It's not even 7:00 a.m. and I've already fired someone.
The poor man is still standing in front of the fountain at the corporate headquarters, holding his uniform cap like it might save him. His mouth moves and I hear something that's between a stammered apology and a plea but, I don't have the patience for stuttering. Not today. Not ever.
"I don't do second chances, Femi," I say, keeping my voice cool and level. "You knew the rules. You broke them. That's all."
I slide into the back seat of my black Lexus and shut the door myself. I won't wait for a man who shows up late and smells like stale beer. He was ten minutes behind schedule and had the nerve to say traffic was bad. As if traffic isn't a given in Lagos. As if my time is negotiable.
From the corner of my eye, I see him finally walk away, defeated.
I open my tablet and scroll through today's agenda. Seven meetings, two investor calls, and an hour slotted for 'personal grooming' a term my assistant uses because she's too polite to call it what it really is: controlled self-maintenance to uphold the brand of Rita Amadi, Queen of Steel.
But even steel gets tired.
I exhale and lean back in the seat. The city is already awake, horns blaring in distant layers, hawkers shouting their sales pitches at intersections, sirens wailing from ambulances or overzealous convoys. It's a Lagos symphony. Loud. Demanding. Alive.
I've built everything I have in this chaos.
From a one-bedroom flat in Surulere to the penthouse suite in Ikoyi. From hand-me-down shoes to custom Louboutin heels. I have forty-seven full-time staff, three companies, zero scandals, and a reputation for being unshakable.
They call me "Ice Queen." I don't mind. Better cold than broken.
The driver's seat is empty now, the engine off, and my schedule thrown ten minutes behind. It shouldn't matter. I shouldn't care. But I do. Routine is the armor I wear. Without it, cracks appear.
A soft knock at the window interrupts my thoughts.
I glance up and see the new security intern Tolu or Tope, something with a T gesturing toward a young man standing by the gate. He's tall, medium build, lean like someone who moves a lot but eats just enough. Dressed in a crisp white shirt, navy slacks, and no visible nerves.
"Ma, this is the applicant for the driver position," Tolu says. "He came earlier than scheduled. Said he was hoping to make a good first impression."
I raise an eyebrow. Smart tactic. Or desperate. Or both.
"Let him in," I say.
The man approaches quietly and opens the back door, not climbing in, just bowing slightly at the waist.
"Good morning, ma'am. My name is Kola. I was told you're in need of a driver."
His voice is smooth. Steady. He doesn't over-announce himself like most men trying to impress me. He doesn't shrink either. He simply is composed, like someone who belongs.
"Do you have experience?" I ask.
"Yes, ma'am. Five years with a diplomatic family. Discretion and punctuality were essential."
"Why did you leave?"
"They relocated to Canada."
That could be true. Or it could be a lie rehearsed for gullible employers. But I'm not gullible, and I like the way he doesn't rush his words. He speaks as though everything he says will be heard, with or without force.
"You have references?"
He hands me a neatly folded paper. Printed, not handwritten. One phone number, two names, a brief letter of recommendation.
"You know who I am, Kola?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then you know I don't tolerate mistakes."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And that my last driver was fired for being late."
He doesn't blink. "I believe punctuality is a matter of respect, not convenience."
Hmm.
I stare at him for a long moment. He holds my gaze not with arrogance, but with quiet confidence.
"You're hired," I say.
No smile. No visible relief. He simply nods.
"Would you like me to drive you now, ma'am?"
"Yes. And be quick. We're late."
He steps around the car and slides into the driver's seat, adjusting it smoothly. No fumbling. No hesitation.
As the engine starts and we pull out of the compound, I glance at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Calm. Focused.
Interesting.
I don't usually notice my staff beyond their utility. But there's something about this man. Kola. I file it away.
The Lexus glides through the streets, weaving past yellow danfos and Okadas like water slipping between rocks. He knows how to drive. Not just how to operate a vehicle but how to move through Lagos without triggering its chaos. That's a skill.
My phone buzzes. An email from HR. Then another from the press liaison. Something about a rumor. Something about a former employee. I don't bother reading further.
"Do you know how to remain silent during calls?" I ask without looking up.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good."
I dial my head of operations and switch to speaker. Kola doesn't flinch or turn the volume down like some drivers do, pretending not to listen while their ears stretch.
Halfway through the call, I notice something subtle Kola checks his side mirror every ten seconds. His hand rests lightly on the steering wheel, never tense, never careless. He drives like someone who expects the road to lie to him.
I end the call.
He catches my eyes in the mirror again.
"Everything okay, ma'am?"
"Just traffic."
That earns a slight curve of his lips. Almost a smile.
I look out the window again, suddenly aware that for the first time in a long time I'm being driven by someone who feels more like presence than furniture.
That's dangerous.
And I hate how much I notice.