10/04/2026
Read and enjoy. Morufat Ajani Stories
CONTROL OVER ME by MORUFAT AJANI
Between two kinds of love.
CHAPTER 1
The cruelest pain is wanting to erase someone from your heart, yet discovering they carved deeper with every passing day.
Imran ARA knows this too well. For three long years he has struggled to silence her memory, yet each day his heart betrays him, dragging him back into square one. Her voice, the way her lips curved when she laughs, the way her face flashed when she's angry, they never leave his head, they always return with cruel freshness, as though they happened just yesterday. He crossed oceans, left the country, built walls around his soul, but nothing erases her. She lives in him still, a wound that refuses to heal.
Three years ago, on the day Imran left Nigeria for the United States, he walked away from Nadia at the airport with a burning heart and promised himself he would not return until he was healed. Healed from his mother’s and uncle’s wickedness, and from the love of Nadia that still consumed him. But most of the time, life never bows to plans. Now he is in his apartment, packing his luggage with heavy hands, returning to Nigeria though none of the conditions of his promise have been met.
Imran's mind is crowded with Nadia’s thoughts.
What will I do if I happen to meet her again? He asks himself and then answers it.
I don't even know.
A part of him doubts he can stand before her without breaking, without reaching for what he has no right to take. The way he still feels about Nadia unsettles him, it angers him, but he cannot deny it. He misses her more than he can put into words.
With a sigh he shrugs into his suit jacket, grips the handle of his suitcase, and pulls it out of the apartment. Hours later he is standing inside Abuja’s airport. It's 7am in the morning.
Imran dresses like a man who does not belong to the ordinary crowd. A tailored black suit clings to his broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt opens slightly at the collar, polished leather shoes, and an expensive pair of transparent glasses. Every detail of him speaks of wealth and elegance. Heads turn as he walks past; women glance, then glance again, whispers trailing behind him, unable to resist the magnetic pull of his charm. But Imran notices none of them, his mind is elsewhere.
His eyes dart toward a familiar corner in the airport, and suddenly his chest tightens. It's the place where Nadia and Atif bade him goodbye three years ago. Standing here again, his heart pounds wildly, just as it always does whenever Nadia enters his mind. Only this time it pounds harder, because he is not just remembering her, he is standing where he last saw her.
He wants to cry. He wants to scream. But he can't do so in a public place, so he clamps his jaw tight, forcing the tears back. A few seconds later, he drags in a breath, shakes his head, and starts to walk. Just as he takes the first step his eyes catch someone ahead, and his body goes still once again.
There is a woman walking a few steps ahead Imran, her luggage rolling quietly behind her. The curve of her shoulders, the tilt of her head, the swing of her steps, it all feels like déjà vu, like a vision resurrected. Imran's heart stops for a second, then begins slamming violently against his ribs. His throat tightens painfully.
“Nadia,” Imran says, barely audible.
His chest constricts as he takes a sharp breath, and then his legs move without his permission. He is running now, weaving through passengers while his eyes locked on the lady. And getting to her, the word rips from him before he knows he is speaking.
“Nadia!”
His shouts and people glance at him, looking confused.
“Nadia!” he calls again, his voice raw, and desperately echoing across the hall.
Catching up to the lady, his hand reaching forward before he can stop himself, and his fingers closing on her shoulder, spinning her around.
Seeing the lady's face, Imran's breath traps in his throat, his eyes wide, and for a moment the world seems to stop. At that moment, he believes he’s seeing Nadia in his front.
“Nadia…” he calls the name out again, breathing heavily.
And then the woman speaks.
“Who is this one… touching me anyhow.” She murmurs with a deep frown and turning around, she speaks again,
“Who is Nadia? And why did you drag me like that?” she snaps, her voice sharp and cutting. She sounds nothing like Nadia's voice that Imran remembers.
She is not Nadia? Imran stands there, stunned, clueless for a beat. He looks at her again, so well this time. The same eyes; wide and luminous. The same lips, and cheekbones.
Imran's chest caves in confusion. He can't believe what he's looking at.
“How… come…” he stutters to say, because the resemblance is uncanny. The woman looks so much like Nadia except for slight differences.
It is not just her back. It is not just her walk. Even her face, God help me, even her face looks like Nadia. Too close. Too much. Or am I hallucinating? Am I losing my mind? Am I getting mad? Imran thinks.
When the lady doesn't hear Imran talk, she shakes her head, glares at him, and drags her luggage firmly as she storms off.
Imran stands frozen in the middle of the hall. His hands shake and his chest pounds like a drum.
A few minutes later he moves, following the lady, telling himself he only needs one more look to prove he was mistaken.
Imran hurries, but the lady is quick. Before he reaches her a sleek black G-wagon glides to the arrival curb outside the glass doors. The driver jumps out, bows slightly to the lady, takes her bag, and opens the door for her. She looks back once at Imran, aware he’s following her. Then she slips inside the car. The driver enters too, starts the car and it pulls onto the road.
As the G-wagon speeds away, Imran watches until the taillights disappear. The sight stabs him and a small, irrational urge to run after the car the lady enters rises up in his chest but he suppresses the urge.
Not long after, Imran's driver pulls up in a white range rover SUV. They exchange brief greetings; the driver collects his luggage and opens the door. Imran slides into the back seat, eyes fixed on the road, with many thoughts racing in his mind.
The driver heads towards the ARA company.
Who is that girl? Nadia's sister? He shakes his head.
No. Nadia is an only child.
So who then? Why did she resemble Nadia that much?
Imran grinds his teeth at his own fevered imagination. Then the way he reacted earlier when he saw the lady surfaces in his mind and he grit his teeth tightly. He hates himself for it. The way he lost control the moment he saw her, taking off after her without thinking, shouting in the middle of the crowd, and even grabbing her by the shoulder.
What on earth is wrong with me. When will I gain power over this obsession? Thank God it was not her. But if it had been, what then? Would I have run into her arms? Would I have hugged her, cried, or kissed her? Or swallowed her? Kissing or hugging another man’s wife? A married woman? I must be mad.
The thought makes him furious with himself and ashamed. Then he forces himself back to reason.
I need to stay away from Nadia. I must do everything I can to never see her again, because it's certain now that I will humiliate myself if I do. I don’t trust myself not to act like a madman in her presence.
And that girl? We mustn't cross paths again.
Imran is referring to the lady he just met at the airport now who looks like Nadia.
***
The white Range Rover SUV pulls into ARA headquarters. Imran steps out and walks into the building, heading straight for the elevator.
Seeing him, the workers start mummering amidst themselves, some bow slightly and some fix their eyes on him, blown away by his handsomeness and aura.
The doors of the boardroom swing open, and the sound of Imran's polished shoes striking the marble floor draws every eye at once at him.
The directors conversation's breaks, and silence takes over the room.
Imran ARA steps inside, tall, and commanding. He removes his glasses with a measured motion, his gaze sweeping across the long mahogany table.
Surprise flashes in all the director’s eyes, a murmur threatening to rise, but none of them dares speak.
Imran inclines his head slightly, “Good morning, everyone” he says, his voice is low, calm, and controlled.
His eyes soften when they land on Mama ARA. “Good morning, Alhaja.” he says to her.
“Welcome, my son,” mama ARA answers, warmth breaking across her wrinkled face.
Imran walks to the empty seat reserved for him and lowers himself into it.
Mama ARA clears her throat with her eyes scanning the room, resting on each face before she speaks.
“As you can all see. My grandson, Imran ARA, has returned. From this day forward, he will become a Vice President of this company.” Mama ARA speaks with audacity, knowing definitely some of the board members will have one or two opinions but she doesn't care. She's the major shareholder at the company so her word is law.
Mama ARA words fall heavy on the board members' hearings and they all look at each other's face. Some of them nod approvingly, some force polite smiles, but not all faces are pleased. Mama ARA catches them off guard. They are all expecting a new vice president but none of them know the person will be Imran. They don't even know he is returning today much less knowing he will be made a vice president of the company.
At the far end of the table sits Bashir ARA, Mama ARA’s late husband’s nephew. His lips curve into an eager smile, his face glowing with relief as Imran ARA is announced as the new Vice President of ARA Company.
For weeks, Bashir has been restless, praying the new appointee would not be an outsider; someone strict, incorruptible, someone who might dig too deep into company affairs. Because for years, he and Jay, Imran’s maternal uncle who is now in jail, have been siphoning profits quietly through their department. They manipulate contracts, supply substandard raw materials to the factory, and participate in illegal dealings behind closed doors. His position as an Operations Director does not give him full control. He depends on collaboration with higher-ups; those who can sign, approve, and look the other way so they can all share the proceeds.
Now, seeing Imran occupy the position, Bashir’s chest swells with relief. He hides his satisfaction behind a mask of admiration, nodding thoughtfully as others clap for the new Vice President, believing he has found himself another partner in crime. Unaware that Imran is no longer the man he was three years ago.
When the meeting ends and Imran rises to leave, Bashir follows him. In the corridor, he quickens his pace, catching up with him.
“You’re welcome, Imran. I thought you might not come back as you said… you know… you remember you promised you wouldn’t be returning.” Bashir says with enthusiasm. His tone carries familiarity, the kind that comes from shared history and past closeness. But the expression on Imran’s face is the opposite.
Imran looks at him briefly. His eyes are cold, unreadable, and distant. There is no warmth in them, no recognition of the bond Bashir is trying to recall. “I’m here now,” Imran says firmly. And like that, he brushes past Bashir and moves on to his new office.
Bashir freezes for a moment and then turns slightly, watching Imran continue down the corridor, his mind struggling to process what just happened.
“What’s wrong with him? Why did he talk and look at me like that…?” Bashir mutters in disbelief.
“No… no, this can’t be. You can’t look at me like that… not now at least… I need you now more than ever now…for Fuscap deal…Oh no….” He whispers to himself.
He stands there for a moment, still watching as Imran disappears from view.
Getting to his office, he is so restless. Pacing back and forth thinking. Then after a while, he moves and goes to Imran's office.
***
The woman Imran ARA just saw at the airport is Ameerah Sanni, and she has just arrived from Dubai.
Inside the G-wagon, Amirah slides into the back seat, her breath rushing in and out of her chest. She pulls down the curtain to cover the driver's sight on her and the tinted windows to shield her from roadside eyes.
She moves quickly, shedding the travel clothes she wore from Dubai. She then pulls on a crisp white blouse and a flowing skirt. She smooths the fabric down, then wraps a long scarf around her shoulders. A final veil slips over her hair, draping her face in modest dignity. When she lifts the curtain again, her reflection in the glass startles even her, she looks so beautiful.
“Drive to ARA headquarters,” Amirah says firmly.
The driver glances back and says, “But, ma, your parents are waiting at home…”
Amirah cuts him off, her tone sharp and rushy. “They can wait. The interview can’t. Take me to the company.”
“Please be fast. I am late for the interview.” She adds,
The driver swallows, nods, and says, “Okay ma.”
At ARA headquarters, in the interview hall. A long table stretches across the front, lined with panelists. Four senior staff members, each with files stacked before them. And there is Lekan, Bashir’s assistant, sitting among them.
And at the center of the table is Imran ARA, his broad shoulders leaned back in his chair and his fingers massaging his chin while he stares ahead.
One after another, candidates step in, answer their questions, and leave with nervous smiles.
Then the secretary calls the next person, “Sanni Amirah.”
The door opens, and Amirah steps in. Imran’s eyes land on her immediately.
Seeing her again, he stiffens. His hand freezes mid-tap against the desk. His eyes widen for a brief moment, then narrow, hard as stone. For a split second, his mind pulls him back to Nadia. But when his gaze settles on the black mole on Amirah’s face, he realizes she's not Nadia.
It’s her. The girl from the airport. The one with Nadia’s face. But what… what on earth is she doing here?
His heart lurches violently against his ribs, each beat heavier, faster, as though trying to jump out of his chest. Heat rises up his neck, anger and disbelief twisting tightly inside him.
No. Not here. Not again.
He thinks, his mind racing and his chest tightens.
Amirah walks forward, her veil framing her face with quiet grace. She holds herself tall and composed, ready for whatever question may come.
Imran grips the edge of the table, his fingers tightening around it, nails pressing into it and his jaw clenches.
You this lady…or girl… whatever you are. Just know one thing. You are not getting this job. I will make sure of that. I won’t allow it. Never.
I have spent three years trying to get Nadia out of my head. And now you show up… bringing her face back into my world… dragging me back to where I started. Never again. You are never going to work for me. Blame it on the fact that you look exactly like the only woman I ever loved… but never had.
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A story by MORUFAT AJANI
