The airport smelled like too much perfume and desperation. Amaka Okoye had never liked airports—they were liminal spaces, full of people pretending not to be falling apart. And today, she was one of them.
She checked the flight board again.
LAGOS ➝ MAURITIUS – DELAYED.
Of course it was. Tropical storm Umeh was flexing over the Atlantic, lashing Lagos with angry wind and moody skies. The lounge was crammed with people and tension. She adjusted her dark sunglasses, not for fashion but defense.
"Amaka?" someone whispered nearby, recognizing her. She pulled the wide brim of her hat lower.
A man in a grey suit stared too long. His phone was already angled. She turned away sharply and clutched her tote. Even here—especially here—someone always wanted a photo of the disgraced tech queen.
Scandalous CEO Flees Lagos After Leaked Video—that headline had followed her for days. What they didn't print was that the man in the video had been her ex, and the leak was an attack from his new girlfriend, who happened to be her biggest rival.
None of that mattered now. She just wanted air.
She moved to the farthest part of the terminal, where the charging stations were broken and no one wanted to sit. It was half-deserted except for a man sketching with a stub of charcoal on scrap paper. He was tall, bearded, worn in a way that didn't look tired, just… peeled back. Present. A canvas satchel hung off his chair.
He looked up, caught her eye, and offered a brief, polite nod.
She froze. She knew that face. She'd seen it in an old Guardian Life feature.
Tunde Afolayan, the artist who vanished.
She sat a chair away. Close, but not too close.
"Storm's a mess," she said, just to say something.
"Depends who you ask," he replied without looking up. "Some people need the rain."
She smirked. "You one of them?"
"No. But maybe you are."
Amaka blinked. "Why would you think that?"
"You're dressed like someone who came to disappear."
She turned slowly toward him, caught off guard.
"And you're drawing people without asking," she said.
He lifted his paper, showing her. The sketch wasn't of her—but the crowd. Crumpled businessmen, crying toddlers, half-eaten shawarmas. Chaos. He'd captured it in lines.
Amaka let herself laugh, just once. It felt good.
Then, right on cue, came the whisper:
"That's her. That's Amaka Okoye."
A flash. A camera.
And then the approach.
"Ms. Okoye, any comment on the allegations? Are you flying to escape legal action or—?"
Tunde stood, long and sudden. "She's with me," he said coolly. "Back off."
The journalist paused. "And you are—?"
"She's with me," Tunde repeated. "We're traveling together."
Amaka blinked. Her mouth opened. But then something bold in her rose up like heat.
"Yes," she said, slipping her arm through Tunde's. "He's my boyfriend. We just want to be left alone."
The journalist's eyes lit up like she'd been handed a scoop. "Your boyfriend?"
Tunde gave her the tiniest glance—this your game?—and she nodded, heart pounding.
"Got it," the reporter smirked. "Enjoy the storm."
They walked away quickly, arm in arm, until they reached the other end of the lounge.
Amaka exhaled like she hadn't in weeks.
"I should probably say thank you," she muttered.
"I should probably ask what I just got myself into," he replied.
She turned to face him. "You're Tunde Afolayan."
He didn't deny it.
"And you're Amaka Okoye," he said. "Scandal and all."
"Touché."
There was a beat of silence. Neither of them moved.
Then he said, "So. Want to keep pretending?"
The storm howled outside. Flights delayed. Time suspended.
Amaka smiled.
"Why not?"