Unavoidably Yours.

Chapter Two: Arrival and Reports.

KITAN

The first thing that registers upon landing is the thick, stifling wave of heat inside Murtala Muhammed Airport. The air conditioners are seemingly for decoration, barely putting up a fight against the midday sun. At every turn, officials hover as they whisper-beg for handouts.

Kitan shrugs out of his jacket, sweat already pooling on his forehead as he waits. The baggage carousel groans, its belt squeaking at a glacial pace, yet to produce a single suitcase.

It has been thirty minutes since they touched down, and the entire flight remains huddled around the claim area in a restless, humid semicircle.

When his luggage finally slides through the rubber flaps, he breathes a murmur of gratitude and hauls it from the belt.

After six hours of breathing recycled aircraft air, he craves only two things: his mother’s hug and a plate of hot, white rice with peppered chicken stew.

The last time he was here, just eight months ago, his sister was getting married (again). But today... he brushes off the heavy thoughts that assailed him throughout the flight and pushes toward the exit.

He makes his way past a gauntlet of drivers calling for passengers and the aggravating rattle of trolleys on tile. Someone nearby is shouting into a phone like the person on the other end might be deaf.

He scans the pickup area instinctively, looking for Oyinda. Without a Nigerian SIM, he has no way to reach her, but he is certain she will be there.

She has always been terrible at waiting quietly; even as children, she would spot him first, waving wildly before he had even reached the gate.

But the crowd parts slightly and he sees Enitan instead.

She is standing beside the driver near the curb, one arm folded across her waist, the other loosely holding her phone. The amber wash of the airport lights catches the sharp edge of her profile as she looks up, scanning the crowd.

His chest does that strange, stuttering thing again - the same thing that happened when he saw her at Oyinda’s wedding. He had convinced himself then that it was just the mood of the event, and how iridescent she looked in her champagne coloured dress.

But now, seeing her in simple black linen pants and a matching shirt, she still manages to have the same effect. He shakes his head vigorously to expel the thought. This is Enitan o. Little sister Enitan.

He has seen her too many times to be this affected by the sight of her. There have been countless video calls over the years, late-night conversations with Oyinda when heartbreak had hollowed her out, Enitan leaning into the frame beside her, both of them arguing over something ridiculous while he listened from a hospital break room somewhere in London.

He follows her on Instagram too so he knows exactly how she looks.

Yet, the sheer reality of her standing here, breathing the same heavy air, still manages to catch him completely off guard.

The fatigue beneath her eyes softens the sharpness of her features, but it does nothing to dim the fact that she is unexpectedly, inconveniently beautiful. Realizing he has unconsciously slowed his pace, Kitan forces his legs to keep moving.

By the time he reaches her, a faint smile is already playing on her lips.

“Our doctor”

He exhales a dry laugh. “Is that my name?”

“I will call you whatever I like”

The driver deftly takes his suitcase and leads the way toward a black SUV idling near the curb. Kitan glances past her instinctively, searching the shadows of the car.

“Where is your best friend?”

The corner of her mouth tilts. “At home. She sent me in her stead.”

“Is she okay?”

Enitan’s expression softens. “She hasn’t been sleeping well. Your mum insisted she stay back and rest. Plus, Oga Kamil has strictly warned all of us not to disturb her.”

He nods slowly in understanding.

“You look tired,” he says, observing her.

She lets out a small, weary breath. “That is a very polite way of saying I look terrible.”

“Wow. Look at you, so smart. That is exactly what I meant.”

She glances sideways at him, a spark of the old Enitan flickering in her eyes. “I will allow it. But only because I know you haven’t slept either.”

“And you know this how?”

“You never sleep on planes,” she says simply.

He turns his head, catching her gaze. “You remember that?”

“You used to complain about it every single Christmas holiday.”

He smiles despite himself, a brief reprieve from the dread.

The car pulls away from the terminal, merging into the frantic flow of airport traffic. For a few minutes, they watch the city blur past the windows - motorcycles weaving through gaps, headlights stretching into endless, shimmering lines along the road. Until the levity vanishes.

“How is he?” Kitan asks in between a sigh.

Enitan looks down at her hands, her thumbs tracing her knuckles before she answers. “Not good.”

They drive the rest of the way through without much conversation. What else is there to say when your minds are consumed with the same anxious thoughts? When the gates of St. Catherine’s Medical Centre finally loom into view, the knot in Kitan’s chest tightens until it aches.

As the car rolls to a stop outside the entrance, Enitan reaches for the door handle but pauses.

“Kitan.”

He looks up, meeting her eyes.

“He’ll be glad you came.”

He nods once, his throat tight. “I know.”

They step out of the car in unison, the doors clicking shut on either side.

**********

A nurse looks up from the reception desk as they approach. Her gaze flicks briefly between them. Enitan doesn’t slow.

“He’s with me,” she says as they walk past.

The nurse’s gaze follows them a second longer, then drops back to her screen.

Kitan watches the numbers change as the lift hums upwards. His reflection stares back at him in the mirrored panel - creased shirt, travel-worn eyes, disheveled hair.

Beside him, Enitan leans lightly against the wall with her arms loosely folded. Up close, the fatigue in her eyes is more apparent.

“You should have gone home,” he says.

“And miss your grand entrance?”

“There was nothing grand about it.”

She glances at him. “That depends on who you ask.”

The doors part before he can respond.

His mother is the first one to catch his attention. She’s sitting down the hallway, not far from the elevator with her open bible in her lap. Her face brightens up the moment she sees him.

“Olakitan”

“I’m here,” he says, making a beeline for her in quick strides. He gathers her in his hands and hugs her like.....

“You came quickly.” She sniffs hurriedly as she releases him.

“Of course.”

“Kitan.”

He follows the sound to see Oyinda standing behind her, leaning into the armrest with the kind of tired posture that tells him she has been running on adrenaline longer than is advised.

Pregnancy has softened her face slightly, but she is still in many ways exactly as she had always been.

“You look terrible,” he murmurs into her hair as he hugs her

She laughs weakly against his shoulder. “Nice to see you too.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he says, as he releases her.

“And you were supposed to go home first,” she looks pointedly at Enitan who has now caught up to them. Enitan shrugs in response.

“What are you doing here?” he asks again, softer this time.

“Please help me ask her” Mrs Peter chimes in.

She shrugs lightly. “I got tired of being told to rest.”

Enitan exhales under her breath.

Oyinda shifts her weight from one leg to the other as she sneers at Enitan’s silent protest. One hand rests low, unconsciously protective, thumb tracing a slow arc over the curve beneath her dress.

Kitan bites his tongue as his gaze follows her movement. “This is not the time for coconut head behaviour, madam”

“Daddy is sick, Kitan. You were not there. It’s really bad. What was I supposed to do?”

“You were supposed to listen to your husband and go home to rest. See your tired eyes”

“I’m waiting for Kamil.”

Kitan’s gaze flicks to Enitan for confirmation, then back. “He’s coming?”

“He said he would pick me up himself.” A faint roll of her eyes. “He’s close.”

“God, this babe. You are stressing that man”

“Abeg abeg. He’s the one who insisted. He could have sent a driver”

“Are we even sure he knows you are still here? For all we know, the poor man thinks you are sleeping at home.”

“He knows. Mummy already called him.”

Kitan lowers himself into one of the chairs in resignation. Oyinda sinks back into hers more carefully this time, one hand still resting unconsciously against her midsection. The movement is small, almost absent-minded.

“Come,” Enitan says gently as she props a pillow behind Oyinda’s back “Let me call Kamil.”

“I’m fine,” Oyinda murmurs.

“You’re too stubborn. Uncle Kola is already sick, I can’t have anything happening to you. So you better not stress me”

“I said I’m fine.”

“And I said I’m calling your husband.”

There is no sharpness in Enitan’s tone. Just a firmness that brooks no argument.

Oyinda lets out a breath that sounds halfway between a protest and surrender.

“You people have decided I don’t have a say in my own life again.”

“You lost that privilege the moment you started carrying someone else’s,” Enitan replies.

That earns the faintest smile.

Kitan watches them, his chest easing at the familiarity of it. The rhythm of their interaction is still the same as it always has. Enitan steps aside, already dialing.

She turns slightly away, her voice dropping as she speaks to Kamil, explaining, negotiating, conceding ground in the careful way one does with a man who is worried and trying not to show it.

Kitan leans back in his chair, stretching his legs out in front of him.

“You look like you’re about to collapse,” Oyinda says.

“So do you.”

“I have an excuse.”

“Na wa. sorry o. someone would think that I did not just get off a 6 hour flight that I boarded as soon as I got off night shift”

“I need to see daddy first”

She nods, satisfied with that, and leans her head back again.

Across the corridor, Enitan ends the call and returns.

“He’s on his way, and I should warn you, he’s upset.” she says.

Oyinda groans softly. “You people have reported me.”

“For your own good.”

Kitan lets out a quiet laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Enitan glares at him in confusion.

He turns his thumbs upside down towards her and sticks out his tongue to which she shakes her head.

“Olakitan, agbaya” Mrs Peters laughs.

“Mummy don’t mind him o. He has refused to grow up” Enitan adds sweetly.

She drops into the chair beside Oyinda, but not before her gaze flickers briefly toward Kitan. It lingers for a fraction longer than necessary then she looks away before he has the chance to respond.

The room door stands a few feet away, closed.

“He just fell asleep,” Mrs Peters says, following his glance.

Kitan checks his watch out of habit, then drops his hand.

“I’ll wait.”

Mrs Peters remains standing for a moment, then exhales softly. “I will go and lie down for a while,” she says. “Shey the driver that brought you is still downstairs”

“Yes ma” Enitan responds

Kitan rises to escort his mother. When they get to the car, she looks at him with tired eyes.

“I am happy you’re here”

“I missed you too mummy”

“Don’t stay too long o. You and your sister are the same. Come home as soon as you see your father.”

“Yes ma” He says as he does a mock salute.

She chuckles, reaching up to touch his face briefly before turning away.

A few minutes pass before footsteps approach from the far end of the corridor. Kamil appears at the turn, already scanning until he finds her.

The shift in his gait is immediate. Whatever sits tight across his shoulders loosens a fraction when it lands on her.

“My love.” The concern in his voice is poorly disguised. “I told you to rest.”

He crouches slightly in front of her “Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Babe...”

“No. We are going home now”

He turns to look at Kitan as though just noticing his presence. “Bro, welcome back. When did you get in?”

Kitan smiles as they shake hands. “Not long ago to be honest.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t realise you were here”

“How will you realise?” He laughs. “when you walked in with tunnel vision”

Kamil runs a hand across his head in frustration. “this your sister wants to kill me”

Kitan stifles a laugh. “Don’t mind her. But good luck sha. You will need it”

“Wow wow. If you people are talking about me like this in my presence. Only God knows what you say when I’m not here”

Kamil turns to face her “I’m not sure why you are still sitting down. Please gather your things and stand up like somebody who plans to leave this place”

Oyinda stands carefully. Kamil steadies her without drawing attention to it, his hand hovering just long enough to make sure she finds her balance.

“Call me when you get home,” Kitan says.

“I will.”

She hugs him once more, then turns to Enitan. “Enforcement prefect, you need to rest too. Don’t stay too long.”

Enitan smiles. “I’ll try.”

They both know she won’t.

And then there are two.

Kitan sinks deeper into his chair, stretching his legs slightly, the fatigue settling into his bones now that there is nothing immediate to do. Enitan sits beside him, shoulders easing back against the wall.

For a while, neither of them speaks. The hospital hum continues around them.

Footsteps. Distant voices. The chatter of nurses as they make their usual rounds. Enitan shifts slightly in her chair, rolling her shoulders in an attempt to stiffness that has settled there.

Kitan glances sideways. “You should have gone home with them”

“Someone has to be around”

“You’ve been here since yesterday?”

She nods. “Pretty much”

He studies her for a moment. “You should sleep.”

She huffs softly. “You too.”

He shakes his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“How bad is it?”

Enitan looks down at her hands for a moment before answering.

“I don’t think they’re telling us everything yet.”

Kitan nods slowly, forcing away the voices in his brain screaming possibilities at him.

She lifts her gaze to meet his. “He’ll be fine” she says “Uncle Kola is strong. I’m sure it is nothing serious.”

“I hope so” his reply is barely a whisper but it is loud enough to echo their combined concerns.

**********

Mr Peters wakes forty minutes later.

Kitan marks the shift in his father’s breathing before the nurse does - the minute hitch, the ghost of a stir beneath the hospital blanket.

He is standing before the old man’s eyes even open, already reaching for the glass of water by his bedside.

“Kitan Bobo,” Mr Peters murmurs, voice roughened by sleep.

Kitan’s mouth lifts in a faint, practiced arc as he helps him sit. “How are you feeling?”

His father takes a deliberate sip, the glass trembling slightly. “Like I am ready to go home to my wife.”

“That usually means you’re improving.”

That earns him a brief chuckle before fatigue folds itself across the older man’s face again.

Kitan mentally tracks the physical cost of the laugh, the slight tightening of tissue beneath the eyes while keeping his own expression neutral.

Years in emergency medicine have taught him how to quarantine his face, ensuring no flicker of inner turmoil reaches the patient.

A soft knock breaks through his thoughts. Dr. Afolayan enters with the easy confidence of a man who is long familiar with the family.

“Ah,” the consultant says warmly on spotting Kitan. “The prodigal son.”

“Dr. Afolayan. Good evening sir.”

“Still making the weary wait twelve hours in A&E?”

Kitan exhales a dry laugh. “Only on weekdays.”

The older man offers a firm handshake before turning toward the bed. “And how are we this evening, Mr. Peters?”

“Weary of all of you.”

“Excellent,” Afolayan replies smoothly as he double checks the vitals monitor. “Complaining patients are surviving patients.”

Mr. Peters grunts a sound of deep skepticism. The doctor’s smile lingers for a moment before his gaze snaps back to Kitan with professional courtesy.

“Walk with me?”

Kitan nods. He doesn’t need to be told why.

Afolayan slips his hands into the pockets of his white coat as they drift toward the general waiting area.

“Give it to me straight,” Kitan says, his voice low, clinical.

The older man exhales, his gaze fixed on the linoleum. “We’re still waiting on the histopathology to confirm.”

“But.”

Afolayan glances at him, his expression softening with reluctant pity. “You’re a doctor, Kitan. What do you think? Based on your assessment of his condition, what are your suspicions?”

Kitan doesn’t respond. He can’t. He thinks back to the CT scans he caught a glimpse of earlier while the nurse was titrating his father’s IV. Even from a distance, the irregular margins on the images was enough to make his blood cold.

He saw the way the radiologist had lingered on the retroperitoneal space. The shadowing had given him cause for concern but he had swatted away the thought, convinced that he did not see well.

Afolayan stops near the end of the corridor, tucked into an arched alcove away from passing staff. “The imaging shows a focal mass in the head of the pancreas.”

Kitan’s breath hitches, but he holds it behind a flat stare. “Obstruction?”

“There’s significant biliary ductal dilation,” Afolayan admits. “And the way it’s rim-enhancing... it’s highly suggestive of a primary malignancy.”

“Pancreatic adenocarcinoma,” Kitan says. The words feel like jagged glass in his throat.

Afolayan studies him for a beat, then nods slowly. “We believe so.”

“What’s the staging? Is there vascular involvement? The SMA or the portal vein?”

“We’re still assessing resectability, but there is some suspicious lymphadenopathy nearby.” Afolayan says, his voice dropping an octave.

He doesn’t say Stage III, but the way he avoids Kitan’s eyes says enough. It is the tipping point between a surgical cure and a holding action.

Kitan presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, eyes fixed on the polished floor. His brain enters a forced, rhythmic cycle of clinical triage. Whipple procedure. Chemotherapy. Palliative stenting. Arterial reconstruction. Five-year survival rates.

He calculates the five-year survival rates in his head. Even without a distant spread, the percentages are a grim lottery, and he knows the math better than most.

“Does my mother know?”

“Not yet. You’re the first one I’m speaking to. I thought... Given your background, you’d want to be the one to bridge that gap with the family. I’ll be here for the technical questions, but they’ll need your voice for the rest.”

Kitan nods once, a stiff, jerky movement. “When is the biopsy result back?”

“Tomorrow morning, hopefully.”

The silence that follows is heavy, pressurized by the smell of antiseptic. Afolayan’s posture loses its professional rigidity.

“You know,” he says softly, “your father still introduces you to everyone as ‘my son, the doctor’ every chance he gets.”

Kitan huffs a dry, hollow sound through his nose. “That sounds like him.”

“He’s incredibly proud of you, Kitan.”

Kitan looks back toward the room. Through the narrow glass pane, he sees his father struggling to pull the blanket over his chest. In the dim, fluorescent light, the man looks translucent. Brittle.

For the first time since the frantic call reached him in London, the clinical wall in Kitan’s mind collapses. Bone-chilling fear moves through him in absolute waves.

Afolayan rests a hand briefly on Kitan’s shoulder before stepping away. “I have to finish rounds. We’ll talk when the labs move.”

Kitan barely nods. He watches the consultant disappear around the corner, then turns back to the room. His legs feel like lead, each step toward his father’s door a conscious, agonizing effort of will.

***********

Enitan sits alone in the row of chairs opposite the door, one leg tucked beneath her, scrolling through her phone with the frantic concentration of someone trying very hard to think of nothing at all.

She looks up as he approaches. One glance at his face and her expression fractures.

She stands slowly, the phone forgotten in her grip. “What’s wrong? What did he say?”

Kitan looks at her, and suddenly he understands why they say exhaustion strips things to their truest form. There is no performance left in her - no teasing, no careful lightness maintained for Oyinda’s sake.

Just a raw, exposed concern for his father. For him, too. Has she always been this beautiful?

He exhales, the weight of the news settled deep in his chest. “They found a mass. They’re running more tests to confirm the pathology, but we’ll know the specifics soon.”

Her fingers tighten around the edge of her phone. “How bad, Kitan?”

Kitan looks toward the door again, the sterile light of the hallway reflecting in the glass. “I don’t know yet.”

It is the truth. But it isn’t the whole truth. And judging by the way Enitan watches him, her eyes searching the gaps in his voice, she knows it too.

---

Author’s Note: The plot thickens. 🤧 Let’s hold prayer meeting to pray for Mr peters. 🥹

Side note; Kitan don dey fall oo.🌚

Catch up: Chapter one.

See you next week Monday.🫶🏽