Ade Adeowo tilts his head, letting the biting Middlesbrough air flirt with his cheeks. The chill cuts deep, but not as deep as the truths he keeps hidden—buried in the dim corners of his soul, where pride smothers vulnerability, and shame persists like an opponent he can never outrun. He shakes his shoulder, straightens the sleeves of his green sweater, and swings open the passenger door of his bZ4X with the flourish of a seasoned valet.
Jola climbs out, the very picture of triumph—the sister whose tireless campaign (some might label it nagging) has finally worn him down, bringing him to Teesside University today. From the back seat, their friends—Ay and MT—tumble out in tow, huddled in trench coats and mittens. Ade thinks they look ridiculous.
“Dr Adeowo, the newest assistant lecturer in town,” Ade says with a half-bow, presenting Jola with a bouquet of red roses. “Courtesy of the elder Dr. Adeowo.”
Jola inhales the delicate fragrance with all the grace of a queen receiving her due, the lines on her black suit sharp enough to slice bread. “Temmy does know how to spoil me. What an extraordinary brother.”
Ade clears his throat, his voice drenched in mock indignation. “And I get no recognition whatsoever?”
“Maybe if you become a medical doctor like Temmy, you’ll finally get some appreciation,” Ay quips from the side.
“You sound just like a Nigerian parent,” MT chimes in, shaking her head as they step into the Faculty of Science building. “Honestly, this doesn’t feel too different from most Nigerian private universities.”
Ade’s steps falter as a sudden sharp ache wraps around his heart like a vice—his body betraying what he’s trying to forget. Nigeria floods the edges of his mind, bright and relentless. The office he couldn’t work in, the dream job that had dangled just within reach. Five gruelling interviews aced. He’d all but tasted it. And then, like a spineless fool, he gave it up. He could’ve stayed—should’ve stayed—to live the life he dared imagine. Bold. Unapologetic. Instead, he fled. Not gracefully, but like a thief sneaking out the back door, hoping no one would notice.
They make their way to the elevators, and Ade takes measured strides as if walking too quickly might shake something loose within him. His reflection in a nearby mirror is the same as ever: unruffled, collected, and almost artfully detached. Years of practice birthed this: his subtle, sly way of keeping the world at arm’s length and himself blissfully and precariously afloat. He conceals himself in a veneer of calm while suppressing the unacknowledged darkness looming, waiting to be seen, waiting to be named. Ade is unaware—or perhaps unwilling to admit—that it is in the acknowledgement of one’s deepest fears that the seeds of healing are sown and in the embrace of hidden sorrows that true strength is found.
He sighs inwardly and presses the button for the sixth floor, where “Environmental Science” is displayed; the lift hums and starts its ascent. When the doors slide open, Jola leads them down a long corridor, her footsteps confident. She makes a sharp right turn before stopping at the tenth door. Three names are boldly engraved on the door: Jolade Grace Adeowo, PhD • Kurt Noah Sherwood, PhD • Chad Justin Morgan, PhD.
“Pose in front of it, Jughead,” he instructs, bringing out his phone.
Jola, ever the good sport, strikes a pose, her face a study in carefully managed pride and underlying tension. Ade watches her closely as the shutters click, silently observing the abstruse struggle between her confident exterior and what seems to be a swirling tempest of half-forgotten dreams beneath. Yet here she is, forging ahead with that stubborn determination that has always defined her. He silently hopes she allows herself room to breathe, feel, and simply be.
“Hand over your bag,” he says, fully embracing his chief photographer role. Jola hands it over, rolling her eyes but going along with every pose they demand of her. “Point to your name,” he suggests, trying not to grin.
“That’s childish,” Jola protests, but her hand reluctantly lifts to gesture at the door.
Once the impromptu photo shoot wraps up, Jola tries unlocking the door with her key but finds it unlocked. Before knocking, she pauses, and Ade gives her arm a gentle pat—a reassurance he knows she needs. Inside the office, two men are seated at two of the three desks. Both rise as the group enters. Jola walks over to the first man. “Jolade Adeowo,” she says, extending her hand.
“Chad Morgan,” he replies with a clean American accent. He is of average height, his black hair pulled back into a neat ponytail that just brushes the collar of his shirt.
The second man steps forward with a broad smile. “Kurt Sherwood here,” he says, his British accent rolling smoothly. “Pleased to meet you.” He’s tall, with chestnut hair cropped short and humour in his grey eyes.
“These are my friends,” Jola introduces, gesturing to Ay and MT. “And brother,” she adds, nodding towards Ade.
Kurt’s gaze lands on Ade, a flicker of curiosity there. “Are you all staff here?” The ladies quickly clarify that they’re new graduate students while Jola explains Ade is visiting to decide if he should accept his offer of admission for graduate school here. Kurt’s smile widens. “Fantastic,” he says. “I’ve got a mate in Computing and Cyber Security. I can check if he’s free to give you a tour of your department.”
“That sounds perfect,” MT chimes in. “I’m already enrolled in MSc Applied Data Science. Mind if I tag along?”
“Not at all,” Kurt replies. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”
Ade glances at Jola, who slightly nods, understanding his unspoken question. “It’ll be more helpful, I think,” she says, settling into her desk chair. “They should be able to answer any questions you have.”
With that, Kurt excuses himself to make a call, wandering over to the bookshelf as he dials. With only two guest chairs in front of Jola’s desk, which Ade and MT have already claimed, Chad offers Ay one of his, and they settle into polite conversation.
A few seconds later, Kurt returns, his smile still firmly in place. “I’ve spoken to him. He’s free for the next hour and can show you both around. You can find him in the Faculty of Engineering building on the third floor, the fifth office on the left. His name is Daniel Groza. Do you know where that is?”
“I have the campus map,” MT answers. “And I was at the building last week for pre-registration.”
“Brilliant,” Ade says, shaking Kurt’s hand. “Thank you very much.”
“Anytime,” Kurt responds, returning the handshake with a firm grip, then offering the same to MT before heading back to his desk.
“We’d better get moving,” Ade says as he and MT head out of the office.
🏃🏽♂️➡️
“We are lost,” Ade declares, his tone laced with frustration as he mutters a series of unprintable words in Yoruba. His expression, however, seems more bewildered than wrathful, which is probably why MT remains unfazed by his outburst.
“Se sùúrù,” MT snaps in Yoruba, demanding patience while she concentrates on the map.
They left Jola’s office ten minutes ago, and by MT's calculations, they should have arrived three minutes ago. Yet here they are, wandering through what feels like the Bermuda Triangle of Teesside University. Ade is beginning to question whether he even wants to attend a university where it’s so easy to get lost.
MT suddenly exclaims, yanking him from his thoughts. “Ah-ah, I told you we’re not lost, just missed a turning. If we retrace our steps, we’ll find the building quickly.”
Ade sighs, half-turning back the way they came. “I think Kurt would’ve offered to take us there if we’d asked,” he grumbles, starting to walk with his evidently mad friend.
“Oh, he would’ve offered, alright,” MT snorts. “Maybe shove me down the stairs just so he could dazzle you into enrolling on the spot.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh my God, Ade. Did you not see him ogling at you?” MT states, like it was the most obvious thing. “Even though we were in the room, he was mentally undressing you,” she adds, just as they finally find the correct turning.
Ade’s attention drifts away from the directions, his arms crossing over his chest as if warding off an unseen chill. “When did you notice this? I thought he was just being nice.”
“Òótó lo so, my dear—you said the truth,” MT chuckles. “If his niceness will lead him to your pants.”
“You are being ridiculous.”
“Most times, I am,” she allows. “But this time, I’m quite serious. We can ask Jola and Ay in the car. Now, look.” She points with a satisfied smile. “We found it.”
Sure enough, a massive building rises before them, with FACULTY OF ENGINEERING emblazoned boldly across the front. The interior of the building is almost a carbon copy of the science building they just left, right down to the similarly labelled elevator buttons. They exit the lift and find the right office with surprising ease. A man of average height opens the door, greeting them with a smile. “You must be from Kurt,” he says, offering them the chairs in front of his desk.
About forty minutes later, they are heading out of the building, the autumn air crisp and carrying the faint scent of damp leaves. Ade crosses his arms, casting a wary glance at MT as she struggles to jam her hands back into the woolly monstrosities she calls mittens. They’re enormous, puffy things in a shade of pink that could blind one at ten paces.
“Don’t you dare put those back on,” he commands, pointing at the mittens as if they’re some dangerous contraband.
MT heaves a sigh, clutching the mittens to her chest like they’re her only protection against the harsh, unfeeling English elements. “You know this is my first time leaving Nigeria. Do you want cold to kill me? Is that what you want?”
Ade gives her a bemused look, shaking his head. “Cold? You think this is cold?” He lets out a small chuckle. “It’s not even November yet. What will you do in winter? Carry heater with you like a handbag?”
MT lifts her chin defiantly. “You don’t want to know what Ay and I have planned for that.”
Ade grins, a hint of wonder slipping through his amusement. “I still can’t believe you two are actually here,” he says, remembering how, only a month ago, MT and Ay had packed up their lives in Lagos and launched themselves into this damp and drizzly corner of England.
With her usual exuberance, MT intertwines their hands, tiptoes, and kisses his cheek. The kiss leaves a bright red smudge on his skin, which she promptly cleans with a wet wipe as if she’s an artist correcting a minor flaw in her masterpiece. “Ade, Ade, my sweetheart,” she croons, her voice honeyed with affection. “Feeling okay?”
Ade already has his answers locked and loaded for questions like this. He’s perfected the art of deflecting concern with a well-timed joke, a nonchalant smile, and a laugh that sounds just right. On rare occasions, like today, he briefly considers opening up, but the very thought of it turns his stomach. No, today isn’t the day for such reckless honesty. Today, he is Teniade Adeowo, the embodiment of composure, here to tick boxes and choose a university. The rest—well, he can deal with that later. Or, knowing him, not at all.
So, he arranges his face into an image of ease. “Couldn’t be better, sugar,” he replies, his tone light as a breeze.
🏃🏽♂️➡️
Ade slouches in a chair in Jola's office, his eyes lazily scanning the room. It’s spacious enough for three, the kind of space that begs to be filled with something more than silence. A couch lounges in front of the bookshelves, lined with books that are clearly well-read, their spines creased and faded. Some are stacked horizontally while others lean haphazardly, giving the shelves a sense of lived-in clutter.
Jola’s desk, strategically placed by the window, is a sleek piece of dark wood, with two monitors, a laptop stand, a small potted plant, and a pen holder brimming with pens and pencils of varying colours and sizes. Outside the window, the city sprawls under a heavy blanket of grey clouds, the skyline softened by the overcast light that flattens the colours and dims the view. The faint hum of traffic filters through, just enough to remind Ade of life outside these walls.
Above the bookshelves, a small clock ticks away, its steady rhythm filling the gaps in the room’s silence. Jola’s scent lingers faintly—something floral and clean—mixing with the subtle musk of old books and polished wood.
Ade opens Twitter, and the first thing that greets him is a picture of an underwear model. Typical. He exhales, but the image drags him somewhere else. Heathrow. Six weeks ago. A face, a moment, a collision that seems to cling to his mind like static, much to the delight of Jola, who tease him mercilessly about his supposed gawking. Fine, maybe he was. But who wouldn’t have stopped dead in their tracks? One minute, his nose was buried in his phone, and the next, he was face-to-face with a guy who looked like he just stepped straight out of a Renaissance sculpture. Ade hadn’t just collided with him; he'd crashed into perfection.
The guy’s face still hangs in his mind, like a portrait painted in painstaking detail: a face that looked like it was carved from marble, light-blue eyes that sparkled like sapphires when they caught the light, black hair framing his face in a cascade of perfect ringlets, and heart-shaped lips with a delicate curve. Even his nose was beautiful. Kai, God dey create. Ade groans inwardly, kicking himself for not at least getting the guy’s name. How hard could it have been? Now, all he has is a ghost of a memory that haunts him every time. What’s he supposed to do? Type “beautiful guy with sexy eyes and lips you want to worship” into Instagram’s search bar? Yeah, that’ll go well—maybe land him on some fan pages for Tyler Blackburn and Matt Bomer.
Jola’s voice slices through his thoughts, pulling him back to reality. Finally. But then, another voice. A male voice. His heart stutters. It can’t be. It’s happening again, just like it has for weeks now—seeing people who look like him, hearing a voice that sounds just like his. He’s hallucinating, he tells himself, creating illusions of things he wants but can never have.
And yet, here he is, torturing himself with the memory of a ten-minute encounter that, logically, should mean nothing. But logic has never been Ade’s strong suit, especially when daydreaming is an option. Every morning for six weeks, those blue eyes return—the shade of a serene lake just before dusk. Every time, they rouse a feral gleam low in his navel, a spark that grows into a burn. He tells himself it’s ephemeral, but who’s he kidding? Ade still gives in to delusions sometimes, and he’s already rewritten the encounter a hundred times in his head. Each version is more elaborate than the last—this time, he’s charming, witty, and suave. The encounter ends with a flirtatious exchange, a date, and then a night he won’t admit he fantasises about in detail.
His body stirs.
Gotta keep it together, Teniade. The last thing he needs is for Jola to walk in and notice his… predicament. But deep down, he knows his rearrangement is a hoax, destined to remain locked in the confines of his overactive imagination. Besides, what are the odds of ever running into the stranger again? About as likely as Jola winning the lottery.
“Here we are, gentlemen,” Jola’s voice rings out as she enters, flanked by two guys. She waves. “Hey, Ade.”
Ade’s heart lurches in his chest—hard. Did he wave back? He can’t tell.
On Jola’s left stands a tallish chap, good-looking, deep blue eyes, black hair cropped short, and obviously British—practically exuding tea and politeness. He’s decked out in green cargo trouser and a black V-neck, the picture of effortless casual.
But it’s the guy on her right who robs Ade of breath.
This one—this vision—wears a patterned purple shirt, meticulously tucked into tailored black trousers that sit with a sort of arrogant precision over polished Chelsea boots. The look is innocent, intentional, and yet Ade, with a single roguish glance, manages to mentally dismantle every layer, peeling back the fabric in his mind with an ease that feels almost indecent.
Ade then takes him in slowly. Those eyes, pale and piercing; that nose, just as well-constructed as he remembers; those lips, heart-shaped and curled slightly at the corners. And the hair—soft-looking curls framing his face like a halo.
It’s him.
It’s the airport stranger.
In Middles-fucking-brough.
