The Pepper Seller Across My Shop (chapter 2)

Lagos doesn’t give you many quiet moments, so when they come, you learn to hold them tight.

I had rehearsed my words all morning. Tighten bolt. Loosen nut. Breathe. Ask her. Every time I looked across the road and saw Tife arranging her pepper, my courage scattered like dust. Funny how I could argue with stubborn engines but felt helpless before one gentle girl.

That afternoon, business was slow. The sun was calm, not harsh, as if Lagos itself wanted to listen. I walked over, bought pepper I didn’t even need, and stood there longer than usual.

“Tife,” I said, my voice unsure for the first time in years, “can I talk to you after you close?”

She looked up, surprised, then smiled. “Okay.”

Those three letters carried my heart.

When evening came, she packed her tray carefully. We walked a short distance to a roadside buka where the air smelled of stew and relief. I bought drinks, and for a moment, we sat in silence comfortable, not awkward.

“I know many girls come to your shop,” she said gently, not accusing, just stating what Lagos shows everyone.

I nodded. “Yes. But they don’t see me the way you do.”

I told her everything how her calm drew me in, how her intelligence showed in small moments, how she made me feel like more than my money, my looks, or my workshop. I spoke plainly, with no packaging.

“Tife,” I said, “I like you. Not as a pepper seller across my shop but as the woman I want to grow with.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I don’t have much,” she said. “No big job. No certificates.”

I smiled. “I’m a mechanic. I believe in progress.”

That was how we started.

Dating Tife taught me patience and purpose. We walked together in the evenings, shared meals, laughed over small things. I fixed cars; she still sold pepper. But I began to notice something she had dreams she had buried to survive.

One night, I asked her, “If money wasn’t a problem, what would you do?”

She answered without hesitation. “Go to school.”

That was all I needed to hear.

I helped her register for remedial classes, then university. Some days were hard. Fees, books, pressure. I worked longer hours. She studied late nights. Slowly, pepper selling reduced. Eventually, it stopped completely.

On the day she graduated, I stood in the crowd, grease still under my nails, clapping like I had won the degree myself. She looked at me and cried.

Not long after, I asked her another question this time on one knee.

She said yes.

Today, my workshop still stands. But across it is no pepper tray only memories. Tife is a graduate, my wife, my peace. Lagos still rushes, but I no longer feel lost in it.

In a city that sells dreams, we built one together.

From pepper to purpose.

From love to forever.