3

Hamdah's pov 

It had been two months since the day Shuraim spoke to me at the restaurant. Since then, I hadn't seen him again. At first, I found myself wondering why, why had he disappeared so suddenly after that day? But gradually, I stopped searching for him in crowds or scanning every motorbike that passed. He faded like a shadow, only to appear sometimes, softly, in my thoughts.

Still, I remembered him.

I remembered months before that conversation at the restaurant, when I first saw him after what felt like ages. It was on a Sunday, during the Zumber market. I was on a bike; my brother had come to pick me up. As we rode past, Shuraim caught my eye he was standing by the roadside, staring. He waved at me. I blinked in surprise.

Wow, I'd thought. This boy has really grown into a fine man.

I couldn't recall much about him from primary or secondary school his face in those memories had blurred over time but I remembered being in the same class with his sister. Word had it she'd left Nigeria. Moved abroad.

From that day on, whenever we passed each other, he'd always be the first to wave, and I'd return the gesture with a small smile. Maybe that wave, that gentle nod of recognition, was what made me fall for him quietly.

I remembered another day, I was walking with my Aunty out of the estate, heading to Zumber. A car passed us, slowly. At first, I assumed it was his father behind the wheel, because I know their house cars. Then a few minutes later, the same car drove back toward the estate. This time I looked. It was Shuraim.

I didn't stare. I didn't let myself.

But I remember my Aunty whispering, "That boy in the car, he was staring at you o."

I had just smiled then. Maybe I liked him already. But not too much. Not yet.

The last time I saw him, before the restaurant was by the masara grinding place. He waved at me again as I rode past with my brother. That wave was soft but certain, like always. Then I didn't see him again until I started working at the restaurant. He came three days after I began. We never spoke, not until the POS incident.

Tonight, I closed from work at 9 p.m. The air was soft, sweet, one of those nights that hugged your skin with peace. The wind kept playing with the hem of my abaya and tugging at my veil like a curious child. I liked it. The road was quiet, familiar. I waited for a red Honda to pass before crossing, heading toward the shortcut by the three-bedroom quarters.

"Hamdah baby."

I froze.

That voice.

I turned.

He was behind me, hands in the pocket of his jeans, wearing a white T-shirt. The kind of effortless fine that made girls turn twice. But all I noticed was the way he smiled like he knew a secret.

"You look surprised," he said playfully.

I stared at him for a beat, then shifted my eyes to his shirt again, confused. Why would he call me "Hamdah baby"? Only my father ever used that name.

"Good evening," I managed, my voice almost a whisper.

"Evening, Slim Finest," he grinned. "I heard that's what they call you."

I didn't respond. I just continued walking, adjusting the book I was hugging tightly to my chest. He walked behind me, his footsteps light.

"You just closed from work?" he asked.

I still didn't speak. Maybe I wanted him to try harder. Or maybe I just didn't know what to say without sounding foolish.

After a few seconds of silence, he tried again. "Why did you choose to work at a restaurant? I think I should start working there too, right? What do you think?"

I almost laughed, but I held it in. My heart was dancing but my face stayed still.

I turned slightly, pretending to glance at him like I wasn't invested in the moment. It showed in his face he wasn't expecting me to talk.

"Ajebo boy like you want to work in a restaurant? Abeg, go look mirror well," I said softly, surprising both of us.

He burst out laughing. "Ah, I'm not ajebo o! Na you be ajebo."

It was strange... how quickly we'd slipped into conversation.

"Me? See the way I black. I look nothing like ajebo," I teased, adjusting my veil as the wind pulled it back again.

He raised his brows. "Wait oo... so you know how to speak pidgin English?"

I didn't reply. I just kept walking, trying not to let the small smile tugging at my lips grow too wide.

"By the way," he added, "na dark skin people be ajebo pass."

I shook my head, smiling. He was silly. But in a good way.

He kept talking, asking me random things, but I didn't say much anymore. I just nodded, laughed softly, or hummed in response. When we got to the junction by their house, he slowed down.

"Should I walk you home?" he asked. "Silent girl," he teased.

I chuckled. "No need."

He slipped one hand into his pocket and smiled again. His phone kept vibrating, messages coming in one after the other, but he didn't even check it. That made me smile. He was really here, not distracted.

"Let me walk you," he said again, softer this time.

I didn't reply. But I didn't stop walking either. A few seconds later, I heard him chuckle behind me and follow.

"Why don't you like talking?" he asked.

I turned to him. "Ehn? Who told you I don't like talking? You don't even know me well."

He laughed. "From the few times I saw you at the restaurant, I noticed. You don't talk much."

Wow. So he had noticed me.

"I talk only where I feel comfortable," I said truthfully.

He looked at me. "Are you the type who prefers to talk to herself rather than human beings?"

"Yeah," I admitted, almost laughing. "Maybe I am."

"What book is that?" he asked, finally noticing the novel I'd been hugging since we met.

"It's about two people who meet at a hospital. They fall in love and end up getting married," I said, brushing a loose strand of hair under my veil.

He tilted his head. "Oh, my parents met at a public toilet and they fell in love and got married." 

I burst into laughter. A real one. The kind that escaped without permission.

He laughed too, but more softly, his eyes fixed on me the whole time. "You're funny," I said between giggles.

"Thank God for this streetlight. Now I can finally see your face properly."

There hadn't been streetlights earlier, just the faint glow from passing houses, but this one? It was bright. His words made me almost blush, but I hid it well.

"I know you're joking about your parents, but please don't say that to anyone else. Someone might believe you," I said, laughing again.

"I like how gently you talk," he said. "You should talk more often."

I rolled my eyes. "You've just given me a reason not to."

"Whenever we meet," he grinned, "I must make you talk."

So... we're going to meet again? My heart nearly jumped, but my face gave nothing away.

We reached the front of our house. He stopped.

"I'm happy I walked you home," he said, voice calm. "Take care."

He even knew my house. I was surprised—but didn't ask.

"Bye," he said, and waved.

I didn't reply. I just waved back, slowly.

When I entered the house, I greeted my parents quickly and slipped into my room. I dropped my bag, kicked off my shoes, and fell on my bed, face buried in my pillow.

And then—I screamed.

But only quietly.

Out of pure joy.