I wasn’t looking for love.
I just wanted peace.
Lagos had shown me pepper — landlords, traffic, and that one roommate who borrowed my boxers without asking.
So when I got the chance to move into a self-contained apartment in Shomolu, I jumped.
Third floor. No generator. And I had to climb with my bucket like Moses on the mountain. But peace is peace, abi?
That’s when I met her.
She wasn’t loud.
She wasn’t flashy.
She had that quiet kind of beauty that makes your brain restart.
The first day, I saw her by the tap.
She said, “Hi.” I said, “Hey.”
She smiled.
Me? I died and resurrected on the spot.
From that day, I timed her movements like a man studying for JAMB.
If she went downstairs at 7:03 am to sweep, I went out by 7:04 am to “stretch my legs.”
When she carried buckets, I offered help — even when I had my own back pain.
Let me confess:
She didn’t know my name for the first two weeks.
She just called me “Neighbour.”
But I didn’t mind.
Love starts small.
One Sunday evening, while washing my boxers and dreaming about a better life, I heard a knock.
It was her.
She stood at the door with her laptop.
"Please, my Zoom meeting isn’t connecting. I think it’s my Wi-Fi. Can I use yours?”
I nearly told her, “Take the whole router.”
But I just nodded and said, “Sure, come in.”
She entered. Sat down. Logged in.
I was pretending to scroll Twitter, but my mind was doing backflips.
Her perfume. Her laughter. The way she said, “Abeg, network dey craze.”
Then it happened.
She leaned in to show me something on her screen.
And paused.
She blinked.
Then coughed.
Then smiled awkwardly.
Then asked — very gently —
“Did you… eat something?”
I panicked.
I hadn’t eaten.
But I had taken garri earlier…
with fried fish…
and forgotten to brush since morning.
She excused herself two minutes later.
Said, “Let me go check something downstairs.”
She didn’t come back.
I sat there.
Ashamed.
Defeated.
My crush left my apartment…
because my breath ambushed her from the side.
That night, I bought Close-Up Deep Action like it was antibiotics.
Used it like anointing oil. Brushed like a man seeking redemption.
Three days later, I saw her again.
She smiled.
I smiled.
She said,
“You’re glowing o. Did you fall in love or change your toothpaste?”
I said,
“Both.”
She laughed.
This time… she stayed longer.
I wasn’t looking for love.
I just wanted peace.
Lagos had shown me pepper — landlords, traffic, and that one roommate who borrowed my boxers without asking.
So when I got the chance to move into a self-contained apartment in Shomolu, I jumped.
Third floor. No generator. And I had to climb with my bucket like Moses on the mountain. But peace is peace, abi?
That’s when I met her.
She wasn’t loud.
She wasn’t flashy.
She had that quiet kind of beauty that makes your brain restart.
The first day, I saw her by the tap.
She said, “Hi.” I said, “Hey.”
She smiled.
Me? I died and resurrected on the spot.
From that day, I timed her movements like a man studying for JAMB.
If she went downstairs at 7:03 am to sweep, I went out by 7:04 am to “stretch my legs.”
When she carried buckets, I offered help — even when I had my own back pain.
Let me confess:
She didn’t know my name for the first two weeks.
She just called me “Neighbour.”
But I didn’t mind.
Love starts small.
One Sunday evening, while washing my boxers and dreaming about a better life, I heard a knock.
It was her.
She stood at the door with her laptop.
"Please, my Zoom meeting isn’t connecting. I think it’s my Wi-Fi. Can I use yours?”
I nearly told her, “Take the whole router.”
But I just nodded and said, “Sure, come in.”
She entered. Sat down. Logged in.
I was pretending to scroll Twitter, but my mind was doing backflips.
Her perfume. Her laughter. The way she said, “Abeg, network dey craze.”
Then it happened.
She leaned in to show me something on her screen.
And paused.
She blinked.
Then coughed.
Then smiled awkwardly.
Then asked — very gently —
“Did you… eat something?”
I panicked.
I hadn’t eaten.
But I had taken garri earlier…
with fried fish…
and forgotten to brush since morning.
She excused herself two minutes later.
Said, “Let me go check something downstairs.”
She didn’t come back.
I sat there.
Ashamed.
Defeated.
My crush left my apartment…
because my breath ambushed her from the side.
That night, I bought Close-Up Deep Action like it was antibiotics.
Used it like anointing oil. Brushed like a man seeking redemption.
Three days later, I saw her again.
She smiled.
I smiled.
She said,
“You’re glowing o. Did you fall in love or change your toothpaste?”
I said,
“Both.”
She laughed.
This time… she stayed longer.
Don't let mouth odour remove you from your destiny.
Close-Up: Because your breath shouldn’t have a plot twist