pay for mine. After all, I had two plates of your wonderful jambalaya rice,” I joked, my eyes meeting his.
“In that case,” he laughed, “consider this a thank-you for the delightful conversation. And not to worry, one of my drivers will take you home.”
I chuckled. “I guess I’ve officially entered the realm of the high and mighty in Port Harcourt city, complete with personal drivers.”
“Just a small perk,” he grinned, his eyes twinkling like footnotes on a page I wanted to keep reading.
I quickly texted Luchi with my live location and added a message.
Just in case I go missing. I will keep you posted. 😂.
She’d get a kick out of that.
Nimi stood up, his presence filling the air like a preface to an unforgettable story. “I hope our paths cross again, Ava.”
“How so?” I pointed out.
“Who knows? Life has a way of arranging the most unexpected sequels,” he said, leaving me suspended like a cliffhanger.
As we were leaving, basking in the afterglow of an unexpected yet delightful lunch, I noticed a young man standing nearby. He had a smartphone in his hands, and it seemed like he was aiming it in our direction.
At first, I thought he was just another person capturing the moment or perhaps taking a selfie with the restaurant’s elegant backdrop. However, his gaze seemed to linger too long, especially towards me. There was something about how he subtly adjusted his position, angling his phone as if trying to take a picture.
Nimi noticed where my eyesight was, and he snapped his finger and bobbed his head in that direction. “Sam,” he said. Immediately, two men walked in that direction and took the young man away. I wonder what that was all about.
We reached the exit, and he held the door open for me. His hand brushed against mine, sending tiny tingles down my spine like the thrill of finding an unexpected twist in a plot. “After you,” he said.
As I stepped out into the afternoon sun, the humid Port Harcourt air felt almost refreshing, like a palate cleanser. He walked me to the car, the driver already holding the door open. Standing beside the car, I looked up at him and noticed he was closer to me than I’d expected.
That’s when the full blend of his scent hit me. It was a fragrance I knew would linger in my senses, like the last lines of a memorable book.
“That’s a scent I will not forget anytime soon,” I mused aloud.
He chuckled. “Neither will I,” he winked.
As I slid into the plush backseat of the car, I glanced through the window, catching a last glimpse of Nimi. He stood there, a subtle smile gracing his lips.
“Wahala,” I muttered and smiled sheepishly.
I did not smile while rereading this, and making edits. 🫣😁😁😁😁 Now I know why I’ll always love this. Here’s something for you as promised.
My first loves! One day this book will be out in the world, but for now enjoy it evrey Tuesday here on Substack. Don’t forget to have tissues with you!
Nimi is so corny 🤣 but he’s lucky he’s cute