The road to Uyo was long and winding, bordered by tall elephant grass and palm groves that glimmered with dew. The lorry that carried Amara and other passengers swayed from side to side, its wooden panels creaking as the driver sped over potholes. Chickens squawked from a basket beneath the seat, and someone at the back kept singing, "Uyo ke, Uyo ke, city of light o!"
Amara clutched her small bag tightly. Inside it were two wrappers, a pair of sandals, and her sketchbook. She had never travelled alone before, and every turn of the road felt like the beginning of a story she didn't yet understand.
When the lorry finally rattled into Itam Junction, Amara's eyes widened. The noise, the smell, the rush of people—it was nothing like Umudia. Traders called out from every direction:
"Buy fresh tomatoes! Fresh from Ikot Ekpene!"
"Madam, come and see fine Ankara!"
"Plantain! Fresh Plantain for you!"
Aunty Ngozi's stall stood near the fabric section of Itam Market, shaded by a large umbrella painted with the words 'GOD'S TIME IS BEST STORES'. She sold bright wrappers, lace blouses, and headscarves stacked in colourful heaps. When she saw Amara, she spread her arms wide.
"Eh-heh! My city niece has arrived!"
Amara laughed and hugged her. "Aunty, the journey was long."
"Don't worry. After one week here, you will forget your father's strict face."
That evening, Amara helped her aunt close the stall. They counted the day's earnings, locked the fabric bundles in a wooden box, and walked through the crowd toward Aunty's house in Ewet Housing, a small but lively neighbourhood on the outskirts of Uyo.
That night, lying on a mat in her aunt's living room, Amara listened to the distant sounds—the hum of generators, the laughter of people outside. The city pulsed with life in a way that her quiet village never had. She thought of her father, of the red earth and palm trees back home, and wondered what he would feel if he saw her here among all this noise and light.
The next morning, Itam Market was already awake before the sun fully rose. Traders arrived with wheelbarrows full of goods: vegetables from Eket, yams from Abak, smoked fish from Oron, and bright yellow bunches of plantain from Ikot Oblogo.
Amara tied her hair back and helped arrange fabrics. She was folding a new batch of lace when a voice behind her shouted, "Make way, abeg! Hot palm oil coming through!"
Before she could move, a man carrying two big jerrycans brushed past her. One slipped from his hand, splashing palm oil onto her wrapper.
"Chineke!" she cried, jumping back. "Look at my clothes!"
The young man froze, guilt written all over his face. He was tall, with skin the colour of roasted corn and eyes that darted between apology and panic.
"Ah, I'm sorry! Abeg, forgive me," he said quickly, his accent thick with Ibibio. "It was a mistake. Let me buy you puff-puff to calm your spirit."
Amara tried to look stern, though a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Puff-puff will not clean this stain," she said, folding her arms.
He laughed softly. "No, but maybe it will make you smile."
His laughter was warm—gentle in a way that disarmed her anger. He dropped the jerrycans to the ground and took a small handkerchief from his pocket, trying awkwardly to dab at the oil.
"Don't worry," Amara said, stopping him. "You'll only spread it more."
"Sorry," he repeated. "Sometimes my hands act before my brain."
She shook her head, amused despite herself. "Where are you from?"
"Ikot Oblogo," he said proudly. "My father's farm is there. We bring plantains to sell here every market day."
The name hit her like a sudden gust of wind—Ikot Oblogo. Her father's warning echoed in her mind: "Never trust them. Never speak to them."
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
As if reading her silence, he smiled and added, "My name is Ekanem Etim."
Etim. Of all the names in the world!
She murmured a soft "Hmm," and turned back to her fabrics, her heart beating faster than it should.
"Can I at least buy you puff-puff?" he asked again.
Amara tried to stay composed. "You've caused enough trouble for one morning."
But before she could finish arranging the wrappers, he was gone—and moments later returned with a paper bag. "Here," he said, holding it out. "Hot and sweet. If you don't eat, I will feel worse."
Against her better judgment, she took it. "Thank you."
"Good. Now we are friends," he said, flashing that easy grin again.
She wanted to correct him—that they could never be friends, not with the border between their families—but instead she said nothing.
As he walked away, balancing the jerrycans on his shoulders, she found herself staring after him longer than she meant to.
Later that day, Aunty Ngozi noticed her quietness. "Amara, why are you smiling like somebody who won a small lottery?"
Amara quickly shook her head. "Nothing, Aunty. Just tired."
"Hmm. I hope no market boy is distracting you. Those Ikot Oblogo boys, their mouth is sweet like honey, but their hand is rough like palm kernel."
Amara nearly dropped the wrapper she was folding. "Ikot Oblogo?" she repeated.
"Yes, now. Don't know them? They always come to this market with plantains and palm oil. They can charm even a preacher's daughter. You'd better be careful, my dear."
Amara forced a laugh. "I'm always careful."
But that night, as she lay on her mat, she could still hear Ekanem's laughter. She saw the way he had looked at her—not with arrogance, but with kindness. It puzzled her, this feeling that refused to fade.