Chapter 4 – Amara's Smile
I was seventeen the first time I saw her — Amara.
It was a hot afternoon, the kind where even the flies seemed too tired to buzz. I was leaning against the kiosk outside our compound, sipping a sachet of pure water, when she walked by. The sun should have been punishing her, but somehow it made her glow. Her school uniform was neatly pressed, the pleats sharp, her white socks unstained by the dusty road. That alone told me she wasn't from around here. Ajegunle had a way of dirtying everything that entered it.
She caught me staring. Instead of frowning, she smiled.
I swear, that smile nearly stopped my heart. It wasn't the shy, quick smile of the girls in my street, the kind you give when you don't want to be noticed. It was warm, open, like she was saying, I see you, and I don't mind.
"Why you dey look me like that?" she teased, her voice lilting like a small song.
I fumbled with my water sachet. "I—I wasn't looking."
She laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that made even the sun seem less harsh. "Liar."
From that day, I started waiting by the kiosk around the same time. Some days she walked past with her friends, other days alone. Slowly, words turned into conversations. I learned her name was Amara, that she lived two streets away with her aunt, that she wanted to study nursing someday.
I also learned she was different. She listened when I talked. Not the way people sometimes nod while their minds are elsewhere, but really listened, as though every word I said mattered. Nobody listened to me like that — not at home, not at school.
One evening, as we walked along the railway line, I finally asked her, "Why do you even talk to me? Girls like you don't usually talk to boys like me."
"Boys like you?" she tilted her head.
"Poor. From this side of Ajegunle. Everyone expects us to end up as nothing."
She stopped, turned to face me, and said something I've never forgotten.
"Michael, a man is not where he comes from. A man is what he chooses to become."
Those words lit a fire in me stronger than any insult or humiliation ever had. She believed in me — or at least, she believed I could be more than my patched shoes and fading uniform.
Soon, she became my secret compass. When I wanted to give up, I thought of her smile. When I wanted to fight, I thought of her words.
But love in Ajegunle was never just love. It was also hunger, expectation, and reality. I couldn't take her to eateries in town. I couldn't buy her gifts. The most I could offer was roasted corn by the roadside, or a walk down the dusty streets under a moon that cared nothing for our dreams.
Still, she never complained. If anything, she seemed happiest in those simple moments. Maybe that's why I loved her — because with Amara, for a few minutes, poverty wasn't so heavy.
But deep down, I feared something: that one day, love wouldn't be enough. That one day, hunger and ambition would tear apart the smile I cherished.
For now, though, I let myself believe in her words. For now, I let myself dream.