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Timi instantly disliked the face. The whole of the man, in fact. Especially when he chose to stare above the vehicle, like Timi was too insignificant to be spared more than a cursory glance.

“Timi,” Nejeere was saying. “I'd like to introduce you to Alex Iyke. He's your new personal assistant.”

The man's eyes snared his. “Hello,” he said, scanty strands of a British accent weaving through his deep timbre. “Nice to meet you.”

When Buck Ent. assigned Nejeere as his manager, Timi's first major movie had just taken the country by storm. Suddenly, there were lots of interviews to attend. Endorsement requests to check out. Countless invitations to sift through.

He was no longer the insignificant Timi Lawson who played dead epic warriors or held the sceptres of Igwes.

He had become Richard Young Money, the character with insane facial features who had warmed hearts and…

wet panties from the nature of fan mail that had poured in.

Nejeere had been his saving grace. Preventing him from making the mistakes every actor suddenly thrust into the limelight usually made.

He'd trusted in her abilities 100% until today.

Timi never interfered with his staff recruitment process, except for when she'd introduced one as Emmanuel, and he'd gone crazy. Threatening to sack her if she ever brought anyone with that name to him again. And she'd obeyed silently, as she did with every of his written and unwritten weird rules.

The rule for his P.A position fell in the unwritten category but was just as gravely important.

Female and beautiful. A simple criterion she had adhered to for years.

So, who was this Neon Hulk seriously taking notes of the outrageous rules she'd been dishing out for the past fifteen minutes?

“So, 9, 12, 3 and 6 pm?” Hulk's deep voice rumbled behind Timi.

“Yes.” Nejeere sounded apologetic. “With seven thinly sliced cucumbers. But let the boiled water cool for –”

“Ten minutes. I got it. And his music?”

“Unless he specifically asks for something else, Suleiman has his old school soft rock and blues collection. Remind him to play them. When he appears tired, Kenny G usually does the trick.”

“The volume not higher than the 60% mark, if I recall?”

Hulk must have made an expression, because Nejeere suddenly giggled. Giggled. Had the day he'd chosen to disappear become the day the world would end?

“It sounds like a lot, I know,” she said. “But it gets easier with time. You're certain you–”

“Stop fretting, Jeere. I can handle it. ”

Jeere.

Who the fuck was this guy? Was this whom Nejeere had been longing for?

It wasn't a hidden fact to anyone who had met Dr Gyang–Nejeere's mother and Timi's personal doctor–that she was in a race against time to find a husband for her only child.

The last date Nejeree had been forced to go, she'd ended up nearly breaking her date's finger.

After hearing the story, they'd baptised him Mr. Gropey Hands and added him to her growing list of Lagos weirdos.

Nejeere, at thirty-one, wasn't against marriage, her mother's taste was just too…

Nigerian. Church brother. Office worker.

Pro in prostrating. It didn't matter if he looked like the country's problem or carried the rancidity of Lagos' gutters in his mouth, or in the last attempt, suffered a consent deficiency.

Men were the ultimate prize, and she was desperate to clinch one for her old spinster daughter.

But although Nejeere hadn't said anything, he'd gotten the vibe she had someone her heart already belonged to.

Then, a year ago, he began noticing some changes.

She dyed her buzz cut golden, wore heavier make-up, and hung out less with him, like whoever she'd longed for had finally shown up.

And when he teased her about being in love, she hadn't vehemently denied it.

He hoped for her sake; Neon Hulk wasn't her man. He looked like he ironed his socks, or raised his nose at people with shirts not properly tucked in. She needed someone to soften her steel edges, not sharpen them.

Nejeere cleared her throat. “Now, for his feeding…”

Timi had never heard himself being talked about like some cosseted crippled mongrel.

When he had his water prepared the way he liked, or his comfort music played without his request, he'd assumed his workers had simply been observant.

Hearing Nejeere speak with that power-point presentation voice, it baffled him how it hadn't occurred to him they had had to study him like a seven-unit course to serve him effectively.

And the Hulk guy agreeing with the garbage?

Timi heard every ridiculous rule, and even he would have told himself to fuck off.

Despite his reprehensible dress-sense, Hulk didn't seem like someone who made warm cucumber water or picked the right kind of slippers for anyone.

What grievous offense did he commit to be punished with this servitude?

What offense had all his staff committed?

He should be disappearing, but his mind was a lagging computer with different tabs opened all at once. It overwhelmed him, as it had been an empty, dark place for so long.

It took him a moment to realise Nejeere was talking to him.

“What?” he mumbled.

“I said I get going to Immaculate Homes, but do you really have to see Slimy Chameleon today? Evening is in four hours.”

Mr. Nwabufor, popularly known as Agu and Timi's Godfather, was the icing on the birthday cake he'd baked. He had to see him, even if it was at midnight.

“If you must call him an animal, why not go with what everyone else calls him?”

“Bro, please. I won't be accompanying you. Jaja said the vultures have camped at the office.” Then, her voice dropped to that breathy tone reserved for Neon Hulk. “Be wary of Mr. Slimy…”

Unwilling to hear any more of their conversation, he pressed the back of his head into the headrest, muttering. “Sulei, increase the music.” He needed to return to the blank state he'd been since he chose to disappear.

“Sah, it's at the highest volume you like,” Suleimen reported.

Jesus. Had all his staff majored in Timinology? “Just increase the damn thing,” he said.

The soulful, bouncy ambience of the loud music carried him all the way to Immaculate Homes.

Three years ago, Ify Chike, the independent journalist Timson studio sometimes collaborated with, broke the news of Timi's involvement with an orphanage, and the populace had collectively called for his coronation as a patron saint.

Especially when he'd purchased two six-bedroom duplexes, and reconstructed their geometric shapes, arches and window shutters to fit modern standards.

The praises were unending.

So pure inside and out.

How can a man be everything? Handsome, successful and kind. Nigerian Keanu Reeves, leave some beauty for us nau.

He'd scanned the comments and died a little inside. For only he knew the true reason behind this benevolence. One as selfish as it was strategic. When his soul got too hollow, he had prepared an escape.

However, after Uncle Jude died, the courage to visit had deserted him, very sure he would find bits of his father from the few times they'd visited together. Also, he didn't deserve relief from his crushing guilt. A penance for his audacity to keep on living while the true pure man had died.

But to live well for the third time, he had to close this chapter properly.

A cacophony of high-pitched screams of “Uncle Timi!” accosted him at the door.

The children buried him under a sea of flailing arms and vibrating bodies, filling him up with the smell of baby powder, teenage sweat and devotion.

The kind of touch his body wouldn't fight.

Timi had to stagger into a long settee in the massive living room before they brought him down like the wall of Jericho.

“Okay, kids. That's enough. Let your uncle breathe,” Mother Agnes, the Head Administrator, called out.

They let out reluctant groans but backed off to perch on leather chairs and against beige walls leaving the two youngest in his lap, who buried their faces in the dips of his neck where they'd made their home.

An ache sprang up in his chest. He liked to believe they were the ones attached, a result of his high level of self-deceit.

“What do you say?” Mother Agnes prompted .

“You're welcome, Uncle Timi,” the thirty-seven kids chorused. They should be in class, but there they were, assembled for their beloved Uncle Timi.

“Since Dr Daddy's burial, you haven't come for a long time. Why?” a kid asked, and Sarah, the girl on his lap nodded vigorously against his neck.

“You can't ask that,” Dorcas, the second oldest, said.

“Happy Birthday to…” someone began singing.

“Shhh. Not now!” Elijah, the oldest, shushed.

Mother Agnes stepped forward with a soft smile. “It's good to see you. We didn't think you would come.”

Timi smiled through the ache weakening his bones. “I had…stuff.”

“We've been praying for you.”

He nodded, then turned towards the kids with a pout before he leaned towards the comfort her warmth promised. “But guys, haven't I always celebrated my birthdays with you?”

The kids giggled. “Yesssss!”

“We knew you were coming, that's why we baked a cake!” Micah, the birthday singer from before, volunteered again.

“Shhhhh!” All the kids hushed him this time.

“Can you just shut your big mouth for once?” Dorcas hissed.

“Language!” Sister Ruth, matron of House A, said.

“He started it! It was supposed to be a surprise. Now, he's ruined everything.”

Micah's lips trembled as he gazed at Timi, eyes shining with unshed tears. Timi got up, dropping the kids on his lap gently on their feet.

He tapped his lips. “But how can he ruin everything when you have no idea the surprise I came with?”

Their faces perked up. “What is it?”

He shook his finger. “Nah ah. If I tell you, it wouldn't be a surprise, would it?”

“Can we guess?” Micah asked excitedly, his tears forgotten.