All Chapters of AM INLOVE WITH MY BROTHER : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

10 Chapters

Same flat , different heart

Rihanna hears Jake's bike before she sees it. The sputter of the old Honda, then his voice calling her name over the street noise. She hasn’t been home in eight months. University in Ibadan felt far away until she stepped off the bus at Ojuelegba and the smell of Lagos — diesel, suya, rain on hot cement — hit her all at once.Jake looks the same, and not. He’s broader in the shoulders. There's a thin scar above his eyebrow from the accident last year that he brushed off on the phone. When he hugs her, she smells engine oil and the cheap soap Mom still buys."You added weight," he says, grabbing her bag. "Or is that all books?""Shut up. You still can’t cook," Rihanna shoots back, and it feels normal for half a second.Their flat in Yaba hasn’t changed. Same faded curtain Mom swears she’ll replace. Same crack in the living-room tile. Mom works night shifts at the hospital now, so it’s just the two of them till morning.They eat noodles at the small table. Jake talks with his mouth full

Rain water

It rains for three days straight. Lagos turns grey, the street outside their flat floods up to ankle height, and NEPA behaves like usual — gone more than it’s on.Jake doesn’t go to the mechanic shop. Oga called and said "wait till road clear." So he spends the morning fixing the leaking sink with tape and cursing under his breath. Rihanna sits on the counter watching, legs swinging, pretending to scroll her phone. The fan isn’t working, and the air is thick with humidity and the smell of wet cement from the balcony."You’ll shock yourself," she says when he shoves his hand under the pipe."Then you’ll save me," he grins without looking up. Water drips down his forearm and hits the tile.She looks away, but not fast enough. There’s a new muscle in his arm she doesn’t remember.By noon the sink stops, but the ceiling starts dripping in the corner by the fridge. Jake drags the blue bucket from the bathroom and slides it under the drip. Plink. Plink. Plink."It’s like a metronome," Rihan

Oga’s call

Rihanna wakes up with a crick in her neck and Jake’s hoodie halfway off her shoulder. He’s already up. She can hear him in the kitchen, cursing at the gas ring.The rain stopped in the night. Outside, the street is still a river of brown water and floating pure-water sachets. NEPA is back — the fan spins lazily above her head.She sits up slowly. The plates from last night are washed and stacked. On the table, Jake left half a bread loaf and a note torn from her notebook: _Gone to Oga. Don’t burn house. — J_She smiles before she can stop herself.Mom comes home at nine, eyes red, scrubs smelling of disinfectant. She hugs Rihanna hard, then goes straight to shower and sleep. "You two eat?""Yes ma.""Good. Wake me by three."The flat is quiet again. Rihanna tries to read. Marketing 302. The words slide off her brain. She keeps hearing the bucket from last night. _Plink. Plink._ Even though it’s gone now.Jake bursts in around two, soaked to his knees, grinning wide enough to show the

Visitors

Rihanna counts days now. Twelve left before she goes back to Ibadan. Twelve days of pretending her pulse doesn’t jump when Jake says her name.On Thursday their cousin Amaka shows up unannounced. She’s twenty-seven, Mom’s sister’s daughter, loud laugh, bright lipstick, and the kind of confidence Rihanna envies and hates. Amaka works at a bank in Ikeja and always brings something — last time it was perfume, this time it’s a carton of malt and a box of chin-chin."Ah, Ri Ri! You don big!" Amaka pulls her into a hug that smells like cocoa butter. Then she sees Jake coming out of the bathroom in just a towel around his waist. She whistles. "Jake! See muscle. Na gym?"Jake rubs his head, embarrassed. "No be gym, na suffering."Amaka laughs and smacks his arm. She sits in the kitchen for an hour, gossiping with Mom, asking Jake about the apprenticeship, asking Rihanna about school and "any boy wey dey disturb you?" Rihanna shakes her head.When Mom leaves to sleep before night shift, Amaka

Empty Flat

Jake doesn’t come back that night. Or the next.Mom notices on the second morning. She stands in the kitchen in her nightgown, holding the kettle like it’s heavy. "Where your brother?""David’s place," Rihanna says. It’s not a lie. "Near the shop. He said it’s easier for work."Mom frowns. "He no tell me.""He told me."Mom stares at her for too long. "Okay." Then she turns and puts the kettle on like nothing happened.The flat feels bigger without him. Quieter. The ceiling still drips when it rains but no one puts the bucket under it fast enough, so the tile stays wet. Rihanna steps in it barefoot and doesn’t even curse.She texts him: _you good?_ He reads it. No reply.On the third day David shows up. He’s Jake’s friend since secondary — thin, gold tooth, always smelling faintly of weed even when he swears he stopped. He comes with Jake’s dirty laundry in a nylon bag."Your brother say make I bring this," David says, dropping the bag by the door. He doesn’t come in."Where is he?""

Thursday

Rihanna leaves on Thursday. Not Friday. She tells Mom the bus time changed. It didn’t. She just can’t stay another night in that flat with Jake’s bed empty and his shirts still smelling like him on the line.Mom hugs her at the park by Ojuelegba where the buses load. "Read your book. Call me. Eat well.""I will, ma.""Your brother say make I tell you safe journey."Rihanna’s chest clenches. "You saw him?""Yesterday. He come drop money." Mom tucks 5k into Rihanna’s hand. "He say make you no worry."Rihanna nods and gets on the bus. She doesn’t cry until the bus pulls out and Lagos blurs past the window — the hawkers, the yellow buses, the bridge. Then it comes, quiet, hot tears she wipes fast so the woman beside her won’t see.She keeps the hoodie at the bottom of her bag. Doesn’t wear it.---Ibadan is the same. Hostel noisy, roommates asking about holiday, classes starting Monday. Rihanna answers on autopilot. Yes, fine. No, nothing happened. She unpacks, puts Jake’s hoodie in the b

The truth

Rihanna stops pretending in Chapter 8. Even to herself.It starts three days after she sends _I’m sorry_ and Jake doesn’t reply. She keeps her phone on, checks it every ten minutes, then hates herself for checking. By Friday she turns it off completely. If he wants to answer, he can wait.She sits through her 8am lecture without writing anything. The lecturer is talking about consumer behavior. Rihanna draws circles on the edge of her notebook. Inside one circle she writes _Jake_. She stares at it until the ink bleeds.After class Ada drags her to the cafeteria. "You dey sick? You look like ghost.""Just tired.""You get boyfriend for Lagos?" Ada grins. "That’s why you rush go back?"Rihanna almost laughs. Almost. "No."But the word sits in her mouth wrong. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? If Jake was just a boy from Lagos, she’d tell Ada everything — his smile, the scar, how he taps the table. Ada would squeal and ask for pictures.Instead she says nothing, because the truth wou

Oga’s room

Jake’s room near Oga’s shop is not a room. It’s half of a room. Concrete floor, one mattress on the floor, a plastic chair, a bucket in the corner. The wall has water stains shaped like a map. David sleeps on the floor sometimes when he’s too high to go home.Jake likes it because it smells like oil and not like her.He works 6am to 7pm. Oga shouts, throws spanners, pays late. Jake learns to change brake pads, drain oil, lie to customers. His hands are always black. At night he washes them three times and they’re still black.He doesn’t go back to the flat. Mom calls. "Come eat." He says, "Work, ma." She stops asking after the third time.He blocked Rihanna on WhatsApp. Not because he wants to. Because every time her name popped up his stomach dropped and his hand moved before his brain did. He unblocked her once at 2am last week. Saw the messages. _Delete my number._ He blocked her again.It doesn’t help. He still hears her voice when the generator dies at night: _If you weren’t my b

Block me

Jake doesn’t sleep that night. Not because he’s heartbroken — because his brain won’t shut up. He keeps seeing Mom’s face when Amaka showed the phone. Not angry. Just tired. Like she aged ten years in two seconds.He hates that more than shouting.At 6am he gets up, washes his face in the bucket. Water’s cold. His knuckles still hurt from punching the wall two days ago. He looks at his hand and thinks: _I’m disgusting._He turns the phone on. Rihanna didn’t text again. Just _Thank you._ That’s worse. He wanted her to beg or fight or something. Not _thank you_ like he gave her a favor.He types: _We can’t talk again._Deletes it.Types: _You should block me._Deletes it.Finally sends: _Don’t text Mom again._She replies after like five minutes: _I won’t._Then nothing else.He goes to work. Oga shouts because he forgot to tighten a bolt. Customer comes back yelling. Oga docks his pay for the day. Jake just nods. "Sorry sir." He used to argue. Now he doesn’t care.David finds him at lu

Sunday food

Mom doesn’t ask Jake to come home anymore. She just cooks on Sunday like she always does — jollof, fried plantain, chicken. Too much food for one person. She puts it in plastic containers and calls Rihanna."Your brother no dey pick my call since Friday. You try am?"Rihanna’s in the hostel, lying on her bed staring at the ceiling fan. "No ma.""Lie."Rihanna sits up. "Ma—""Bring am come. Or tell am make he come collect food.""He won’t."Mom is quiet. Then: "Rihanna. Wetin dey happen between una two?"Her throat closes. "Nothing.""You think I blind? Since you go back school he run comot house. You dey text. You think I no see am face when your name show for phone?"Rihanna doesn’t answer."Una be brother and sister," Mom says, voice shaking. "That one no dey change.""I know, ma.""Then act like you know."Rihanna hangs up first. Her hands are shaking. She opens Jake’s chat. Last message: _Don’t tell her anything. Please._She types: _Mom cooked. She wants you to come._Delivered.

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