Improvised Plan #ProjectNigeria

11- Cheers.

Saheed:

The sun is rising when I get up from the bed. Ola is fast asleep, lying still on her back underneath the sheets, which cover her from her belly to her feet. In the gentle light of the morning, I observe the rise and fall of her chest, the curl of her fingers, the small parting of her lips, the way her hair scatters around her head; her pillow had long been discarded to the floor on her side of the bed.

Quietly, I prepare for the day: a three-minute brushing session, a cold shower, a run-through of my schedule for the day. Meetings upon meetings to seal deals and discuss progress on jobs done.

The sun fully rises, bathing everything underneath it in a golden glow and enthralling me with its beauty. I pause from my morning coffee and gaze out the wide windows, watching in awe.

This is why I love the penthouse. It provides me with a view of the sunrise every day. My gaze drifts over to Ola, who has not changed position since I left the bed. The gentle rays of light wash over her and I wonder if she's even normal to not make a move with the light on her eyelids.

You are either a statue, or just too lazy to move your body, I think with a smile.

Last night's kiss lingers in my mind.

So, she'd made the first move. Was it to prove something to me, or was it because she wanted it just as much as I did? Hell, I'd been hard. So hard I'd wondered if the blood supply to my brain was enough. And our conversation afterwards...

I feel a certain guilt that I had been harsh towards her after she'd mentioned self-forgiveness. She wasn't entirely wrong, but...

Shrugging my shoulders, I move towards the windows and draw the curtains shut. If Ola plans to sleep through the morning, the sunlight will disturb her. And she needs the extra sleep, after all that had happened last night from her family drama to... Us.

It takes me a few minutes to dress. Alone on the wide bed, she looks so small and delicate, like a flower half-buried in the snow. It hits me that I am tempted to go back to bed, hold her in my arms, feel her warmth.

Don't get distracted. You've got literally two days left.

Before I step into the elevator, I take one last look at her. Still in the same position.

"Abnormal child," I murmur with a chuckle, making a mental note to instruct Claudia to ensure that a breakfast tray is sent up in an hour.

***

"Saheed."

"Baba."

I try not to be stiff when he embraces me. I feel he is also trying the same, except that he hides his resentment so well today. If it hadn't been for this compulsory face to face meeting, I would have tried my best to stay away.

"How are you, son?"

"Doing well, Baba. How are you?"

"Same old, same old."

Formalities. Like me, my father is an actor. He flips on his charm like a switch, he is ever so graceful and elegant to everyone he comes across. He still attracts ladies in his late fifties, a superpower he is proud of.

I had learned at the knee of the master.

I am a spitting image of Baba, tall and lean, with thick, curly hair and hazel eyes. Straight nose, full brows, and a mouth that can entice when curved upwards or cause hesitation when put in a straight line. He is an older version of me, with his temples streaked with grey. Side by side, we make heads turn and we never fail to receive appreciative glances.