His mind, still buzzing with the high-frequency tension of the 25th floor, began to downshift. The crisp, air-conditioned air was replaced by the dry, dusty Harmattan breeze filtering through the car window. The imposing silence of Dr. Aisha's executive suite was replaced by the cacophony of okadas weaving through traffic and street vendors calling out their wares.
He paid the driver and stepped out onto the dusty street in front of their apartment block. It was a modest, three-story building, its paint faded by the relentless sun. It wasn't a Lagos slum, but it was a world away from the sterile opulence of Maitama or Asokoro. It was honest. It was theirs.
He took the stairs, his polished shoes scuffing on the concrete steps, his mind replaying the day's brutal, exhilarating challenges. Dr. Aisha's voice echoed in his head: "The files on your desk are the three largest PR disasters we're currently managing. I want preliminary strategies by end of day." A trial by fire. A test he'd devoured.
He fumbled with the key, his thoughts still tangled in messaging frameworks and stakeholder analyses.
The door swung open, and the shift was absolute.
The first thing that hit him was the smell. Rich, nutty, and deeply comforting. Not the peppery heat of Lagos ofada, but the distinctive, earthy aroma of tuwo shinkafa and miyan kuka—a classic Northern comfort food. It was a scent that spoke of patience, of tradition, of home.
The second was the sight.
The small living area, usually functional but cluttered with the beautiful chaos of a newborn, was immaculate. The Harmattan dust, a constant foe, had been banished. The floors gleamed, the few cushions were plumped, and on the small center table, a single, brilliant yellow lily stood in a vase—a bold stroke of color against the neutral tones of their rented furniture.
Mina emerged from the tiny kitchen, a light sheen of sweat on her brow from standing over the hot stove. She wore a simple, clean hijab and a patterned wrapper, a picture of quiet grace. Her smile, when she saw him, was like the sun breaking through the dusty haze outside.
"Welcome home," she said, her voice a warm balm after the day's cold intensity.
He stood frozen on the threshold, his briefcase hanging from his hand. The high-stakes strategies, the weight of expectation, the sheer scale of the comeback he was attempting—it all receded, replaced by the overwhelming, profound normality of this moment.
"Mina…" he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "You… you cooked tuwo?"
She shrugged, a little shyly. "I wanted it to feel like a proper homecoming. I know it's your favorite when you're stressed."
It was so much more than food. It was a love letter. It was her way of rooting him here, in Abuja, in their new life. While he was navigating the sleek, glass-and-steel world of a tech giant, she had been anchoring him to the earth, to the heart of the city they now called home.
He dropped his briefcase and crossed the room, pulling her into a flour-dusted embrace. He held her tightly, breathing in the familiar scent of her skin beneath the comforting aroma of the soup. "Thank you," he whispered into her hijab. "This is… perfect."
She pulled back, her hands on his arms, her eyes searching his. "Tell me. How was it? Is she as formidable as they say?"
He led her to the sofa, the words pouring out. He described the silent, powerful efficiency of the Ais_$ tower, the awe-inspiring view of Aso Rock and the city's master-planned layout from his new window. He told her about Dr. Aisha's terrifying, laser-like focus, the dossiers of crises on his desk, the intense pressure of the ticking clock.
"She didn't say 'well done'," he said, a note of triumph in his voice. "She just appeared at my door at 4:55 and said, 'The strategy for the data breach is actionable. Proceed. Be here at 8 AM for your next brief.'" He shook his head, a grin spreading across his face. "It was the highest praise I've ever gotten."
Mina listened, utterly engrossed, her intelligent eyes reflecting his excitement. She asked incisive questions that proved she understood the stakes. "Is the data breach an internal failure or an external attack? The narrative changes everything." "Are you positioning Ais_$ as a victim or a hero?"
He was struck, not for the first time, by her sharp mind. She was his secret strategist.
A fussy cry came from the bedroom. Chosen was awake.
Mina began to rise, but Adams stopped her. "I've got him."
He returned moments later with his son cradled against his shoulder. He paced the small room, gently patting Chosen's back, the baby's cries softening into contented gurgles against the crisp fabric of his father's suit jacket.
"And this," Adams said, looking from his son's peaceful face to his wife's proud one, the hearty smell of miyan kuka wrapping around them, "this is what it's all for. The most important part of the deal."
Mina smiled, moving to serve the food. "You're building something new, Adams. For us. Right here in Abuja. And I'm not just waiting for you. I'm here, building it with you. However I can."
As they sat down to eat, the sounds of Gwarimpa drifting through the window, Adams felt a profound sense of place. His ambition was reigniting, but it was no longer a solitary, desperate clawing back to the top. It was a shared project. It was for the woman across from him, whose support was active and intelligent. It was for the son in his arms.
His new career path was a road they were walking together, from the sleek towers of Central Area to the dusty, vibrant streets of Gwarimpa. And for the first time, Abuja didn't feel like a place of exile. It felt like a canvas. And they were just beginning to paint.