The sounds of the neighborhood drifted through the open doorway—children laughing in the distance, a radio playing softly from a nearby house, the hum of evening life continuing around them.
Then Tama stepped inside.
She walked slowly around the room, taking in every detail.
She touched the cracked wall gently with her fingertips.
She straightened the thin blanket on the mattress.
She picked up a cup from the table and placed it neatly beside the kettle.
When she turned back toward him, tears glistened in her eyes.
« Dazibo, » she said quietly, « do you really think I care about any of this? »
He looked away.
« I didn’t know. »
She walked toward him until only a few inches separated them.
« Listen to me carefully, » she said. « I didn’t fall in love with a house. I fell in love with the man who walks me home when it rains. The man who remembers how I take my tea. The man who helps strangers without expecting anything in return. »
She took his hands in hers.
« This room doesn’t tell me who you are. It tells me how hard you’ve been fighting. »
For the first time that evening, Dazibo’s eyes filled with emotion.
But he still said nothing.
Because what Tama didn’t know was that none of this was real.
The old house belonged to a distant relative who had agreed to help him for one evening.
The truth was almost impossible to believe.
Dazibo wasn’t poor.
He was one of the youngest billionaires in Delta State.
He owned logistics companies, real estate developments, and agricultural investments across southern Nigeria. His wealth was immense, but it had brought him more disappointment than happiness.
Too many people had loved his money.
Too few had cared about the man behind it.
He had met Tama eight months earlier at a community reading program where she volunteered on weekends. She had no idea who he truly was because he had introduced himself simply as Dazibo, an entrepreneur trying to build a business.
