✍️ Stranger in the Taxi: He Didn’t Even Know My Name

"Lagos. Rain. A stranger I shouldn’t have kissed."

Lagos heat had a way of making everything feel heavier — the traffic, the tension, the thoughts she tried to ignore. She had just finished work in Victoria Island, shoes in one hand, frustration in the other, when she finally found a KabuKabu heading toward the mainland.

She slid into the back seat and barely noticed the man already inside until the door shut behind her.

Tall. Dark-skinned. Clean fade. Eyes like he’d seen trouble — and maybe started it.

“Ojota,” she told the driver.

“Same,” the stranger said. His voice was deep, like slow thunder. She glanced at him. He didn’t smile — but he didn’t look away either.

As the taxi crawled through traffic, the silence stretched. Sweat trickled down her back, but it wasn’t just the heat. She could feel him watching her from the corner of his eye. Not boldly. Not rudely. Just enough to make her thighs press together.

The first jolt came when the driver swerved too hard — their shoulders touched. Electricity. Skin on skin. She tried to play it cool. Failed.

“Rough ride,” he said, his lips curving. She nodded. But her breathing wasn’t normal anymore.

“Mind if I…” he gestured to her earbud. She hesitated — then handed him one. He slid it in. Their fingers brushed.

Burn.

The next ten minutes passed in charged silence. Same music. Same rhythm. Same energy rising between them like Lagos humidity.

Then came the rain. Sudden. Heavy. The driver muttered and pulled under a bridge to wait it out.

The moment the door shut and the driver stepped out for a smoke, it was just them.

She turned slowly. So did he.

“You don’t even know my name,” she said.

He smiled — slow and wicked. “Don’t need it.”

And then — he kissed her.

Not soft. Not sweet. His hand found her throat gently, thumb tracing her jaw as his lips claimed hers. Like he'd been waiting all day. She gasped, and he deepened it — his tongue teasing, fingers sliding up her thigh, under the hem of her dress.

The city buzzed outside, but inside that cab, it was just two strangers tasting temptation.

When the driver returned, soaked and swearing at the weather, they sat apart like nothing had happened — except for her trembling fingers and the smirk he wore like a secret.

She stepped out at Ojota without a word. He didn’t ask her name.

But he touched her wrist as she passed and whispered, “Next time... front seat.”