In the days before the sun bursts and drowns the Earth in oceans of roaring fire, Bola and Chris grow apart and a lot of people die.
He met her in a storm.
The thunder had bellowed and thrown a tantrum across dark skies. Day had turned to night swiftly and Lagos remained relentlessly bustling. Cars and buses still zoomed by, blackish blurs in grey dimness. He had run as fast as he could to the nearest piece of dry land, because the sky had opened up just as he had hopped off a particularly rickety danfo filled with otherworldly fishmongers and a talky driver. Job hunting was a bitch, they had told him they would call back but he knew better. So he ran through the deluge into the giant iron canopy of a filling station where others shivered and stared at the angry skies, God was putting on a performance that was far from amusing. Lightning forked and split across the sky in blue hot streaks, and even though he braced and held every muscle in his body still, the coming thunder still made his bones vibrate with an odd fear. The lightning was supposed to be scarier — it was fast hot hungry electrons looking for flesh to devour — but in the end it was the roar of the heavens that made him cower.