BREW&BLOOM
VLOGMAS DAY2
Amara’s Sunday morning run was supposed to clear her head.
Instead, at kilometre three, she was still thinking about the list.
At kilometre five, she was mentally colour-coding the men by compatibility.
By kilometre seven, Lola had caught up to her, which said a lot, because Lola was usually somewhere in the middle of the pack, not chasing the person leading it.
“You’re running angry,” Lola said, not even breathless.
“I’m running,” Amara replied.
“You’re sprinting. In the long run. Which means you’re either running from something… or toward a heart attack.”
Amara slowed, just slightly. Behind them, the run club stretched out across the Ikoyi trail, fifteen people with fifteen different levels of athletic ability, all committed to the 10K they did every Sunday morning, rain or shine.
“I made the list,” Amara said finally.
“And?”
“And now I actually have to deal with it.”
“Dealing with things. Revolutionary concept.”
They ran in silence for half a kilometre before Lola nudged again.
“Tell me about them. For real. Not the Instagram-caption version.”
So Amara did.
DUBEM NWOSU
“He’s perfect on paper,” Amara began. “CEO of his family’s manufacturing company. Old-money old, like, his grandfather knew Awolowo.”
“Impressive.”
“King’s College. LSE. House in Banana Island. Another in London. My father practically glows when Dubem’s name comes up.”
“But?” Lola asked.
“But he’s forty and acts sixty. Every date feels like a board meeting. Every conversation is about expansion strategies, or political connections, or why my cafe should ‘streamline’ the menu.”
“Your father said the same thing yesterday.”
“Exactly,” Amara said. “Dating Dubem feels like dating my father’s approval. Which… is probably something I should unpack.”
“It’s definitely something you should unpack.”
They turned at the kilometre marker, looping back.
TUNDE BAKARE
“Then there’s Tunde,” Amara said. “We grew up together. Moms were in the same women’s group at church. We had our first kiss behind the admin block in JSS3.”
“The nostalgia choice.”
“The safe choice,” Amara corrected. “He’s a tax consultant now. Boring job, but he’s solid. Dependable. He still calls my dad ‘sir’ and my mom ‘mummy.’ He brings me soup when I’m sick. He’s seen me through braces, acne, and that tragic relaxed-hair phase.”
“So what’s wrong with him?”
Amara was silent for a few strides.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she said softly. “That’s the problem. He’s safe. And with him, I feel… nothing. No spark. No flutter. Just… comfort. Like old pyjamas.”
“Some people would kill for comfort.”
“Some people aren’t running from their parents’ marriage.”
Lola shot her a look but didn’t push.
MALIK OKAFOR (No relation.)
“Number three is Malik,” Amara said, and even saying his name shifted something in her chest. “He’s an artist. Sculptor. Works with metal and found objects. His studio in Yaba looks like an organised junkyard. Paint-stained jeans, hands always scraped.”
“You like him.”
“I like the idea of him,” Amara said carefully. “He’s everything my father would hate. No family money. A career that sells sometimes and doesn’t sell other times. He takes an okada because he doesn’t have a car.”
“But?”
“But when he talks about his work, he lights up. And with him, I’m not performing. I’m just… there. We went to the Nike Art Gallery last month and spent four hours just looking and talking. No agenda. No networking. Just being.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“It sounds impractical. What’s the long game with Malik? Our worlds are so different.”
“Okay. But what about right now?”
Amara didn’t answer.
IK CHUKWU
Kilometre eight. The group was catching up, everyone slowing.
“Ik is the fellow banker,” Amara said. “Smart. Sharp. Probably the only person at work who can keep up with me. We have this… competitive thing.”
“Competitive or combative?”
“Both. We argue about everything: deal structures, market predictions, and the best suya spot. But it’s fun. It’s stimulating.”
“What’s he like outside work?”
Amara paused. “I… don’t know. We never talk about anything else. Our dates are industry events. Or dinners where we discuss work again. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in casual clothes.”
“So you’re dating your job.”
“I’m dating someone who respects my intelligence.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
THE REGULAR
They were nearing the end of the route when Lola asked, “What about number five?”
“He doesn’t have a name,” Amara admitted. “He comes to the cafe every Saturday at 3 PM. Orders a cortado. Reads physical books. Sits by the window. One hour. Leaves.”
“You’ve never talked?”
“We’ve talked. Small talk. He gives good book recommendations. Zara likes him. But I don’t know his last name. Don’t know what he does. Don’t have his number.”
“So why is he on the list?”
Amara was quiet long enough that Lola glanced over.
“Because last Saturday,” Amara said finally, “he looked up while I was restocking pastries. Our eyes met for three seconds. Just three. And I forgot how to breathe. Then he smiled and went back to his book. And I thought about those three seconds all day.”
“Oh,” Lola said.
“Yeah.”
“That’s either the beginning of something beautiful… or you’re romanticising a stranger because he’s the only one who hasn’t demanded anything from you.”
“Why can’t it be both?”
They finished the run. The group flopped onto the grass near the starting point, passing water bottles and oranges.
Amara sat slightly apart, watching the sun climb over Lagos, thinking about five men, twenty-five days, and the uncomfortable truth that Lola was probably right about all of it.
Her phone buzzed. She opened the messages of those who mattered and ignored the rest.
Mom: Dinner tonight. 6 PM sharp. Your brother is bringing Kemi. Look presentable.
Dubem: Good morning. Confirming Tuesday’s meeting. I want you to meet my mother. She’s particular, but I think she’ll like you.
Tunde: Hope the run was good. Made pepper soup. Saved you some.
Malik: Finished the piece I told you about. Want to see it before the gallery does?
Ik: Saw your firm on the Adebayo deal. Nice job. Drinks this week?
And from The Regular?
Of course, nothing.
He existed in the only space in her life untouched by expectations.
“So,” Chisom said, plopping down with post-run egusi and plantain. “You making a decision today or what?”
“It’s only day two,” Amara groaned.
“Twenty-three days left,” Kevwe pointed out. “Clock’s ticking.”
Amara stared at her phone, five men, five futures, five different versions of herself.
“I need to see them,” she said finally. “This week. Back to back. Really see them before I eliminate anyone.”
“Bold,” Chisom said. “Messy, but bold.”
“It’s not messy,” Amara insisted. “It’s strategic. I’m gathering data.”
“You’re procrastinating,” Lola said.
“I’m being thorough.”
“You’re terrified.”
Amara stood, dusted grass off her leggings, and picked up her phone.
“I’m going to be late for family dinner,” she said, which wasn’t an answer, but was the only thing she could say.
Driving home, she thought about paper trails and safety nets, passion and pragmatism, three seconds of eye contact and a lifetime of careful choices.
Back in her apartment, she showered, dressed in something her mother would approve of, put on the face required for family gatherings, then opened her Notes app.
She typed:
But why am I scared?
She deleted it.
Typed it again.
This time, she let it stay.
To be continued…