Soft Life, Hard Choices  Episode 2

Episode 2: He Knew My Name Before I Knew His

 

It’s been a week since I met him at the park.

I did not expect to see him again.

Lagos is too big and too chaotic for coincidences to repeat themselves. People pass through your life like traffic. Brief. Loud. Gone. So after that morning at the bus stop, I packed him neatly into the category of forgettable moments and moved on.

Or at least, I tried to.

The week was brutal. Deadlines. A supervisor who believed urgency was a leadership style. Family calls that started with “How are you?” and ended with subtle reminders that time was moving faster than my plans. By Friday, I was running on fumes and determination.

That was when it happened.

I was leaving the office later than usual, already anticipating traffic on my way home, then I heard my name.

“Dayo?”

I stopped.

Nobody calls your name in public without meaning. Especially not after a long day. I turned slowly, irritation already loading.

It was him.

Same face. Same calm. Different setting.

For a second, my brain stalled. I searched his face, trying to place him, annoyed that it took effort. He smiled, not wide, not confident. Just enough to soften the moment.

“Bus stop,” he said, like that explained everything.

And somehow, it did.

I laughed before I could stop myself. “Oh. You.”

“You sound disappointed,” he replied.

“I’m just surprised,” I said. “Lagos doesn’t do repeats.”

He nodded. “True. But it does sometimes.”

That should have been the end of it. A quick recognition. A polite goodbye. That was the safe option. The sensible one.

Instead, we walked together.

Not intentionally. Just naturally. Toward the same direction. Toward the same bus stop that suddenly felt smaller than it had any right to.

We talked. Light things. Work stress. Traffic complaints. The universal Nigerian bond of shared suffering. I learned he worked nearby. He learned I was permanently tired. Fair exchange.

I noticed something uncomfortable then.

I was relaxed.

Not guarded. Not calculating. Just present. And that scared me more than attraction ever could.

When we got to the bus stop, the noise rushed back in. Conductors shouting. Engines roaring. Reality returning like it had been waiting for us to finish pretending.

“My name is Tunde,” he said, finally.

I nodded. “Dayo. Obviously.”

He laughed. “Obviously.”

Our buses arrived at the same time. Chaos as usual. No grand decision. No dramatic pause.

“See you around?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Maybe.”

But as I climbed into the bus, I already knew something had shifted.

He did not feel like a distraction anymore.

He felt like a possibility.

And that thought followed me all the way home, no matter how hard I tried to ignore it.