Tomilola Coco Adeyemo is keeping us entertained with another Masobe release! Her short story series, that was previously published on Brittle Paper in 2022, will soon be available in a novel form.

Tomilola Coco Adeyemo grew up in Ibadan. She attended Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife, where she earned a Bachelor of Arts in Dramatic Arts and the sheer audacity to pursue writing as a career.

She found early success in Nollywood with credits on popular TV shows, documentaries, and Nigeria’s first feature-length animation. She is the author of bestselling romance novels. Her debut, A Very Gidi Christmas, was published in 2024, and in November 2025, she released her second novel, A Nollywood Christmas. Her third novel, based on an acclaimed short story, Efun’s Jazz, is slated for an 11 August 2026 release. Tomilola’s works explore female agency, spotlighting the female gaze in romance, the Yoruba culture and spirituality.

Efun’s Jazz, a love story blending romance, femininity, and Yoruba spirituality, was initially released as a six-part short story series on Brittle Paper. At the time, the author was experiencing and exploring certain aspects of Yoruba spirituality — more popularly called isese amongst devotees and Yoruba people — and had channelled some of her experiences into the story.

The editor-in-chief at Brittle Paper, Professor Edoro, had taken some interest in the story and shared it with the CEO of leading Nigerian publisher, Masobe Books, with the hopes that it would catch his eye and would find its way into the hands of many lovers of African literature. That paid off as, years after the story on Brittle Paper, Efun’s Jazz, now more fully fleshed, will be released in paperback on August 11th.

For those who haven’t already come into contact with the captivating words of Adeyemo, and for those who are eagerly awaiting more of her work, please enjoy this teaser of the upcoming Efun’s Jazz.

 

 

NICOLE

I must have dozed off, collapsed beneath the weight of three different magazines with interviews from Fortune 500 CEOs that I grabbed from Clara’s coffee table at work, when my phone rings, jolting me awake. A deep, familiar voice forces me to my feet immediately.
“Hey. I’m on your street. Where did you say your house was again?”
“What do you mean you’re on my street?”

I hurry to the kitchen window, where I can see vehicles coming into our end of the street. And just as he said, I see a red SUV driving into the street. My breath catches in my throat, my heart beats faster, and for a moment, I think I will pass out.
“I mean that I am on your street right now, trying to find your house…”
I pull the curtains shut and glance behind me. Segun is in the bedroom, but I am scared to think he could walk in at any time and overhear our conversation.
“Where are you?” Laja asks. My voice drops several decibels. “Laja, why are you here?” Even as I ask the question, I feel my heart thumping with excitement. I have never been happier with a surprise than I am right now.

“To see you. I’ve had a bad day, and being with you is the only thing that makes sense right now.”
“I’m coming.”

I shove my phone in the back pocket of my jeans. If I go to tell Segun that I am stepping out, he’ll ask questions I am unwilling to answer. So, I sneak out of the house, deciding to deal with him later.

Laja is parked on the other side of the street, next to the stall of our neighbourhood’s go-to pepper seller, Iya Tanwa. I dial his phone.
“Drive towards the end of the close. I don’t want anyone to see me.”

I walk towards the end of the close on my street and only stop when I get to the front of the last uncompleted building. As soon as Laja pulls up, I hop into his car, grateful once more for the tinted glass in case anyone gets too curious.

His sweet aftershave scent mixed with the smell of his cologne wafts in the cool air between us when I lean in for an embrace. When I try to pull away, he holds me, his hands gently stroke my back, and his breath warms my skin. I want to kiss him, but I don’t make the move.

“How was your day?” he asks, his gaze briefly lowers to my lips. I know he’s drowning in this desire for closeness as much as I am,
“Crazy. Clara finally put me on a major project.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be a good thing?”
“Yes. It would have been, if I know what I am doing.”
His features soften, the burning desire in his eyes replaced by concern. “But you know what you’re doing.”
I pull away, trying my best not to roll my eyes. “You don’t have  to make me feel better.”
“I am not. You have a brilliant mind, and you love the job. Don’t let your fears get in the way.”

I sigh, stretch out my legs, letting myself ease into the cosiness of the car, and the warmth of his presence. “It’s hard. I feel like I know what to do, but when it’s time to do it, I can’t.” I look at him and realise his gaze never left me. Somehow, it makes me feel self-conscious, but good too. I love how he looks at me like I am the most important thing in the world. “Do you ever feel like that?”
“I’m sure even Beyoncé feels like that sometimes.”
“You’re a clown.”

My frustration is swept away by his gentle laughter. He reaches for my hand and squeezes it, sending heat to my core. I want to kiss him again, and this time I wouldn’t want to stop until it leads to something else.

“I’m serious, though. What I have come to realise in this life is that no matter how in charge a person is, they still have moments when they doubt themselves. You just have to overcome the doubts.”
“I’m trying.”
“Hey,” he places my hand in his and gently strokes it with his thumb. “You’re tougher than half the people I have met. Don’t let this your mind rob you of a big opportunity. I need you to wake up every day, deciding to conquer your fears. Do you hear me?”
I don’t know if it’s because of how he speaks to me, but I believe every word he utters.
“Yes. Thank you.” I smile at him. Laja continues to stroke my hand with his thumb, calming tense muscles in my body. “Your turn. Tell me about your day.”

He says he’s no closer to finding out who is stealing from his business, and that two days ago, his babalawo’s advice was proof that something bad may happen. Curious, I ask, “How do you deal with that? Will you offer sacrifices or something?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes that’s what it means. Other times, you pray, hope, and believe in Eledua’s protection.”

I curl my fingers around his, wondering if this is the time to tell him about my dreams. They may be meaningless, not something I should worry about. But I suspect they aren’t as innocent as they seem.
“I have been having these strange dreams about water, and I was wondering if it’s something you will understand.”
“What happens in these dreams?”
“I just see bodies of water. I also had this frightening dream about a woman in a drum with long braids, looking heavenwards.”
He pauses for a beat then says solemnly, “Maybe you’re an Ọmọ Omi.”
“A what?”
“You may be Osun’s daughter. Or maybe Yemọja, Olókun, or even Ọya.”

His explanation slaps me with an equal amount of shock and alarm. “I don’t think so. I have never heard of such in my family. We’ve been Christians for many generations.”
He laughs and looks at me like he’s amused at my foolishness. “That has nothing to do with anything.”

I remove my hand from his and rub my palms together. I have mixed feelings that I can’t explain. My father’s side of the family is mixed with Christians and Muslims, and my mother’s side has produced prophets, pastors, and evangelists for generations. This feels impossible.

“Omoyinka, there is nothing to be afraid of.”
“I am not afraid.”
“You are.”

I try to steady my breathing as I look at him again to find a reassuring smile on his face. It is only with this man that I can theorise that I am possibly a child of the river and not possessed by a demon. I am awash with a depth of desire that I didn’t think was humanly possible.

“I am going to see my diviner in an hour. You can come with me if you want.”
I feel a wave of relief wash through me, and because I know I’m safe with him, I strap my seatbelt.
“Let’s go.”

As he starts to make a U-turn, I send a quick text to Segun telling him I have to return to the office for a work emergency. Then I lean comfortably into my seat as we drive out of the neighbourhood, the late-night radio coming alive with Lionel Richie’s Do It To Me.

***

The Professor’s house is in the exclusive Magodo Phase 2 neighbourhood on Lagos Mainland. We arrive past 10 p.m. and park on a tarred street with fenced houses before we walk towards the iron-black gate of the brown-and-white residence. Laja’s car beeps, piercing the silence enveloping the street when he presses the key fob. A gateman lets us into the compound, where a caged dog barks when he senses the presence of strangers. Instinctively, I lean close to Laja, holding him when he offers his hand.

We walk through an aisle created by parked cars and a lawn with trees, towards the front door. Inside, we find the Professor watching the news, a tray containing leftover fruits next to him. The living room is massive with a few Òrìṣà paintings hanging on the wall. I instantly recognise Sango, Esu, and Olookun. A huge portrait of the Professor and his wife is above the TV console. Below are portraits of his three kids during their university graduation ceremonies.

Laja lies prostrate, and I kneel next to him.
“Ẹ káalẹ́, Prof.”
“Omolaja. O fòru rìn o.” Prof glances at the wooden clock on the wall, a disapproving look on his face. “You know I don’t like these late-night trips.”
Laja stands, waiting for me to sit on a sofa adjacent to the Professor before he joins me. “I apologise, sir. I had to finalise some things at work and pay a visit to my friend here before coming. How are you doing, sir?”
“Well, as you can see, I am chopping the life of my head.” He gestures dramatically at the tray of fruits, and Laja and I share a laugh. “Who is your friend o? You have never brought anyone here before.”
“This is Nicole Oyetunji. I call her Omoyinka Omowande Oyetunji. We met in Osogbo a few months ago—”
“Ah! She is the one you couldn’t stop talking about.”

I couldn’t hold the smile that breaks free from my lips if I tried. I lower my gaze to my clasped hands. I don’t know what to do with all the things Laja makes me feel, but I like it all—the sweet, surprising, even scary ones. Every time we’re together, I am sixteen again, feeling things differently for the first time, unable to understand how one person could mean so much, and this time, trusting the person who makes me feel these sweet things.

“Yes. She is the one.” His coffee-coloured irises are locked on mine when I glance at him, his tone edged by a sincerity I can’t ignore, his face the most serious I have ever seen. “She wants to ask you some questions.” He returns his gaze to Prof.
“Go ahead, young lady.”

I narrate my dreams to Prof, tell him about my difficulties at work, and how I think they might be linked. He listens carefully and when I am done, he stands and asks that we come with him to a private room. Laja and I follow him through a short, carpeted corridor, and turn into a room at the end of the passageway. The private room is small with white walls and no furniture. A curtain covers the window, and an Ọpọ́n Ifá sits in the middle of a part of the floor covered with a rug. Prof turns on the air conditioner when we enter. Laja shuts the door behind us.

“Take your seat.” He points to the part of the floor covered with a rug.

Laja and I sit, the Ọpọ́n Ifá separates us from Prof, who sits opposite us. He grabs his palm nuts and begins to explain to me in Yoruba.

“We will divine Ifá for you. The process is called Ìtẹfá. I will gather these sacred palm nuts, which are called the ìkín Ifá in one hand, and I will move them from one palm to the other while I make binary marks on both sides of this sand-like substance on the ọpọ́n Ifá with my fingers. There will be four marks on each side of the ọpọ́n. Some of the marks might be in twos, or ones, or even one and twos, depending on what we’re shown.  Ọ̀rúnmìlà will reveal what we need to us through this process. What he tells us will be presented in something called Odù. That Odù is what will tell us how to proceed and what sacrifices, if any, to offer. Are you ready?”
“Yes, sir.”

He places the ìkín Ifá in his palms. Then he covers one palm with the other and shakes them, carefully pouring them into his other hand and making marks with his fingers on the ọpọ́n Ifá each time. He repeats the exercise eight times, four on each side, reciting a rhyming scheme as he does.

My heart thumps as I watch him, curious about what the result would be.
“Omoyinka, the Odù that has come out is a good one.”
I exhale slowly, relieved.
“If you have a pen and notebook, you can write these down.”
“You can record on your phone or type on your notepad,” Laja whispers.
I retrieve my phone and press record.

“Ifá congratulates you. You’re a beloved child of the Universe.” I don’t know what to do, so I smile awkwardly. “You are a child who was unexpected but was formed in pure love. You have experienced loneliness, deep sadness, and you hold on tightly to the belief that you’re alone. You are not. Olódùmarè is always with you. And so is your mother.” I nod. “And I don’t mean your earthly mother…”
“Yes, my mother is late.”
“No. No. Not her. You are a daughter of an Òrìṣà. An irúnmọlẹ̀.”
Confused, I glance at Laja who looks at me knowingly. His words return to me. An Ọmọ Omi. I frown as I look at Prof.
“That is impossible. I was born and raised in a conservative Christian family.”

Even though my mother had missed church sometimes, her values were not to be played with. And right now, sitting with a babaláwo, I can almost feel her disapproval from heaven. “Nobody worships Òrìṣà in my lineage.”
The professor smiles. He recites another verse of the Odù. “My daughter, indeed, nobody worships Òrìṣà. We all worship Olódùmarè. But when I said you’re the daughter of an Òrìṣà, I mean that you are an Ọmọ Ọmi. You have gifts that can be explored only when you embrace who you are. Only then will your path be clear and smoother. You must also be in tune with your ẹgbẹ́ ọ̀run. Those are your astral mates. Now, this Odù reveals that your family owes an Òrìṣà a significant debt, a debt that is the reason you are experiencing some difficulties. You must pay the debt owed. It is the only way forward.”

It is one thing to participate in certain rites for a specific purpose. It is another for me to become a devotee of some sort. And a debt? My mother is long dead. Mummy Osogbo is irreligious these days, and I am not close to other extended family members who may have answers. That’s if they even know what this supposed debt is all about. It is all news to me, and I am even more confused than I was when I walked into this building earlier.

What does this even mean — that I would walk around Lagos in white, holding some prop for worshipping Ọ̀ṣun or Olókun? That’s not what I bargained for. It is surely not something I think I could do. Laja senses when I recoil, and he places a gentle hand on me.

“We’ll figure it out.”
“I don’t know about that,” I snap, feeling confused and annoyed with every passing second.

 

 

Efun’s Jazz is available for pre-order on Masobe Books and will be available in paperback and e-book across bookstores nationwide on the Masobe Books App from 11th August, 2026.