The days after the Festival of Nations moved like a song in slow rhythm warm, full, and unforgettable. The tension from the confrontation had settled into the background like a distant drumbeat, and in its place grew something deeper between Akin and Zina: a quiet knowing, an unspoken promise that neither of them would name yet.
They started walking to class together, cooking more meals in shared silence, staying up late under the hum of dormitory lights. Where there had once been flirtation and curiosity, now there was understanding, the kind that only blooms between people who have seen one another's shadows and stayed anyway.
One rainy afternoon, Zina brought Akin a small, hand-sewn cloth bag. "Don't open it yet," she said.
"What is it?"
"Something from home. For when the rain finds your thoughts."
He opened it later that night ...a pouch filled with dried hibiscus petals, bitter kola, and a carved wooden bead. Scents from her land. From her heart.
A week later, they escaped the city for a weekend retreat organized by the African Students Union. A cottage on the edge of a cold Danish forest became their temporary sanctuary. The group roasted maize over firewood and shared old songs beneath the stars.
That night, as everyone slept, Akin and Zina slipped away to the lake.
The moonlight reflected off the still water, silver and soft. Zina sat on a rock, barefoot, her toes grazing the cold surface. Akin sat beside her.
"I keep thinking," she said softly, "about what happens when we go back home."
Akin looked up. "What do you mean?"
"I mean… you and I. There's no 'us' in Oremi or Dakira. Not in the open."
He sighed. "I know."
"My mother used to say, 'Even love must bow when the ancestors rise.'"
"But maybe it doesn't have to bow," he replied. "Maybe it can kneel just for a moment then stand taller."
Zina turned to him, her eyes unsure but searching. "You speak like a man who has already chosen."
"I have," he said. "I chose the day you danced to my drum."
She reached for his hand. It was cold, but steady.
The next morning, they carved their initials into the bark of an old birch tree near the lake:
A + Z.
Below it, Zina etched a tiny crown.
They didn't call it a vow. But it was.
Back on campus, their love became more intentional and more sacred. They shared journals, left notes on each other's doors in Yoruba and Twi, and began planning a future they knew the world might never allow.
"We could marry quietly," Zina whispered one night.
"Would it count?" he asked.
"It would count to us."
They didn't wear rings. But their love grew roots.
Not loud. Not showy. But strong.
Yet across the ocean, in the palaces of Oremi and Dakira, rumors had begun to rise, whispers of a prince keeping company with the daughter of a sworn enemy.
A royal adviser in Dakira sent word to Zina's brother.
A high priest in Oremi consulted the Ifá and frowned.
The drums had been silent too long.