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He looked down at his monochrome assemblage of plaid trousers and dress shirt. “What?”

“Your scarf…”

He pulled at the red silk he'd impulsively wrapped around his neck. “What about it?”

“It's burgundy,” she said, handing out two pills and a flask.

He took a gulp of warm water, then sent the pills directly to his throat. They usually took a few minutes to knock off his migraines. “Nah, it's red,” he said, placing the flask into a cup holder as Suleiman started the engine. “Let's not start with your ridiculous names.”

He understood her shock though. Loud colours were to him as monsters underneath beds were to children. And his closet was a chromophobic's dream. But how else could he show his slow disappearance? Thank Christ it was the only thing she detected…

“And your band...” She snatched up his wrist. “Where is it?”

He sighed. Those glasses sure didn't miss anything.

“No, I don't like this,” she muttered. “The last time something changed, you were in the hospital for—”

He pulled back his hand and rubbed at the wrist that had never gone a day without the faded rubber around it. He felt naked without it, but if Timi Lawson was to disappear, every bit of him had to go. Including all artefacts of sentimental value.

“Nej…”

“I mean I'm freaking glad about these particular changes, but…you've barely had the strength of an ant, and now have us cramming these many activities in one day, prancing around in strange colours and bare wrists.”

“Pranci— Why did I just imagine a peacock?”

She scrolled through her iPad. “Everything asides Fendi can be distributed throughout the week. You've cancelled almost every activity lined up for—”

“We're keeping to schedule, Nej.”

She glanced at him. “It's your birthday. The only day that justifies all your recent…activities. Even I’ll understand if you want to…err…indulge.”

He glanced at his dead phone despite knowing no message wishing him a happy thirteenth awaited him.

It was their thing. Choosing to celebrate from the year they met rather than his actual birth year.

He inhaled deeply, then turned to Nejeere with a practised leer.

“Are you suggesting I throw another party after last night?”

She huffed, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “I know. I can't believe myself. But there's just something…I feel…I don't know. Something's off.”

“Relax. You're overthinking things again.”

She scoffed. “Never in the history of human interactions has anyone relaxed after being told to. And coming from you? You're suddenly filling up your calendar with stuff that doesn't need immedi—”

“They all require my presence, don't they?”

Her lips pursed. “Yes?”

He adjusted his seat to a lumber position. “So, how can you be so sure?”

She frowned. “About what?”

“I'll be present.”

“Why won't you? Except for those Health/Fitness magazine interviews, your month is mostly free. Nothing's stopping you.”

“Except death, of course.”

She went still. He kept his face averted.

“Jesus, Timi,” she muttered. “It's been months already. Uncle wouldn’t want this.”

He looked out the window. Lagos roads, crawling with yellow buses and taxis, and people.

Like ants heaving food crumbs to their sand hill.

Intent on piling up as much as they could before the rains.

The impossibly blue sky, eschewing the clouds from shadowing the morning sun.

The noises. Machine and human. Loud, unrestrained, discordant.

Rich as the lives they portrayed and nothing like the vacuum that had carved cavernous depths within him.

Uncle Jude indeed wouldn't want him like this and had shown this by willing everything to him.

Including his projects. Confident in his ability to keep his dream alive.

And what had he done? Opened a foundation for cancer and cardiovascular diseases in Uncle Jude's name and handed the reins to his close friend and fellow doctor.

Never for a second believing his father had made that decision with his head intact.

He eyed Nejeere. “Have you considered maybe you’re the one unable to let go? People talk about death all the time.”

“Abstractly. Not you trying to do everything in a day because you think you won’t make other days.”

“It was hypothetical.”

“Your hypotheses are becoming too many. ”

“Because you’ve never appreciated this academic side of me. You hate Philosophers so much. What has Socrates done to you?”

Nejeere displayed her version of an exasperated look–a slight tilt of lips and a brief flash of teeth that could easily pass off as a snarl. He found its oddness on her pretty face adorable. “So annoying,” she muttered.

“Yet, you’ll miss me the most.”

“Where would you go? You’re stuck here. You’ve said so many times.”

He'd been. Till he killed his father.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Nejeere sighed. “Keep away that face if you won’t follow it up with what I want to hear.”

He blinked. “What face?”

“The one that convinces me an intervention is paramount. You know you can talk to me about anything? Past o, present o, whatever. Or if not, I can contact Kemi again and—”

“Section A. Subsection iv.”

“Please, stop. It's unfair, you know? Asking me to watch you drown because I signed some stupid contract.”

“Terrible analogy, Nej. I can rival Olympian swimmers.”

She threw up her hand. “I’m not paid enough for this. How did Ada cope? She was so efficient.”

Timi dragged in a nose-full of the vehicle’s lavender freshener, ignoring the increasing weight in his chest. “She knew when to be silent…until she didn't. See every activity as a birthday gift to myself, okay?”

“Fine. For your new assistant—”

An incoming call came in from his official phone.

Timi silently cheered the timely distraction, likely from an acquaintance wishing him a happy birthday.

He smiled when Nejeere lamented about his terrible nasal congestion and couldn't talk.

However, in the middle of a hasty goodbye, she went silent.

Then, fumbled for her phone in her purse, face like granite.

“I’ll call you back,” she whispered, eyes glued to her phone screen.

Despite having a guess, Timi’s heartbeat picked up speed. “What is it?” His voice complemented the tension thickening the air.

She extended her phone, her other hand gripping her forehead .

The familiar slogan from the infamous Gistcarrier blog assaulted his eyes first.

KASALA DON BURST AGAIN O.

My fellow gistcarriers, shebi I told you something is cooking. If you’re one of the millions of girls having wet dreams about Timi Lawson, make una wake up oooo. Nothing for una. The fine boy no pimples would rather have it up his ass...