Marcus Adeyemi was an engineer, but not the kind people pictured when they heard the word.
He could build a spreadsheet capable of forecasting the household budget through the Second Coming, but he routinely forgot where he had put his wallet. He believed almost every problem could be improved by food, a nap, prayer, or—if none of those worked—turning the thing off and back on again. He was six feet tall, deeply suspicious of unnecessary meetings, and had once driven twenty-three minutes across town because somebody told him a new Nigerian restaurant had “proper” jollof rice.
Proper, in Marcus’s vocabulary, was not a casual adjective. It was theology.
His Ghanaian friend Leslie had been trying for years to correct Marcus’s understanding of rice. Leslie, whom Marcus referred to as the Ghanaian sensation because Leslie had once worn sunglasses indoors at a church picnic and somehow made it look reasonable, maintained that Ghana had settled the jollof question generations ago.
Marcus maintained that Leslie needed deliverance.
This was the kind of friendship they had.
Tasha, meanwhile, thought the entire West African jollof war was ridiculous, mostly because every time the men began arguing about it, they ate two plates each.
She had been married to Marcus for eleven years, which meant she knew several important things about him. She knew he loved God deeply but occasionally negotiated with Him about getting out of bed for early service. She knew that when Marcus said, “I’m just resting my eyes,” the movie was effectively over for him. She knew he could spend forty-five minutes researching which television to buy and then purchase the first one with free delivery.
She also knew when her husband was disappearing.
Not physically. Marcus was standing directly in front of her in the kitchen on this particular Tuesday evening.
But his face had gone somewhere else.
“Marcus.”
“Hm?”
Tasha folded her arms. “Where did you just go?”
“I’m right here.”
“That is not what I asked.”
He looked at her, and she looked back. Their marriage had reached that advanced stage where entire paragraphs could be exchanged through facial expressions. Marcus’s face said, Please don’t start. Tasha’s replied, Interesting choice of words for someone who has not yet heard me start.
Before either of them could continue, their eight-year-old daughter walked into the kitchen wearing a bedsheet tied around her shoulders.
“Mommy, did Harriet Tubman wear a crown?”
Tasha turned slowly. “No.”
“What about sometimes?”
“No.”
“Like for special occasions?”
“Baby, Harriet Tubman was not a queen.”
Their daughter frowned, visibly disappointed in history.
At the table, six-year-old Josiah raised his hand. Nobody knew why he had started raising his hand at home.
“Yes?” Marcus asked.
“My broccoli touched my rice.”
Marcus looked down at the plate. “Yes.”
“I don’t like when they know each other.”
Tasha closed her eyes.
From somewhere upstairs, their oldest son shouted, “DAD! THE PRINTER SAYS MAGENTA!”
Marcus looked toward heaven—not dramatically, just enough for God to know he had questions.
It had already been a long day. Marcus had spent most of it in meetings, including one called a “quick sync” that lasted fifty-eight minutes and somehow produced another meeting. Tasha had worked all day too, collected three children from two different places, prepared dinner, located poster board for a school project nobody had mentioned until 7:42 p.m., and discovered a load of laundry in the washing machine that had been there long enough to qualify for residency.
Neither of them was operating under the influence of the Holy Spirit’s full fruit basket.
This, naturally, was when Tasha decided to ask about Marcus’s brother.
“Did you call David?”
Marcus’s shoulders changed. It was a tiny movement, but Tasha caught it.
“No.”
“You said you were going to.”
“I know.”
“You said that Sunday.”
“I know.”
“And yesterday.”
“I know, Tash.”
David had lost his job two months earlier. He was Marcus’s younger brother by three years and, according to their mother, “not himself lately,” which in African-mother language could mean anything from mild discouragement to imminent societal collapse.
Marcus had been meaning to call him, but he had also been avoiding the call. Both things were true.
Tasha leaned against the counter.
“He called me today.”
Marcus looked up. “Why?”
“To talk.”
“I mean, why did he call you?”
Tasha gave him a look. “You know people occasionally call me voluntarily.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“He asked about the kids. Asked how we were doing.”
“And?”
“And he asked if you were busy.”
Marcus looked away. “I am busy.”
“I told him.”
“Okay.”
Tasha waited, which Marcus hated.
Tasha was an accountant by training, and Marcus believed this explained her unnerving willingness to let silence sit on the table until all outstanding items had been reconciled.
“So when are you calling him?” she asked.
“I said I’ll call him.”
“When?”
Marcus exhaled. There are ordinary questions, and then there are questions that catch a tired man at 8:14 p.m. and somehow arrive carrying a clipboard.
“I don’t know, Tasha. When I get a chance.”
“You’ve had chances.”
That did it—not because she was wrong, but because the worst arguments often begin when your spouse is correct at an inconvenient volume.
Marcus’s jaw tightened. “You don’t know what my day has been like.”
Tasha’s eyebrows rose.
Marcus immediately wanted the words back. He could almost see them floating between them, still warm from the factory.
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. Tell me about having a difficult day.”
“Tash, come on.”
“No, seriously. I’ve heard rumors.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
Josiah raised his hand again.
Both parents turned.
“Can I have cereal?”
“No.”
He lowered his hand, and for one beautiful second Marcus and Tasha were united again.
Then Tasha looked back at him.
Marcus rubbed his forehead. “I can’t do this right now.”
Her expression changed. “What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t want to argue.”
“Neither do I.”
“Great.”
“Marcus.”
“What?”
“Don’t shut down now.”
“I’m not shutting down.”
“You’re already halfway upstairs in your spirit.”
Marcus almost laughed.
He did not.
This was growth.
“I need some space.”
Tasha stared at him.
There it was: the sentence that sounded perfectly reasonable inside Marcus’s head and considerably less reasonable once it entered the room.
Marcus meant, My brain is overheating, I love you, and if we continue this conversation I may say something stupid enough to require pastoral intervention.
Tasha heard, I have decided that this conversation is finished.
“How much space?”
“What?”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Twenty minutes?”
“Tasha.”
“An hour?”
“I said I don’t know.”
“So what am I supposed to do?”
“Nothing. Just leave me alone for a little bit.”
“How long is a little bit?”
Marcus stared at her. “Tash, why are you interrogating the word little?”
“Because I’ve met you.”
He exhaled sharply, and then, before wisdom could get its shoes on, irritation ran out of the house first.
“I just need you to stop talking to me.”
The room went quiet.
Even Marcus heard it.
Tasha’s face became very still.
“Oh.”
Marcus closed his eyes. “That came out wrong.”
“No,” she said quietly. “I think it came out exactly how you wanted it to.”
“Tasha—”
“Go take your space.”
Marcus stood there for half a second, then went upstairs.
He did not slam the office door. He closed it firmly, a distinction that mattered very much to Marcus and absolutely nobody else in the house.
Downstairs, Tasha loaded the dishwasher.
Not angrily, exactly. She was simply placing each plate into its assigned location with unusual spiritual authority.
She loved Marcus. This was important to remember at moments like this. She loved the man deeply.
She also occasionally understood why Scripture specified that love was patient. Apparently somebody had seen marriage coming.
Her phone buzzed.
The couples group chat.
LESLIE: Anybody alive?
Tasha stared at the screen and typed:
TASHA: Barely.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
LESLIE: Marcus?
Tasha laughed despite herself.
TASHA: How did you know?
LESLIE: My sister, I have known that man fourteen years.
Then another message appeared.
LESLIE: He said “I need space,” abi?
Tasha froze.
TASHA: I hate you.
LESLIE: 😂😂😂
LESLIE: That is how you ladies are. Man says he needs 20 minutes, suddenly there is a parliamentary inquiry.
Tasha stared at the message.
TASHA: He did not say 20 minutes. THAT IS THE PROBLEM.
A few seconds passed.
LESLIE: Ah.
Then:
LESLIE: In that case may God be with him.
Tasha burst out laughing, a real laugh this time.
Josiah appeared in the doorway.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Uncle Leslie.”
He nodded, apparently satisfied by the explanation.
“Can I have cereal now?”
“No.”
He disappeared.
Tasha looked toward the stairs.
The truth was, she did not actually need Marcus to stay downstairs. She could give him space, and she liked space herself. Two months earlier, Marcus had taken all three children out for an entire Saturday afternoon, and Tasha had spent almost three hours in bed with a novel, snacks, and nobody saying “Mommy” from another room. She still remembered that afternoon with inappropriate tenderness.
No, the problem was not space.
The problem was Marcus’s version of later.
Sometimes later meant twenty minutes. Sometimes it meant morning. Sometimes it meant next Tuesday. Sometimes later simply disappeared like one sock in the dryer, and when Tasha brought the subject up again Marcus would look genuinely surprised that the matter had survived.
She did not need the argument solved tonight. She needed to know it had not been abandoned.
Upstairs, Marcus sat alone.
For the first thirty seconds, the silence was glorious.
Then his conscience joined him.
She kept pushing.
Marcus agreed.
You were rude.
Marcus rejected the motion.
She knows you’ve had a long day.
Excellent.
She had a long day too.
Marcus frowned. He had not invited cross-examination.
His phone buzzed with a message from Leslie.
LESLIE: Brother. Whatever you did, apologize before she calls Sonia.
Marcus sat up.
MARCUS: Why would she call Sonia?
LESLIE: Women have infrastructure.
Marcus laughed.
Then another message arrived.
LESLIE: Also call your brother.
Marcus stopped smiling.
He stared at the screen. Maybe Tasha had told Leslie about David. Maybe she had not. Leslie knew Marcus well enough that it hardly mattered.
David had been struggling, and Marcus had been avoiding the call because he did not know what to offer him. He had no job lead, no brilliant advice, no speech that would make unemployment, disappointment, and fear suddenly behave themselves.
Marcus had always been good at showing up when there was something to do: fix the car, move the couch, build the budget, research the options, find the answer.
But what was he supposed to do with pain that did not have a task list?
His phone buzzed again.
This time it was David.
A photograph appeared on the screen: the two of them fifteen years younger, standing beside their father’s old grill. David was holding a plate of badly burned chicken while Marcus laughed beside him.
Underneath it:
We really thought we could cook 😂
Then another message arrived.
No pressure about calling. I know you’re busy.
Marcus read the sentence twice.
Everybody knew what no pressure meant.
He looked toward the office door, and something about the evening suddenly felt embarrassingly clear. Tasha wanted him to come back. David wanted him to call. In both cases, Marcus had convinced himself that he needed the right words before he could show up.
He opened Tasha’s messages.
MARCUS: I’m sorry for how I talked to you. I’m still wound up. Give me until 9 and I’ll come back downstairs. We’ll finish talking. I love you.
He sent it.
Thirty seconds later:
TASHA: Okay.
Then:
TASHA: 9:00.
Marcus smiled.
MARCUS: Yes ma’am.
The typing bubbles appeared immediately.
TASHA: Do not “yes ma’am” me.
Marcus laughed aloud.
MARCUS: Understood.
Another pause.
TASHA: Somehow worse.
Marcus sat back in his chair.
Nothing was solved yet, but downstairs Tasha knew he was coming back, and upstairs Marcus knew somebody was waiting.
Sometimes that knowledge changes the whole room.
At 8:58, Marcus walked downstairs.
Tasha looked at the clock. “Early.”
“I wanted it entered into the record.”
“You have received two minutes of credit.”
“Thank you.”
“They expire tonight.”
Marcus sat beside her, and they talked.
Not perfectly.
Tasha told him that when he walked away without saying when he would return, she felt as though the conversation—and sometimes she herself—had simply been left hanging. Marcus explained that he was not trying to punish her. Sometimes he genuinely needed quiet before he could make sense of what was happening inside him.
“So tell me that,” Tasha said. “And tell me when you’re coming back.”
Marcus nodded. “A bridge.”
“What?”
“If I leave, I leave a bridge.”
Tasha looked at him for a moment. “Yes.”
Marcus sat with that, then picked up his phone.
“You calling David?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you know what you’re going to say?”
Marcus looked at her. “No.”
Tasha smiled. “Good.”
He frowned. “How is that good?”
“Because maybe he doesn’t need your TED Talk.”
“I have never given anybody a TED Talk.”
“You once gave me a seventeen-minute explanation of why we should change internet providers.”
“There were charts.”
“There were seven charts, Marcus.”
“They were useful.”
“Call your brother.”
Marcus shook his head and pressed the button.
David answered.
“Look who finally remembered he has family.”
Marcus laughed. “Man, shut up.”
“There he is.”
For a while, they joked about the photograph, their father’s grill, and Leslie still claiming Ghanaian jollof was superior despite years of evidence and prayer.
Then the laughter faded.
Marcus asked, “How are you really doing?”
There was a long pause.
“I’ve been better.”
Marcus felt the familiar urge rise in him: fill the silence, fix it, say something wise, find the answer.
This time, he didn’t.
“I figured,” he said.
David exhaled. “I thought maybe you were avoiding me.”
Marcus closed his eyes. “I was.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“It wasn’t because I didn’t care. I just didn’t know what to say. I don’t know how to fix this for you.”
David was quiet for a moment.
Then he said, “Marcus, I didn’t ask you to fix anything.”
Marcus stopped.
“I just miss my brother.”
Across the room, Tasha looked up.
Marcus looked at her, and something passed between them—the entire night distilled into one sentence.
Maybe the people who loved him were not always waiting for Marcus to arrive with an answer.
Maybe sometimes they were simply waiting for Marcus to come back.
He swallowed.
“I miss you too, man.”
Later that night, Marcus climbed into bed beside Tasha.
“How is he?” she asked.
“Still struggling.”
She nodded.
“But we talked.”
“That’s good.”
Marcus lay quietly for a while, then reached for her hand beneath the blanket.
“I think I finally understand the bridge thing.”
Tasha squeezed his fingers. “Good.”
Silence settled over the room, comfortable this time.
Then Tasha said, “For the record, Leslie agrees with me.”
Marcus released her hand immediately.
“What did that Ghanaian sensation say?”
Tasha began laughing.
“Oh, nothing.”
“Tasha.”
“Goodnight, Marcus.”
“Tasha.”
She turned off the lamp.
Marcus stared into the darkness. “You told Leslie about our argument?”
Nothing.
“Baby?”
Still nothing.
Marcus narrowed his eyes. “Tasha, are you pretending to be asleep?”
A tiny sound escaped her pillow.
Definitely laughter.
Marcus shook his head.
“See, this is why Ghana cannot be trusted.”
From beneath the blanket came Tasha’s muffled voice.
“Go to sleep.”
And Marcus did.
Eventually.
The following Sunday, Marcus and Tasha walked into church five minutes late, which they considered practically punctual now that they had children.
Leslie was already in the lobby.
He spotted Marcus, smiled, and opened his arms.
“My brother!”
Marcus stopped walking.
Tasha immediately looked innocent.
Too innocent.
Leslie placed one hand over his heart.
“I just want you to know that if you ever need space—”
“Leslie.”
“Twenty minutes, thirty minutes—”
“Leslie.”
“I will personally make sure there is a bridge.”
Tasha folded in half laughing.
Marcus looked from his wife to his friend, then toward the sanctuary.
“Father,” he muttered, “I know I’m already at church, but I need additional grace.”
Leslie threw an arm around him.
“That is what brothers are for.”
Marcus sighed and allowed himself to be dragged toward the sanctuary while Tasha followed behind them, still laughing.
He had asked for space on Tuesday.
Somehow, by Sunday, half of West Africa knew about it.
Marriage, Marcus was beginning to understand, had very little respect for confidentiality.
But Tasha reached for his hand as they walked inside, and Marcus took it.
No argument waiting for them.
No unfinished conversation hanging between them.
Just a bridge they had both learned how to cross.
For now, that was enough.
Behind this episode
Marcus and Tasha are navigating a tension many couples recognize: one person needs space to settle down while the other needs reassurance that stepping away does not mean the conversation—or the relationship—is being abandoned.
Marcus did not need to become someone who processes everything immediately. Tasha did not need to stop caring about unresolved conversations. They simply needed a way for one person to step away without making the other wonder whether “later” had quietly disappeared.
A tiny signal. No comments, no profile, no public identity.