Two days passed before Amara saw him again. She had convinced herself the encounter at the market meant nothing, that she had only been surprised by his boldness. But when she carried a bundle of lace to the tailor's corner near the main gate of Itam Market, a familiar voice called out behind her.
"Ah! My puff-puff friend!"
She turned, and there he was again—Ekanem Etim, smiling as the sun had chosen him. He wore the same faded blue shirt, but this time his hands were clean, no palm-oil stains.
"You again," Amara said, trying to sound annoyed.
"You sound like you're not happy to see me."
"I'm not," she said quickly, then added, "I just didn't expect to see you."
He laughed. "The market is like a river. People always meet again if they fetch from the same stream."
Amara tried not to smile. "You talk too much."
"Yes," he agreed easily. "That's how my mother knows I'm alive."
There was something about his ease that softened her guard. They stood for a while by the gate as sellers shouted prices around them. He told her he came twice a week from Ikot Oblogo with his father's produce—mostly plantains and sometimes cocoyam.
"My father says the soil in Umudia side is rich because of palm dust," he said. "Maybe one day we'll farm there too." The words pricked her heart. She wanted to tell him that such talk was dangerous—that her father would rage if he heard it—but she stayed silent.
Aunty Ngozi's voice broke the moment. "Amara! Where are you? I've been looking for you!"
Amara flinched and turned. "I have to go," she said quickly.
Ekanem nodded. "We'll see again."
She wanted to say no, we won't, but the words refused to come.
Over the following weeks, they met again and again. Sometimes at the bus stop near Uyo-Ikot Ekpene Road, sometimes by the small filling station where she went to buy kerosene. At first, she told herself it was a coincidence, but deep inside she knew better.
Ekanem would always greet her with that same teasing smile. "Ah, market friend! Are you following me?"
"Me? You're the one following me," she would reply.
Soon their short greetings grew into small conversations. They talked about music—Ekanem liked Sir Wilker Jackson and could hum "Ima Mma Enyene Abasi" from start to finish. Amara preferred Asa, whose songs she had heard on her cousin's small radio.
"You like slow music," Ekanem teased. "That's for people who think too much."
"And you like noise," she shot back. "That's for people who fear silence."
He laughed until tears gathered in his eyes.
Sometimes he brought her roasted plantain wrapped in paper. Other times, she shared chilled kunu from a reused bottle. They sat on a low wooden bench beside a palm tree near the old colonial bridge, where the boundary between Akwa Ibom and Abia seemed to fade.
The evenings there were peaceful. The air smelled of ripe fruit and rain-damp soil. They talked until dusk turned the sky the colour of burnt orange. Amara found herself opening up to him—about her dreams of painting full-time, about how her father thought art was for idle people.
"My own father thinks education is a waste for farmers," Ekanem said. "But I want to be an engineer. I like to build things that last."
Amara smiled. "Then maybe you can build me a studio one day."
He grinned. "Only if you paint me first."
She threw a pebble at him, laughing, and for a moment, the border that had haunted both their families disappeared.
But even in Uyo, whispers travelled fast. One evening, as they walked toward the taxi park, an older trader recognised Ekanem.
"Ah-ah, Etim pikin! You no dey fear? You dey follow Okoron daughter talk for open place?"
Ekanem's face stiffened. "Mama, abeg leave matter."
The woman shook her head and hissed. "Una people go cause wahala again."
Amara felt the blood drain from her face. "She knows who I am," she whispered after the woman left.
Ekanem sighed. "Let her talk. We have done nothing wrong."
But both knew that in the world they came from, doing nothing wrong could still bring punishment.
That night, Amara lay awake on her mat, listening to rain beat softly on the roof. She imagined her father's face if he ever discovered she'd been speaking with an Etim. Tufiakwa! he would shout. The thought made her tremble, yet she could not deny what her heart was beginning to feel.