Ozonḓu Chronicles: The Elevator Frequency

He is tall. Dark. Handsome in a way that feels almost… intentional. Like someone took their time designing him.

I catch a glimpse of him just before the elevator doors open.

My mind is scattered.

I’m coming from the bank, my thoughts still tangled in numbers, accounts and quiet panic. I need to make changes. Real ones. My finances, my structure, my life. I can’t keep floating like this. Maybe I should diversify my income. Maybe I should apply for something bigger. Maybe I should…

Or maybe I should win the lottery.

I almost laugh.

In this economy, every cent feels stretched thin. But then again… money is a frequency, isn’t it? So what is this discomfort trying to show me? Where am I being called to rise?

The elevator dings.

The doors slide open.

And there he is again.

Tall. Dark chocolate skin glowing under fluorescent lights. Long locks resting effortlessly on his shoulders. He’s pushing a grocery cart, of all things grounded, ordinary… yet somehow magnetic.

I think he looked at me.

No.

He definitely looked at me.

I quickly look away, pulling out my phone like it suddenly holds the answers to my entire existence.

Then.

“You look absolutely stunning. Hope you don’t mind me saying that.”

My smile betrays me instantly. Wide. Uncontrolled. Radiating.

What is happening here?

Because earlier today, in my therapist’s office, I said something with conviction.

“I think I’m finally at a stage where men don’t hold so much weight in my life.”

And I meant it.

A relationship would be nice, sure. But it’s no longer the centre of my world. I’m open, yes, but detached. Curious. Willing to meet people without immediately assigning them forever.

And yet…

In walks this man.

“Are you 30 or above?” he asks, smiling.

I blink. “Yes.”

“Are you single?”

“Yes…”

He throws a small fist into the air. “Yes!”

I narrow my eyes at him, half amused, half cautious.

He’s bold. Confident.

Definitely my type.

“Can we exchange numbers?” he asks.

The elevator doors open.

And close.

And open again.

Because now he’s holding them.

And we’re… lingering.

People are coming and going, giving us looks. We’ve missed our floors – twice now. But there’s something electric in the air, like the moment refuses to end.

“It depends,” I say, tilting my head slightly. “If I’ll give you my number.”

He grins.

“That accent,” I continue. “It sounds foreign.”

“I’m Nigerian,” he replies smoothly.

“Hmm,” I say, studying him. “Let me guess… you have a PhD in something?”

He laughs, nodding.

“Maybe.”

We’re still in the elevator.

Still holding it hostage.

Still suspended in this strange, magnetic moment.

I finally pull out my phone. “Uhm… yeah. You can have my number. I like them intelligent.”

We both laugh as we tap our iPhones together, letting technology seal whatever this is.

He steps out, turning back with that same brazen smile.

“I like your legs,” he says casually. “I’m a leg guy.”

I shake my head, laughing. “I never miss leg day.”

And just like that..

He’s gone.

The doors close.

And I’m left standing there with strangers who look just as confused as I feel.

Later that evening, my cousin insists I come out.

“I miss you,” she says.

And honestly… staying home, staring at my phone, waiting for a text? That’s not the woman I’m becoming.

So I go.

We’re sitting outside, soft music playing, laughter floating through the air. I sip on water, surrounded by my cousin and her friends.

And then there’s her.

A woman I’ve never seen before.

"Helena", she introduces herself.

There’s something about her open, intense, observant. We start talking, and before I know it, we’re deep in conversation. The kind that skips small talk entirely and lands somewhere real.

She tells me she’s separated from her husband. Just moved out.

There’s a heaviness there.

But also… freedom.

And then I notice it. The way she looks at me.

Not casually. Not politely. But intentionally.

Like she sees me. I brush it off.

She’s married… I think.

8:30pm. I check my phone.

Nothing. No text.

9:00pm.

Still nothing.

And then Helena leans in.

“Come to the bathroom with me,” she says softly.

Something in her tone shifts the air. We walk in.

The door closes.

And suddenly, she is closer than before.

“I like pretty girls,” she says, her voice lower now. “Girls like you.” My heart skips. My mind races.

This is not what I expected tonight.

Not after the elevator.

Not after him.

Not after everything I said this morning about detachment.

She leans in.

And tries to kiss me. I freeze. Shocked. Confused.

Flattered… if I’m being honest.

Because the attention feels… good.

But also, what is happening?

Elevator guy still hasn’t texted.

This woman is standing in front of me, wanting me.

And I’m caught somewhere in between curiosity and clarity.

“I… feel something,” I manage to say. “But I don’t think it’s that.”

At least… I think that’s what I say.

And just then…

My phone vibrates.

I look down. A message. From him.

“Psssst.”

I exhale. Annoyed. Excited. Alive.

What is going on?

*Catch Part 2 next weekend.