Lagos had always been a city of noise — shouting conductors, blaring horns, bus tires screeching against broken roads. But on Wednesdays, something shifted. The rain came like memory — soft, sorrowful, steady. It didn't announce itself. It didn't threaten thunder. It just came.
It was always 4:44 p.m.
And Anike Ayoola never missed it.
She walked through the bustling chaos of Balogun Market, careful not to step into muddy puddles formed by the cracked pavements. Hawkers screamed their wares. The scent of roasted corn and sweat filled the air. But Anike was untouched by it all. Her mind was elsewhere. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere older.
She turned down a narrow alley that most Lagosians ignored. There were no streetlights, no noise — just silence and a flowering canopy that seemed too beautiful for this city. At the end of the lane stood a small building wrapped in ivy and wonder: **Ọ̀rọ̀ Books**.
It didn't have a glowing signboard or social media page. Google Maps never listed it. It existed outside of time — or maybe outside of memory.
A small bell jingled as she pushed the door open. Inside, the scent of old paper, cloves, and something nostalgic hugged her like a forgotten lullaby. The lighting was dim and golden, warm as dusk. An ancient ceiling fan creaked rhythmically. Dust floated in the air like stars suspended in time.
And there, as always, was **Obiora Korede**.
He sat behind the wooden counter, reading a book that had no title. His frame was lean, his eyes dark and alive with stories. He looked up and smiled — not the type of smile that greets strangers, but the kind reserved for souls you've met before.
"You're late," he said.
She shook rainwater from her shawl. "CMS was a mess. I had to take a danfo from Obalende."
"You always say that."
She raised a brow. "Do I?"
Obiora closed his book gently. "You've said that every Wednesday."
Something fluttered inside her chest. Familiarity? Fear? She couldn't tell. There was something uncanny about Obiora. About how he knew her. About how *she* felt like she knew *him*, even though they had only met… three weeks ago?
Four?
She frowned. Time was slippery here.
She moved to her favorite corner of the store — the poetry section, where all the covers were weathered and the pages smelled like cinnamon. "This place is weird," she muttered.
He chuckled. "That's what you like about it."
"Do I?"
"You always do."
She spun to face him. "Obiora, do we know each other?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked from behind the counter and handed her a small, forest-green book. Her name was etched on the cover — not printed, but carved.
**Anike.**
She took it gently. It felt warm in her hands. She opened to the first page.
> *We've done this before.*
Her mouth went dry. "Is this a joke?"
He looked at her — softly, carefully. "No."
"But I don't remember—"
"You're not meant to," he said quietly. "Not yet."
She stared at him, her heart racing.
"I don't understand."
"You will."
---
Back at home that night, Anike sat cross-legged on her bed, the book still in her hands. The windows were open. Moonlight kissed the pages like it was trying to remind her of something.
She flipped to the second page.
> *You've died before.*
> *So have I.*
> *But the stars keep bringing us back.*
Chills danced down her spine. She slammed the book shut and tossed it aside. But the words clung to her like perfume.
She had always felt… different.
As a child, she saw patterns in the clouds, heard whispers in the wind. Her mother said she had an "old soul." Her late grandmother called her **Ayọ̀báyọ̀** — joy and sorrow combined. And sometimes, Anike would wake from dreams that weren't dreams at all — visions of kingdoms, wars, and a man with Obiora's eyes calling her *Queen*.
---
The next Wednesday, she returned.
She didn't wait for the rain this time. She entered Ọ̀rọ̀ Books at exactly 4:30 p.m. Obiora was waiting, sipping from a cup of steaming zobo.
"I thought I dreamt it all," she said, breathless.
"You didn't," he said, offering her a second cup.
She sat opposite him, trying to read him. His calm unnerved her. The way he watched her — like he knew her scars, her victories, her soul.
"I read the book."
"And?"
"I'm not crazy."
"No."
She leaned forward. "Then tell me. Who am I?"
"You're Anike Ayoola," he said softly. "Daughter of the Royal House of Atunda. Lost to time. Cursed to forget."
Her laugh was hollow. "Royalty? What is this, Nollywood?"
He didn't smile.
"You're not joking?"
Obiora walked to a wooden cabinet and retrieved a small mirror. "Look."
She looked.
For a second — just a second — the mirror didn't show her usual reflection. It showed a woman in royal blue, her hair braided into a crown, gold beads glistening like constellations.
Anike gasped. The image vanished.
"That was you. Once," he whispered.
---
Ọ̀rọ̀ Books had many secrets.
Behind the poetry shelf was a door. Behind the door was a room that looked like a shrine and a laboratory combined. Walls lined with feathers, crystals, star maps, and ancient relics. A candlelit basin in the center glowed blue.
Obiora explained that they were caught in a celestial loop — victims of a curse cast generations ago during a battle between the guardians of time and a rebel queen who tried to change fate.
"You and I," he said, "were lovers. High Priestess and Time Guardian. But we defied the order. We chose each other instead of our duties. So the stars tore us apart. Again and again."
She looked at him, tears in her eyes. "And this time?"
"This time… we remember."
"But what now?"
"We break the loop," he said. "Or we lose each other again."
---
Outside, it rained. But not the regular Lagos rain.
This one shimmered in hues of indigo and silver.
It was not wet — it was celestial.
It did not fall — it *returned.*
And Anike, heart pounding, whispered the words she hadn't said aloud in lifetimes:
**"I think I've loved you before."**
Obiora stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek.
"You always do," he said.
And this time, she didn't look away.
--