The skies over Port Harcourt darkened with a suddenness that made the city pause. The air grew still, heavy with anticipation. Then, like the heavens had been torn open, rain fell in torrents. Wind howled through narrow alleys and swayed the coconut palms lining the street. Lightning tore jagged lines through the sky, followed by thunder that cracked the air wide open.
Inside a modest one-bedroom apartment tucked behind a tailoring shop in Rumuola, Mike and Danika were caught off guard. They had just returned from work—Mike soaked from the unexpected downpour, Danika clutching a broken umbrella and a plastic bag of groceries.
Danika dropped the bag onto the counter with a sigh, shaking water from her curls. "This weather," she muttered, kicking off her sandals and closing the window as another gust of wind blew in misty rain.
Mike peeled off his wet shirt and hung it over the back of a chair. "Looks like it's settling in for the night."
Thunder rumbled, closer this time. The lights flickered briefly.
Danika looked up. "Don't tell me we'll have to deal with NEPA drama too."
Mike forced a tired smile. "At least we bought candles yesterday."
But beneath the banter, something hung heavy in the room—unspoken tension, layered like the storm clouds outside.
Danika busied herself in the kitchen, trying to make sense of the groceries. Two packs of instant noodles, a half loaf of bread, and a single tomato. She stared at the tomato for a long second, then turned to Mike.
"We need to talk."
He looked up from where he was sitting, drying his phone with a piece of tissue. "About what?"
She paused. "Everything."
Mike sighed and leaned back in the chair. "I figured this was coming."
Danika stepped into the living room and crossed her arms, her brows knit tight. "I'm not blaming you, Mike. But this… this isn't what we pictured when we left Lagos. We said we'd start fresh. But it feels like we're running in place."
Mike didn't answer immediately. The silence between them was louder than the storm.
Danika pressed on. "I feel like I'm burning out. The salon is good, but it's exhausting. Clients can be demanding. The other stylists are competitive, sometimes cruel. I come home drained, and then I look at you and—"
"And you wonder if I'm doing enough," Mike finished, his voice low.
Danika's face softened. "No. I wonder if we're doing this right. If we're becoming strangers under the same roof."
Mike stood, walked to the window, and stared out at the rain. His voice was thick when he spoke. "Do you think I don't feel that too? Every day, I wake up wondering if I'll make it through the week. I've sent out ten CVs this month alone—nothing. I've done security jobs, dispatch, even considered going back to Lagos to try and hustle again."
Danika's eyes filled with tears. "I don't want us to go back to surviving. I want to live. To dream."
Mike turned toward her. "And you think I don't?"
"No. I think you're tired, and I'm tired. And instead of leaning on each other, we've been holding it all in."
A crack of thunder punctuated her words. For a moment, it felt like the sky was arguing with them too.
Mike crossed the room and sat on the floor beside her. "We made this move because we believed in something. In us. But yeah… maybe we lost sight of that along the way."
Danika slowly lowered herself to the floor, her knees tucked beneath her. The storm raged just outside the window, but inside, the air grew still—charged with vulnerability rather than static.
"I miss who we were in the early days," she admitted. "The long walks. The laughter. Even the silence between us used to feel full."
Mike took her hand. "We're still those people. Just buried under bills and burdens."
They sat in silence, the storm creating a symphony around them—rain against the windows, wind through the gutters, thunder that seemed to echo their own emotional unrest.
Danika reached up and wiped a tear from her cheek. "Sometimes I feel like we're failing."
"You know what failure looks like?" Mike said gently. "It's not talking. It's pretending everything's okay until it isn't. What we're doing right now? This… is fighting for something."
Her lips trembled into a smile. "I've missed your words."
"I've missed you," Mike replied. "Not the you who's always trying to be strong. Just you."
Danika leaned into him then, her head resting on his shoulder. "I think I forgot how to lean."
Mike kissed the top of her head. "You don't always have to carry everything."
Another pause stretched between them, comfortable this time. The rain began to ease, transforming from a furious downpour to a steady drizzle.
Danika looked up. "Do you remember what you said the night we left Lagos?"
Mike's eyes crinkled. "I said, 'Let's go build a life worth remembering.'"
She nodded. "We're still building. Maybe it doesn't look perfect yet, but the foundation's still strong."
Mike took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "Then let's keep building. But this time, brick by brick—together."
Danika laughed softly. "We're not exactly rolling in bricks right now."
"No," he said, chuckling. "But we've got hands. And hearts. And this tomato," he added, pointing playfully.
She chuckled and nudged him. "That tomato's about to be soup for two, don't joke."
The lights flickered again, then went out completely. Darkness settled around them, but it no longer felt ominous. Mike stood and lit one of the candles they had stashed for nights like this. The soft glow bathed the room in golden warmth.
Danika rose too, and without speaking, went to the kitchen. Mike followed.
They cooked what little they had—noodles, bread, and tomato stew. As they worked together in silence, the act became more than just preparing a meal. It was healing. An ordinary moment turned sacred by love and effort.
Afterward, they sat cross-legged on the floor, sharing food and smiles in the flickering candlelight.
Outside, the last rumble of thunder echoed faintly in the distance.
Inside, Mike looked at Danika, his expression calm. "You know, storms don't last forever."
Danika reached for his hand. "No. But shelter—that's something we choose."
She leaned her head against his shoulder once more, and in that fragile, glowing space, the world felt less heavy.
There would be more storms—financial, emotional, unexpected. But they had found something stronger than the weather. They had each other.
And for now, that was enough.