ECHOES SERIAL • OCTOBER 2026
CHAPTER TWO
What She Does Not Know
At 5:12 on Tuesday morning, Ime was awake and pretending not to be.
She lay beneath her duvet with her eyes closed, her phone facedown beside her and one foot sticking out because the room was too warm.
She had been pretending for forty-three minutes.
Pretending she had slept.
Pretending Emmanuel had not called eleven times.
Pretending she had not replayed the previous night so often that she could now hear every pause between his words.
Take me to meet your mother.
Why?
Of all the things he could have said, why had he said that?
Not of course.
Not when would you like to go?
Not even my mother is difficult and I need time to prepare her.
Just—
Why?
Ime opened her eyes.
The ceiling offered no explanation.
Her phone vibrated.
She ignored it.
It vibrated again.
Then stopped.
She waited.
Nothing.
Good.
She reached for it.
There were twelve missed calls now.
The newest one was from Amara.
Ime sighed and opened WhatsApp.
Amara had sent seven messages.
Are you awake?
Actually, stupid question. You are obviously awake.
Did he call?
Did you answer?
If you answered, I will fight you.
Not today because I have a meeting.
But eventually.
Ime stared at the messages.
Then typed:
Good morning.
Amara replied immediately.
That is not an answer.
It is a greeting.
Did you answer him?
No.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
I am proud of you.
Ime frowned.
She did not feel like someone worth being proud of.
She felt tired.
And foolish.
Mostly foolish.
Four years.
Four birthdays.
Four Christmases spent buying presents for a man whose mother apparently existed in the same category as national secrets.
She turned onto her back.
The sentence from the previous night returned without permission.
For the person who is tired of begging to be chosen—remind her tonight that she already is.
Ime rolled her eyes.
“Please.”
Her voice sounded too loud in the quiet room.
She sat up.
The prayer gathering had ended shortly after she entered the house, but the woman’s words had followed her upstairs.
Into the shower.
Into bed.
Into the two hours of sleep she had managed before waking again.
It was ridiculous.
A stranger had said something during a prayer meeting. That was all.
It had not been for her.
It could not have been for her.
God did not send personal messages through somebody’s loudspeaker at eleven o’clock at night.
And even if He did, Ime was hardly first on the list.
Her relationship with God had become like an old friendship neither person knew how to restart.
Occasionally, she thought about calling.
Then too much time had passed.
Then more time passed because too much time had passed.
Now, apparently, He was shouting across streets.
Her phone vibrated again.
This time, it was Emmanuel.
Please talk to me.
Ime read the message.
Another followed.
You misunderstood what I meant.
Then:
Can I see you tonight?
Ime placed the phone facedown again.
From somewhere downstairs came the unmistakable sound of a pot being dropped.
Then her mother’s voice.
“Nothing happened!”
Ime closed her eyes.
She had not asked.
But in her mother’s house, even accidents defended themselves.
• • •
Her mother was making akara when Ime entered the kitchen.
There was enough batter on the counter to feed a medium-sized congregation.
Ime stopped at the door.
“Are people coming?”
Her mother glanced at her.
“No.”
“Then why are you frying enough akara for a burial?”
Her mother dropped another spoonful into the oil.
“You don’t know how to greet?”
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
Ime waited.
Her mother said nothing else.
That was suspicious.
She moved to the refrigerator.
“Mama.”
“Hm?”
“Why are you quiet?”
Her mother turned.
“You want me to talk?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You asked why I am quiet.”
“I’m just saying you’re unusually quiet.”
Her mother considered this.
Then nodded.
“Okay.”
Ime shut the refrigerator.
“There. You’ve done it again.”
“Done what?”
“That ‘okay’ thing.”
“What thing?”
“The way you say okay when you have something else to say.”
Her mother lifted one eyebrow.
“Should I say no?”
“Mama.”
“Good morning, no?”
Ime stared at her.
Her mother stared back.
Then she turned to the stove.
“What happened between you and Emmanuel?”
Ime went still.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing brought you home after ten and sat outside calling you until nearly midnight?”
“He wasn’t calling me outside.”
“Then who was?”
“My phone.”
Her mother looked over her shoulder.
“Your phone was calling you?”
Ime reached for a plate.
“You know what I mean.”
“I know you came inside looking like somebody had beaten you with disappointment.”
Ime froze.
Her mother returned to the frying pan.
It was unfair how mothers could say things like that while turning akara.
“I was tired.”
“Hmm.”
“There was traffic.”
“At ten-thirty?”
“Mama, please.”
Her mother nodded.
“Okay.”
Ime dropped the plate onto the counter.
Her mother smiled.
Just slightly.
Ime saw it.
“You enjoy annoying me.”
“I enjoy my life.”
“At my expense.”
“You are my only child. Whose expense should I use?”
Ime tried not to laugh.
She failed.
Her mother placed four akara on the plate and pushed it towards her.
“Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You were not hungry yesterday. Today again, you are not hungry. Is hunger now avoiding you?”
“Mama.”
“Eat.”
Ime picked up one.
Her mother watched her take a bite before speaking again.
“Did he say he will marry you?”
Ime nearly choked.
“Mama!”
“What?”
“It is six in the morning.”
“Does marriage discussion only happen in the afternoon?”
“I’m going to work.”
“You have not finished eating.”
“I’ll take it with me.”
Her mother began packing the akara.
Of course she did.
“I didn’t say pack all of it.”
“You said you will take it.”
“I meant two.”
“You will give your colleagues.”
“Mama, I’m not feeding the office.”
Her mother added six more.
“Give Daniel.”
Ime stared at her.
“Why would I give Daniel?”
“He got the promotion.”
The kitchen became very quiet.
Ime slowly lowered her handbag.
“How do you know that?”
Her mother looked confused.
“You told me.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You did.”
“When?”
“Last night.”
“I came home and went straight upstairs.”
Her mother paused.
Then waved one hand.
“Maybe I saw it on Instagram.”
“Mama, my office promotion was not on Instagram.”
“Maybe WhatsApp.”
“Whose WhatsApp?”
Her mother concentrated very seriously on closing the food container.
Ime narrowed her eyes.
“Mama.”
“It is getting late.”
“How do you know Daniel got the promotion?”
Her mother finally looked at her.
“Amara called.”
Ime’s mouth fell open.
“When?”
“This morning.”
“It is barely six-thirty.”
“She called by five.”
“Why is Amara calling you at five in the morning?”
“She was checking on you.”
“Why didn’t she call me?”
Her mother gave her a look.
“She called you.”
Ime remembered the missed call.
Traitor.
Her mother placed the container in the lunch bag.
“Your friend is worried.”
“She worries recreationally.”
“You should thank God for somebody who worries about you.”
The sentence landed more heavily than it should have.
Ime looked away.
Her mother zipped the bag.
“And don’t quarrel with Daniel.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“A person can be happy for somebody and still be disappointed for herself.”
Ime looked back at her.
Her mother was wiping the counter now, as if she had said nothing important.
“I am not disappointed.”
“Okay.”
Ime picked up the lunch bag.
That word again.
Only this time, she had no strength to fight it.
• • •
Daniel was sitting in Ime’s chair when she arrived at work.
Not beside her desk.
Not leaning against it.
Sitting in her chair.
Her laptop had been moved slightly to the left, and he was scrolling through a presentation on the desktop monitor.
Ime stopped.
“Good morning.”
Daniel turned.
“Ah, Ime. Morning.”
He stood quickly.
Too quickly.
“I was looking for the Eko Naturals deck.”
“On my computer?”
“I asked IT to give me access to the campaign folder.”
“That is not the campaign folder.”
Daniel glanced at the screen.
The presentation displayed there was titled:
REBRAND DIRECTION — PERSONAL NOTES
He looked embarrassed.
“I didn’t open anything personal.”
“You are presently looking at something called personal notes.”
“I clicked it by mistake.”
“Three slides by mistake?”
His face changed.
Only slightly.
Yesterday, he had looked guilty.
Today, he looked like someone trying to remember whether he was still required to.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just need everything you’ve been working on. Mr Olumide wants the transition to be seamless.”
Ime placed her handbag on the desk.
“The Eko Naturals folder is on the shared drive.”
“I checked. Some of the strategy notes are missing.”
“They aren’t missing. They’re mine.”
Daniel blinked.
“What?”
“My working notes. The ideas I have not yet developed. They are not part of the shared folder.”
He laughed nervously.
“Ime, I’m not trying to steal your ideas.”
She had not said he was.
The fact that he heard it anyway interested her.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“No, but the way you’re talking—”
“How am I talking?”
Daniel looked around.
Two people immediately became fascinated by their computers.
He lowered his voice.
“I know yesterday was difficult.”
Ime smiled.
“Do you?”
“I didn’t know they were going to give me the position.”
“But you accepted it.”
His expression hardened.
“What was I supposed to do?”
There it was.
The question of the week.
What was I supposed to do?
What do you want me to say?
Why do you need to meet my mother?
Everybody had questions.
Nobody had answers.
“You were supposed to get out of my chair,” Ime said.
Daniel stared at her.
Then stepped aside.
Ime sat down.
She closed the personal presentation and opened the shared drive.
“The Eko Naturals materials are here. The final deck is complete. The client meeting is on Thursday.”
Daniel nodded.
“Good. I’ll present it.”
“No.”
He frowned.
“No?”
“I developed the campaign. I will present it.”
“I’m the Brand Communications Lead.”
The title sounded strange in his mouth.
Too new.
Like shoes he had not yet broken in.
“You are,” Ime said. “Congratulations.”
“So I should lead the meeting.”
“You can open the meeting. I’ll present the strategy.”
“Ime—”
“Daniel.”
Her manager’s voice came from behind them.
They both turned.
Mr Olumide stood with his coffee in one hand.
“Everything all right?”
Daniel hesitated.
Ime smiled.
“Perfectly.”
Mr Olumide looked from one to the other.
“Good. Daniel, I need you in my office.”
Daniel nodded.
Before walking away, he leaned towards Ime.
“We’ll continue this.”
Ime looked at her screen.
“No problem.”
Her hands were trembling beneath the desk.
That annoyed her.
She had not shouted.
She had not insulted anybody.
She had simply said no.
Why, then, did her body behave as though she had committed a crime?
Across the room, someone coughed.
Then a message appeared on her computer.
It was from Ruth in Accounts.
Are you all right?
Ime typed:
Yes.
Ruth replied:
That was not what I asked.
Ime looked across the office.
Ruth was watching her.
She was a quiet woman in her mid-thirties who wore her natural hair in neat cornrows and brought the same green flask to work every day.
They had never spoken about anything more personal than tax deductions.
Ime typed:
I will be.
Ruth read it.
Then nodded.
A minute later, another message appeared.
Good. Also, if Daniel tries to present that campaign without you, I have screenshots showing you worked on it in June.
Ime stared at the screen.
Then looked at Ruth.
Ruth had already turned back to her spreadsheet.
Something warm moved through Ime’s chest.
Small.
Unexpected.
Almost embarrassing.
She looked away before Ruth could see it on her face.
• • •
By lunchtime, Emmanuel had sent fourteen messages.
Ime had read all of them.
She had answered none.
She was eating her mother’s akara at her desk when Amara arrived wearing a burnt-orange trouser suit, oversized sunglasses and the expression of someone prepared to become a public disturbance.
The receptionist followed behind her.
“I told her you were working,” the receptionist said helplessly.
“I am bringing lunch,” Amara announced.
Ime looked at the paper bag in her hand.
“I have food.”
Amara looked at the akara.
“That is breakfast.”
“It has crossed into lunchtime.”
“Then it is confused.”
The receptionist laughed.
Ime sighed.
“It’s fine. She can stay.”
“I had already decided that,” Amara said.
She placed the bag on the desk and removed two bowls.
“What is this?”
“Food.”
“I can see that.”
“Then why did you ask?”
Ime opened one bowl.
Jollof rice.
Chicken.
Plantain.
Salad.
The kind of lunch that came in packaging too beautiful to throw away.
She closed it.
“How much?”
Amara removed her sunglasses.
“What?”
“How much did it cost?”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.”
“I’ll transfer it.”
“With your eighteen thousand naira?”
Ime’s face changed.
Amara saw it too late.
“Babe, I didn’t mean—”
“Why did you call my mother?”
“Because you weren’t answering.”
“You called her at five in the morning.”
“It was five-twenty.”
“That makes it normal?”
“I was worried.”
“And you told her about Daniel.”
“She asked why you were upset.”
“So you told her everything?”
“I did not tell her everything.”
“What else is there?”
Amara became quiet.
Ime wished immediately that she could pull the question back.
Amara looked down at the food.
“I’m trying to help you.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
Ime rubbed her forehead.
Around them, keyboards clicked with exaggerated concentration.
“Can we not do this here?”
“You started it here.”
“You arrived here.”
“Because you wouldn’t answer your phone.”
“I wanted space.”
“From Emmanuel or from everybody?”
Ime looked at her.
Amara’s face softened.
“Did he call?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He said I misunderstood.”
“Of course.”
“He wants to see me tonight.”
“No.”
Ime leaned back.
“I didn’t say I was going.”
“But you’re thinking about it.”
“I want an explanation.”
“Four years is the explanation.”
“That is easy for you to say.”
Amara went still.
Ime knew she had crossed something.
She just did not know what.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Amara asked.
“Nothing.”
“No. Say it.”
“You don’t understand what it is like to invest four years in somebody.”
“And whose fault is that?”
Ime stared at her.
Amara laughed once, but there was no humour in it.
“You see? This is why I don’t say anything.”
“Say anything about what?”
Amara began closing the food containers.
“Forget it.”
“No, you came here. Say what you want to say.”
“I said forget it.”
“Amara.”
She stopped.
For a moment, Ime thought she might cry.
Instead, Amara put her sunglasses back on.
“The money you owe me is not the problem,” she said. “You behaving as though accepting help makes you powerless is the problem.”
Ime swallowed.
“That’s not what I—”
“You let Emmanuel waste four years because you don’t want to look desperate. You let your office use you for eleven months because you don’t want to look difficult. You borrow money from me to look like you don’t need anything. Then the moment somebody tells you the truth, you become angry.”
The office was completely silent now.
Even the keyboards had given up pretending.
Ime’s face burned.
“Please leave.”
Amara nodded.
“Fine.”
She picked up her handbag.
The bowls remained on the desk.
“Take your food,” Ime said.
“No.”
“I said take it.”
“And I said no.”
“Amara—”
“You haven’t eaten properly. Eat.”
Then she walked away.
Everyone found their keyboards again.
Ime stared at the bowls.
Her phone vibrated beside them.
For one absurd second, she hoped it was Amara.
It was Emmanuel.
I will be outside your office at six. Please.
Ime locked the phone.
Across the room, Ruth stood and walked towards the kitchenette.
When she passed Ime’s desk, she placed a small packet of tissues beside the jollof rice.
She did not say anything.
Ime nearly laughed.
She nearly cried.
Instead, she opened the food.
• • •
Emmanuel was not outside her office at six.
At 6:10, Ime told herself she was relieved.
At 6:23, she told herself she had never expected him to come.
At 6:41, she ordered a ride.
The driver was three minutes away when Emmanuel’s car entered the compound.
Ime cancelled the ride.
The cancellation fee was ₦800.
She resented him for that too.
He got out of the car holding flowers.
Not roses.
Lilies.
Ime hated lilies.
She had told him this twice.
He walked towards her.
She looked at the flowers.
“They’re beautiful, right?” he asked.
“No.”
Emmanuel stopped.
“What?”
“I don’t like lilies.”
His expression fell.
“I thought you did.”
“You thought Jennifer did.”
The words came from nowhere.
Emmanuel’s face changed.
So quickly that if she had blinked, she might have missed it.
But she did not blink.
Ime’s stomach tightened.
“Ime.”
She stepped closer.
“Is Jennifer your sister?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“A simple one.”
“Of course she is.”
“You hesitated.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
He looked around the car park.
“Can we not do this here?”
“Take me to your mother.”
“Again?”
“Yes. Again.”
Emmanuel rubbed the back of his neck.
“I told you, my family situation is complicated.”
“No, you told me I knew what your situation was. I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Then explain it.”
“My mother is not well.”
“What is wrong with her?”
He paused.
“Her blood pressure.”
“Since 2022?”
“What?”
“That was the first time you said she was ill.”
“Ime, people can have blood-pressure problems for years.”
“Which hospital does she use?”
He stared at her.
“Why are you interrogating me?”
“Because you are not answering me.”
“I came here to apologise.”
“With flowers I don’t like.”
“For God’s sake.”
“No. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make me sound ungrateful because you brought the wrong flowers instead of the right answers.”
Something shifted in his face.
The softness disappeared.
“I have been patient with you.”
Ime blinked.
“You have been patient with me?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Your moods. Your insecurity. The constant pressure about marriage. The way every small issue becomes evidence that I don’t love you.”
She stared at him.
He continued.
“Do you think you are the only person whose life is not moving the way they planned? I’m trying to build something. I have responsibilities.”
“What responsibilities?”
“That is exactly what I mean.”
“No, Emmanuel. What responsibilities?”
He looked away.
Cars moved along the road outside the gate.
Somewhere behind them, a security guard dragged a plastic chair across the concrete.
Ime could hear everything.
Except the truth.
Emmanuel lowered his voice.
“I need more time.”
“For what?”
“To sort things out.”
“What things?”
He looked at her.
“I love you.”
She laughed.
Again.
The same sharp sound as the previous night.
“That sentence is beginning to irritate me.”
“Ime.”
“I asked you what you need time to sort out.”
He did not answer.
She nodded slowly.
“All right.”
She turned.
Emmanuel caught her wrist.
“Don’t walk away from me.”
Ime looked at his hand.
Then at his face.
“Let me go.”
He released her immediately.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then he said, “If you leave like this, don’t blame me for what happens next.”
Ime stared at him.
“What does that mean?”
He looked as though he regretted saying it.
But he did not take it back.
Her phone began to ring.
Amara.
Ime declined the call without looking away from Emmanuel.
“What happens next?” she asked again.
He picked up the lilies.
“I’m not doing this.”
“You came here.”
“And now I’m leaving.”
“Fine.”
He walked back to his car.
Ime watched him drive away.
Only after the gate closed behind him did she realise she was shaking.
Her phone rang again.
Amara.
This time, Ime answered.
Neither of them spoke.
Then Amara said quietly, “Are you all right?”
Ime closed her eyes.
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“Outside the office.”
“Stay there. I’m coming.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
The call ended.
Ime stood beneath the security light.
She thought about apologising when Amara arrived.
A real apology.
Not I’m sorry, but—
Not you know I didn’t mean it.
Just—
I was wrong.
She was still rehearsing the words when her phone vibrated.
A message from an unfamiliar number.
There was no profile photograph.
No name.
Only one line.
Hello, Ime. My name is Jennifer.
Ime stopped breathing.
A second message appeared.
We need to talk about Emmanuel.
Then a third.
And before he lies to you again, I am not his sister.
Ime stared at the screen.
Somewhere across the road, music began.
Low at first.
Then voices joined it.
The same prayer gathering.
The same house.
Ime did not look towards it.
She could not.
Her entire life had narrowed to the words glowing in her hand.
I am not his sister.
For four years, Ime had believed she was waiting for Emmanuel to choose her.
It had never occurred to her that he might have already chosen someone else.
END OF CHAPTER TWO