Golden Girl
The Lagos rain in May was relentless, drumming against the roof of the SUV like it had something to prove.
I leaned my head against the cool glass, watching the city blur into streaks of gold and red.
My pulse still hadn’t caught up with the moment.
My phone buzzed again. Then again. Group chats. Managers. Producers. Congratulations from people who hadn’t spoken to me in months. Interview requests. After-party invitations.
I stared at the screen for a second before switching the phone off completely.
Tolu glanced over. “That bad?”
“That loud,” I corrected quietly.
Winning was strange. People assumed you wanted more of everything afterward—more cameras, more rooms full of strangers pretending they’d believed in you from the beginning.
But all I ever wanted after nights like this was silence.
Not because I hated the work. I loved it. I loved performing. Loved becoming someone else long enough to disappear into it.
It was everything surrounding it that exhausted me.
The watching.
The expectation.
The feeling that every version of me belonged more to the public than to myself.
Tomade’s house was one of the few places where that feeling quieted down.
“Are you sure about this, Muna?” Tolu asked again. His eyes flicked to the trophy on my lap. “The after-party is at Eko Hotel. Everyone important is there.”
“I’ve already seen everyone important,” I said. “I won.”
He sighed. “That’s not what I meant.”
I didn’t answer. Because we both knew where I was going.
We pulled through the gates without slowing. The guards didn’t ask questions. They never did. The car was enough. So was the name.
Tomade’s house sat the way it always did—quiet in a way that felt intentional, not empty. Like every room had been trained not to interrupt him.
Inside, the air changed. Not warmer. Not colder. Just… controlled.
I took off my heels at the entrance. Barefoot, I passed the hallway mirrors without really looking at myself. The reflection caught me anyway—creased dress, bare face, curls loosening into humidity.
I kept walking.
The guest wing existed. I never used it. I didn’t need to think about where I was going.
The shower ran hot, washing away the weight of makeup, hairspray, and cameras. When I stepped out, I reached for the nearest thing—a navy robe hanging on the hook.
His. Still hanging like it always had been.
I hesitated for half a second. Then I put it on anyway. The sleeves swallowed my hands slightly.
I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror for a second too long before stepping into the hallway.
The hallway still looked exactly the same. Same dark wood floors. Same framed vinyl records. Same silence.
I remembered running through this house barefoot at seventeen when Tomade first brought me over while Shayo yelled after me not to break anything expensive.
Tomade had looked up once from his laptop and said,
“If she falls, that’s on you.”
Not slow down.
Not stop running.
Just calm acceptance.
Like I had always belonged here.
I drifted toward the kitchen, driven more by a need for a distraction than actual thirst. The stillness of the room was punctuated only by the gold light spilling over the marble, a stark contrast to the cameras I’d just left behind.
I crossed over barefoot, opening the fridge without thinking. Water bottles. Sparkling water. Prepped fruit containers lined with impossible neatness. Typical Tomade.
I set the trophy down briefly on the kitchen island. The gold caught the low lighting instantly.
Vanguard Awards 2024 — Best New Artist.
My chest tightened unexpectedly. Twelve-year-old me would have cried. Twenty-year-old me only wanted one person to see it first.
I grabbed a bottle of juice instead, twisting the cap open as thunder rolled somewhere outside.
I leaned against the counter and took a slow sip. Somewhere deeper in the house, a door shut softly.
He was still awake. Still working. Some things never changed.
The door to the study was open. I didn’t knock. I never did. I leaned against the frame, letting my curls fall to one side, still damp, catching light from the hallway behind me. In my right hand, I clutched the award.
Tomade sat at his desk, shoulders tight, attention fixed on the glow of his laptop. Even from the doorway, I could see it—the stiffness in the way he held himself, the kind that had nothing to do with posture.
“I told you I’d bring it home,” I said.
He didn’t turn immediately. His gaze flicked up—brief, unreadable—before the blue light of the screen claimed his attention again.
“You look like a mess,” he said instead. Voice even. Flat. Then, after a while, “Congratulations.”
I stepped into the room, lifting the trophy slightly. “I look like a winner.”
That earned me a glance. Not surprised. Not impressed. Just measured.
“I told you the day I signed,” I continued, setting the award carefully on his desk. “G. Entertainment would be the name everyone talks about.”
“You did,” he said. “And you delivered.”
There was approval in his tone—but it was measured. Controlled. Like everything else about him.
I moved closer, resting a hand lightly on the edge of his desk.
“You could at least pretend to be impressed.”
“I am impressed,” he said, finally leaning back. His eyes flicked over me briefly—taking in the robe, the damp curls—before returning to my face. “I just don’t celebrate at midnight.”
“That’s because you don’t celebrate at all.”
“Someone has to work.”
I smiled slightly. “You’ve been working since I was twelve, Tommy. I think you’ve earned a night off.”
His expression shifted—just for a second—but it was gone as quickly as it came.
“Go get some sleep, Muna. Press starts early. TLS also confirmed an interview.”
I didn’t move. Press could wait.
“Is it bad tonight?” I asked quietly, nodding toward his leg.
His jaw tightened. “I’m fine.”
“You always say that.”
“And you always ignore it,” he returned.
Fair.
I circled slightly, coming to stand closer to him, close enough to notice the faint medicinal scent mixed with his usual cologne.
Rain still clung to the windows behind him, turning the room into something half-lit.
“Rain makes it worse,” I said.
“Muna—”
Before he could finish, I leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his neck. It lasted barely a second. But it was enough.
He pulled back immediately.
“Muna.” My name came out sharper this time.
I straightened, watching him.
“What?” I said lightly. “You used to let me get away with worse.”
His eyes sharpened. “When you were a child,” he said firmly. “You don’t get to rewrite that.”
There it was. Not anger. A line being drawn.
I tilted my head, studying him. “So that’s it? Everything changes overnight?”
“Not overnight,” he said. “Gradually. You just chose not to notice.”
I leaned back against the desk, folding my arms. “Or maybe you’re the one pretending not to notice.”
His eyes met mine fully now, steady and unreadable.
“Don’t do that,” he said.
“Do what?” I asked.
“Push,” he replied.
A faint smile tugged at my lips. “I’m not pushing. I’m just… reminding you.”
“Of what?” he looked at me sternly.
“That I’m not twelve anymore,” I said
Silence stretched between us, filled only by the steady rhythm of rain against the windows.
He closed his laptop slowly. “That’s exactly why this stops.”
The finality in his tone landed harder than anything else he’d said.
“For heaven’s sake, Muna, you can’t keep walking in here like this—unannounced, using my things, ignoring boundaries. I am your boss, not a babysitter.”
“You’ve never really stopped me,” I retorted.
“That doesn’t mean I won’t.”
I held his gaze. “You’ve been saying that for years,” I said, a small laugh escaping me.
“Then maybe it’s time you take me seriously.”
He stood, the movement controlled but not without effort. I noticed it—the slight hitch, the careful shift of weight—but he didn’t acknowledge it. He never did.
“You shouldn’t be in this part of the house,” he continued. “And you definitely shouldn’t be in my study dressed like that.”
I glanced down at the robe, then back at him. “It’s just a robe.”
“It’s not yours.”
Something about the way he said it made the room feel smaller. I picked up the trophy again, turning it slightly so it caught the light.
“I wanted you to see it first,” I said, quieter now.
His expression softened—but only a fraction.
“I’ve seen it,” he replied. “And I meant what I said. You did well.”
He paused and looked at me for a while.
“Now go to bed. In the guest wing.”
I didn’t move.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. And I meant it more than I should have.
He exhaled, long and tired, like he’d had this conversation a hundred times before.
“Muna,” he said, tiredly.
“I mean it,” I added.
“I know you do,” he said. “That’s the problem.”
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he stepped past me, heading toward the door. “Lock up when you’re done,” he added without turning back.
I watched him go, my eyes catching the slight unevenness in his stride. He never let it slow him down.
“Goodnight, Tommy,” I said.
He didn’t answer.
