BAYO — HIS WORLD, HIS RITUALS, HIS REALITY
Part idk
He always woke before the city. 4:45AM, sometimes 5. It wasn’t because of discipline—it was because sleep didn’t cling to him the way it used to. Somewhere between the death of his mother and the end of his last real relationship, rest had become a luxury he didn’t trust. The world could fall apart while you were dreaming.
So he stopped dreaming.
Instead, he rose like clockwork. Made his coffee the exact same way—black, no sugar, two shots of espresso. Sat by the glass wall in his Banana Island condo. Watched the sky bleed from navy to indigo, then to that soft pink the ocean mirrored when it felt generous.
His life was quiet. Clean. Curated. No mess, no madness.
Except for Ini.
She was a soft storm he let into his order. And it shook him in ways he hadn’t known he needed.
—
By 6:30, he was at the gym.
His trainer was a devil. A buff Yoruba man who thought pain was a love language. Bayo didn’t argue—he liked structure, and his body needed the burn. Age was doing its thing. But he stayed lean, slightly buff. Chest full enough to rest a head on. Arms thick enough to say “safe.” Veins that always showed, especially when he wore black.
He showered, changed into his signature look—knitted black polo, tailored pants, gold chain resting light on his collarbone. The scent was always the same: smoky oud, a bit of pepper, and something sweet underneath. The kind of scent that made women turn back twice. Even when they didn’t mean to.
His driver pulled up by 8. He hated traffic, but in Lagos, hate was useless. He used the time to read reports, sign off contracts. His company was scaling. Media-tech. Clean, sleek, real estate investments tucked in like secrets. People knew the brand. Not many knew the man. And that’s how he liked it.
Until Ini.
—
That morning, he had told his PA to clear his Friday afternoon. “No calls after 3. I’m not available.”
It wasn’t a request.
He had a plan.
He was going to take Ini to a private spot just outside Lagos. Not too far. A little beach house near Tarkwa Bay. It was quiet, beautiful, curated like a Pinterest dream. A chef on call. Candles. Blankets. Wine. Flowers in a box. The whole cinematic experience—but make it quiet luxury.
He wanted her to rest. To be taken care of. To laugh so loud her jaw hurt. He wanted to drive her there with the windows down, and for them to sing like idiots. A car karaoke ritual. Whitney Houston. SZA. Asa. Burna. Even Timeless by Davido if she insisted.
He wanted to see her soft.
He wanted to earn it.
—
But before any of that, Bayo had things to fix.
One of his junior execs had been skimming money off the top of client retainers. Subtle. Sloppy. Bayo handled it in under twenty minutes. Fired him with the kind of grace that made the man thank him for “the opportunity.”
Bayo didn’t shout. Never did. He had a voice that sliced calmly. Authority without noise. That kind of presence that made men stand straighter and women cross their legs.
He went back to his office, looked out at the water, and let his mind drift.
Ini.
Her texts. The way she sent voice notes like she was talking to herself. The way she bit her lip when she was thinking. How her hand lingered on his thigh when she laughed, like she forgot she was touching him.
She was young. Yes. But not childish.
She had her own fire, her own rhythm.
And there was something sacred in watching her grow her brand—failing, trying, rising, failing again. He admired that. It reminded him of his mother. The quiet resilience. The way women carried grief in their bones and still cooked, still built things, still fought for softness.
He wanted to be part of that fight with her.
But slowly.
Bayo was never in a hurry.
—
By 4PM, he had cleared his schedule. Drove himself this time—Mercedes black SUV. Music low. When he got to her place, she was running late (as always), but he didn’t mind.
She came out in a white two-piece linen set, soft gold hoops, locs pinned into a messy bun, lip gloss shining like a dare. She looked expensive, like peace. Like a weekend you didn’t want to end.
“Hey baby,” she said, sliding into the car.
He leaned over, kissed her cheek. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
She laughed and turned up the music.
They started their karaoke with Fallin’ by Alicia Keys. She sang off-key. He did the background vocals with fake pain in his chest.
By the time they got to SZA’s Snooze, she was in his lap at a red light, fingers in his beard, laughing into his neck.
He didn’t say it out loud, but he was already gone.
Fully.
Utterly.
Gone.