Saturday came with its usual stress: generator noise, boiling heat, and promises of "I dey come" from unreliable clients.
Ifeoma was heading to a home service gig in Surulere — makeup for a birthday girl turning 25 and acting like Beyoncé.
She wore jeans, a loose tee, and her face beat just enough to sell her craft.
After climbing two okadas and dodging three agberos, she finally reached the gate.
She knocked.
A househelp opened. "Madam dey upstairs. She say make you come in."
Ifeoma entered, climbed the stairs…
And froze.
Sitting in the living room with a bottle of malt in hand was *Jide* — in shorts, relaxed, no tie, and staring at her like he'd seen a ghost.
"You?" they both said at the same time.
A tall, slim girl came bouncing down the stairs. "Babe! My makeup plug is here!"
She kissed Jide's cheek. "She's the one I told you about. Small world, right?"
Ifeoma smiled faintly and left.
As she stepped out, Jide was by the gate, waiting.
"Ifeoma—"
"Not now," she said, walking past him. "Go spend your almost-ex day."
He didn't follow. He couldn't.
**Lagos had brought them together.
But maybe Lagos traffic wasn't the only thing full of delays.*