Chapter 26

Regan’s fingers trembled slightly as he ended the call. The words “I’m two months pregnant” echoed in his head like a loud bell refusing to be silenced. He stared at the ceiling, heart pounding, mind spinning in a thousand directions. Imani. Pregnant. Two months.

“No, no… this has to be a mistake,” he muttered to himself, sitting up abruptly on the bed.

He rubbed his hands over his face, then grabbed his phone again. Within minutes, he had booked the next flight to Lagos. He couldn’t breathe properly until he got answers face to face. If what Imani said was true, everything he’d started to build with Zara was about to come crashing down like a fragile house of cards.

While Regan scrambled to deal with the storm unfolding, Zara rolled her suitcase through the familiar gates of her father’s house in Lagos. Her heart thumped with a strange mix of fear and curiosity. She hadn’t seen her parents since leaving for Abuja. And knowing her father, there was no telling what awaited her inside.

To her surprise, the compound was calm. Too calm. No yelling, no stern face at the front door. Just the quiet hum of an afternoon and the scent of stew wafting from the kitchen window.

She pushed the door open, stepping inside with hesitant footsteps.

“Daddy?” she called softly.

Her father was in the living room, dressed in his usual white kaftan, legs crossed, and remote in hand. He glanced up briefly before turning back to the television.

“Welcome,” he said flatly, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Zara blinked. That was it?

“Good afternoon, sir,” she replied, puzzled.

She wheeled her bag toward the hallway, unsure whether to feel relieved or more anxious. That kind of calm from her father was usually the calm before the storm.

“Zara!” her mother’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “How was your trip?”

“It was fine, mummy,” she replied, still halfway to the stairs.

Just as her foot touched the first step, her father’s voice halted her.

“Zara, come here.”

She swallowed hard and turned back. This was it.

She walked back into the living room and stood beside the sofa. He reached for the remote, muted the television, and turned to face her fully.

“I know what you went to Abuja for,” he said simply.

Her eyes widened. “Daddy—”

“I will pretend like it didn’t happen,” he interrupted, tone icy. “But understand this very well, that gig is the last you will go for under my roof.”

Zara’s heart sank.

“Daddy, please, I—”

“You think because they paid you a few dollars you’ve made it? You think you can disobey me because of a camera flash and some magazine cover?”

“It’s not about the money! It’s my dream, daddy! You never even ask why it matters to me—”

“I don’t care why it matters. I’m your father. And as long as you live under this roof, my word is final.”

Her throat tightened with unshed tears. Her fists clenched at her sides, nails digging into her palm, but she nodded. Arguing now would only harden his heart even more.

Without another word, she turned and climbed the stairs to her room.

Minutes later, her mother entered gently with a warm expression and a soft knock.

“Can I come in?”

Zara nodded from where she sat on her bed, arms folded tightly across her chest.

Her mother sat beside her. “So… how did it all go?”

Zara glanced at her, trying to smile but failing.

“Mummy, Regan came.”

Her mother blinked. “Regan? To Abuja?”

Zara nodded slowly. “Same hotel. Same floor. It was like the universe wanted to mess with my head.”

“What happened?” her mother asked gently.

“We fought. Argued. He provoked me, I insulted him… then he kissed me. And… it didn’t stop there.”

A pause.

“You slept with him?” her mother asked, tone unreadable.

Zara looked down. “Yes.”

Her mother didn’t speak for a while. She just sighed and reached for Zara’s hand.

“You’re a woman now, Zara. But be sure you’re ready for everything that comes with being one. Love can be sweet… but it can also be the very thing that breaks you.”

Zara swallowed hard. “I don’t even know if it’s love, mummy. Maybe it’s just confusion.”

“Then pray for clarity,” her mother whispered.

Once her mother had left the room, Zara picked up her phone and immediately dialed Kemi’s number. She flopped back on the bed, the duvet half-crumpled under her.

“Hey, babe,” Kemi answered, sounding lively. “You home already?”

Zara smiled. “Yes o, I just got in. Lagos dust has kissed me again.”

Kemi laughed. “How was the journey? Any wahala?”

“Smooth enough. Just tired. I haven’t even unpacked yet, and daddy has already started with his drama.”

“Oh no. What did he say this time?”

“He said he knows what I went to Abuja for, and he’s pretending like it didn’t happen. But then he warned me that it’s the last gig I’ll do under his roof.”

“Yikes,” Kemi hissed. “That man just doesn’t give up.”

“Never. But that’s not even the tea. I just finished talking to mummy. I told her everything that went down in Abuja.”

“Everything? As in…”

Zara grinned. “Everything. Even about the sex.”

“Whaaat?” Kemi gasped. “You told her?”

“I did o. And she was like, ‘you’re a woman now, Zara.’ I just kept nodding, but in my mind, I was laughing. She doesn’t even know that I’ve not been a virgin since secondary school!”

Kemi burst out laughing. “You? Virgin? That ship sailed long ago, my dear! I remember that time in SS2 when you were secretly dating that guy from the next street.”

“Jason!” Zara laughed. “Chai, that one no even last.”

“Still counts,” Kemi giggled. “Your mama go faint if she knows all your past records.”

“Let’s just say she’ll sleep with Bible under her pillow.”

They laughed together for a few seconds before Kemi said, “I’m coming over this weekend, sha. We need to gist face to face.”

“Yes please! Come o. I need therapy.”

“Girl, I’ll bring wine. Be strong.”

“Thanks, babe.”

They ended the call with giggles still hanging in the air, the way only true friends could laugh despite the chaos around them.

Later that evening, Regan touched down in Lagos. He barely dropped his bag at his apartment before rushing out to the café where Imani had asked to meet him.

She was already seated when he arrived—stylish, poised, and looking far too calm for someone who had just dropped a bombshell.

He sat across from her, jaw tight. “So. You’re pregnant.”

Imani nodded. “Yes. Two months.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” he said quickly. “We broke up over six months ago.”

She tilted her head, a slight smirk playing at the corner of her lips. “You don’t remember?”

“Remember what?”

“That night. Two months ago. The bar. We bumped into each other, had drinks… then we went back to my place.”

“I remember the bar,” Regan said, confused. “I remember the conversation. But I don’t remember kissing you, touching you—nothing.”

“You were drunk,” she said flatly. “We both were. But I remember. You were the one who kissed me first. I tried to stop it, but you said you missed me… you begged me to let it happen.”

Regan stood up slightly. “So I was too drunk to remember, but you remember every detail conveniently?”

“Because alcohol doesn’t hit me like it hits you. You forget everything when you’re drunk. I don’t.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “Even if what you’re saying is true… this changes everything.”

Imani’s eyes narrowed. “It shouldn’t. You’re still responsible.”

“I’m getting married soon,” he blurted. “You can’t keep it, Imani. You know what this will do to Zara. To me.”

Imani stood up now, face burning with rage. “Over my dead body will I kill my child.”

Her voice rang loud and sharp, turning a few heads in the café. Regan stared at her, unsure if it was fear, regret, or fury clawing at his chest.

The weight of her words, heavy and final, hung between them like a thundercloud ready to burst.