Edena had changed—but not as much as Tunde thought it would. The road that once seemed endless on his boyish legs still curved past the same crooked mango tree near Zaria junction. The air smelled of red earth, diesel, and the faint sweetness of roasted plantain from the roadside stalls. His boots crunched against the dirt, steady and heavy, a rhythm of discipline learned in the barracks but now softened by something older—nostalgia.
The uniform on his back carried the weight of distance. Each medal on his chest felt like a story too heavy for words, but the thought of Amara lightened it somehow. He had written her twice—never posted the letters. He had imagined her face a thousand times but wondered if he'd recognize it now.
Amara hadn't changed much either, though life had folded its quiet lessons into her. She had become a teacher at the same secondary school where she once hid from whispers and laughter. The classroom smelled of chalk and hope, but her heart—her heart still carried an unfinished sentence: Tunde.
That morning, when she saw the military truck stop near the mango tree, she froze. At first, it was only curiosity—a soldier returning to town was no strange sight. But when he stepped down and turned, the world stopped for her. The same sharp jawline, the same deep eyes that once stared at her across a crowded classroom, only now they were shadowed with something else—experience, perhaps pain.
Their eyes met.
For a moment, Edena disappeared. It was just them, suspended in the quiet pulse of the sun. Amara clutched her lesson notes against her chest. Tunde's lips parted, a half-smile forming and failing all at once. Words died in the heat between them.
But before either could move, a voice broke through the spell. "Amara!"
Chijioke.
He walked toward them, his face tightening as he took in the sight. He had been Amara's colleague for years, always attentive, always present—but never quite invited into her heart. Now he saw what he had always suspected: there was someone else in her story.
Tunde straightened instinctively, his soldier's posture returning. "Good afternoon," he said politely, his voice deep and firm.
Chijioke nodded stiffly. "You've come back."
"Yes," Tunde said simply. "Home."
Amara's fingers trembled slightly on her notes. "We were… just catching up."
Chijioke's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Of course. Old friends."
The words hung, sharp as the wind before rain.
As they parted ways, Amara's thoughts spun. She tried to focus on her students, on the chalkboard, on the rhythm of routine—but her heart wouldn't obey. Memories of the old days came flooding back: the laughter, the teasing, the promise he made before leaving for military school—"I'll come back a man worthy of you."
Now, he had returned. And nothing felt simple anymore.
That evening, Tunde found himself walking again toward the mango tree. The same tree under which they'd once carved their initials, childish letters hidden by years of bark and growth. The setting sun painted the sky in orange and sorrow. He didn't expect to find her there—but she was. Sitting quietly, her hair catching the last light.
They stood under the tree again, older now, silent for a long time. The distance between them was more than just physical; it was years of unspoken words.
"I heard about your father," she said softly. "I'm sorry."
He nodded. "He wanted me to be strong. I tried."
Her eyes glistened. "You succeeded."
For a moment, there was peace. But then, footsteps approached. Chijioke again, his anger no longer hidden. "So this is where you both meet?" he said, his voice low, tight. "Under this tree, like before?"
"Chijioke, please," Amara began, but he cut her off.
"I waited, Amara. All these years. And now—he walks back into town, and suddenly, I don't exist?"
Tunde stepped forward. "Watch your tone."
"Oh, the soldier gives orders now?" Chijioke spat, stepping closer. "You think your uniform makes you more of a man?"
The wind stirred the leaves above them. Amara's heart pounded. She could see the storm building—not just in the sky, but in their eyes. Tunde clenched his fists, then forced them open. "I didn't come to fight."
"Then leave," Chijioke hissed. "Leave her."
"I can't."
The silence that followed was heavy, dangerous. Amara's tears finally broke free. "Stop it! Both of you!" she cried, her voice trembling. "This isn't what I want."
The first drops of rain began to fall. One by one, they darkened the earth around them. Chijioke stared at her, his expression crumbling. "He'll hurt you," he muttered, turning away.
Tunde watched him go, chest heaving, rain mingling with sweat. Amara stepped closer, her eyes searching his. "You shouldn't have said that," she whispered.
"I couldn't let him speak to you that way."
"And now?" she asked softly. "What happens now?"
He looked at her—really looked—and for the first time since his return, his voice faltered. "Now," he said, "I stay."
Thunder rolled in the distance. The rain came harder, soaking their clothes, their fears, their hesitation. Beneath the mango tree, they stood in silence, the storm washing over everything that had been left unsaid.
The past had returned—but the future was still unwritten.