The house felt quieter after the burial.
Too quiet.
Sometimes Emezie would wake up from his dreams and shout "mama" other times I'll do same. But they had truly gone —and I'll wake up to just the buzz of mosquitoes and the soft snore of Emezie through the thin wall that now separated our lives from what used to be.
We were alone now. Just the two of us.
Two orphans.
Two childhood friends now adults.
The compound had gone back to normal—we could hear, from the neighbouring compound, shouting children, quarrelling tenants, radios blaring. But for me and Emezie, something had changed. We were no longer just friends. Not yet lovers. Not siblings. Just… something in between. Something neither of us had the courage to name.
He would go to work every weekday at the secondary school. Each morning, he'd wear his washed and rewashed shirts, his brown leather belt, and pick his chalk-stained bag from where he always kept it near the kitchen bench. His shoes were always dusty by the time he returned, his voice hoarse from shouting over stubborn SS2 boys.
I, too, would go to my akara spot by the junction. The same customers came—bus drivers, conductors, hungry schoolchildren with fifty naira clenched in sweaty palms.
Some days were hard. Sales would be slow, and I'd count notes under my breath, praying we'd have enough to cook soup that evening. But other days, business would surprise me, and I'd buy fresh goat meat from Mama Ochei's stall—just to make Emezie smile.
We had started putting our money together in the same metal biscuit tin—hidden under the old cushion Mama Beatrice once used for her knees during prayer.
"O di kwa egwu," I said one evening as we counted our earnings by lantern light. "See us like husband and wife."
Emezie laughed. A deep, full laugh that warmed something deep in my belly.
"Thats how it starts" he replied. "Joint money today, joint children tomorrow."
But still… he never said the word.
Marriage.
I cooked his favourite meals—ofe onugbu, ogbono soup with fufu, yam porridge with dry fish. I learned how to slice uziza just right. And each evening, he'd bring me small gifts—sometimes banana, sometimes groundnut, once even a new pair of slippers.
We spent our evenings on the veranda, watching the sky change. He'd ask about my customers; I'd ask about his students. There was something so warm, so safe, about him. But it was also dangerous—this thing we had. This closeness without a name.
It had rained heavily that day—one of those endless, stubborn downpours that made the world feel still and grey. I couldn't go to fry akara, and Emezie didn't go to the school either. We stayed indoors, quiet, and shared a small bowl of akamu I managed to prepare in the kitchen. We drank it slowly, each of us lost in thought.
I was worried. Emezie earned just twenty-five thousand naira, and we usually set that aside as savings. It was what I made from selling akara that kept the house running—food, light, little needs here and there. But today, there was no akara, no sales, no income. The thought weighed heavily on my chest.
I sat by the window, watching the rain fall in thick, unending sheets. I kept hoping it would stop, that maybe I'd still catch a few hours of business. But the sky paid me no mind. It rained and rained, soaking the streets and washing away the day.
It wasn't until midday that the rain finally gave up. I rushed out with my basket to sell Akara,hoping for the best. But by then, most people had gone to work, and the streets were almost empty. I sold a little, barely enough, and came back home, tired and quiet.
The rain had started again by evening without warning, that kind of angry, violent rain that pounds zinc like it has a grudge. NEPA had taken light, as usual. I was in the kitchen, turning okra on the fire when the thunder clapped so loud, I screamed and removed the pot from fire.
Emezie rushed in. "Oluchi, are you okay?"
I turned, my wrapper half undone, my body sticky with sweat and smoke.
"I'm fine... the thunder was so loud."
Our eyes locked. Something cracked between us.
He stepped closer, slowly, as if afraid the moment would break if he moved too fast. I could feel his breath, warm and uneven. The light from the lantern danced on his face, made his eyes look like fire.
He reached up, brushing sweat from my forehead.
"You are so beautiful," he said softly. "I won't lie, Oluchi. Sometimes its hard to control myself when I'm around you."
My heart stopped. Then raced. My hand dropped from the turning stick.
I didn't say a word. I didn't need to. I think he already knew.
He leaned in and kissed me.
It was soft, unsure at first. Then deeper. His lips found mine like they had waited a lifetime. My knees wobbled. I clung to his shirt, tasting the salt of rain and something older—something like longing.
He lifted me. Just like that. Like I was feather.
Carried me past the dark corridor into the bedroom we'd shared since the burial. The room smelled of rain, dust, and roasted groundnut.
He laid me down gently on the mattress. The same one our mothers had once sat on to scold us.
Now it was holding a secret that would never be undone.
"I could stop if you feel uncomfortable," he whispered. "Just say the word."
I looked into his eyes. Eyes I'd known since I was ten.
Eyes that had seen me laugh, cry, fight, cook, suffer.
And I nodded.
Silent. Sure.
He kissed my neck, my chest, my belly—everywhere, like he was memorizing me.
He undressed me slowly. My hands shook. I was a virgin. I had never even allowed a boy to touch me before. But with Emezie, it felt right. Scary, but right.
He looked at my nakedness, his breathing sharp.
"Nwunye m" he muttered, "you fine die."
I blushed, turning my face away, but he brought it back gently with his fingers.
Then came the moment.
When he entered me, I cried out. The pain shot through me like fire. I clutched his back, biting my lip, tears slipping from my eyes.
He stopped. Held me.
"I'm sorry... I'm sorry... Should I stop?"
"No," I whispered. "Biko... no."
He moved slowly. Tenderly. The pain stayed, but under it, something else bloomed. A warmth. A fullness. A strange joy.
My body began to open.
And I let go.
I let him in—all of me. The part that missed Mama. The part that wanted a home. The girl I used to be. The woman I was becoming. I gave him everything.
He moved with purpose, whispering my name like a hymn.
"Oluchi... Oluchi... Nkem..."
When he reached his end, he buried his face in my neck, groaning like a man released from prison.
Afterwards, we lay tangled, wordless. The rain still beat on the roof, but I couldn't hear it.
All I heard was my heartbeat. And the echo of his voice.
"You are mine," he murmured, pulling me close. "From childhood... till now. You'll always be mine."
But even as I closed my eyes, resting against his chest...
A question hung in the darkness like smoke:
Would he still call me his own when the sun returned?
I must have fallen asleep without even knowing it. When I finally stirred, it was almost noon. The sun peeked shyly through the curtain, casting soft lines across the bed. My body ached—not with pain, but with a soreness that reminded me of the night before. Emezie was nowhere in sight. He hadn't woken me.
The sheets still bore the faint stain of blood—my first time, forever marked in cotton. A mix of emotions swept over me: confusion, quiet joy, guilt, and something that felt a little like fear. I had crossed a line—one I never thought I would—but I crossed it with the man I loved.
I sat still for a while, listening to the silence in the room. Then, gathering myself, I went to the kitchen to heat water for a bath. The moment the warm water touched my skin, I sighed deeply. I scrubbed every part of myself, not to cleanse away the memory, but to honour it. To honour what had changed in me.
I had committed what the world called sin. Fornication. But how could something that felt so sacred—so full of love—be only that? That night didn't break me; it awakened something soft and deep inside me. A bond with Emezie that words could not define.
Still, I was angry with myself for sleeping so late. More than that, I was angry with Emezie for not waking me. Work had passed me by, and I hated the thought of not contributing to the home.
I dressed in my deep blue gown, the one that held my body like it had been sewn just for me. It hugged every curve and made my hips sway like music. I tied a scarf loosely around my head, cleaned the kitchen, warmed the leftover soup, and made a smooth ball of eba. I ate quietly, savoring the silence.
Afterwards, I swept the house, mopped the floors, wiped every surface until they gleamed. I folded Emezie's clothes one by one, smoothing out each shirt with care, like folding a prayer into the fabric.
Then my phone rang. It was Sister Anuli.
"Sister, good morning ma," I greeted, holding the phone to my ear.
"Good morning, my dear," she said warmly. "How are you? And how's my brother doing?"
Her voice made me blush. "We're both fine, Sister," I replied.
She chuckled. "Very soon you'll give me nieces and nephews o!"
"Ah ah! Sister, not now!" I laughed.
Just then, Emezie walked in, tall and easy in his steps. He came straight to me and kissed my forehead. It was a soft, gentle kiss that said more than a thousand words.
Sister Anuli heard it. "Wait o! Did I just hear what I think I heard? You two are kissing now? Emezie! Don't you dare get that girl pregnant without paying her dowry!"
Emezie laughed and, with mischief in his voice, said, "She's already pregnant sef."
"You don't mean it!" Sister Anuli gasped.
We all burst into laughter. I asked about the children and told her to greet her husband. Soon, the call ended.
Emezie sat beside me, his tone suddenly tender. "Let her think it's a joke," he said. "But I know you're carrying my child. And soon, asa m, you'll be my wife."
"Child kwa? Emezie, it was just a small something we did o," I said, teasing.
He smiled, and then his voice dropped, steady and sincere. "Oluchi, would you be my wife?"
Time stood still.
I blinked at him. My mouth went dry. The words I wanted to say were locked behind a thousand emotions. But then I whispered, "Yes. I'll marry you."
He reached for me, pulling me into a kiss so full of promise, my heart fluttered. I smiled against his lips and slipped out of his arms, walking slowly to the room.
"Asa ya," he called playfully, "shaking your waist like that for me. You'll give me that thing now o."
"Which thing? What thing?" I asked, smiling over my shoulder.
He chased after me, laughter in his voice, and I let him catch me. We collapsed onto the bed, wrapped in each other. His hands traced my skin with reverence, as if he were learning a new language through touch. He whispered my name like it was a prayer.
His lips found mine, then wandered lower, planting kisses that made my breath catch. When his tongue met the softness between my thighs, I felt the world fall away. I clutched the sheets, moaning, nkem… nkem..n..ke...o...lord...
He entered me slowly, carefully, like he was afraid I would break. We moved together like rhythm and song, like tide and shore. Every thrust was a vow, every sigh a surrender. He turned me over gently, holding me close, and whispered, "Ride me, asa m, like a queen on her throne."
I obeyed, moving in tune with the fire in me, in us. I saw stars, tasted joy, felt tears blur my vision—not of sadness, but something deeper. Something holy.
That weekend, our love became a rhythm. Every hour, every moment we were alone, he reached for me like I was the air he breathed. He looked into my eyes and said it over and over again:
"I love you. Forever."