Beneath the silence
It was a cool evening, the kind where the harmattan breeze flirted with your skin, leaving a mix of dryness and nostalgia in its wake. Sofi stood in the spacious bedroom, her small frame dwarfed by the oversized mahogany wardrobe. She carefully arranged the neatly ironed shirts of Jamal Williams, her boss—a man whose mere presence had the power to command respect and unease all at once.
She worked in silence, her hands moving swiftly but precisely, folding the collars just right and smoothing out invisible creases. The faint scent of his cologne lingered on the clothes, a smell so rich and layered it reminded her of the gulf between their worlds.
“Rich people and their unnecessary fanciness,” she muttered under her breath shaking her head as she struggled to find space for yet another imported blazer. “Is it by wearing clothes that your pocket will stay heavy?”
The wardrobe door creaked slightly as she shut it, and she glanced at the time. 7:45 p.m. It was about time for her boss to arrive. Jamal was nothing if not predictable—always pulling into the compound in his sleek black SUV around this time, the low hum of the engine announcing his return like a town crier.
As if on cue, the sound of tires crunching against the gravel driveway reached her ears. Her heart skipped—a reaction she told herself was purely from the anxiety of making sure everything was in place before he walked through the door. She cast one last look around the room, ensuring it was spotless, before scurrying out to the living room to await further instructions.
The front door opened with a soft click, and in walked Jamal, tall and imposing, his tailored navy-blue suit hugging his broad shoulders. He carried an air of nonchalance, as if wealth and power were extensions of his being rather than possessions.
“Good evening, sir,” Sofi said quickly, her eyes fixed on the marble floor.
He nodded curtly, barely glancing at her as he set down his briefcase and loosened his tie. “Is dinner ready?”
“Yes, sir. Mrs. Bisi left your favorite jollof rice and grilled chicken before she left,” Sofi replied, her hands clasped nervously in front of her.
It wasn’t unusual for Sofi to defer to Mrs. Bisi when it came to kitchen affairs. As a rich man, Jamal had compartmentalized even his domestic staff: Mrs. Bisi, the cook, handled all things food; Sofi was in charge of the wardrobe and cleaning; and there was Musa, the ever-quiet driver who knew how to keep secrets. Sofi often wondered how Jamal kept track of them all. It seemed the richer you were, the more specialized your staff had to be, even for the simplest tasks.
Good." Jamal muttered as he walked past her toward his study.
As he disappeared down the hall, Sofi exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. For all his aloofness, there was something about his presence that made her uncomfortably aware of her every move.
Later that night, after she had cleared the dining table and washed the last of the dishes, Sofi returned to her tiny quarters tucked at the back of the mansion. She flopped onto the bed, exhausted but unable to sleep. Her mind drifted, as it often did, to the man whose clothes she folded and whose meals she served.
She would never admit it out loud, but there was a part of her—small but persistent—that longed for something more. Not just from life, but from him.
“It’s stupid,” she whispered to herself, staring up at the ceiling. “He probably doesn’t even know my name properly.”
Still, she couldn’t stop the way her heart quickened whenever he walked into a room, or the strange mix of envy and admiration she felt when she saw him on TV at high-profile events, his arm always draped around some impossibly glamorous woman.
The next day, Sofi was dusting the living room when Jamal’s younger sister, Tola, breezed in. Tola was a whirlwind of energy and mischief, and her presence often unsettled Sofi as much as it amused her.
“Hey, Sofi!” Tola chirped, dropping onto the couch and pulling out her phone.
“Good morning, ma,” Sofi replied, pausing mid-swipe.
Tola waved a dismissive hand. “Abeg, leave the ‘ma’ thing. You make me feel like an old woman.”
Sofi hesitated before offering a faint smile. Tola’s lively nature often caught her off guard, and she wasn’t quite sure how to match the energy.
Tola leaned forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “And yeah, Sofi, you’re always so quiet. Why now? Are you inculcating my brother’s attitude or what? I know Jamal is quiet, but that doesn’t mean his staff should be mute too.”
Sofi blinked, unsure of how to respond. “Ah, no, ma—I mean, Tola—”
“Don’t ‘ma’ me! What I mean is, why should you hide the person you are because my brother is quiet? Free yourself, jare!” Tola threw her hands up dramatically.
Sofi rolled her eyes subtly, tired of Tola’s endless questions. There was no need to explain that she wasn’t “hiding herself”; she simply preferred her own quiet space. But, despite Tola’s intrusions, Sofi couldn’t deny that there was something endearing about the young lady.
Tola was everything her brother wasn’t—lively, outspoken, and carefree. She had the kind of charm that could fill a room and make you forget the rules. And in moments like these, Sofi couldn’t help but appreciate the warmth that Tola brought into the otherwise cold mansion.
Her openness and lack of pretense were a breath of fresh air in the carefully guarded world Sofi served. Still, Sofi wasn’t quite ready to “free herself” just yet.
Sofi shook her head lightly as she continued dusting. Tola’s words lingered in her mind, even as she tried to brush them off. “Free yourself.” If only it were that simple.
By the time Tola was gone, the mansion felt quiet—almost too quiet. Sofi returned to the laundry room to finish folding clothes. The harmattan breeze had picked up again, sneaking through the slightly open windows, and Sofi shivered as she worked. She could hear faint voices outside—the other staff chatting near the garage—but she didn’t join them.
