FINDING EFE.

A LAGOS LOVE STORY.

Everyone who knows Tola knows there is only one place he buys suya after a long day at work. Every evening, he drives to Obalende, parks a few streets away to escape the gridlock, and walks the rest of the distance. The mallams there make the absolute best suya in Lagos, and by dusk, the canopy is so packed that finding somewhere to stand feels like winning a small battle.

Because of the massive crowd, people place their orders, pay upfront, and then just hang around for a while, nursing cold drinks and keeping their eyes glued to the grill until the mallams wave to them through the smoke.

​Tonight, the canopy is packed. Tola, wearing a sharp black button-down and a black baseball cap pulled low, manages to slide into a tiny opening on the lone wooden bench pushed against the wall. A moment later, she sits down next to him, exhaling a soft breath.

The space is tight. So when a man carrying a crate of soft drinks squeezes past, her shoulder presses firmly against Tola’s.

“Sorry,” she says, turning her head. Her eyes are wide and dark.

“Don’t worry about it, It’s Obalende. If you don’t touch at least three strangers before you get your meat, you haven’t truly arrived.” Tola says, shifting an inch to give her more space,

She laughs—a soft, genuine sound that cuts right through the din of blaring horns and shouting vendors. Looking at him, her eyes linger on his low cap and dark shirt. She tilts her head, a playful squint entering her expression.

“Are you hiding from the authorities?" she asks, leaning in just enough to be heard over the din. "Because you look exactly like Joe Goldberg from that show “You”. Should I be looking over my shoulder?"

Tola adjusts the brim of his cap, a slow smirk spreading across his face.

“Only if you’re planning on stealing my suya. Otherwise, I’m completely harmless.”

“That is *exactly* what Joe would say,” she retorts, her eyes dancing with wit.

“I’m Tola, by the way.”

She holds his gaze, her smile lingering, before she nods softly.

“Okay, Tola.”

“You aren’t going to give me a name back?” he asks, his voice dropping an octave,

“I’m keeping my details anonymous until I’m sure you don’t have a glass cage in your basement,” she banters back.

Before he can answer, a Mallam waves a grease-stained hand through the thick haze of smoke, pointing directly at her.

“Aunty, your suya don ready!”

She stands up, smoothing down her skirt to collect her order, and gives Tola a brief, mocking salute.

“Stay safe, Joe.”

“Wait,” Tola says, standing up quickly.

“You’re really going to walk away into this crowd without even telling me your name?”

She pauses, turning back, the amber streetlights catching the edge of her smile.

“It’s EFE.”

Tola steps closer, the space between them shrinking.

“Efe. Beautiful. Can I get the numbers that go with it?”

“No,” she responded smiling as she vanished into the crowd.

For the next three days, Tola is entirely beside himself. The moment he gets home that night, he throws himself onto his bed and opens Instagram. He types in *Efe*.

Hundreds of profiles pop up. He scrolls endlessly, clicking through accounts, looking for those beautiful dark eyes. He tries Effy, Efex, Efe_, and every variation his brain can conjure until his thumb ached. Nothing.

He drives down to Obalende every single day at the exact same time, sits on the exact same wooden bench, and watches the faces pass by. The mallam even begins to look at him sideways, wondering why the guy in the black cap is suddenly lingering like a ghost.

Efe doesn’t show. He spends his drive home replaying her laugh.

On the fourth day, he sits on that bench for two hours, watching the crowd thin out and thicken again. She doesn't show.

Finally, he stands up, kicking his feet against the dirt in frustration, cursing himself for letting her slip away.

Then, he sees her. She’s standing near the drinks kiosk.

Tola doesn’t walk; he strides. Today, his head is bare, his hair neatly lined up. He steps directly into her space, holding his hands up in complete surrender.

“See? No black cap. No hidden motives. Totally safe,” he says, his eyes locked entirely onto hers.

Efe spins around, startled, but the moment she recognizes him, a brilliant, breathtaking smile breaks across her face.

“You came back.”

“I’ve spent three days coming back here in search of you,” Tola confesses, his voice stripped of every trace of pride. “I was beginning to think I’d imagined you.”

Efe stares at him, smiling softly. “You came here... every day?”

“Every single day.”

“That’s either incredibly sweet...” She narrows her eyes playfully. “...or the first chapter of a true crime documentary.”

“I was hoping we’d moved past the criminal allegations.”

“We haven’t.”

He sighs dramatically, making her laugh. The teenage boy behind the kiosk slides a cold bottle across the counter. “ Your water, ma, it's two hundred naira.”

Efe reaches into her handbag, but Tola is faster, stretching a note toward the boy. “I’ve got it.”

Without looking at him, Efe calmly brings out her own money and hands it over.

“Thank you,” she says with a smooth, firm smile, “but I can pay for my water.”

The boy looks between them awkwardly before taking hers. Tola withdraws his hand, frowning in mock confusion.

“I didn’t mean—”

She arches an eyebrow. “No?”

“I wasn’t trying to impress you.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I was just... happy I found you.”

She stares at him for a second, then smiles. The boy disappears with a grin, enjoying the exchange far more than either of them.

Efe twists open her bottle and takes a sip. “I actually haven’t collected my suya yet.”

Tola’s eyes light up. “Perfect.”

“Why is that perfect?”

“Because neither have I.” He points toward the smoky grill. “Come on.”

They walk side by side through the crowd.

“So,” Efe says, “what exactly do you do when you’re not haunting suya spots looking for women ?”

“I’m an architect.”

She blinks, looking him up and down. “Hmm.”

“What does ‘hmm’ mean?”

“You don’t look like one. I don’t know... architects usually look less suspicious.”

He laughs.

“I’ll work on that. And you?”

“Marketing.”

"So you're one of the people responsible for those company ads that make me buy things I don't need?"

She laughs. "I help brands tell stories."

"Oh." He nods thoughtfully. "That's good.”

They reach the grill, and the mallam recognizes Tola immediately. “Oga black cap!” he calls out, making the surrounding customers turn.

Efe laughs so hard she almost spills her water. Tola covers his face.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake coming here this often.”

They collect their neatly wrapped packages and step away from the crowd, stealing hot pieces of spiced beef from the warm paper.

“You weren’t lying,” Efe says, chewing thoughtfully. “This really is the best suya in Lagos.”

“Of course. I’m a man with good taste.”

Efe steals another piece, her eyes locking onto his with a quiet intensity. “I can see that.”

They stand there eating, talking about everything and nothing—favorite movies, childhood embarrassments, wicked bosses, and why Coke somehow tastes better in a glass bottle. Conversation came absurdly easy. It felt less like two strangers meeting and more like two people picking up a conversation they'd accidentally paused years ago.

Eventually, Efe glances at her wristwatch.

“I should head home now, it's late” She takes a small step backward, with a soft smile.

“It was really nice seeing you again, Tola.”

She turns to leave. Without thinking, Tola reaches out gently and catches her hand.

She looks back at him.

“I can’t let you disappear again,” he says softly, his thumb brushing the inside of her wrist. “Not this time.”

Her smile returns, slower and sweeter now. “So, what do you want, Joe?”

“l want your number. Actually, I’m begging for it.”

She laughs, shaking her head, and holds out her hand. “Your phone.”

He hands it over immediately. She types in eleven digits, saves the contact, and presses the device back into his palm.

Tola stares at the screen as though it’s the most valuable thing he owns.

“Efe,” he reads aloud.

“That’s it? How do I know it’s your real number?”

She begins walking backward into the evening crowd, a playful spark in her eyes. “Call me.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

He presses the call button. A second later, a phone rings inside her handbag. She pulls it out, glances at the screen, and answers it, bringing the phone to her ear without stopping her backward stride.

“Hello, Joe,” her voice echoes both from the phone and across the short distance between them.

Tola laughs, his heart doing a ridiculous flip. “I don’t think I’m ever escaping that nickname, am I?”

Efe stops for a brief second.

“No,” she says softly into the line.

She hangs up, turned back to look at him from across the distance, winks at him, and slips the phone back into her bag, and melts into the bustling dusk. Tola stands frozen, pressing the glowing screen against his chest as her laughter echoes in his mind.

IMAGE FROM PINTEREST.

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