The rains came early that year, drumming on the tin roofs of Umudia and turning the red soil into thick, clinging mud. Amara liked the rain; it softened the world and made everything smell clean. But since she had returned from Uyo, even the rain reminded her of him — the boy with the shy grin and the Ibibio accent.
In the weeks after her return, life at the Okoron compound slipped back into its careful order. Every morning, her mother woke before dawn to light the cooking fire. Chidi returned from his work at the palm mill, louder and more boastful than ever. Their father spent his evenings at the veranda, reading old newspapers and talking about village politics.
Yet for Amara, something had shifted.
She tried to occupy herself — painting, helping at the market, assisting her mother with visitors. But her mind often wandered back to the old colonial bridge, to the sound of Ekanem's laughter blending with the whisper of palm leaves. She told herself it was foolishness, that she should forget. Still, every time she saw a bunch of ripe plantains hanging at a stall, her chest tightened.
One Sunday afternoon, as she helped her mother sort beans, Chidi looked up from where he was sharpening his knife.
"You've been quiet since you came back," he said. "Did the city people teach you to keep secrets?"
Amara forced a small smile. "Maybe they taught me peace."
"Peace?" He snorted. "Peace doesn't feed a man. Action does."
Their father's voice came from the veranda. "Your brother is right. This life is for those who take what they can."
Amara lowered her gaze, hiding the hurt in her eyes.
Later that week, she accompanied her mother to the small market at Ekom Iman to buy soap and kerosene. The air was heavy with the smell of rain-soaked palm kernels. As she helped a trader tie up a basket, a familiar voice made her freeze.
"Ah! My puff-puff friend from Itam Market!"
She turned sharply. It couldn't be — but it was. Ekanem Etim, standing there with a bunch of plantains balanced easily on one shoulder, his face lit by the same open smile she remembered.
For a heartbeat, she could only stare. "What are you doing here?" she whispered.
He shifted the plantains onto his other shoulder. "Selling, of course. Uyo market is good, but Ekom Iman is closer. My father sent me to deliver to one of the traders here."
Her mother, who was busy pricing palm oil a few stalls away, hadn't noticed him yet.
"You shouldn't talk to me here," Amara said quickly, glancing around.
"Why not? We're only greeting."
"It's not that simple."
He smiled faintly. "You Okoron people, you make everything a battle."
"Keep your voice down," she hissed.
He laughed softly. "Still afraid of your father?"
She didn't answer. He looked at her for a long moment, then lowered his voice. "If you want, we can meet again. Not here. By the bridge. I pass there every week."
Amara hesitated. Her heart thudded. "That's not wise."
"Maybe not. But wise things rarely make us happy."
Before she could reply, her mother called, "Amara! Come and help me here!"
Ekanem gave her a quick nod and disappeared into the crowd.
That night, she sat by her window, watching fireflies blink in the darkness. The memory of his words replayed in her mind — Wise things rarely make us happy.
She wanted to resist, to listen to the warnings drilled into her since childhood. But another voice inside her whispered that she had seen no evil in Ekanem, only kindness.
By the following week, she had made her choice.
When the sun dipped low the next Saturday, Amara told her mother she was going to the stream. She wrapped a scarf around her head and walked down the path leading out of the village. The evening air smelled of rain and ripe fruit.
By the time she reached the palm grove near the bridge, the sky had turned soft orange. Ekanem was already there, sitting on a fallen log with a small lantern beside him.
"I wasn't sure you'd come," he said as she approached.
"I almost didn't," she admitted.
"Then I'm glad you changed your mind."
He reached into a basket and brought out two roasted plantains and a small bowl of pears. "I brought something from our farm. It tastes better when shared."
She smiled despite herself. "You think food can fix everything."
"Food fixes hunger. The rest we can talk about."
They sat together, eating quietly. The bridge loomed above them, its rusted rails glowing faintly in the last light. Below, the stream murmured over stones, carrying the sounds of insects and distant drums from some far village celebration.
"I used to come here when I was a boy," Ekanem said. "My mother said the bridge joins two lands that refuse to shake hands."
Amara looked up at the structure. "My father says the same thing — only he says your people are the ones who refused."
Ekanem chuckled softly. "Then maybe the bridge is waiting for their children to make peace."
His words hung in the air between them.
She looked at him — really looked — and realised that for the first time in her life, she wasn't thinking of borders or names. She was thinking of a boy who made her laugh and feel seen.
When she finally stood to leave, the first stars had appeared.
"Will you come again?" he asked.
"Maybe," she said.
"Maybe means yes."
She shook her head but smiled anyway, and walked away through the trees, her footsteps light against the damp earth.