After that first evening under the palms, Amara found herself watching the days more carefully — measuring time by how long until she could see Ekanem again.
Their meetings became a quiet rhythm. Once every week, sometimes twice, they would slip away from their villages and meet by the old bridge. It stood like an ageing sentinel between Akwa Ibom and Abia, half-claimed by each, owned by neither.
Ekanem always arrived first, bringing something from the market — roasted corn, palm wine, sometimes groundnuts wrapped in paper. Amara would bring her sketch pad and a reused Fanta bottle filled with cold kunu.
They would sit under the wide palms, talking while the sun melted into the horizon.
"You paint?" Ekanem asked one evening, watching her hands move over the paper.
"Yes," she said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "My mother taught me when I was small. I like to paint our village — the market, the stream, the palm trees. I want people to see that even small places have beauty."
He leaned forward, studying her drawing. "You make it look peaceful. Like, there's no fight between our people."
She smiled faintly. "That's how I wish it were."
He nodded, thoughtful. "Maybe one day it will be. When people like us stop listening to old men."
She laughed. "Careful. If your father hears you talk like that, he'll disown you."
Ekanem grinned. "He already says I talk too much. He wants me to stay on the farm, but I'm saving money to study civil engineering in Uyo. I want to build roads, bridges, houses — things that last."
Amara's eyes lit up. "Bridges, eh? Maybe you'll build one that truly joins our people."
"Maybe I will," he said softly, and their eyes met, the air suddenly heavier.
Over time, their friendship deepened into something neither could easily name.
They shared stories — Ekanem told her about working on his father's farm, how the soil there turned golden in the sun, how his younger sister followed him everywhere. Amara told him about her dreams of painting professionally, of one day holding an exhibition in Uyo or Port Harcourt.
Sometimes they simply sat in silence, listening to the wind in the palms. The world around them felt suspended, as if time itself waited at the edge of the grove.
One evening, after a brief rain, Amara reached out to touch a palm leaf that still held drops of water. "My father says these trees are witnesses," she said quietly. "That they remember everything."
Ekanem followed her gaze. "Then maybe they'll remember us — not for hate, but for something better."
She smiled, her heart warm. "You talk too much hope."
He shrugged. "Hope is free."
But the world outside their small haven remained unchanged.
Back in Umudia, gossip ran like wildfire through the compounds. People whispered that the Okoron girl spent too much time "wandering." Her father scolded her for returning home late, and her mother grew restless with worry.
"Amara," her mother said one night, "your father watches you these days. Whatever you're hiding, be careful. You know how he is."
Amara said nothing. How could she explain something that even she didn't fully understand?
In Ikot Oblogo, Ekanem faced his own share of suspicion. His cousin Bassey often teased him when he disappeared in the evenings.
"You think we don't know where you go?" Bassey said, laughing. "You and that Umudia girl. One day, you'll bring trouble to our compound."
Ekanem ignored him. But inside, he worried. The feud between their families had lasted too long for anyone to forgive easily.
Still, he couldn't stop seeing her. Each meeting felt like light breaking through clouds.
One late afternoon, they sat watching the stream, the smell of roasted yams drifting through the air.
"Ekanem," Amara said softly, "do you ever think about what people would say if they found out?"
He sighed. "They'd say what they always say — that Etims are thieves and Okorons are proud. But words don't change truth. I know who you are, and you know me. That's enough."
She looked at him. "It's not enough for our families."
He smiled sadly. "Then maybe we'll have to make it enough for ourselves."
She opened her mouth to reply, but he reached out and gently touched her hand. For a moment, the noise of the world disappeared — no feuds, no history, only the warmth of his palm against hers.
"I don't want to cause you trouble," he said.
"You already have," she whispered, smiling through her tears. "But I don't mind."
That evening, when she returned home, her father was sitting outside with two men from the town union. The moment she appeared, their conversation stopped.
"Where are you coming from?" Chief Okoron demanded.
"From the stream," she said quickly.
He studied her face for a long moment. "You're beginning to behave like your grandfather's shadow — always hiding secrets."
She lowered her gaze, heart pounding.
"Be careful, Amara," he said quietly, the anger in his tone replaced by something else — fear. "The past has long shadows. Don't let them swallow you."
She nodded and slipped inside.
That night, as she lay awake, listening to the distant hoot of an owl, she thought of Ekanem's hand in hers, and for the first time in her life, she began to believe that love might be strong enough to cross even the deepest divides.