And now the test no longer felt clever. It felt dangerous. Because this time there was a real heart on the other side of the lie. Not a woman performing affection. A woman who had looked at a poor room and stayed anyway.
That night, after he returned from the bus stop, he lay on the small bed staring up at the rusted roof and thinking the same thought over and over again.
How do I tell her now?
If he told her the truth, she might feel betrayed. She might think every smile, every word, every shared moment had been part of a cruel game.
If he kept hiding it, the lie would only grow larger.
He called his father.
“My son,” Mr. Jaba said warmly when he answered. “How are you?”
Dazibo sighed. “Father, I think I’m in trouble.”
A soft laugh came through the phone. “What kind of trouble?”
“I met someone. Her name is Tama. And I think she loves me. But she doesn’t know who I really am.”
There was a pause on the line.
Then Mr. Jaba said quietly, “So the test has finally become real.”
“Yes.”
“And you are afraid.”
Dazibo leaned back against the wall. “I’m afraid of hurting her.”
His father’s voice softened. “Truth may cause pain, my son. But a lie that stays too long causes deeper damage. If this woman truly loves you, she may be hurt for a while, but she will eventually understand why you were afraid. Just don’t hide forever. Love cannot keep growing where truth is always hiding.”
Those words stayed with Dazibo long after the call ended.
He decided he would tell her soon.
But life did not wait for his perfect timing.
In the office, people had already noticed that something was growing between him and Tama. They came in together some mornings, left together some evenings, and spent lunch breaks talking quietly outside the building. Their connection was no longer invisible.
And there was one man in particular who hated seeing it.
Mr. Omari was one of the senior staff members in the office. He had been there for years and carried himself with the self-importance of a man who believed his long service gave him the right to speak harshly to anyone below him. A few months earlier, he had shown interest in Tama, and she had politely rejected him. Since then, he had not been comfortable seeing her around another man, especially one he believed had nothing.
So his treatment of Dazibo slowly became worse.
He called him unnecessarily. Sent him on useless errands. Asked him to do things that had nothing to do with his actual role. At first, Dazibo ignored it. He had tolerated bigger things in his life than wounded male pride.
But some humiliations build quietly until they no longer remain small.
One afternoon, Mr. Omari called out, “Dazibo!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take these files to storage.”
Dazibo did.
A few minutes later, Mr. Omari called him again.
“Bring me water.”
He did.
Then again.
“Clean this desk.”
Dazibo paused.
He had already finished his real tasks for the day. He looked at the desk, then back at Mr. Omari.
“Sir, with respect,” he said calmly, “please treat me with respect too.”
The office fell silent.
Mr. Omari stood at once. “What did you just say?”
“I only said we should respect each other.”
That was all it took.
Mr. Omari stepped forward, grabbed Dazibo’s shirt, and demanded an apology. Dazibo refused. Then the slap came—hard, loud, echoing through the office.
Before anyone else moved, Tama did.
“What are you doing?” she shouted, rushing out from her office.
Mr. Omari snapped at her to stay out of it. She didn’t.
“If you touch him again, I will report you,” she said with a firmness that made several workers hold their breath.
Dazibo stared at her. Even in that moment—even believing he was powerless, ordinary, insignificant in that office—she stood in front of him and chose him.
That should have been the moment he finally told her everything.
Instead, fate chose the moment for him.
Outside the building, two black luxury vehicles slowly entered the premises.
The entire office seemed to notice the change in atmosphere before the cars even stopped. Men in suits stepped out first. Then an older man emerged from the second car with quiet authority.
Some of the senior staff saw him and instantly straightened.
“The chairman,” someone whispered.
Mr. Jaba walked calmly toward the scene outside the office. His eyes moved once across the gathered staff. Then he saw it—Mr. Omari gripping his son’s shirt, Tama standing rigid with anger, Dazibo silent in the center of it all.
He stopped.
Then, in a voice that carried across the entire premises, he said, “Dazibo, what is going on here?”
The world seemed to pause.
Tama turned slowly to look at Dazibo.
Mr. Omari’s hand loosened.
Every face in the office changed at once.
Mr. Jaba stepped closer. “My son,” he said, “I asked you a question.”
That one word—son—moved through the office like a shockwave.
Someone whispered it first in disbelief. Then another repeated it.
“His son?”
“That clerk?”
“No…”
Tama’s face drained of color.
She looked at Dazibo as if the man before her had suddenly become two people at once.
“You know him?” she asked faintly.
Dazibo’s throat tightened. “Yes.”
Mr. Jaba’s face had gone cold. He turned to Mr. Omari. “What kind of misunderstanding,” he asked in a low, dangerous voice, “makes you hold my son by the shirt?”
Mr. Omari began stammering immediately. “Sir… I didn’t know…”
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