It started with a voice note.
Danika rarely sent voice notes. She didn't like how her voice sounded in recordings, and she preferred texting short, sharp lines filled with emotions that only Mike had learned how to read between.
But that morning, she sent a thirty-eight-second voice note that hit Mike's chest harder than any code rejection ever had.
"Baby… I'm tired. I swear. My mom just moved in. Like, just now. No warning. She's already shouting in the compound. Asking my neighbors their ages. Telling them what kind of girls shouldn't live alone. I haven't even brushed my teeth. I feel like crying."
Mike sat on a low stool in the corner of his friend's room one of six guys stuffed into a two-bedroom apartment in Egbeda staring at the message with the weight of ten bricks in his chest. The hum of morning generators outside was a familiar Lagos lullaby. But today, it sounded like pressure.
He played the voice note again. And again.
Then he called her.
She picked up after two rings. "Hey…"
"Where are you now?"
"In the room. She's in the living room inspecting everything. She brought two big Ghana-Must-Go bags and told me she's 'staying small' till things 'balance.' Mike, I'm losing my mind."
He could hear it in her voice not anger, not rebellion. Weariness. The kind that didn't come from one bad day, but from years of carrying too much alone.
"I'm coming over," he said without thinking.
She paused. "You don't have to…"
"I want to."
"Mike, your own space is already"
"Danika," he cut in gently. "I said I'm coming."
It took him an hour and twenty minutes to get there. Two danfos, one bike, and a brief shouting match with a conductor who insisted he didn't collect old ₦200 notes. By the time he arrived at her street in Iyana-Ipaja, he was drenched in sweat, the heat pressing against his skin like judgment.
Her compound was buzzing two upstairs flats, six rooms total, with tenants who were either too nosy or too loud. Danika met him at the gate. Her eyes were tired, lips dry, arms crossed like a child trying to protect herself from cold that wasn't even there.
"Welcome," she said, her voice soft.
He hugged her without words.
Inside, her mother was seated in the center of the small living room like a queen without a throne. Middle-aged, stout, with eyes that missed nothing and a wrapper tied twice for reinforcement. Her voice boomed before Mike could introduce himself.
"Ah! So this is the boy?" she said, standing slowly, inspecting him top to bottom like a vendor sizing up meat.
Mike smiled faintly. "Good morning, ma."
She didn't reply. Just nodded. "You people think you're in love. All this boyfriend-girlfriend nonsense. Hmph. Does he know how much garri costs now?"
Danika tensed. "Mommy, please—"
"I'm not talking to you, Danika. I'm talking generally."
Mike kept his cool. He'd grown up with Yoruba women like this fierce, blunt, and deeply layered. The trick wasn't to argue. It was to survive.
"I brought suya," he said, pulling out the foil-wrapped paper from his bag.
Her eyes lit up for a split second before she caught herself. "Put it on the table."
Later, in the cramped bedroom Danika called home, Mike sat on the edge of the bed, watching her pace.
"She's not going to leave soon," she said. "And I can't say no. She's my mom. But I feel like a visitor in my own space."
Mike nodded, pulling her close. She sat on his lap like a child desperate for calm.
"You can always come to mine," he said softly.
"With seven guys in one flat? Mike…"
He laughed. "Yeah. Bad idea."
Danika chuckled too. But it faded quickly.
"I want to move out. I need a shop. My own place. Somewhere I can breathe."
Mike kissed her shoulder. "We'll figure it out. I'm working on something. If I land this gig I pitched last week…"
"But what if you don't?"
He paused.
That silence held everything neither of them wanted to say out loud.
That night, back in Egbeda, Mike laid awake on a mattress squeezed between two snoring friends. He stared at the ceiling fan turning slowly, its sound barely masking the echo of something ancient in his mind.
"Woman is your delay."
The words from the oracle spoken weeks ago, during a late-night consultation his aunt had dragged him to kept replaying.
"She's fine, yes," the babalawo had said, squinting into cowries. "But her presence… it will cost you something you can't afford to lose."
Mike had dismissed it then. Laughed it off. Called it paranoia.
But now?
Danika needed a shop. A place. Money.
And he… barely had enough for himself.
He closed his eyes. Remembered her voice, her tired smile, her laugh when he made her feel safe.
Could she be the "delay"?
Or was she the reason he even had hope at all?
Three days later, Danika sent another message.
"Baby, I'm sorry to ask. I need help. My shop rent balance is 100k. I've already paid 60k. If I lose it, I lose everything."
Mike stared at the screen. His account balance was 311,000 money from a rare gig that had landed in his account just yesterday. Meant for a new laptop. Meant for a new place.
He didn't reply immediately. He sat with the message for hours.
The silence between them that evening was louder than any fight.
Later that night, while sitting on a balcony with Lance and smoking, Mike finally spoke.
"I think I'm about to do something crazy."
Lance chuckled. "Na woman matter?"
Mike nodded.
"She's asking for help. I have the money. But it's the same money I need to leave this crowded house."
Lance leaned back, looking at the night sky like it had answers.
"You remember what that oracle said?"
Mike nodded slowly.
"But you still want to help?"
Mike lit another stick. "I want to believe she's not the curse. She's the reason I want better. Maybe that counts for something."
Lance smiled faintly. "Then help her, bro. But prepare your heart. Love no dey run on pure emotion. Sometimes e dey bleed."
The next morning, Mike walked into the bank, withdrew 90,000, and transferred it to Danika's account.
No explanation.
No conditions.
Just a message:
"Build. I believe in you."
A part of him felt lighter.
Another part?
He couldn't shake the feeling that something inside him had shifted forever.