The energy of the afterparty still hummed between them as they arrived at Lameen’s flat well past midnight. His place, which was tucked in a quiet, well-groomed part of town and had the ideal bachelor-chic vibe with minimalist furniture, subtle lighting, and a faint scent of oud in the air. Lameen welcomed them with warm hospitality and that effortless charm that made most women do a double-take. Chilombo seemed taken in, laughing a little too loudly at one of his jokes, switching to Hausa when he did. Koyin watched quietly, amused but unbothered. He knew that look in her eye, which made him know it was simply polite appreciation. She was here with him, and that was enough.
“I didn’t know you spoke Hausa,” he said, nudging her gently.
“I lived in Kaduna for three years, helloooo,” she teased, flashing him a grin before breaking into a string of giggles.
He smiled back, enveloped in her infectious joy. Lameen caught his eye and got the bro-code signal. He stood up abruptly, rummaging through his pockets with a furrowed brow. “I think I left something in the room,” he muttered, and made his way down the hallway, leaving them alone. He was barely out of earshot when Koyin moved in closer to Chilombo. The TV played on as he leaned closer and softly brushed her hand. She didn’t pull away. Instead, she turned to face him, her eyes soft, curious.
“Alone at last,” he said.
She smirked. “Finally”
The kiss came slowly at first, exploratory, then deeper. Her hand slid up the side of his neck, drawing him in. The warmth between them swelled. She climbed onto his lap, and they kissed harder, pressed close.
As his hand slid across her waist and began to drift lower, Chilombo pulled back just slightly, just enough to say, “Wait, I should probably tell you—”
But at that exact moment, his fingers found their way beneath the hem of her dress, and everything paused. His brow furrowed. She stilled. A breath, then he slowly lifted his hand, both of them staring as a streak of red came into view.
“Oh…” she breathed, wincing. “Yeah. That’s what I was trying to say.”
There was a beat of stunned silence. Then Koyin let out a low, awkward, startled laugh. “Well. That’s a first.”
Chilombo covered her face, half-horrified, half-laughing. “I swear, I was literally mid-sentence.”
“Timing,” he said, nodding solemnly. “Terrible, really.”
She looked up at him, unsure whether to be embarrassed or amused. But he only smiled, reaching for a napkin and wiping his hands.
“You okay?” he asked gently.
She nodded, still a little breathless. “Are you?”
“I’ll live,” he replied. “Bit messy. Still magical.” They both laughed, this time fully.
Haské Madabe (real name Paul Yissa) is a Nigerian writer, modern-day griot, and strategist who explores identity, memory, and spirit through Africanfuturist and Pan-African narratives. He leads impact projects with i-Dreams World and Ashnik Alternative. Currently completing his debut short story anthology, Paul blogs at harmattanray.substack.com
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