13/11/2025
When the Rains Came to Lagos
Chapter One. The Sound of Water
The rain came without warning that morning, not the kind that taps softly on your window and asks politely to come in, but the kind that announces itself with thunder that rattles the cups in the kitchen. Lagos rain doesn’t fall; it conquers. It floods the streets, slows the danfos, and leaves everyone at the mercy of traffic and fate.
I was standing by the window of my small apartment in Yaba, watching the water trace paths down the glass, when I realized I was late again. My boss at the branding agency, Mr. Akin, didn’t tolerate lateness, though in Lagos, lateness is more like weather; it happens whether you plan for it or not.
I tied my scarf loosely and grabbed my tote bag. “Ẹ má bínú o, Mr. Akin,” I muttered under my breath, as if my apology could travel ahead of me through the rain.
By the time I made it to the junction, my umbrella was struggling against the wind. Okadas were weaving dangerously between cars, danfo conductors were shouting destinations that dissolved into the rain, and somewhere in the distance, someone was frying puff-puff under a small nylon tent. The smell mixed with the wet air, sweet, fried, familiar. Lagos in the rain was chaos dressed like poetry.
The Bolt I ordered arrived late, of course.
The driver leaned over from the front seat, squinting through the fog.
“Tife, right?”
“Yes,” I said, sliding into the back seat.
The car smelled faintly of air freshener and tired dreams. As we crawled through traffic on Herbert Macaulay Way, I leaned my head against the window and watched Lagos blur, mothers with baskets on their heads, boys selling bottled water, umbrellas like dark flowers opening and closing.
That’s when I saw him for the first time.
He was standing by the side of the road, no umbrella, rain running down his face. He held his phone in one hand, trying to shield it with his palm while arguing with a keke driver. There was something almost cinematic about it, the soaked shirt clinging to him, the defiant look on his face, the quiet confidence that Lagos men wear when they’re too tired to pretend they’re not struggling.
Our eyes met for the briefest moment as my car crawled past. He didn’t smile. He just looked, curious, maybe the way you might glance at someone you think you’ve met before in another life.
Then the traffic moved, and he was gone.
At work, my day dragged. Deadlines, mockups, revisions, the usual corporate Lagos dance. But that face wouldn’t leave my mind. I didn’t know his name, or where he was going, or why the sight of him lingered like perfume long after I’d left. It was silly, I told myself. Lagos was a city of millions. You don’t go searching for a stranger’s eyes in a crowd like that. Still, I caught myself scanning every café and bus stop window for him in the days that followed.
A week later, I found him again, or maybe fate found me.
It was a Thursday evening, and the office generator had given up, so we closed early. I stopped at a coffee shop in Lekki, one of those calm, over-decorated places where everyone pretends to work while secretly watching other people. The rain had started again, softly this time, tapping the glass walls like a heartbeat. I ordered a caramel latte and pulled out my laptop.
Then I heard a voice, low, smooth, slightly hoarse. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?”
I looked up, and there he was.
Same eyes. Same quiet presence. But this time he wasn’t soaked, just effortlessly put together in a white shirt and dark jeans, his watch glinting softly in the café’s yellow light.
“Oh no, please,” I said, trying not to stare.
He smiled, not wide, just enough to feel like a secret. “Thanks. Everywhere else seems full.”
We sat in silence for a while, both pretending to focus on our screens. The air between us carried a strange stillness, like the pause before rain starts. Eventually, he broke it.
“You’re into branding, right?” he asked, nodding at the open Illustrator file on my screen.
I blinked. “How did you?”
He grinned. “I’m a designer too. I know that look. The frustration of one more client revision.”
I laughed. “You sound like you’ve lived it.”
“I have. Name’s Sola.”
And just like that, a name gave shape to the memory.
We talked until the café lights dimmed. He told me he ran a small creative studio, mostly freelance projects, startups, and the occasional wedding invitation. I told him about my job, my overbearing boss, my dream of starting something of my own one day.
It was easy, effortless. He listened the way Lagos rarely allows anyone to, fully.
He didn’t interrupt, didn’t check his phone. Just listened.
When the rain thickened outside, he offered to drop me home.
“No need,” I said quickly. “I’ll just book a ride.”
He smiled again. “Abeg, let me at least walk you to the gate. These Lekki floods don’t have respect.”
Something about the way he said it, soft but sure, made me nod.
Outside, the rain had become a thin mist, and the streetlights painted everything gold. We walked side by side, our umbrellas brushing sometimes, our laughter cutting through the sound of water.
At the gate, I thanked him.
He tilted his head slightly. “Maybe… we’ll bump into each other again?”
“Maybe,” I said, though my heart whispered, Please.
The next few weeks unfolded like a song that didn’t know its chorus yet.
We started texting, cautiously at first, then more freely. He’d send me memes in Yoruba, voice notes where his laughter lingered at the end. I found myself waiting for those messages, checking my phone more often than I should.
He called me Tifé mi once, by accident, or maybe not.
The word hung there, sweet and heavy.
We met for lunch on Fridays, long walks on Sundays. He liked amala and gbegiri; I preferred pasta but pretended to enjoy his pepper soup because he watched my face every time I tried it.
Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, he’d go quiet, thoughtful. Lagos men usually rush their words, but Sola measured his. He spoke like someone who had learned to lose before, and didn’t want to again.
One evening, as we sat in his car outside my gate, thunder rolled across the sky.
“I’m going to Ogun this weekend,” he said suddenly. “My mum’s birthday. Small family thing.”
“That’s nice,” I said. “You’re a good son.”
He smiled faintly. “You should come.”
I turned to him. “You’re joking.”
“Why not? You’ve met half of me already. Maybe it’s time you met where I come from.”
The invitation sat between us like a dare.
Part of me wanted to say yes, to see what part of the world made him who he was. But another part of me was afraid. Lagos relationships are often made of glass, shiny, fragile, easily shattered by assumptions.
He must have seen the hesitation in my eyes.
“No pressure, Tife,” he said softly. “I just thought… maybe it would be nice.”
I nodded, my fingers tracing circles on my knee. “Maybe it would.”
That night, I couldn’t sleep.
The rain came again, harder than before, hitting the windows like restless hands. I thought of Sola, his quiet confidence, his warmth, the way his eyes softened when he listened.
In a city that teaches you to build walls, he made me want to leave mine open, just a little.
Maybe love doesn’t come in grand gestures or perfect timing.
Maybe it comes quietly, in the rain, in shared laughter, in a stranger’s eyes on a wet Lagos morning.
And maybe, just maybe, the rain wasn’t here to ruin my day.
Maybe it came to wash something new into my life.
TO BE CONTINUED.........
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