"Alhaji…" came the voice over the phone, warm and familiar, though laced with just enough deference to recognize who truly held the power in the conversation.
Folarin raised a brow and smiled as he heard the voice. "Dapo," he said, calling the Minister by his first name like a man greeting an old schoolmate — casually, almost playfully, but always from the upper rung of the ladder.
"How are you? How is the family?" Alhaji asked, strolling deeper into his garden, his slippers brushing lightly over the smooth path lined with trimmed hedges and pots of hibiscus flowers in full bloom. He paused before one, admiring the crimson petals under the soft Lagos sun.
Dapo, Minister of Housing, chuckled lightly on the other end. "We thank God about the family. Priscilla has just finished schooling, so I was wondering…"
Alhaji didn't let him finish. "Ah-ah, Priscilla is done with school?" he said, voice full of exaggerated surprise.
