The morning was calm, the kind of calm that Lagos only gives when the sky is still thinking about raining. I was in my room, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside my punching bag, flipping through one of Grandpa's old books on leadership. I wasn't really reading, though. My eyes were on the page, but my mind was counting down.
One week until school resumed.
One week until I'd have to walk into a building full of people who spoke in slang, wore perfect braids, and cared about things like school elections, relationship drama, and who had the newest iPhone. I hadn't been in a school like that before.
I heard a knock.
"It's Zainab."
Of course it was. I stayed quiet, but she opened the door anyway.
She leaned against the frame, holding a ceramic mug and looking… less polished than usual. Her hair was tied up in a messy puff, and she wore a faded hoodie over shorts. It was the first time I'd seen her without a full face of effort.
"Hey. So… school's next week."
I nodded.
"We're both going into SS3. You know it's kind of a big deal, right? Senior year and all that."
"I know." I closed the book and stood up slowly.
She stepped into the room, eyes scanning the plain white walls, the single desk, the bare shelves, and the only personal thing in the space—my punching bag.
"This room's kinda…" She trailed off, trying to be polite.
"Plain," I finished for her.
She gave a small laugh. "I was going to say minimalist, but yeah. You could say that."
There was a pause. She sipped from her mug, then asked, "Do you want to change anything? Like redecorate? We could paint, or add shelves, or posters... Or not. I mean, only if you want."
I looked around. The room wasn't ugly. It just wasn't me. It was what someone thought a teenage girl should like—neutral tones, gold-framed mirror, soft rug, a pink throw pillow on the bed that I had tossed under the wardrobe on day one.
Zainab walked over to the wardrobe and opened it. She didn't touch anything. Just stared for a second.
"You barely unpacked."
"I don't have much to unpack." I said it flatly, not with shame—just truth.
She looked over at me again. Her expression softened. "Ayoola… if you want, we can go shopping. Just the two of us. For school stuff, room stuff, whatever. You don't have to say yes. But it's just a thought."
I hesitated.
Shopping wasn't my thing. Neither was bonding over curtains. But something about the way she said it—offering, not insisting—made me nod slightly.
She smiled. "Cool. We can go tomorrow."
She turned to leave, but I stopped her.
"Zainab."
She blinked and turned back.
"I don't need fancy things in here," I said. "Just space I can breathe in. Not space that makes me feel like I should wear perfume to sit on the bed."
She chuckled. "Noted. No perfume-bed vibes."
And then she added, almost like a whisper, "It's okay if you don't trust us yet. I wouldn't either. But you can try little by little. You don't have to change everything at once."
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
I looked around again. Maybe the room wasn't supposed to feel like Grandpa's house. Maybe it wasn't supposed to feel like anything yet. But if I was going to sleep here, study here, live here—then it needed to be mine. Not theirs. Not hers.
Tomorrow we'd shop. Not for fluff.
Just for space.
And maybe I'd buy a new punching wrap too.
Just maybe.
Great choice. Here's a richly detailed scene showing Ayoola's room transformation—where she finally begins to shape a space of her own in the unfamiliar Lagos house.
By late afternoon, the boxes had arrived. Four in total.
Two were labeled "Curtains and Bedding," one was for "Lights," and the last had no label—just a hand-drawn black heart and Zainab's handwriting that said, "Ayoola's Stuff."
I didn't ask what that meant.
My new room, the one that once felt like a guest room in someone else's house, was about to shift—quietly, subtly. I wasn't doing this to belong. I was doing it to breathe.
The sun was beginning to set, washing everything outside in gold, but I had already drawn the curtains. The old ones. Cream-colored and sheer. They didn't belong to me.
Zainab walked in, holding a set of folded blackout curtains. Deep charcoal, nearly black.
"These okay?" she asked.
I nodded.
"Perfect."
She didn't ask questions. Just grabbed a step stool and started helping me change them out. She stood on tiptoe, mumbling softly about not breaking a nail while I handed her the clips. I didn't smile, but I didn't stop her either.
When the new curtains were drawn, the light in the room dimmed immediately. Not dark in a gloomy way—dark in a way that felt like a whisper. Like the kind of silence Grandpa loved when he prayed in the evenings.
We unpacked in silence. I changed the sheets myself—charcoal-gray with fine black lines, paired with a deep blue blanket Zainab found "oddly soothing." The pillowcases matched. The bed looked less like a showroom piece now. Less pink, more peace.
The last box had string lights. Not bright ones. These were soft amber—small orbs like captured stars. I placed them around the headboard, then let them fall across the desk and down the wall like falling embers.
Zainab helped me pin up a few posters. No quotes. Just abstract art. Ink swirls. A faded silhouette of a boxer mid-swing. A lone tree standing in a field under a night sky.
"You really do love the dark," she said, stepping back to look at everything.
"I do."
The words came out before I thought too much.
She turned to look at me. Not surprised. Just… understanding.
"It's peaceful," I added. "No eyes, no noise. Just… space."
She nodded and sat on the edge of the bed, her hoodie sleeves pushed to her elbows.
"I used to be afraid of the dark," she said. "Still am sometimes."
I didn't answer that. Not with words.
Instead, I dimmed the lights and let the room glow the way it was meant to.
Everything felt softer. The shadows finally fell in the right places.
It didn't feel like home—not yet. But it didn't feel like a stranger's space anymore either.
Just then, my phone buzzed. A message from Mom:
"Hope your room's more comfortable now. Let me know if you need anything."
I didn't reply.
Instead, I sat by the window, pulled the blackout curtain halfway back, and looked out into the night.
For the first time since arriving in Lagos, I could see myself exhale.
Zainab got up quietly.
"I'll let you rest."
But as she reached the door, she turned back once more.
"This room's very you, Ayoola."
She smiled—not wide, just enough.
I didn't smile back. But I didn't look away either.
Excellent. Here's a continuation of the "room transformation" chapter, seamlessly flowing from where Ayoola finds a sliver of comfort in her new dark-themed room—only to be reminded of her larger responsibility: the restaurant.
---
The room glowed faintly with amber light, shadows curling along the walls like they belonged there.
I sat on the bed, legs folded beneath me, breathing in the unfamiliar comfort. For the first time since Grandpa's death, I wasn't thinking about the things I left behind. I was thinking about what I could stand to build, here, in this city. Quietly. On my own terms.
A soft knock broke the stillness.
I didn't answer, but the door opened anyway—again.
It was Mom.
She stepped in slowly, holding something in her hand. A manila folder. Her heels were off. She was barefoot this time, her silk wrapper falling gently around her like she hadn't planned this moment but knew it was necessary.
"Your room looks good," she said, eyes scanning the darkness.
"Thanks."
She stood by the wall, not daring to sit.
"Zainab said you picked everything yourself. It looks… peaceful."
I didn't reply.
She walked closer, then offered me the folder.
I took it, but didn't open it.
"That's from the lawyer," she said. "It has everything about the restaurant—account details, staff info, suppliers, licenses... even your grandfather's original business proposal."
That got my attention.
I opened the folder slowly, flipping through the papers. Neat handwriting. Grandpa's signature on several documents. His words were clear, like always—strong, to the point, never flowery. There was a printout of the restaurant's mission: "To serve honest food, to employ honest hands, to build legacy."
My chest tightened.
"He named you owner, not manager," she added. "You don't need to worry about the day-to-day. But he wanted you to learn. To grow into it. That's why he left it to you."
"Because he trusted me," I said quietly, still staring at his handwriting.
"Exactly."
She sat at the foot of the bed, careful not to touch anything else.
"I've been thinking," she said. "Maybe you could start going there a few times a week after school. Just observe, get used to the place, the people. No pressure to make decisions yet."
I looked up.
"No pressure," I repeated. "But everything is already mine."
She sighed softly.
"Yes. But no one expects you to run it alone. Your grandfather made sure the staff is strong. It's not a test, Ayoola. It's a gift. One he hoped you'd grow into."
I folded the folder closed and placed it beside me.
"I will go," I said. "But I'll go as me. Not how anyone else wants me to be."
A flicker of emotion crossed her face—guilt, maybe pride, maybe regret—but she didn't let it stay long.
"Okay," she said. "That's fair."
She stood.
At the door, she turned back one last time.
"Your grandfather would've been proud of you," she said.
"I know," I replied, my voice calm.
And I did know. Because he told me often. Not with words. But with how he let me make mistakes, how he listened to my arguments, how he handed me a punching bag instead of a lecture.
When she left, I leaned back onto the bed.
The room didn't feel heavy. It didn't feel like hers. It didn't even feel like Lagos.
It felt like a pause. A place between endings and beginnings.
I looked up at the ceiling and whispered aloud, just once:
"I'll take care of it, Grandpa."
The shadows didn't respond. But I felt something settle.
Like the first step had already been taken.