The exhibit opened on a Friday.
It wasn't in a gallery or a museum. It was in an abandoned textile factory in Mushin, where the walls still whispered stories from decades ago.
Studio Bold transformed it into an immersive installation titled "Unseen Lagos"—a layered experience of light, sound, and scent. Visitors wandered through corridors of animated memory: markets that breathed, rooftops that sighed, silence that wept.
It was a city stripped of gloss.
A city remembered.
People came in droves.
Artists. Critics. Tourists. Politicians.
Amaka watched them walk through her past.
No one asked about her scandal anymore.
Now, they asked: "How did you get this so right?"
But success wasn't the same this time. It came with fewer cheers, but more meaning.
And with it came space.
Space for things that had been pushed aside in the frenzy of survival—like joy. And intimacy. And the uncomfortable quiet that falls when there's nothing left to fight.
Tunde was changing, too.
His community art programs were thriving—he now taught kids across five neighborhoods, and was being invited to lecture at schools.
They were both rising. But not always at the same time.
He came home later now. She worked longer. Their silences grew softer, but longer.
And one night, during a small celebration dinner, it happened.
"I miss you," he said.
Amaka blinked. "I'm right here."
"You are. But not always… fully."
She exhaled. Put down her fork.
"I know," she admitted. "Sometimes it feels like we only learned how to fight for love, not how to live in it."
Tunde nodded, then reached across the table. "Let's not wait until things fall apart to remember each other."
The next morning, they made a new rule.
Sunday afternoons belonged to them.
No work. No press. No phones.
They spent the first one walking the coast near Tarkwa Bay, wind tangling their fingers, sand sticking to skin.
They didn't talk about projects or deadlines.
They talked about the first songs they loved. About what scared them at ten. About the tiny, beautiful things they forgot to say during the hard years.
And as the waves kissed the shore, Amaka thought:
This isn't escape. This is return.
Back in the city that night, Tunde turned to her and said:
"What if we don't just survive love? What if we learn to grow it?"
Amaka smiled.
"I think that's what we're doing."