ADJACENT

CHAPTER FOUR: PANIC ATTACK

Andrea Nankier

There was something about routine that made everything feel more manageable. Knowing what my day would look like and what would come next took a lot of the weight off things. I’ve always preferred it that way.

When I was younger, I used to write my days out in a notebook, sometimes breaking them into small checklists I’d keep on my desk or tucked into my school books.

I liked having things in order, getting through tasks one by one without too much shifting around. It helped me stay focused and kept me from feeling like everything was slipping out of my control.

Now that I’m settling into a new routine, I can feel myself relaxing a bit. The days are starting to fall into place, and with that comes a sense of ease I haven’t felt in a while, especially with new clients coming in quick succession.

Two content audits running at the same time, a brand strategy brief that had expanded in scope three times since I accepted it, and a social media overhaul for a fintech startup whose founder had very strong feelings about the colour blue and communicated those feelings at length and at odd hours.

But today was Friday.

I can’t wait to bedrot for the whole of Saturday. What would I even wear to church on Sunday? I’d have to figure that out later.

Thankfully the first few weeks at Elvaris pay building flew by faster than I could track them.

Elvaris Pay occupied the fourth through eighth floors of the building, which itself sat on a stretch of Victoria Island that had been commercial territory since before most of the current tenants were born.

However, Elvaris as a company had roots that went considerably further back than the building, and you felt that in the way the place carried itself, the unhurried confidence of something that had already proven what it needed to prove.

Akintaju Oyediran.

The Founder.

He had built it from nothing, or close enough to nothing that the difference was philosophical.

He’d started with a single logistics firm in Ibadan in the late seventies, a man who apparently did not believe in the concept of limits, who expanded it across two decades until what had started as a transport and supply business had become something significantly harder to categorise.

By the time he died, Elvaris Holdings had three distinct subsidiaries and a reputation that operated independently of advertising.

Nobody had told me this directly, but I’d spent four years in that world and absorbed it without being officially invited to.

What his grandson had done with the inheritance of all that was a different conversation.

A knock came in twice ruining my thought process and the door opened before I could say anything.

A woman walked in. She was in a deep purple dress with pearls around her neck, gold bracelets stacked high on one wrist, natural hair out and full.

“Hello, I’m Ufuoma Chidubem,” she said, already smiling. “Head of Marketing. I’m on the second floor. I’ve been meaning to come down since you moved in.”

“Hi, Andrea Nankier.” I stood.

“I know.” She looked around the office, and whatever she saw made her smile properly. “I love what you’ve done with this. It looks comfy”

I did love what I’d done with it, honestly. I’d kept it minimal but warm because those were the two things I needed to be able to think.

The desk faced the east window because the morning light was the best argument for early hours I’d ever encountered.

I had one plant, a peace lily that was thriving.

Thank God.

A small print on the wall that I’d bought from a woman at the Lekki art market two years ago and had been waiting for a wall that deserved it.

One shelf. Nothing on it yet except my reference books and a small clay pot Hephzibah had made at a workshop and given me for absolutely no reason except she’d been proud of it.

It looked like me. That was the point.

“Thank you,” I said, feeling a bit proud.

Ufuoma sat down in the chair across from my desk with the ease of a woman who had never once in her life sat anywhere she wasn’t comfortable.

“So. I hear you’re into Content writing and strategy. Tell me more.” I don’t think I should even send out invites when I want to get married at this point. Jane will help me tell everybody.

I walked her through it. She listened the way sharp people listened, actively processing everything I was saying.

“The client who disputed the invoice,” she said at one point. “What happened there.” Jane ooo. I’m not even going to ask how she knew about that. Making a mental note to keep my mouth shut in the next future.

But knowing Jane, she'll have you spilling your secrets and you wouldn't know you’ve testified to a murder.

But that man ehn, there’s something really wrong with him o.… If not for home training and the special grace of God, and maybe because i needed the money, he wouldn't have tried that rubbish.

“He changed the deliverables three times after submission and then disputed the invoice when I held the line.” Rubbish behaviour.

“Idiot.” She said it without heat. “You need an attorney on retainer for exactly this. I know one. She’s terrifying and worth every naira.” Wow Andrea, look at you already having connections.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I’ll send you her number.” She said it the way she probably said most things, as a done deal. She stood, smoothing her dress, and looked at the peace lily. “That plant is happy. Good sign.”

“I’m hoping it’s reciprocal,” I said.

She laughed, full and unguarded. “I like you. Come to brunch at my house tomorrow. Me and my husband Olise decided to host one. 5pm at Ikoyi. It’ll be good.”

“I—”

“You don’t have plans.” She tilted her head. “Do you have plans?”

I thought about my Saturday and my plans to bedrot. I could meet potential clients, she seems like someone who knows everybody in the business industry.

“Give me your number so I can send you the address,” I stretched my hands and collected her phone, inputting my number in it. Gave it back to her and she smiled and waved going out the door. I smiled back and said a little bye.

I sat back down.

Okay then.

That wasn’t weird at all.

I ran into Mr. Adeyinka on my way home.

He was coming up the stairwell as I was heading toward it, with folder under one arm.

“Ms. Nankier.” His face shifted into something warmer. “How are you finding everything? Are you settled?”

“More than settled,” I said. “That east window has changed my relationship with mornings.”

He looked genuinely pleased. “I know the one. I put you there specifically. The west-facing unit gets the afternoon sun, very dramatic, completely soothing for working.”

“So you gave me the good one on purpose.”

“Jane asked me to.” He shrugged. “But I’d have done it anyway. You looked like someone who needed good light when you came to sign the papers.”

I didn’t know what to say to that.

“There’s actually a small update to your access agreement,” he said, holding up the folder. “Nothing significant, just the after-hours code. Takes two minutes if you have them.”

We strode back to his office. He found the page immediately, sliding it across the desk, pointing to the line that needed my signature.

His desk was covered in paperwork but he moved through it without hesitation.

I signed.

“If anything needs attention in the space,” he said, “come to me first. Don’t go through the general building contact. It takes longer and they’ll just send it to me anyway.”

“I appreciate that.”

I took the copy he’d made and headed back out into the Lagos afternoon.

My ride was hear, so i got into the car and he moved out. My mind drifted to how far my place is from here.

Two hours each way. On a good day, which Lagos rarely provided. The time was one thing. The cost was the actual problem. Four hours a day I was spending in a ride that I could be spending working, or sleeping, or being a person who existed outside of a vehicle.

Coupled with the increment and fuel price.

I needed to move to the island or at least somewhere close enough to the building that the commute became a walk or a five-minute drive at worst.

Jane, I thought. I need to call Jane about this.

I put it in my notes before the thought could leave.

---

Ufuoma and Olise Chidubem lived on a street in Ikoyi that didn’t have dramatic gates, no architecture straining to impress. Just old trees lining a road that curved, and houses set back from it that had the settled confidence of property that had been expensive long enough to stop caring about it.

I stepped out of my ride after he drove through the gate and stood on the pavement for a moment.

I need to live here, I thought. Not this part of the island, obviously. I wasn’t crazy enough to believe i could afford it.

The house itself was cream and terracotta, three storeys, with a compound where someone had clearly thought about the garden as a serious project.

Mature trees, a path of flat stones through the grass, bougainvillea climbing the left wall in colours that had no business being that confident.

I walked up to the front giant wooden door with my small bag and the bottle of wine I’d bought at a shop on the way and pressed the bell button.

Ufuoma opened it with a glass already in her hand.

She was in a wide white kaftan, her hair up in a high bun. Bracelets on both wrists now, stacked and catching the light.

“You found it,” she said warmly, pulling me in.

“Your directions were very specific,” I said.

“Olise always says I over-explain. He’s out back with the men at the grill.” She took my wine and held it up approvingly.

“Good choice. Come, come. Nothing’s off limits, look around if you want. Food is in the kitchen. The backyard is where most people are. I’ll find you in a bit.”

She was already moving toward another guest, seamless, warm, the natural motion of a woman in her own space.

I stood for a moment in the entrance hall.

The house was the style you wanted to read unhurriedly.

High ceilings, original tiles underfoot that had worn smooth in the centre from years of feet.

A staircase to the left with photographs going all the way up the wall, generations of a family in mismatched frames, formal portraits beside candid ones, the whole thing organised by love rather than aesthetics.

In the sitting room a bookshelf ran the full length of one wall and these were actual reading books, spines cracked, some with slips of paper marking pages.

A ceramic bowl on the side table held a phone charger, two batteries, someone’s earring and a lip balm, the archaeology of daily life.

I helped myself to a plate from the kitchen, where a woman I didn’t recognise was telling a very involved story to two others who were absolutely gripped. I greeted them and decided to make small talk. If I actually want to move to the Island, i have no choice but to network and capitalize on what i can.

Apparently, Mr George had brought his side chick to the brunch while his wife was away with his kids.

The conversation quickly moved from gossip to them asking what I do, and as much as i wanted to milk every detail of what they knew, i came here for a reason.

I handed them all my business card and gave a brief pitch on whatI do.

“Ah! Your office is in Elvaris pay building? Wow.” Ifeoma said. “Girl how did you manage that?” Que in the awkward laugh because i’m not about to give total strangers deets about my life.

At this point the group started growing bigger, “A friend of mine knows the building manager and she happened to be into real estate consulting”

“Babes, you'll have to link me up with your friend. You need to be at the top of the food chain to even manage to get a space there, and let’s not talk about the price.”

I almost said it wasn't that pricey, but i have a feeling Jane cut through corners for me. A part of me knew I was paying little to nothing for that space and i’m not about to tell them.

Few people came up to me for a chat and I was excited to network.

I’m going to take advantage of the ego boost Elvaris pay building just gave me. If they think i’m some hotshot, they'll want to work with me, or better still have me as a friend.

The good thing is, them assuming I’m part of the underdogs makes it easier for them to invite me to events i can take advantage of. Events that i would normally not get invites to or even know existed.

I exchanged contact information with a few of them, then I made my way out to the terrace.

It was warm and easy out there. I could see the backyard from here, not the entirety of it at least. Eight or nine people across chairs and a low bench, music coming from somewhere not too loud. There was a man with a big belly mounting the grill. That must be her husband, Olise.

He was at the grill at the far end of the compound, flanked by two other men, all three of them in that singular state of focus that men at grills achieved.

I found a spot at the edge of the terrace, ate, listened to the conversation nearest me without fully joining it, let the afternoon settle around me.

After a while I slipped to the side of the house where a bench sat against the wall beside a bird of paradise plant that was thriving with the energy of something that had found its exact right conditions. It was quieter there. Just the sound of the party at a comfortable distance.

I pulled out my phone to text Hephzibah

Me: okay I need you to understand what I’m looking at right now

Zee: ??? are you at the brunch

Me: yes and these people are RICH rich. Like old money rich. You need to see the house bae! 😭

Zee: I need pictures!

Me: I can’t just take pictures of someone’s house na😭

Zee: yes you absolutely can. tilt the phone. pretend you’re texting.

Me: I AM texting

Zee: then it’s already working. send me the sitting room.

I angled my phone slightly, trying to get the bougainvillea in the frame—

“Do you ever stop bobbing your head to whatever beat you have up there?”

I stiffened. I didn't even know I was bobbing my head.

A low deep voice came from behind me, slightly to the left and I had not heard him approach and I did not know how long he’d been standing there.

I turned slowly.

My eyes went wide.

Akintaju Oladele was two feet away with his hands in his pockets, looking at me with an expression I’d seen maybe twice in four years, the one that lived just adjacent to amusement without committing to it.

What the hell?!

Why the hell?!

How the hell?!

The questions went around my mind on a loop.

“Akintaju” I said. Akintaju, I thought. Which, in reality was a preference, given that everyone calls him Dele.

He looked the way he always looked.

Composed, unhurried, taking up exactly the amount of space he intended to. Linen shirt, dark pant trousers with a silver ring on his thumb. He look clean as hell.

My heart thundered because it was weak and foolish.

He embodied the ease of a man who hadn’t dressed to impress anyone and somehow that made it worse.

“Your phone,” he said, “is going to crack if you keep gripping it like that.”

I looked down. I was holding it like it owed me money. I loosened my grip.

“What are you doing here,” I said.

“Same thing you are.” The side of his mouth lifted a bit. “Ufuoma makes it her business to know everyone worth knowing,” he said.

He wasn’t smiling exactly. Something just short of it. “Then she puts them all in the same place.”

I looked at him.

He looked back.

“She invited you too?” I asked.

“Last week.”

“And you came.”

“I said I would.” A beat. “I usually do.”

I opened my mouth.

The sound came from inside.

Sharp. Glass on tile. A crack that cut through the easy murmur of the party and made everyone near enough to hear it pause. I turned toward it instinctively.

Through the side door I could see into the kitchen passage. A broken wine glass on the floor. Someone already crouching to help.

And the blood.

A thin line of it from a cut on the helping person’s hand, bright against the pale tile, spreading in the small unhurried way blood did without hurry.

My mind went silent.

Then very loud.

Red.

Bright.

There.

My heart started before I’d given it consent. The precise pounding of it that began right in my chest and moved upward, filling my throat, making the next breath something I had to work for.

It’s small, some part of me said.

It’s barely anything.

My body didn’t care. It had already made its assessment and the estimation was red and bright and spreading and the image was in now and it didn’t leave when you looked away, it stayed, printed behind the eyes like something that had been waiting for this exact invitation.

My hands were cold.

When had they gotten cold?

Breathe.

I was breathing. In and out, in and out, except the out kept catching somewhere in my chest, snagging on something I couldn’t locate, and my vision was beginning to do the thing it did at the edges.

No.

I was better than this.

She was not better than this.

The sounds of the brunch continued around her, warm and easy and entirely indifferent to what was happening in her body, and she pressed her back against the wall of the house and closed her eyes and her hands were shaking and she couldn’t find the floor of a breath and the red was still there behind her eyelids, bright and spreading, and she was six years old again, the sight of blood pooling to her legs and all-over her palms, the smell of it was in her nose even though there was nothing to smell, the cold weight of something against her that she would not think about—

No.

No.

A whimper escaped before she could stop it. She pressed her hand over her mouth. Her chest heaved and her heart was in her throat and the garden and the party and the evening light had narrowed down to a single bright point and she was losing the edges of everything and she couldn’t—

She couldn’t—

---

Author’s note: A panic attack? Breathe baby breathe

Catch up ⬇️

Chapter one - Chapter two - chapter three

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