ARDENT

Chapter 13: I Found You.

Jun 17, 2026

Read previous chapters here.

SEWA'S P.O.V

February arrives in Abuja with the confam confidence of a month that knows what it is for.

The city does not need Valentine’s Day to tell it to be warm. Abuja in February is already warm. The harmattan losing its grip. The air is softening. It's the kind of weather that makes people sit outside restaurants longer than they planned and have conversations they had been postponing since November.

Even though climate change is doing its thing and it seems to have on and off days like some parts of Naija.

I notice all of this from my rooftop on the first Sunday of the month.

I also notice that I have been going to CCI Wuse for over three months.

This is not a small thing.

Three or four months (I am not the best with dates but I try) ago I was a woman who attended church occasionally on the Christmases her father decided to be Christian. Three months ago the idea of a standing Sunday morning commitment would have been filed under things other people do alongside meal prepping and going to bed before midnight.

Four months.

Hollup, that's about four or five months.

You see. Let's just roll.

Something shifted in October and it has not shifted back.

Romeo’s text arrives at 8:30.

Romeo:

Good morning, Adéṣẹwà.

Ready at 8:45?

Sewa:

Good morning Romeo

Ehn ehn nah

I saw that the sermon series for this month is LOVE CODE

Romeo:

Yes, it is!

Welcome to CCI.

Sewa:

🤣🤣

Ọrọ told me that you guys do this every February

A whole month dedicated to only love

Where have I been my whole life

Shebi if I knew this one I won't be going on 1 million dates a week

Romeo:

Sewa this your drama.

It's cute. I love it.

Well, Ọrọ said the truth

And I am glad you are here.

In CCI. Now.

I'll come pick you up in seven-thirty.

I put my phone down and head downstairs.

I am already dressed.

Red wrap dress, gold earrings, the block-heeled sandals. I selected the outfit last night, which is new. I have started choosing my Sunday outfits on Saturday evenings, which means Sunday mornings have become the kind of morning that deserves to be prepared for.

I do not examine what that means.

I know what it means.

The banner outside CCI Wuse reads:

LOVE CODE

A letter from…

I read it as we walk in.

I look at Romeo.

He is looking straight ahead with the composure of a man who knows that I am about to serenade him with lots of questions.

We go inside.

ROMEO’S P.O.V

I have been coming to CCI Wuse for four years after moving from Lagos back home.

I have sat in this building through sermons on faith, on purpose, on prayer, on community, on grief, on joy, on the specific discipline of building a life that is oriented toward God rather than toward the approval of rooms.

I have taken notes. I have applied things. I have come back the following Sunday and Wednesday with questions about what I did not understand and the week after that with observations about what I did.

I know this building. I know the worship team’s rotation. I know that the third row from the left fills up fastest and that the sound is best in the middle section and that Pastor Adeyemi always starts five minutes after singing worship songs and finishes exactly on time.

I have never once sat in this building and felt what I felt this morning.

Which was: Sewa beside me on my birthday. Today. 02nd February. Which she doesn't know about.

Not the fact of her presence.

She has been beside me in this building for four months. The specific quality of her presence today. The red dress. The way she had read the Love Code banner outside with the expression she wore when she was receiving information she had not fully prepared for. The way she had looked at me and I saw her mouth twitch and she swallowed. And the way she had walked in anyway.

Four months ago she came to church because her car was at the mechanics and I had removed her excuse.

She comes now because she wants to.

That distinction is not lost on me.

I sat beside her and the worship started and I did what I have been doing in this building for four years. I showed up.

Except this morning showing up required more of me than usual.

Because the person beside me was the reason.

And… seeing her in that red dress is doing something to me. Red definitely is her colour. This particular shade. I don't know the exact name but itt has its effect on me.

Oh, God! I should be focused on the service.

“God help me.”

Pastor Adeyemi opened in 1 Corinthians 13.

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.

I did not look at Sewa when he read that.

I looked straight ahead.

I felt her go still beside me.

Love is patient. Love is kind. It does not envy or boast. It is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way.

P.A paused.

“We have spent years”, he said, “learning what love looks like from the world. From films. From songs. From the people around us who are also learning from films and songs.”

He looked out at the congregation.

“And then we wonder why our love looks like what we learnt. Why our relationships carry the weight of everything we absorbed before we knew God had a design for this thing.”

I was aware, in my peripheral vision I have been learning to manage, that Sewa was listening with the full-body attention she gave things that mattered.

“God’s design for love”, the pastor said, “is not romantic. Not primarily. It is practical. Patient. Long. It does not arrive in a moment and leave when the moment passes. It is a direction. A daily choosing. A decision made in the ordinary and the difficult and the unremarkable.”

“The question”, he said, i"is not whether you feel love. The question is whether you are building in the direction of it.”

SEWA’S P.O.V

“…building in the direction of it.”

I am sitting in the third row of CCI Wuse on the first Sunday of February and the pastor is preaching about love and Romeo is beside me and I have known for a week that I am in love with him and the pastor just said building in the direction of it.

Inside: Building in the direction of it.

Inside also: You have been building in the direction of something since October.

Inside also also: You did not build it. It built itself. You just stopped running away from the construction.

I look at my hands.

I look at Romeo’s hands.

He is holding his Bible. His thumb marking a page. Corinthians. I can see the heading. His handwriting in the margin. Small, deliberate, the notes of a man who has been in this building for years and takes it seriously.

The pastor says:

“Real love is not afraid of the ordinary. It does not need an occasion. It lives in the Tuesday and the Thursday and the Saturday with no agenda.”

Romeo goes very still beside me.

I go very still beside him.

The building around us is moving without us.

After the service we stand in the courtyard.

The courtyard is moving with its familiar post-service energy. People gathering, conversations beginning. I see the weekly warmth of a community that has been in the same room together and is not yet ready to leave it.

Romeo is talking to a man from the evangelism team. Briefly. Warmly. The easy shorthand of people who walk the same streets for the same purpose every Saturday.

I am standing nearby not performing anything for anyone.

Juliet texts.

Juliet Onoja 👑:

Hiii, SEWA.

Romeo told me about the picnic.

I helped.

You are welcome in advance.

Also I watched your latest video.

The one about arriving.

Sewaaaa.

You are MY people.

I look at the message.

Sewa:

What picnic

Juliet Onoja 👑:

Oh.

He hasn’t told you yet.

Please pretend I said nothing.

Sewa:

Juliet.

Juliet Onoja 👑:

PRETEND I SAID NOTHING

Enjoy your Sunday 🌸

She goes offline.

I put my phone in my bag.

I look at Romeo, who has finished with the evangelism team conversation and is walking back toward me with the unhurried certainty of a man who has somewhere to be and is not in a rush to get there.

“Juliet texted me”, I say.

Something moves across his face. Brief.

“What did she say?”

“She said she helped with something and I was welcome in advance and then she went offline.”

He exhales. Slightly.

“She is—”

“Exactly like you”, I say. “Except she talksss”.

The corner of his mouth.

“Do you have plans for this afternoon?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He looks at the courtyard, then back at me.

“Can I show you something?”

“Is this another situation where I will arrive and discover you have been running something for years?”

“No”, he says.

“This one I set up this morning.”

He takes me to the Millennium Park.

Not the busy section. A quieter part. Near the lake. Where the Saturday afternoon families are sparse and the trees are old enough to have opinions about the weather.

There is a spot he has clearly chosen in advance: a clearing with two large trees providing shade, grass that is green enough to be intentional, the lake visible from a specific angle.

And on the grass: a picnic.

A proper one.

Not the Instagram-performance kind with matching serveware and a ring light hidden in the bushes.

A real one. A good blanket spread flat. A wicker basket. Actual food in actual containers. A small speaker playing something low and warm, two glasses and a bottle of Chapman because he knows I don't drink. Well, he doesn't too.

I stop walking.

I look at it.

I look at him.

“Romeoooo”, I say softly as I moved backwards a little bit and he softly brings me back to him.

“Sewa, come”, he says softly.

“You set this up this morning.”

“Yes, before the service”, he says.

“I had it prepared at home. I came here first and set it down, then picked you up.”

“You—”, I stop. “You set up a picnic. Before church.”

“Yes.”

“And then came to church.”

“Yes.”

“And did not mention the picnic?”

“Nope.”

I look at the blanket. The Chapman. The food in the containers. Lots of my favourites, and his. Small chops. Asun. Some fruit, including banana, apples, abbl. Spaghetti Bolognese. More food that I cant see because they are packed in coolers. But I think it's enough food for the both of us.The speaker playing something that is exactly right for a Sunday afternoon by a lake in February.

Inside: He set up a picnic and went to church and said nothing.

He just — did it. Without announcing anything.

Who does that?

Outside I say:

“Juliet helped.”

“That girlll. She chose the blanket”, he says with a small smile. “She has reallyyyy strong opinions about blankets.”

“She has strong opinions about everything.”

And I laugh.

“Yes”, he says. “She does.”

We sit.

The food is good.

Jollof. Not the Coker family jollof, a different version, his, which I have had once before and which is excellent in its own right. Small chops. Chin-chin. Sliced mango because he remembers I love mangoes more than any fruit. The Chapman poured into glasses because he brought actual glasses.

We eat.

The lake reflects the February sky. A child is flying a kite somewhere to our left, the string a thin diagonal against the blue. The speaker plays something that requires no identification. Just receiving.

At some point he says:

“Can I say something?”

“You can always say something.”

“I want to say it clearly”, he says. “So there is no ambiguity.”

I look at him.

He is looking at the lake.

“I have been praying about this”, he gestures between us.

“For five months”, he says.

“Since October. Since that Tuesday on Adetokunbo Ademola Street. I knew then — not completely, but enough. Enough to bring it to God and wait.”

He pauses.

“God has been consistent.”

I am very still.

“I am not asking you for anything today”, he says.

“I am not rushing anything. But I want you to know that what I feel for you is not friendship. It has not been just friendship for a while.”

He looks at me. And takes my hands in his.

“I like you, Sewa. I have been building in the direction of it since October. And I wanted to say it. So you know.”

The lake.

The kite.

The song playing is

“I Found You”

Inside: He said it.

He said it clearly.

Without drama.

Without requiring a response.

Just — you know.

I look at him.

He is looking at me with the steady certainty that is entirely his. Not the certainty of someone who needs confirmation. The certainty of someone who knows what is true and is not afraid of it.

“Romeo. I —”, I say.

“Yes.”

“I like you too.”

Then he does something I have not seen him do in four months of knowing him.

He laughs.

Not the corner-of-the-mouth thing. Not the almost-smile. A real laugh. Full and warm and entirely unguarded. The laugh of a man who has been patient for a long time and has just received something he was hoping for.

I look at him laughing. Like a young lad who just heard his favourite aunty or uncle is back from the States. Okay, terrible analogy but you get the point.

Inside: Oh.

That is new.

I would like to be the reason for that as frequently as possible.

Outside I say:

“Stooopp. You are laughing at me. Someone cannot be ‘soft’ with you bah.”

“No, I am not. But did you see you. You looked really flustered. Like your cheeks couldn't have been redder”.

“Noooooo”, I say. “They weren't.”

I say and looks at my hands.

“Are you sure?”

“About what”, he asks.

“About you liking me.”

“I've always been sure.”

I look at the lake.

At the kite.

At the Chapman in the actual glasses.

At this man who set up a picnic before church and waited and loved quietly and consistently and never once required me to perform anything for him.

“I guess I am sure”, I say.

“You guess?”

“Ooooh, you want me to say it out.”

“Yes.”

“Okay”, I say shyly. “I am sure”, I say as I look down at my fingers to remove something that seems to have arrived just now.”

He nods.

Once.

The way he nods when something is confirmed and settled and does not require further announcement.

“Good”, he says.

“Good”, I say.

We sit.

The afternoon continues.

On the drive home he says:

“I want to do this properly.”

“What does properly look like?”

“Praying together”, he says.

“Before we call it anything official. Before we tell anyone. Just us and God. Committing the beginning to Him.”

He glances at me.

“Does Friday evenings sound good to you? I know that's the only time it's easy to get you on a call for a long time. We can do it virtually when we cannot be in the same place. In person when we can.”

I think about the Friday evenings I have been filling since October. The content filming, the dinner dates, the rooftop hours, the Originals group chat marathons.

“Friday evenings”, I say.

“Yes.”

“Starting when?’

“Next Friday”, he says. “If you are willing”.

Inside: Are you willing.

He is asking if you are willing.

To pray together every Friday.

To commit the beginning to God.

To do this properly.

I look at his profile. The certainty. The patience. The man who has never been in a relationship because he was waiting for direction and the direction said October on a Tuesday on Adetokunbo Ademola Street.

“Yes”, I say. “I am willing.”

He nods.

“One more thing”, he says.

“What?”

“My dad”, he says. “He is coming to Abuja next month. He wants to meet you.”

I look at him.

“Wait, what?! Your dad?”

“Yes.”

“Like The Mr. Olusiji.”

“Yes.” He laughs.

“Like, the founder of Aurora Ltd.”

“Retired founder”, he says. “I run it now.”

“Romeo. He's still the founder but seriously “.

“Sewa.”

“That feels—” I stop. “Toooo fast. Like. We aren't even dating yet.”

“It is not fast”, he says.

“He has known about you for four months now. He is the person I talk to about the things that really matter to me. He has been asking about you since November.”

A pause.

“He is my greatest sounding board. I would not move in any direction without his blessing.”

I look at the road ahead.

Inside: His father has known about you since October.

He has been asking since November.

Romeo told his father about you before he told you about himself.

That is—

That is the most—

I do not have the word for what that is.

Outside I say:

“That is a lot.” I say as I look at the flowers in the blanket.

“Yes”, he says. “I know.”

A pause.

“The good kind?”

I think about it.

The good kind of fast. The kind that is not reckless. The kind that is simply the natural speed of something that has been building for four months in the right direction with the right person with God at the centre of it.

“The good kind”, I say.

He nods.

“We don't have to meet him now if you aren't ready. No pressure. Really. I don't want to rush you into anything. If you are not ready, it's totally fine. It's been on my mind a lot lately and I wanted you to know.”

“Thank you. I'll think about it and revert.” I say.

“Take your time”.

“Guyyyy, it's getting late oh. Let's go home”.

“Yes, Mi Lady.”

He says and then we pack up to leave.

He doesn't allow me carry anything as we walk to the car hands entwined as we walk to the car.

We drive the rest of the way in the quiet of two people who have just said something that cannot be unsaid and are sitting with the weight and the warmth of it simultaneously.

He drops me at my building at 6:47.

Emmanuel holds the door.

“Good night, Romeo”.

“Talk to you soon, Sewa.”

I go upstairs.

I sit on my couch.

I look at my apartment.

The flowers. Peonies this week, blush and cream. The art. The bookshelf. The content creation room door is closed. The view of the Maitama is coming in through the large windows.

I built this apartment for one.

I think about a dining table that seats four.

I think about Romeo saying I want to do this properly.

I think about his father asking about me since November.

I pick up my phone.

I do not call Ọrọ.

Not yet.

I open my Bible.

I find 1 Corinthians 13.

I read it for the first time. Not as a passage I have heard at weddings, not as the verse the pastor quoted this morning. As a document. A design. The blueprint for something.

Love is patient. Love is kind.

I read all of it.

When I finish I put the Bible down.

I look at the evening outside the window.

I pick up my phone.

I call Romeo.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Sewa.”

“Romeo”, I say. “Can we start the Friday prayers this week?”

A pause. Brief.

“Yes”, he says. “We can start this Friday.”

“Okay”, I say.

“Okay”, he says.

A moment.

“Sewa.”

“Yes.”

“I love you”, he says.

I close my eyes briefly.

“I —”, I say.

“Cat cut your tongue?” He says and I can see the mischief in that.

“No joor”, a pause.

“You don't have to say anything. No pressure.”

He laughs like a finished man.

I am going to spend a significant portion of my life making him laugh like that.

I have decided.

“Good night, Romeo.”

“Good night, Sewa.”

This feels— new.

Strange.

Good.

And I also don't understand it.

Everything in me is dying to text the girls.

But I can't. Romeo said, he wants us to do this properly. Before announcing anything, we need to stay with God.

I put my phone on charge.

I go to the rooftop.

The Abuja night. The city below. The February sky with its specific warmth.

I stand at the railing.

I am in love with Romeo Olusiji.

Wait, I just said that.

He is in love with me.

We are going to pray together on Fridays.

His father wants to meet me and I am going to let him and it feels fast the good kind.

I am not running.

I look at the city.

I have grown.

This woman is standing on a rooftop giving her chest something she does not have a number for.

Because some things are not for numbering.

Some things are just for receiving.

I receive it.

Fully.

Without the backup plan.

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