BREW & BLOOM.
VLOGMAS DAY 1
The thing about perfection is that it’s exhausting.
Amara knew this at 5:47 AM, when her alarm didn’t need to ring because she was already awake, staring at her ceiling, mentally lining up the day like a colour-coded spreadsheet. She knew it at 6:15 AM, finishing her fourth set of deadlifts while Coach watched her with that look, the one that said you’re not training; you’re punishing yourself again.
And she knew it at 7:30 AM, standing quietly in front of Brew & Bloom before the doors opened, watching the early morning light bounce off the copper espresso machine.
“You’re here early. Again.”
Zara’s voice snapped her out of her thoughts. Her cousin, and unfortunately, the only person alive who could manage her without fear, had a key in one hand, a purple laptop bag on the other, and the kind of stare that cut straight through nonsense.
“I own the place,” Amara said, eyes still on her phone. An unread email from her father sat there like a warning sign. Subject line: Q4 Numbers.
“You own many things,” Zara replied. “Doesn’t mean you have to haunt them at dawn.”
Amara looked up. Zara’s twists were freshly done, brows raised in judgment.
“I just like the quiet before the day starts,” Amara said.
“You like control,” Zara corrected. “Let’s at least call a spade a spade.”
Amara didn’t respond, but her thumb hovered over her father’s email longer than necessary. Not because of the numbers, numbers bowed to her, but because she already knew what the email meant.
A question her father never asked directly: Are you enough?
By 9 AM, the café was humming. Saturday regulars. The tech bros with their laptops and oat-milk superiority. The book club aunties who ordered one pot of tea and stayed for three hours. The elderly crossword uncle with his biro of destiny.
And then her father walked in.
Emeka Okafor didn’t simply enter spaces; he arrived. Even here, in a café built from her vision, he somehow looked like the owner. Grey hair groomed to precision, shirt crisp, watch gleaming in a way that said legacy and expectation.
“Amara,” he said, kissing her cheek. “Coffee is good this morning.”
“It’s the same as every morning, Daddy.”
“Hm.”
He sat at “the throne”, the corner table Amara always kept reserved for family, even though they rarely came. He set down his phone, laced his fingers, and got straight to it.
“I reviewed the numbers you sent. Revenue is up, profit margins are slim. Too many special items. Too much waste.”
“The special items are why people come,” she said. “It’s about experience.”
“Experience doesn’t pay back investors.”
“You’re not an investor,” she reminded. “You’re my father.”
“I’m both.”
He sipped his Americano.
“Have you thought about the merger I mentioned? The Adenuga boy’s chain—”
“I don’t want to merge with anyone.”
“You’re thirty-two.”
There it was, the age card.
The invisible clock, she pretended she couldn’t hear.
“What does that have to do with the café?” she asked.
“Everything. Your mother asks me every week. Your brother is getting married—”
“Chuka is twenty-eight, Daddy. His fiancée is pregnant. Hardly a blueprint.”
His expression hardened. “Don’t be crude. I’m saying you have options. You’re a beautiful girl. Successful. But you can’t keep… shopping.”
The word hit her like a slap.
“Shopping?”
“You know what I mean. Tunde today, then Femi, then that artist — what’s his name? And now there are how many? Your mother says you’re bringing different men to family events like you’re sampling wine.”
Her jaw tightened. She wanted to react. To explode. To scatter the entire table.
Instead, she smiled.
Tightly. Brightly. Painfully.
“I’m taking my time, Daddy. I’m not desperate.”
“Everything should have a deadline.”
He left twenty minutes later, after greeting customers who recognised him from business articles, after reminding her that Sunday dinner was at 6 PM, and after kissing her forehead in that familiar way that softened her even when she hated it.
Zara appeared immediately.
“You good?”
“I’m perfect,” Amara answered.
“That’s what worries me.”
She walked into Lola’s house that evening expecting their usual wine-and-gossip. Instead, she walked into a full intervention.
Lola was hosting, obviously.
Chisom was there, still in her bank outfit, makeup sharp, attitude sharper.
And Kevwe.
Kevwe, whose honesty cut like premium foil. Kevwe, whom Amara hadn’t seen in six months, because Kevwe had opinions and absolutely no filter.
“Oh no,” Amara said from the doorway. “This is a full intervention setup. Should I leave now or after the PowerPoint?”
“Sit down,” Lola said, already pouring wine. “No PowerPoint. Just conversation.”
“Conversation surrounded by witnesses,” Amara muttered, taking her seat. “Great.”
“It was my idea,” Kevwe said, crossing her legs. Locs wrapped in a bun, nose ring glinting, zero apologies in sight. “I’m tired of watching you pretend you’re happy.”
“I am happy,” Amara said, swirling her wine.
“You’re exhausted,” Lola said gently.
“When’s the last time you slept past 6 AM?” Chisom asked.
“When’s the last time you went on a date that didn’t feel like a job interview?” Kevwe added.
“When’s the last time,” Kevwe leaned forward, eyes softening in a way that scared Amara, “you were actually, genuinely happy? Not productive. Not impressive. Happy.”
The room went quiet.
Amara took a slow sip. Then a faster one.
“I’m happy,” she repeated, firmer.
“You’re thirty-two with men rotating around you like NEPA schedules,” Kevwe said. “You treat your business like a problem to solve. You punish your body at 5 AM. Your parents love you like a quarterly earnings report. And you barely let us, the people who love you for real, see the real you.”
“Wow,” Amara said. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“I just did.”
Lola put a gentle hand on her knee. “We’re not attacking you. We’re worried. You’re constantly moving — work, gym, run club, dates, family, and we never see you just be still.”
“I don’t like being still,” Amara said quietly.
“Why?” Lola asked.
The answer hovered at the edge of her mind, a fear she’d avoided for years. Stillness meant space. Space meant thoughts. Thoughts meant feelings she did not want to examine.
“I just think,” Chisom said, shifting into her banker's voice, “you should make a decision. About the men. Pick one. Or pick none. But this floating is messing with you.”
“It’s December first,” Kevwe said suddenly. “Twenty-five days till Christmas. Make it a project. You love projects.”
“A project,” Amara repeated slowly.
“Elimination style,” Kevwe said. “Decide what, and who, you actually want. Or if you want anyone at all.”
“Twenty-five days,” Lola nodded. “One decision per day.”
“Leading to one final answer by Christmas,” Chisom added.
“About who I want,” Amara said.
“About who you ARE,” Kevwe corrected.
She got home around midnight, slightly drunk, very unsettled.
Her pristine apartment looked too neat. Too curated. Too much like the version of herself she performed.
She pulled out her phone.
Five men.
Five possibilities.
Five auditions.
She opened Notes.
The List
Dubem – CEO, old money. Her father’s dream come true.
Tunde – childhood friend. Safe. Predictable. History.
Malik – the artist. Passion. Chaos. Trouble.
IK – fellow banker. Sharp. Ambitious. Draining.
“Saturday 3 PM Cortado” – no saved name. Just someone who offers a fairly good time. Forgettable, which somehow embarrassed her more than the rest.
Her finger trembled slightly as she typed the last one.
Not because of him, he was barely relevant, but because of what the list said about her life.
Twenty-five days.
One answer at Christmas.
She didn’t know yet that she was asking the wrong question.
That none of this, the men, the performance, the deadlines, had anything to do with love.
But fear felt like progress.
And tonight, that was enough.