Rooftop Bar in Lagos – Part 2: The Skyline Test

Tunde arrived at the restaurant on Saturday with a bouquet of white lilies and a very large black umbrella, though the sky was clear and the stars were out.

"You brought the umbrella," said Folake.

"I am a man of my word."

"It is not going to rain."

"It might," said Tunde. "I have been wrong before."

The restaurant was on a terrace above the lagoon, with fairy lights strung between the palm trees and a band playing soft highlife. They ordered jollof rice, grilled fish and plantain, and ate slowly, trading stories. Tunde talked about the first bridge he had ever worked on, the sound of the pile driver at five in the morning. Folake talked about the ad she had written for a soap brand that had made an entire city weep.

"You make people cry for soap," said Tunde.

"I make people cry for belonging," said Folake. "The soap is incidental."

After dinner, they walked along the water, the city glowing across the lagoon. Tunde stopped at the railing and pointed.

"That one," he said. "The tower on the left. I told you about it."

It stood slender and silver against the night, the lit windows climbing like a staircase to the stars.

"It is lovely," said Folake.

"I wish I had built it. But I have been thinking something strange." He turned to her. "Maybe the best things are the ones other people build, and you get to stand beside them and be glad."

Folake's heart gave a soft, surprised thump.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yes."

"Why did you stay in Lagos? You could have worked anywhere."

Tunde looked at the water. "Because my father drove a taxi here for thirty years," he said. "He used to say that this city never forgives people who leave. I wanted to prove him wrong, by staying and building something."

"Did you?"

"I am working on it," said Tunde. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"Would you let me show you the building site on Monday? I would like you to see what I do when I am not under an umbrella."

Folake laughed. "Yes. But only if I get a hard hat."

"You can have a pink one."

"Can I kiss you?" asked Folake, suddenly, before she could lose her nerve. "Here, by the lagoon, with the whole skyline watching?"

"Yes," said Tunde. "And if you say stop, I will give you the pink hat and a very long lecture."

"That is cruel," said Folake, and leaned in.

He kissed her gently, one hand rising to cup her cheek, the umbrella forgotten against the railing. The kiss tasted of palm wine and night air, slow and warm. The band played on in the distance, a soft, sweet melody, and the lights of the tower shimmered on the water.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" asked Tunde.

"Green," said Folake. "Very green. Now walk me home, Tunde, and tell me about the pile driver again."

"It is a very long story," said Tunde, and offered his arm.