Between His Priorities

Chapter 1: The Boy Who Had No Time

Episode 1: The First Hello

Nara had known Obinna for exactly six days before he became a problem.

It started at a fuel station on Aba Road. The queue was long, the sun was cruel, and Nara was standing beside her father's old Camry, watching the meter tick like it was counting down her patience. That's when she heard it — a deep laugh, the kind that makes you look before you decide whether you want to.

He was at the next pump. Tall, dark, wearing a navy blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was arguing with the attendant about change, but somehow making it funny. The attendant was laughing. The woman behind him was laughing. Even the sun seemed to ease up a little.

Nara looked away. Then looked back. Then looked away again.

"Your tank is full, madam."

She jumped. The attendant was staring at her.

"Oh — sorry. Thank you."

She paid quickly, got into the car, and turned the key. The engine coughed twice before starting. She pulled out of the station and told herself that was the end of it.

It wasn't.

Three days later, she was at a birthday dinner for her cousin Chidinma at a restaurant in GRA. The table was full of people she half-knew — cousins, family friends, plus-ones. She was picking at her jollof rice when someone pulled out the chair beside her.

"Sorry I'm late. Traffic from Trans-Amadi was wicked."

She looked up. Navy blue shirt. Rolled sleeves. Same deep laugh.

He saw her at the same time. His eyebrows went up.

"Fuel station girl?"

Nara felt her neck heat up. "I have a name, you know."

He smiled. Slow. Like he already knew that and was waiting for her to say it.

"I'm Obinna."

"Nara."

"Well, Nara." He sat down and reached for a menu. "I'm guessing you're Chidinma's cousin too?"

"Unfortunately."

He laughed. That same laugh from the fuel station.

And just like that, Nara's problem began — though she didn't know it yet.

Episode 2: The Number

By the end of that dinner, Nara knew three things about Obinna:

He worked in oil and gas — some operations manager role at a servicing company in Trans-Amadi.

He was Chidinma's colleague's younger brother, which made him "practically family" according to Chidinma.

He had a way of looking at you when you talked that made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

It was disorienting.

"Nara, you're quiet," he said halfway through dessert.

"I'm not quiet. I'm observing."

He leaned back in his chair. "Observing what?"

"Whether you're actually interesting or just loud."

The whole table went quiet. Then Obinna threw his head back and laughed — that laugh again — and everyone else laughed too, relieved.

"You're trouble," he said, still grinning.

"I've been told."

When the dinner was wrapping up and people were hugging goodbye, Obinna pulled out his phone.

"Let me get your number."

It wasn't a question. Nara hated that she liked that.

She gave it to him.

He texted her that same night, at 11:47 PM.

Obinna: So am I interesting or just loud?

Nara: Jury's still out.

Obinna: I'll take it. Goodnight, fuel station girl.

Nara: Goodnight, navy shirt boy.

She put her phone down and stared at her ceiling for a long time. Her roommate, Amaka, rolled over in her bed.

"Who's making you smile at your phone like a mad woman?"

"Nobody."

"Nobody must be very fine then."

Nara didn't answer. She was already reading the text again.

Episode 3: The Pattern

The first week was good. Really good.

Obinna texted every morning. Not the lazy "morning" that some guys send — actual messages. He'd tell her about his meetings, complain about his boss, ask about her day. He called twice. Once for forty minutes, once for over an hour. He asked about her family, her studies, the book she was reading. He remembered details — like the fact that her younger brother's name was Ebuka and that she hated plantain but loved fried yam.

"Who hates plantain?" he'd said on the phone, genuinely shocked.

"People with taste."

"That's wild."

She was smiling all the time. Amaka noticed. Her cousins noticed. Even her mother, who noticed nothing, noticed.

"You're dressing nicer these days," her mother said one Sunday morning. "Is there a boy?"

"Mama, there's no boy."

Her mother looked at her the way mothers do — like they already know the answer and are just waiting for you to catch up.

But by the second week, something shifted.

The morning texts came later. 7 AM became 9 AM. Then 11. Then nothing until afternoon. When she texted first, he'd reply — but slower. Shorter. "Sorry, crazy day at work." "Meetings back to back." "I'll call you tonight."

He didn't call that night.

Or the next.

By the third week, Nara had a pattern on her hands:

Monday: He texted. Engaged. Warm.

Tuesday: Short replies. "Busy."

Wednesday: Nothing until she reached out.

Thursday: He called. Twenty minutes. Good conversation.

Friday: Gone. "Out with the guys."

Saturday: Texted at midnight. "Sorry I've been MIA."

Sunday: Silence.

Every week. The same cycle.

Nara told herself it was fine. He was busy. Oil and gas was demanding. He'd said so himself — twelve-hour shifts, offshore rotations, emergency callouts. It made sense.

But her chest didn't care about sense. Her chest just knew the difference between a phone that buzzed and one that didn't.

Episode 4: The First Date (That Wasn't)

Three weeks in, Obinna finally asked her out.

"Let me take you somewhere proper," he said on a Thursday night call. "This Saturday. Just us."

Nara spent Friday planning her outfit. She settled on a simple wine-colored dress that Amaka said made her look "expensive but not trying too hard." She got her hair done. She even bought new lip gloss — the one that smelled like vanilla and cost more than it should have.

Saturday at 1 PM, she texted him.

Nara: Still on for today?

No reply.

2 PM. Nothing.

3 PM.

Nara: Obinna?

4:15 PM.

Obinna: Ah Nara I'm so sorry. Emergency at site. Had to drive to Bonny this morning. Completely slipped my mind. Can we push to next week?...