Chapter 3: Jos Hotel—Cold Truths

The hotel for Jos dey one corner—cold dey bite, pine trees dey whisper, kitchen dey smell like fresh agege bread mix with pepper soup. Staff dey wear matching Ankara. Birds dey sing sometimes. Everywhere quiet.

Two rooms, just wall apart. Room small but neat, old style bed, wooden floor. Any small sound next door, I dey hear—no privacy. My bag for corner, head dey spin.

Cameras everywhere—livestream. Even toilet get small microphone. Anything person do, dem dey watch. I dey act cool, but I sabi say Naija Twitter go soon dissect every move.

Observation room dey inside, viewers dey comment from outside. Producers arrange everything. People dey sip malt, eat chin-chin, gist about us, eyes glued to screen. Online, slang dey fly, roasting and praise mix together.

["Kenechukwu and Morayo actually dey divorce show together—fearless!"]

Comments dey fly: "Chai, see as dem bold!" Some dey hype, some dey gossip, some dey wait for fight.

["Their chemistry mad, abeg!"]

E choke! Hashtags dey trend. The online wahala dey sweet people.

["I don dey wait for their divorce since."]

Even old schoolmate dey drop comment. Some dey claim prophet: "I sabi say e no go last."

["This guy dey craze? He used to love her die..."]

Some still dey root for love. "Na jazz Morayo use!" one girl type. I dey read, dey shake head.

Staff strap heart rate monitor for Kenechukwu and Morayo. Beep beep dey go, show am for camera. "If your heart rate reach 70, you fit leave the room." Na suspense for Naija audience. "Who go break first?"

But their numbers stop at 68. Producers shock. Comments: "Na lie! Dem dey form."

Privately, dem don do everything. My mind dey reason, all na packaging. Their laughter dey forced, eyes no dey lie. Show for camera.

Morayo sit by door, leg cross, hand dey twist small coral bead for wrist—the type wey dem say dey tie two destinies together. Her face dey shine for poster, skin dey yellow like early morning pap, but I sabi inside, calculation dey run.

Kenechukwu dey balcony, dey smoke breeze, dey peep my room. Balcony cold, but he no send. Na me him dey watch.

Emeka never arrive. My heart dey beat, I dey check clock, dey play with monitor. Small anxiety dey worry me.

I sit alone, band tight for wrist. I try read comments, most dey bash, some dey pity. I force smile.

Knock for door. I jump, monitor beep. I calm, adjust wrapper, go open.

Tall, slim guy stand for doorway. Shadow long, I squint. Fringe damp from hot spring steam. Skin fresh, hair wet. Steam follow am enter room.

Rain dey tap window, breeze dey blow. Cold and wetness follow am, bring fresh night smell. I shiver, goosebumps full hand. Room cold, but him presence warm like old memory.

["My forever crush is back"]

Fans dey shout. "Emeka na legend!" Chat wild.

["See, Kenechukwu, when you compare, you go see difference."]

People dey compare every move. Rivalry still dey alive for social.

"You need to wear this."

Voice calm, deep. He pass monitor, finger brush my palm. Familiarity dey touch. I hand am other monitor. I try act pro, voice no shake, even as heart dey beat.

Kenechukwu always hate when people say he resemble Emeka. Back then, interview go mention, him face go change, hiss, pretend e no pain am. E dey vex well.

First year after marriage, midnight walk, I dey look Emeka billboard. Kenechukwu pull my hat down, block my view, talk with jealousy, "I sabi say na this kind face you like." I laugh, think say na joke. But jealousy real for Naija man.

Now, memories dey choke. I dey remember old nights, fights, laughter—all dey mix for mind.

Kenechukwu for balcony, face tense, dey sip mineral, eyes dey move, dey check my window every two seconds. He dey watch. Even if he act like he no care, e clear na me he dey watch. My body dey feel am—even across wall, our stories still dey linked.

Watching Emeka enter my room and close door. His eye follow Emeka like hawk. Na so Naija men dey—no matter wetin dem talk, dem no dey gree lose.

Put on monitor. I steady hand, sweat for palm. Emeka calm, press button. Camera focus, audience dey gist.

Kenechukwu act like he no care. He whistle small, act as if nothing dey happen. But the way he dey pace, dey fidget, e dey pain am.

He sabi since that night say Emeka only marry Morayo for contract. His voice once crack: "If no be contract, e for never look Morayo way." For industry, everybody sabi say behind every marriage, story dey.

Emeka no even send Morayo. Rumour full—say Emeka dey chase peace, no dey send the marriage. Only for red carpet e go pose, after that, everybody dey their own.

Of course, he no go look my side—me wey even Kenechukwu no want again. Na so Kenechukwu dey reason, dey console himself. For him mind, I no get value. He dey try convince himself say Emeka fit never see me as anything special.

Kenechukwu scoff, act like e no care. Mouth twist, small sneer. "Make dem do as dem like," he mutter. But he still dey watch my reaction steady. Na so pride dey work for Naija men.

"Hello, Ifunanya."

Emeka voice gentle, low. My heart skip. I manage keep face straight, but old memories dey rise.

My number stay at 50, I stretch hand to Emeka. I smile, hand firm. The touch quick, but electricity dey. "Hello, Emeka." Words simple, but full of history.

He shake am, grip strong, warm. No overdo, just simple, like old friends. But I dey remember those long nights.

Monitor start dey beep. Eye fly open. Staff check device, audience dey shout. Heart rate dey go up, wahala dey brew.

Emeka number just dey fly. People dey reason, "Why his own dey rise?" Staff adjust, check wire.

But guy still calm. Face no change, he smile small. For Naija, some men sabi hide emotion—audience shock.

He say, "Monitor don spoil." Voice light, like joke. Audience go think na true, but I sabi say na old trick.

I say, "Okay." I gree, even as my own heart rate dey play game. I just bone, dey form strong woman.