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Haven, A Twin Bliss Resort NovelBLURB

She’s autistic; he’s gay. A marriage of convenience seemed like the perfect plan. Until it wasn’t. Tyrell Alagoa, a die-hard romantic, only believes in one thing—loving the right woman. When he found his missing piece in Janelle Lafayette, he wasted no time beginning plans to seduce her. Then he discovered she was not only engaged to be married to Ahmed Gusau, a northern billionaire and influential politician, but Ahmed had a burning grudge and an unsettled score to even out with him.

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Haven is a romantic comedy set in a beach resort. It tells the story of a quirky app developer diagnosed with autism at the age of eight. The tone is feel good and the theme is societal. Three of its major themes are:

Neurodiversity.HomophobiaSocial validation.Find print copies on Amazon and Nigeria.

Musings of a split.

He sat across from me on a cerulean sofa. His warm, mahogany deep-set gaze fixed on me.

Normally I’d stare him down; yeah, I do that a lot. But somehow, I find I couldn’t hold his gaze.

Maybe it’s the well-sculpted shape of his face, the small smile flirting on his magnificent lips, or the way he sat- crossed-legged and aloof.

Who knows, man I don’t know much these days, there are too many voices in my head keeping me from thinking rationally.

All I know is if he were born in the medieval era, he’d be a Nordic god.

“Talk to me,” He said in a voice that’s a cross between being a base and a soprano.

Talk to me? I thought, what do I tell you?

Heck, I don’t even know what to tell him.

That’s because you’re not meant to be here, One of the voices in my head said. She’s always scolding me, this one. Hence, I like to call her Doom.

She just needs to be pitied, is all, said the chilling voice of another. This one is all dark and brooding, with her face forever cloaked in the shadows. I call her Gloom. Hers is the loudest voice of them all; always reprimanding, condemning, upbraiding, and downright possessive.

Perhaps she likes his face, he’s cute after all, said another. For all you know, he’s married with kids. I mean a guy like this can’t be unmarried. So, how about, you show him your punani and make him forget why you came here in the first place.

That’s the venomous voice in me, my poison. Hers is the caustic of all my thoughts, she hates seeing people happy, seeing them succeed. I like to call her, Cyanide. To this one, her idea of a human deserving of euthanasia is to look happy, excel at what you do, lead a successful life, and look like you’ve got everything going good for you; especially on social media.

Hey, there handsome, chirped a happy voice.

Oh, Brianna, I thought in smiles, Bri is the best. She’s my alter-ego, my doppelganger, the face I see constantly in the mirror.

I wake up to her, gaze squarely at her in the mirror, and chant a gazillion affirmations stuck on the walls with her.

She’s my all-time favorite because she constantly tells me I’m a strong, black, beautiful woman.

That’s because you are darling, Bri said in a wink, and this hunk of a man sitting across from you thinks so too.

Oh, shut up, Brianna, said a dark, ominous voice. He’s just a walking dildo with twitching equipment. All he wants from you is a good old fuck.

I call this voice Misty. Misty is the closest to me, she’s like a second skin. She has a strong dislike for people, persons, the universe. Left to her, we should both stay huddled by the fire of a burning world. She likes it when we do that, anyway. Close our eyes and imagine setting the world on fire.

Don’t let anything keep you from going after what you want, girlie, you’ve got this, said a soft, soothing voice.

Adrenna, I thought, short for adrenaline.

I like Adrenna, she speaks in a timorous voice, but I love her regardless.

Why do I love her, you ask? Because she enjoys fanning my embers with motivational speeches, quotes, and positive mantras.

Go for it, girly, she’d say.

You did it, darling, she’d cheer.

She’s always there, egging me on. Pushing me to be, do, and become.

Oh, I hate her! Me gritted, she made me believe I was special, I could do and be anything. But that’s all a lie. I’m not special, I can’t do shit! I’m just a regular girl, living in a fucked-up world.

Me hates Adrenna and the entire pack, left to her she’d rather silence them. That’s why she came to see him, the shrink, came to have him tell her what to do to silence the voices in her head.

“Tonye,” Said the Greek god, “Talk to me.”

Did he just call you Tonye? Gloom muttered, oh look at him leering at you like a dog in heat.

Leave her be, Gloom, said Bri, He looks like a good man.

Pfft! Said Doom, more like a good fuck.

Heh, heh, heh, chuckled Cyanide, how about we check him out on social, pluck off his contact and send his wife a message she’ll never forget.

Nah, retorted Misty, that’s too lame. Let’s make him come undone right here and send her the photos. That’ll send her weeping no doubt.

Talk to him, girlie, said Adrenna, go on.

Oh, shut up Adrenna, Me said, it’s your fault we’re here in the first place.

“There’s a slight scowl on your face, Tonye,” Greek god said, “Do you mind sharing that thought?”

A slight scowl, Brianna gasped.

She hates being imperfect.

Make her smile, she said to Adrenna, tell her those nice things you’re good at, go on, Adrenna, make her smile.

Don’t you dare, Adrenna, Me said, don’t you fucking dare. Make her smile for what?

“Would you rather write it down?” Said Greek god.

Pfft, now he wants to make you his pupil, Doom cackled.

Maybe that’s his kink, rejoined Gloom, a good old teacher-student liaison.

“I’ll get you a pen,” Greek god said, getting off his seat.

“Here,” He said, handing me a beautiful notepad and a fountain pen, “Write it down.”

“Write what down?” I asked in a whisper.

“Your thoughts,” He replied in smiles

“I don’t know what to write,” I croaked.

Of course, you wouldn’t know what to write you dumbo! Said Doom.

Why else did you think we’re in your head, silly, said Gloom

You’re just a fucked-up pariah we’re only trying to protect from this abysmal vortex called life, said Cyanide.

He’s waiting on us, we need to write something down, what if he gets angry and hate us? Said Bri

Oh, put it together, Bri, said Misty in anger, You’re dripping wet in heat already. Get a tampon or something, Jesus!

Write it down, girlie, go on, said Adrenna.

Who are you to write anyway? You’re not good with words, said Me, heck, you can’t even write a sentence without it riddled with grammatical errors. So, what the flipping hell do you want to write about?

“I don’t know what to write,” I said dejectedly.

“May I give you a pointer?” He smiled assuredly at me.

“Yes, please,” I responded.

“Begin with ‘I am’,” He said.

“I am?”

“Yes.”

“I am, what?”

“You tell me, Tonye,” He smiled at me, “What are you?”

I don’t know, I thought.

Some people think me a successful businesswoman, others see me as a friend, a lover, confidant, sister, and even a daughter.

But who am I? who really am I?

“Write down the two-word sentence, Tonye, and add the first word that pops up when you mentally complete the sentence,” He said.

What do I write? I asked them, the voices in my head, what do I write?

How the hell will I know, scoffed Doom.

Why don’t you tell us, wanker, said Gloom, you’re the one that brought us here?

Tell him you’re aware he wants to roll in the sack with you, winked Cyanide.

Write something nice, urged Bri in excitement, tell him about your trip to Calabar. I’m sure he’d like that.

Oh, please, snorted Misty, of all the places in the world to talk about, you had to mention Calabar?

Go on, Girlie, said Adrenna, write about your trip to Calabar. That was one of the happiest moments of your life, wasn’t it?

Yes, I thought in smiles, yes it was.

Good, Adrenna grinned, write that down.

Cut the bullshit, Adrenna, Gloom snapped. Then he turned his burning dark eyes to me and said:

Okay, bitch! Since you’re so bent on this path to self-destruction, how about writing this down.

Okay, I said in response when he paused.

My fingers, clutching the pen and placing it on the blank page of the notepad, waiting on him to tell me what to write.

I am, Gloom said.

I AM, I wrote.

SEVEN! Doom sniffed.

Seven? I questioned.

Yes, Cyanide grinned, we’re as much you as you are us. So, that makes us one.

Write it down, Tee, Bri pleaded, he’s getting impatient.

I AM SEVEN, Misty reiterated.

Go on, Adrenna coaxed, write it down, girly, you’ve got this.

I paused in reflection.

I am Seven? I pondered, That doesn’t make any sense.

That’s because you’re schizo, bitch! Me said, a fucking retard.

Then she snatched the pen from me and furiously scribbled the phrase on the notepad.

I AM SEVEN.

When my Greek god of a man took the book from me to read it, he had on a bright smile.

But when he read the content of the note, his jaw slackened in disbelief.

Yes, we all chorused in glee, deal with that, punk!

An African Myth.

She had her face cloaked in the shadows, her eyes deep in reflection.

She raised musing eyes to us, took in our erect attentive form in one distracted glance, and pursed her lips in an:

“Shhhh… don’t make a sound.”

Our young, eager eyes wide like UFO saucers stared at her through the dim ray of the sooty lantern-lit passageway in alacrity.

Our small legs tucked in as we sat yoga-style on a threadbare mat, eager for her to begin her midnight tale.

We were always keen on her tales. We anticipated it, savored and dreaded the terror that coursed through our spines when she raised glazed eyes far into the darkness.

When she parts her lips in a breath of:

“Once upon a time.”

And then, she’d take a deep breath of:

“Don’t be scared, because what I’m about to tell you, is the story of lady Koikoi.”

We blinked in anticipation, swallowed fright, and exhaled in impatience for her to sweep us into her world of myths and legends.

“It happened one night while we were in the dormitory of the Federal Girl’s college,” She began.

“The porter had just announced lights out. But we were too excited to sleep. As such, we stayed up in bed with all the illuminations out, gisting and giggling about the forthcoming soiree with the King’s College boys.

“My friend was about telling me her plans to wrap her hair in paper rollers the night before the boys would visit our school so she can pull it into an updo with an Alice band and have the tips curly when we heard a sudden click of a heeled shoe on concrete.

“At first, we paid no heed to it, as we thought it was one of the porters trying on her new pair of stilettos. But the sound came again, faint, and then pronounced. We hushed our whisperings and giggles to listen…

“Koi, koi, koi, the sound clanked, its chilling echoes reverberating down the hall.

 “Drenched in fright, my roommates, and I pulled our sleeping wrappers over our heads and burrowed deep into the covers.

“Our pupils were dilated in terror, our pounding hearts threatening to burst out of our ribs.

“Koi, koi, koi, the sound continued.

“I shut my eyes firmly and recalled all the tales I’ve heard about her.

“I tried but failed to shove the rewind of it off my head.

“Some legends portrayed her an alumnus of the school in search of her lover, others said she was one of the teachers, a walking dead she may be, but an old staff nonetheless.

“I didn’t want to keep up the reminiscence of the tales I’ve heard of her.

“The replay of who or what lady Koikoi was,  was made worse by the fact that the clicking sounds of her heeled shoe on the terrazzo floor grew so loud I heard her huffing by my bedside.

“I gasped in trepidation when I thought I heard the creaking sound of our room door shifting off its hinges.

“I saw it, in the bright lights of my mind’s eyes, fall open, and lady koi-koi sashayed in, dressed in a flowery dress and red-heeled devilish shoes.

“Her face was shrouded in darkness, her flaming red fiery hair windblown.

“I thought I heard her stand by my bedside; perceived her stilled breathing as she peered down at me.

“I felt her snatch my Ankara duvet, and grin devilishly at me in sharp pointy teeth painted in the blood of the children whose blood she had just finished feeding off of.”

She paused to regard us in askance, her glazed eyes sweeping past our gawking faces.

Then, she sniffed in a deep breath of one about to reveal a deep-seated secret and continued…

‘Psst!’ my roommate called,

‘Psst!’ She called again, ‘Can you hear her?’

“Of course, I can hear her,” I thought in alarm, afraid to speak for fear she’d hear and snatch me off the bed.

“I can still hear her breathing down my Ankara duvet.

“Just then, we heard a sudden thump of feet hitting the ground.

“My friend,” I thought, “Oh, my God, she has snatched my friend!

“The sound of the thumping feet echoed in the room. I gasped in fear when it bumped into a plate rack that sent clatters of metals clanking against each other.

“And then, PAH!

“The entire room turned bright.”

“Arrrrrrrrrgh!” We all screamed in fear and trepidation when the lights hit our eyes.

‘It’s me!’ my friend shrieked, ‘Just me!’

“You? I pondered, “You, who?”

‘I got up to turn on the lights so she would leave.’

“We all came out of our covers to gawp at her.”

‘She’s gone,’ my friend reiterated, ‘gone with the lights.’

“We were saved,” I sighed in relief, “Rescued from the claws of Lady KoiKoi,

“SAVED BY THE LIGHT.”

She paused to look at our young, innocent faces.

 We, all six of us kids, me aged seven, the others ranging between 4 and 6, stared spellbound at her.

We were, to say the least, scared out of our wits at the horrific image her tales plastered on our impressionistic minds.

We were afraid to take our eyes off of her.

Scared to look into the darkness of the passageway of our dimly lit face me I face you compound.

We were, at the same time,  tuning our ears to catch a clink of the clangs of a reenactment of lady Koikoi’s heels, clacking on the concrete of the floor and coming to snatch us straight into her monstrous fangs.

“Ayas!” We heard her father call out to her.

Aunty Ayaere, our storyteller, turned towards the direction of the call with a grumpy:

“Sir,” response.

“Come and buy Go-90 (a can of insect spray), so we use it to flit (spray) the house. Stop scaring those children with all those your yeye stories.”

She grumbled at her father’s beckon, got off the stool she sat on, bade us goodnight, and left to do her father’s bidding.

But in her exit, the story was planted in the deepest recess of our hearts.

The story of lady Koi-koi.

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Red Lines begins the story of Bekere, a simple kindergarten teacher who loved her job, her small apartment in Lekki, Lagos, and her 1992 cerulean Camry.

Bekere, like every single Nigerian girl, hopes to get married someday and start a family.  After a failed relationship with Obinna, her college sweetheart, Bekere, came up with a long list of men she’d decidedly resolved to avoid.

Top on her list of such men was Folorunsho Ajibade.

Her phone rang, thinking it was Alice calling again, she was about connecting the call when she noticed it was “Folorunsho Ajibade.”

Bekere let the phone ring. She knew it was rude to ignore his call, but she wasn’t ready. She wasn’t sure what to say. She didn’t know him; she wasn’t sure she wanted to.

Her eyes flashed to the magazine that held his image, her instincts jarred at her to avoid men like him. Men like him didn’t fall for girls like her. Men like him had girls eating off their hands, falling over him, bending over backward, using Juju to tie him to themselves, and pouring each other acids when they felt threatened by another female.

While trying to avoid Folu and at the same time keep up a social lifestyle, Bekere accepted a dinner date with Obinna, her ex-boyfriend. The thoughts on her head when she went out for dinner at Jazz mart, a balmy restaurant in Victoria Island, was to rekindle old flames and chart a new course with Obinna.

Then, she met the one man she’d been trying to avoid. Only it wasn’t the same man, it was his twin- Folarin Ajibade.

Bekere made her way to the bathroom, feeling a little light-headed and giddy. She smiled a thank you at a lady who commented on her dress.

She was about veering off into the aisle that led to the ladies’ room when a voice halted her.

“Hello,” He said.

It couldn’t be, Bekere gasped, surely he couldn’t have stalked her or worse followed her here!

How did he know she was coming here?

“Hello,” He reiterated when she turned to him. He smiled openly at her, the dimple on one of his cheeks pronounced.

“How did you?” She began, then swallowed slightly.

“Did you have me followed?”

 “I’m sorry, what?” He asked, flustered.

“How did you know I was here, coming here?”

“Oh, I um, saw you come this way, and I ah…” He trailed off, smiling sheepishly.

“How convenient,” Bekere said, snidely walking away.

“My name is,”

“I know, not interested,” She interjected.

He made to follow her, and she turned to regard him with as much disdain as she could manage. But she was sure she failed because his nearness stilled her breath, and his winsome smile tugged at her senses.

Thinking both men were the same, Bekere came to a rude awakening when she discovered Folu was not only a twin but was also bent on possessing her at all cost. Even if that includes employing stealth, deceit, and manipulations.

And what’s worse, his twin shares the same desire.

Folu walked towards the library and wasn’t surprised that his twin followed.

“If this is about getting your job back, Fola, now is not the time.”

“No, not that,” Fola said, then he paced, looked at his brother, and strode some more.

“Okay, then, what’s up?” Folu asked, settling himself on a couch.

“Tell me about your day,” Fola said.

“About my what?” Folu replied in askance.

“Your day.”

Folu regarded Fola queerly and then decided to oblige his question.

“My day was fine, thanks for asking. How was yours?”

“I met a girl,” Fola said, his voice laced with exhilaration.

“Okay?” Folu said quizzically.

“You should have seen her.”

Folu didn’t need to; he knew Fola’s kind of girls, and as far as he was concerned, they all looked the same.

“She mistook me for you, though?”

“For me?”

“Yeah, said something about you stalking her.”

Folu looked on perplexed.

“Did you meet someone of interest today?” Fola asked suspiciously.

Folu gazed at him and gave an evasive facial shrug.

His mind instinctively conjured up his meeting with Bekere while trying to piece together the possibility of her coincidentally meeting Fola too.

Impossible, he concluded, discarding the thought as quickly as it surfaced.

“Did you meet someone?” Fola reiterated. “Talked to her, took her number?”

Folu stared at him passively, not bothering with a response; his day’s itinerary was none of Fola’s business.

“It’s possible I just met the same girl you met today,” Fola said tentatively, testing out his theory. He was pleased with the affirmative response he got from Folu.

“That can’t be. She must have had you confused with someone else, whoever this girl is that you met,” Folu said keenly.

“Yeah, I thought so too, the coincidence, though,” Fola shrugged, then went to fetch himself a drink.

Folu checked his phone when his brother busied himself with fixing his drink, to see if Bekere had read his message or was even online.

She hadn’t read any, and she wasn’t online.

“I’m going to ask her out,” Fola said from the mini bar, stirring his drink with his index finger.

RED LINES is available on Amazon Kindle, Rakuten Kobo, Bambooks.io, and OkadaBooks.

We are victims of our upbringing, a product of our race.

We say to ourselves:

“I was abused as a child.”

“My folks didn’t love me enough.”

“As a child, I was often criticized.”

We make promises to ourselves, to not relieve the pain, to never inflict upon another, the trauma of what we suffered as children.

But we forget.

We forget that what we fear is precisely who we are.

The abuse, the criticism, the wild talks, and shits, thrown at us by our forebears, has molded our character, our perception, our subconscious.

We berate our spouses. Yell at our children, verbally and emotionally abuse the people we love.

A part of us cringes with reminders of becoming who we thought our parents were.

But, hey…
We shrug it off with the rational thoughts of:

“She made me do it.”

“He made me do it.”

“If only they were smarter.”

We fail to recall who our father was -a spirit breaker.

With his angry tirades, speeches, rational arguments, and justified upbraids, he slowly, but inevitably, broke us.

And made us who we are today… A repeat of who he was.