đ NATHANIEL
People think control is something you learn in business.
It's not.
By the time I stepped into my first boardroom, I already knew how to sit in silence and let people expose themselves. I knew how to listen without reacting, how to speak without saying too much, how to watch everything without being watched.
Business didn't teach me control.
It rewarded it.
I grew up in a house where nothing was missing,except the luxury of being careless with emotion.
My father didn't shout. He didn't need to.
My mother didn't beg. She didn't have to.
Everything in that house had weight.
Including expectations.
Especially expectations.
I learned early that emotions weren't useless, but they were expensive. And if you weren't careful, you paid for them in ways you couldn't recover from.
So I learned how to manage mine.
Not feel less.
Just⊠show less.
Kelechi says that's my problem.
He says it like it's something I should fix.
I say it's the reason everything in my life works.
"You don't get tired?" he asked me one night he dragged me out to a bar after saying it's been long we had our boys outing, like we are some Ladies. Leaning back in his chair, watching me like I was a problem he hadn't solved yet. This man amazes me sometimes with his tantrums.
"Tired of what?" I asked.
"Of always being⊠in control." He gestured vaguely. "Of thinking before you speak. Measuring everything. Even now, you're doing it."
I took a sip of my drink.
"I'm having a conversation."
"No," he said, shaking his head. "You're managing one."
I almost smiled.
"That's the same thing."
"It's not," Kelechi replied immediately. "One is natural. The other is calculated. You don't relax, Nathaniel. You adjust."
I let that sit for a second.
"You say that like it's a bad thing."
"I'm saying it like it's not normal."
"Normal is inconsistent."
"Normal is human."
"And humans are predictable when they're emotional."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing just a bit.
"You think you've figured people out."
"I know patterns," I said calmly.
"No," he countered, quieter now, more serious. "You avoid situations where patterns don't work."
This fool knows how to hit a nerve.
Not loudly.
But enough.
I set my glass down.
"And what exactly are you trying to say?"
"I'm saying you don't take risks where you can lose control," he said. "Not in business, you'll risk money all day. But with people? You don't go where you can't dominate the outcome."
"That's called being smart."
"That's called being scared."
Silence.
Thick.
Not uncomfortable, but charged.
I held his gaze.
"Be careful, Kelechi."
"I am," he said. "That's why I'm saying it."
I leaned back slightly.
"You think I'm scared of what? Feelings?"
"I think you don't trust yourself with them," he replied.
I didn't respond immediately.
Because that was closer than I liked.
"I trust myself to make decisions that benefit me," I said finally.
"And what if one day the right decision doesn't feel right?" he asked.
"It will."
"You're sure?"
"Yes."
He studied me for a long moment, then leaned back, exhaling softly.
"One day," he said quietly, almost to himself, "something will happen that you can't think your way out of."
I picked up my glass again.
"When it does," I said, "I'll handle it."
Kelechi shook his head slightly.
"No," he murmured. "That's the problem. You think everything is something to handle."
Women are easier.
At least, they're supposed to be.
There are rules.
Clear ones.
No expectations.
No emotional promises.
No future conversations.
Everything stays exactly where it is.
Simple.
Clean.
Controlled.
Until someone decides it's not enough.
Amara stayed longer than most, I met her few months ago, she is my business partners daughter she accompanied him to one our meeting, saying she was bored and had nothing to do, she's a pretty girl, that will have men turning, to me she was nothing but a decent fuck no strings attached, that was our agreement and it still is but she wants something more, and I can't give her that.
I knew it before she did.
You always know.
There's a shift.
Subtle at first.
Then obvious.
"Nathaniel⊠can I come over?"
I didn't even look up from where I was sitting.
"No."
A pause.
Then a small, almost nervous laugh.
"You're serious?"
"Yes."
"You never let me come over."
"That's not new."
"But we've been seeing each other for months."
I exhaled slowly, setting my glass down.
"And nothing about that changes the arrangement."
"Arrangement?" she repeated, her voice tightening. "Is that what this is to you?"
"That's what it has always been."
Silence.
Then.
"Do you even hear yourself?"
"I hear myself clearly."
"No, you don't," she said, frustration slipping through now. "Because if you did, you would realize how⊠cold that sounds."
"That's your interpretation."
"It's the truth."
I stood up, walking toward the window.
"I told you from the beginning what this was."
"And I thought you would change," she said quickly, like she needed to get it out before she lost the courage.
I closed my eyes briefly.
There it is.
"You thought wrong."
That hurt her.
I heard it in the silence that followed.
In the way her breathing changed slightly.
"Is there someone else?" she asked.
"No."
"So what is it then?" Her voice cracked, just a little. "Why is it so hard for you to just⊠let someone in?"
I turned slightly, though she couldn't see me.
"Because I don't want to."
"That's not an answer."
"It is."
"No, it's not!" she snapped. "It's an excuse. You hide behind it like it explains everything, but it doesn't. It just" she stopped, exhaling shakily. "It just pushes people away."
"That's the point."
Silence.
Then softer
"I love you, Nathaniel."
The words hung there.
Heavy.
Waiting.
I didn't soften.
"I didn't ask you to."
Her breath broke.
And this time, I didn't ignore it.
I just⊠didn't respond to it.
"I can't keep doing this," she whispered.
"Then don't."
"Why are you like this?" she asked, almost helpless now. "Why is everything so⊠controlled with you? Don't you ever just feel something and go with it?"
I looked out the window again.
"I do," I said quietly.
"And?"
"I choose not to."
That ended it.
Not loudly.
But completely.
My father doesn't argue like that.
He doesn't raise his voice.
He doesn't react.
He dismantles.
"You rely too much on control."
He said it casually, like we were discussing something simple.
We were sitting in my living room. He had just finished going through my Warri expansion plans like he always does, thorough, precise, unimpressed.
"I rely on results," I replied.
"And you think those two things are the same."
"They usually are."
He shook his head slightly.
"No. Results can exist without control. Control cannot exist without people."
"I account for people."
"You manage them," he corrected. "That is not the same thing."
I leaned forward slightly.
"Then explain the difference."
He held my gaze.
"Management assumes cooperation," he said. "Control assumes predictability. Neither is guaranteed."
"I don't rely on guarantees."
"Yet you behave like you expect them."
That irritated me.
"You built everything you have on structure," I said. "On discipline. On control. And now you're telling me it doesn't work?"
"I'm telling you," he said calmly, "that it doesn't work everywhere, and I as I get older I realized there is more to life som."
Silence.
Then.
"Warri will not respond to you the way Abuja does."
"I'm not expecting it to."
"Then what are you expecting?"
"Position," I said firmly. "Influence. Leverage."
"And when people refuse to be leveraged?"
I didn't answer immediately.
Because that question.
wasn't about business.
He watched me closely.
Then leaned back slightly.
"You avoid things you cannot dominate."
"That's not true."
"It is," he said. "You choose environments where your strengths are enough to win. You don't go where they might fail."
"That's called strategy."
"That's called comfort."
I let out a small breath.
"And what exactly do you want me to do? Walk into uncertainty without preparation?"
"I want you to understand," he said, quieter now, "that not everything can be prepared for."
"I disagree."
"I know."
Silence settled between us.
Not hostile.
But firm.
Then he said something that stayed.
"You have built a life where nothing can shake you," he said. "But be careful."
I met his gaze.
"Of what?"
"Of becoming someone who cannot be moved, even when it matters."
My mother doesn't argue like him either.
She doesn't dismantle.
She insists.
"I will arrange a meeting."
"No."
"It's just a conversation."
"No."
"Nathaniel, you cannot keep avoiding this."
"I'm not avoiding anything."
"You are avoiding responsibility."
I exhaled.
"We've had this conversation."
"And we will keep having it," she replied immediately. "Until you understand."
"Understand what?"
"That life is not meant to be lived alone."
"I'm not alone, I have you, dad and Ada."
"You are," she said simply.
That one landed.
Because she didn't say it emotionally.
She said it like a fact.
"I have people," I said.
"You have access," she corrected. "That is not the same thing, you need a companion son, some to share your good days and bad day, someone you come home to, someone to grow old and grey with you, loneliness is not something one should live with, I'm doing not for me but you, someday you will understand."
I didn't respond.
Because I knew.
she wasn't entirely wrong.
"I want grandchildren," she continued. "I want to see something that comes from you. Something that carries this family forward."
"And you think forcing me into marriage will give you that?"
"I think giving you the right person will."
"There is no 'right person.'"
"There is," she said firmly. "You just refuse to see it."
"I refuse to pretend."
"You refuse to try."
Silence.
Then quieter.
"What are you afraid of, Nathaniel?"
I almost laughed.
"Nothing."
She didn't respond immediately.
"That's what worries me."
I don't think about these conversations often.
Not deeply.
Because thinking too deeply about things like thatâŠ
creates cracks.
But recently.
I've been noticing something.
Not in them.
In myself.
A pause where there wasn't one before.
A thought that lingers longer than it should.
An awareness I didn't invite.
And I don't like it.
Because I've spent years building a version of myself that nothing can disrupt.
A version that doesn't hesitate.
Doesn't question.
Doesn't⊠shift.
But something is shifting.
Quietly.
And the unsettling part isn't that it's happening.
It's that I feel it.
And for the first time in a long time.
I don't immediately know how to control it.
That's new.
And I don't like new.
Because new means unknown.
And unknown means.
something, somewhereâŠ
is no longer entirely in my hands
All this because of a girl I saw online, she drew in, so innocently shaking my world, yet she doesn't even know it.
********************
A Word for My Readers đ€
Sometimes, the strongest people aren't the ones who feel nothingâŠ
but the ones who feel everything and choose silence anyway.
Be careful what you control,
you might be holding back the very thing meant to change you. XOXO đ