It's Sunday.
The first day of June.
And no - she didn't go to Mass. Not with the week she's had.
The eviction notice is still haunting her fridge door like a cursed sticky note.
The rain hasn't stopped falling.
And her body? It's giving tired but still hot.
So she does what any emotionally intelligent Lagos babe does on a gloomy Sunday -
She makes a cup of tea, plugs in her earphones, and lets AEO's "ZA" wash over her.
Does she hear a single word?
No.
Will she keep listening?
Of course.
Because beneath the lyrics, her brain is doing its own thing.
She's dodging HR like it's a sport - especially that man with the Holy Ghost-on-Sunday, harassment-on-Monday energy.
Performance review in two weeks. Probation almost up.
She should be prepping talking points. Instead?
She's romanticising her past and planning her escape to anywhere with light and affordable rent (so… maybe Neptune?).
And then - like a glitch in the matrix - her mind drifts to him.
Not Weather for Two ex. Never again, God abeg.
She's thinking of that uncle from Fiora Gardens.
The one with Idris Elba shoulder-to-waist ratio and a voice like butter melting over agege bread.
He'd strolled up to her during a solo date and said:
"Na wa o. I never knew peace until I saw you and this amala combo."
She'd laughed.
She'd flirted.
She'd taken the Chop Life Duo up on their recommendation, and honestly?
10/10.
Solo dates had been fanning her soft life era since January, and she'd been glowing ever since.
But Fine Boda?
He hadn't called.
No DM. No "I really enjoyed meeting you."
Nothing.
Men.
She sips her tea harder.
As ZA transitions to another track, a memory surfaces:
Apostle Joshua Selman's voice from a sermon:
"Next time you say you're falling in love, ask yourself - must you fall?"
Deep.
Painfully relevant.
Because wasn't she the same babe who'd accepted a "shut up proposal" from Uncle Weather for Two?
A man who treated gaslighting like foreplay?
A year wasted. A soul nearly lost.
Until one day, she stood in front of the mirror, looked herself dead in the eye and whispered:
"This isn't love. This is prison with kissing."
She'd walked.
Now, she was healing. Building. Soft-lifing.
But also - rent was still due.
HR still lurking.
Fine Boda still missing.
And Ikorodu? Closer than she cared to admit.
She gets up, wraps her scarf, and mutters:
"Omo, if Ikorodu go come, make e come with light, at least."
As she opens her Instagram, a DM notification lights up her screen.
From: Amala Idris Elba
"You free next Saturday? I know a spot."
She stares.
Smiles slowly.
And just like that…
The clouds begin to part.