Click To Read the First Chapter of Barrett & Barrett

Chapter 2: King

The first thing I register is the smell of fried plantain. The aroma of home but not my home. The second thing is the weight of a small child on my chest.

I open my eyes. Two large, bright ones are staring back, unblinking. Flourish, my four-year-old niece, is perched on me.

“You’re not sleeping, Uncle King,” she says. It is not a question.

“I am not,” I say, my voice deep and rough with sleep. I scoop her up, and she squeals with laughter. As I sit up on the too-soft bed that has been my discomfort for two weeks, I avoid the streaks of sunlight coming through the window. 

I get off the bed and carry my niece with me to the door. Then I drop her.

“I have to brush my teeth and shower, sweetie.”

“I can help you.”

I smile sweetly and pinch her cheek before shutting the door and locking it after her. 

The first thing I do is pack my things. Afterward, I clean up and head for the door. When I open it, I see Flourish’s elder sister standing outside.

“Uncle King, breakfast is ready.” No ‘good morning’, no smile, just her usual eight going on forty self, standing in the doorway, hands on her hips. She has her mother’s commanding energy.

I bend and leave a kiss on her forehead, bringing an almost-smile to her face. She grabs my hand and leads me toward the staircase. It’s a nice house, full of noise and life. But it is not mine.

My apartment is not mine right now either. Not since a chunk of the plaster ceiling decided to give up on life in the middle of the night, cratering my bed just after I’d gotten up to use the bathroom. 

It’s a sign that I need to stop renting and build or buy something that is entirely, unquestionably mine. I already have the plans in my head. A modern bungalow, all clean lines and raw concrete finish, surrounded by nature. Not too much glass. Lots of wood. A place for silence and where the ceiling stays where it’s supposed to be.

In the dining room of my elder brother’s house, the table is laden. English and Nigerian breakfast.

Ifechi, my sister-in-law, is setting down a jug of fresh juice as I walk in. She smiles.

“King, good morning.”

“Good morning.” My eyes run over the feast on the table. “Expecting guests?”

She laughs and shakes her head in a way to tell me I’m silly. Ifechi is… extravagant. And that’s me putting it politely. My mom describes her as wasteful. She says there’s something about growing up dirt poor that makes some people become wasteful when they finally have money.

“This is all for you.”

“Me?” I ask.

“And your brother.”

“Oh?”

“Today is the anniversary of Barrett Brothers.”

“Is it?” My brows come together in thought.

“Of course, the main anniversary is in a month, but today, ten years ago, two of you began talking about Barrett Brothers.”

“Oh. That’s true.” My memory takes me back more than a decade earlier when Don and Ifechi proposed that Don should become my partner. I was already two years into the events planning business and was merely getting by. It took us an entire year to work the details and source for the funds. Finally, we put down our signatures as partners and kicked off Barrett Brothers. While I handled marketing and sales, Don oversaw logistics and operations. Ifechi wasn’t a partner, but she often handled our finances in the early days, both in the company and in the bank, where she once held a day job. These days, she takes the role of a stay-at-home mom, building a parenting brand on Instagram. It’s great content, and I’m a fan.

“Happy idea-versary to BB!” she says, all smiles. I won’t particularly describe Ifechi as a pleasant person. She’s bubbly when she wants to be and has this thing where nobody exists to her until she is ready to give you her attention. It isn’t that she is being snobbish; she just isn’t there for anyone—well, except for Don, whom she loves with a quiet obsession. And her girls too. She is a doting mother whenever she can be. As you can guess, she and I aren’t that chummy; we have bad blood as in-laws and the scars are still raw.

“Happy anniversary,” I say. “But this is too much, Ifechi. You didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense.” She waves a dismissive hand. “Men need a proper breakfast.” 

I nod, helping the first daughter, Melody, into her chair. This elaborate breakfast is not just celebratory. It’s a deposit. An investment in goodwill. I just don’t know what Ifechi plans to withdraw yet.

Don walks in, holding Flourish’s hand. She lovingly guides him to the table, even though she doesn’t need to. My brother is functionally blind, has been so for six years now. His daughters are quite protective of him.

“Hmmm…” He lifts his nose in the air. “This smells like a… feast.”

“Everything is on the table, Daddy,” Flourish reveals. “Can you guess? Guess, Daddy!” She tugs his hand with both of hers. “Guess! Guess!”

“Dora the Explorer, it’s okay,” Ifechi scolds.

“No, Mommy. Daddy has to guess.”

I smile. The girls see their father’s absence of sight as something of a superpower. If they’re not asking him to repeat what they whisper in each other’s ears through giggles, they’re sneaking up behind him, hoping for him to guess who. He always indulges them.

“There’s toast bread,” Don answers. “Eggs, tuna, baked beans, plantain, fried yam, and…”

“You’re not going to guess the last one!”

He sniffles comically. “Oatmeal?”

“Yes!” The girls clap in excitement, making us laugh.

“Oya, everybody, sit and eat,” Ifechi says, pulling out a chair for Don at the head of the table. When Flourish makes to sit on his lap, a look from Ifechi stops her, and she finds herself a chair next to her father. 

“So, are you attending that Abuja beautification thing?” Don asks me as we begin to eat, following a short prayer. 

“Yeah. I want to see what the fuss is all about, why Yele took a job that was supposed to be ours and gave someone else.”

“To be fair, we’re still on a retainer, per our contract with the Ministry of Interior. It’s not like he fired us. Meanwhile, the PR for the gala has been massive and noisy. I’d say Daze Events is good with that. We should learn from her.”

“I agree.”

I wasn’t mad when the Minister of Interior’s aide called to cancel on an event we had booked on our calendar for the year and were already planning for because he was known to cancel on us now and then, and he wasn’t our biggest client. But I became curious when I got gist that Daze Events, a relatively small company, was handling the gala. A little digging led me to Imani Ibrahim, and it made sense. Imani was the biggest in our industry, and we knew she ran heavy on connections. So, if she was plugging her girl to the gig, then said girl was good at her job. 

“Just make sure that this Daze person doesn’t steal all our clients,” Don says. “One gala event now and she’s everywhere. Na so e dey start.”

“It’s not that serious.”

Don turns his head slightly toward the sound of my voice. The scarring around his missing left eye is stark in the morning light. The right eye, milky and unseeing, seems to look through me. 

“Heard she’s Imani’s protégée. Probably Chief Yele’s sidechick,” he mutters.

“One of his many sidechicks,” Ifechi corrects, and they laugh.

“These small Abuja girls and their doings.” Don shakes his head and takes a sip of his tea. 

“How’s the logistics for the Durojaiye wedding coming along?” I ask. Logistics, the grunt work of moving equipment and manpower, is what he can still handle after the accident that took his eyes. As the boss, all he needs is to delegate and instruct. It makes him feel involved.

He grunts. “It’s coming. Your girl Marian can’t tell the difference between a par light and a floodlight. I had to straighten her out.”

Marian is the next best thing to him in their department, but his pride won’t let him see that he can’t do without her. I let him take the win on this one. As we eat, the girls chatter. I watch them, this little unit of chaos and love, and a quiet, persistent ache blooms in my chest. I want this. Not the noise, necessarily. But the belonging. The small, warm weight of a child trusting you to be their whole world. I am a great uncle. I want to be a great father.

I finally tear myself away, promising the girls I’ll bring them cake from the event, even though my belongings are packed, ready for my return home. Ifechi’s smile is still pinned in place as I leave.

***

My apartment is a tomb compared to my brother’s house. A beautiful, silent, expensive tomb. The air is still, smelling faintly of paint and new drywall. The repair work is done. A new, more securely fastened ceiling looks down on my new bed. But the trust is broken, and I’ll sleep in the guestroom from now on. 

My phone beeps. A reminder. Abuja Metropolis Beautification Gala. 2 PM. Transcorp Hilton.

Right. The event. I’d marked it months ago, when it was Barrett Brothers handling it. I’m attending for two reasons. One, a major government function is always good for leads. Two, I’m curious to see this Deze girl, sidechick or not, who got away from Imani Ibrahim’s draconian clutches. 

Before she left to the US two years ago, Imani controlled the Abuja events planning space. From a wealthy and influential family, she was way above the rest of us in connections and in the business. A proper Nepo Baby. The rest of us played in the small league, handling occasions for smaller clients. If this protégée of hers is good, then the wise thing would be to make her an acquaintance. Barrett Brothers was no longer a baby in the game, and we have built something solid and respectable with high-paying clients. However, I have learnt not to joke with connections in this Abuja. A simple phone call can change your life.

That was what happened to me ten years ago, when I stumbled across a contact on my phone. Desmond Yele Ogunjimi. We had studied together in Liverpool, both running the same master’s program. Although we’d come from different worlds, we bonded at some level. Yele didn’t consider me being a scholarship student from a poor background a stain on his reputation. He offered me his spare bedroom and friendship. He was the reason I looked beyond my station in life and dreamed big. A single phone call to him three years after we parted was what birthed Barrett Brothers. Yele was our benefactor and still maintains a business relationship with us. This is another reason for me not questioning his latest moves.

I shower, the water hot and sharp. I choose a simple but impeccably cut navy suit. Respectable. Approachable. Authority without arrogance. I check my reflection. The man who looks back is calm, contained. He has his life in order. He almost believes it.

The event is in full swing when I arrive. The hall is impressive. It is the familiar cocktail of expensive perfume, ambition, and carefully concealed desperation. I move through it with practiced ease, my handshake firm, my smile genuine enough, my mind already cataloging the details. The floral arrangements are quality, the sound system is top-tier. Imani’s protégé, this Deze, knows what she’s doing. It’s a competent, impressive event. A good show.

I’m mid-sentence with a telecoms executive, nodding along to a story about her daughter’s wedding, which I had handled, when the energy of the room shifts.

It’s not a sound. It’s a shift in the atmosphere, a change in the current of the room. My gaze, which had been scanning the crowd over my chatty companion’s shoulder, snags. And stops.

The executive’s voice keeps going, but my focus drifts, narrowing to the one figure altering the current of the room.

There she is. Exactly as I’d heard, yet somehow more.

Not a stranger. I knew the name, had even come here to see her work. But knowing of someone and watching them command a room are two different things.

She’s not just moving through the crowd; she is a current of energy shaping it. A blaze of fuchsia in a sea of muted tones. She is laughing at something a dignitary says, her head thrown back just so, and the sound, though I can’t hear it from here, seems to light up her entire face. It’s not the polite, networky laugh I’ve been giving all night. It’s real.

Then, in the very same second, her eyes, sharp and intelligent, cut across the room. She doesn’t shout or wave. She simply gives a tiny, almost imperceptible nod, and an usher immediately straightens and moves with new purpose.

It’s not beauty that hits me first, though she has that in abundance. It’s the competence. The authority without arrogance. The way people reorient themselves around her presence.

It’s the kind of presence that makes you rethink the room, like you’ve underestimated the scale of what you walked into.

A jolt goes through me. A familiar, physical thing that my tummy immediately protests. I’m witnessing the sheer, magnetic force of a person who is master of their domain. She is undiluted competence wrapped in effortless grace.

“—so when she told me, ‘white doves, Mommy. I want them all white!’ I panicked! I was like, what will I tell King now when there’s hardly any time? I’m so glad you handled that well, and at no extra cost,” the executive guffaws, finishing her story.

I blink. I’ve forgotten she is here. I drag my eyes away from Deze, forcing my attention back to the woman before me. My smile feels stiff on my face.

“Doves are beautiful,” I agree, my voice sounding automatic. My mind is scrambling to recall the last thing she said. She nods enthusiastically, thrilled to have a compatriot in the dove coalition.

But I am lost again. Deze has pulled my attention all to her, and it’s a gravitational force I didn’t expect and can’t resist. For the rest of the evening, I am a man divided. One part of me is doing the dance: shaking hands, making notes, exchanging cards. The other part is tracking a flash of fuchsia through the crowd, noting the way she touches an elbow to guide a guest, how she smiles with her whole face, and the manner in which a stray curl falls across her forehead, and she tucks it back with impatience and elegance.

Our eyes meet across the room. Once. Twice. It’s not a meeting of people, but of professionals. Her gaze is quick, and it assesses me before it moves on to the next thing that needs her attention. But each time, that same jolt. A silent, electric acknowledgment.

I am not a man who gets distracted. I’m a man who observes, calculates, and plans. Yet here I am, derailed by a woman I’ve never met, whose work I came to critique and presence I now just want to absorb.

Finally, the event ends, and a potential client corners me in the lobby for a long, tedious talk. I am polite, but my mind is in the hall. When I break free at last and see that the space is nearly empty, I am disappointed. I missed my chance. She’s gone.

I’m about to leave, to write the night off as a strange, frustrating loss, when I hear it. Music. A bubbly afrobeats rhythm. And a voice, clear and sweet, singing.

I step back toward the hall, drawn by the sound. I peer through the doorway.

And there she is.

The fuchsia pantsuit. Her commanding presence is gone, and she is on the stage beside some equally beautiful lady in white who is singing. With closed eyes, Deze sways and spins, barefoot. She is lost in the music, in the joy of her own triumph. It is unguarded and authentic, a breath of fresh air from the pretentious and severe atmosphere I’ve managed all day.

Earlier I’d watched her command the room like a conductor; now I see her release it, reminding me that authority doesn’t have to choke out freedom.

A laugh escapes me, soft and surprised. Not at her. For her. Because I understand what it feels like to be in her shoes. She must think the world is hers for the taking right now.

And me?

I can’t look away.