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Chapter Two: The Long Road Ahead
The bus hummed steadily down the expressway, swallowing miles between Benin and Lagos. Esohe Stephanie sat by the window, her chin cupped in her hand, eyes chasing the blur of rust-colored rooftops, scattered palm trees, and hawkers dancing between traffic. Her red box was tucked at the back, and her small handbag rested on her lap, holding her SIWES posting letter, lip balm, and the half-read copy of Purple Hibiscus that had followed her everywhere.
She was leaving Benin behind — the comfort of familiarity, the tightness of unspoken memories, and the place where pain had once shaped her like clay.
Ahead was Lagos.
Loud, impatient Lagos.
She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, her lips parting into a weak smile. Her thoughts drifted again.
She was a third-year student of Mass Communication at the University of Benin — smart, disciplined, and quiet to a fault. Everyone admired her grades, but no one knew the weight she carried. No one asked why she always avoided eye contact, or why she never lingered after lectures.
There was a reason.
But now, this new journey... it felt like a restart. Lagos was meant to be her fresh page. Her school had posted her to a media company in Lagos for her SIWES, and she'd been lucky enough to land one of the more prestigious spots.
Six months in a new city.
Six months to try to rewrite the pain.
The bus swerved and jolted slightly, pulling Esohe out of her thoughts as the conductor called out destinations. "Ojota! Ojota park! Last bus stop!"
She straightened up and adjusted the neckline of her red fitted top. She had paired it with black jeans and white sneakers — simple but smart. She looked at her reflection in the window and took a moment to really see herself.
Brown skin that glowed like roasted honey under the sun.
Full lips that rarely smiled.
A small, rounded nose.
Thick, natural lashes that framed tired, beautiful eyes.
Her body — curved in all the right places. Graceful. Feminine. Strong. She didn't always feel beautiful, but today... she looked like she belonged to the life she was trying to claim.
The bus rolled into Ojota.
The noise was immediate — like a punch to the senses. Car horns blared. Hawkers yelled. Children weaved through the chaos, chasing keke drivers. It was alive. Frantic. Completely different from the quiet corners of Benin.
"Madam! Red box abi?" the driver asked as he hopped down and opened the back.
"Yes, sir," she replied, stepping off the bus, the Lagos heat hitting her like an oven.
She reached for her red box, thanked the driver, and looked around, unsure of which direction to even begin.
She was still dragging her luggage along the edge of the road, navigating between pedestrians and impatient bikers, when it happened.
A blaring horn.
Then tires screeching.
She froze, just inches away from the road.
A black luxury car had swerved sharply and halted right in front of her, the grill inches from her knee. The driver leaned out the window, cursing under his breath, but she wasn't looking at him.
The passenger door swung open.
A tall man stepped out.
Crisp white shirt. Black trousers. Well-groomed beard. Broad shoulders. His skin was smooth, like he moisturized with secrets and confidence. A gold watch peeked from his cuff, and his eyes—deep brown, steady—locked onto hers with concern.
"Jesus," he muttered. "Are you alright? I didn't see you."
Esohe's pulse thundered in her ears.
"I'm fine," she snapped, her voice sharper than she intended. "Maybe if your driver wasn't acting like he was on a racetrack, I wouldn't almost be dead."
The man raised his hands slightly in surrender. "I'm sorry, really. Lagos drivers can be reckless. Let me at least help—"
"Help? No, thank you," she said, her voice coated in steel now. "Just because you drive a fancy car doesn't mean you own the road."
He blinked, lips slightly parted, surprised at her boldness.
Most women flirted. Smiled. Tried to impress him.
Not her.
She was pure fire.
Femi.
The CEO of LushMedia Group. Though she didn't know that yet.
He didn't say anything at first. He just stared at her — this brown-skinned beauty with fire in her eyes, standing in the middle of traffic, dressed in a fitted red top and skin tight trouser that hugged her curves like second skin. Her full lips were parted, her eyes wide with fury and fear.
And for a heartbeat, he forgot everything else.
Then her voice cut through the thick Lagos air.
"Oh, so you can drive but not see?" she snapped, bending to grab her fallen box.
"I'm—" he started.
But she didn't let him finish.
"Do I look like a pothole to you? Abi you dey blind?"
The driver shifted uncomfortably behind the wheel. Femi took a slow step toward her.
"I'm really sorry. He didn't see you crossing. Are you okay?"
Esohe dusted her box with her palm and pulled it up. "Does it look like I'm okay?"
Femi blinked. This wasn't what he was expecting. Most women flustered around him. This one? She came with lightning in her lungs.
Still, he couldn't take his eyes off her.
The sun caught the glow of her skin. She was tall, elegant in a raw, unpolished way. Her nose was perfectly set, her cheekbones sharp. Her curves… well, he wasn't blind. But it wasn't just her looks — it was the heat in her voice, the way she stood her ground, unbothered by who he was or what he drove.
"Again, I'm sorry," he said, softer this time.
Esohe gave him one last unimpressed glare, adjusted her handbag, and began dragging her box past his car. "You rich people think the road belongs to you. Drive like the rest of us are ants."
She didn't look back.
And Femi?
He stood there, watching her disappear into the crowd, wondering who she was — and why she made the world tilt for just one second.