Chapter Three: Shifting Shadows
Amina's POV
The rain returned the next morning, lacing the air with cold and quiet. It reminded Amina of Oyo—the gentle, earthy smell of damp soil after rainfall, the way the old zinc roof would sing with water, and how her mother would hum while flipping akara over a pan of oil. But here in Lagos, rain only seemed to expose the cracks in everything.
The leak in the corner of her room.
The stiffness of Derin's voice.
The silence at the breakfast table.
She sat alone that Saturday morning, her toast untouched. The others had eaten already, too impatient—or perhaps unwilling—to wait for her. She didn't mind. It was better this way. Silence didn't bruise.
"Amina!" Mrs. Badmus's voice cut through the quiet.
She stood immediately, heart skipping. "Ma?"
"The sitting room. It smells like dust. Clean it."
"I just did yesterday, Ma."
"And today is not yesterday. Don't talk back. Clean it."
Amina swallowed her response and nodded. "Yes, ma."
She cleaned the room until her knuckles ached. When she tried to rest on the edge of the armchair, Derin walked in.
"Oh, you're still here?" Derin asked, eyebrows raised. "I thought you'd disappeared into one of your bushy dreams."
Amina stood up slowly. "I'm finished here."
"Good. Go and check on the guest toilet. I'm not using it until it sparkles."
Amina's eyes burned, but she said nothing. Her silence was the armor that kept her from breaking.
---
Sunday came with more rain and an invitation.
"Amina!" Abiola called from the front porch, waving a paper in his hand. "You're not going to believe this."
She hurried toward him, her wrapper flapping around her legs.
"What happened?" she asked.
"We've been paired for the Cultural Day presentation. Together."
Her eyes widened. "We?"
"Yes! You, me... and Idris."
Her heart paused. "Idris?"
Abiola chuckled. "Why do you sound surprised?"
"I—nothing. What presentation?"
"They want a three-person team to represent the SS1 arm. We'll do a fusion of Yoruba history and entrepreneurship. You'll design the visuals, I'll write the content, and Idris will do the presentation."
Amina blinked. "Why him?"
"Because he talks like someone raised in the UN," Abiola joked. "Apparently he has this 'presence.'"
She looked away, pretending to be unmoved. "Okay."
"You don't look happy."
"I'm fine," she said too quickly.
Abiola nudged her. "Just don't let him distract you with his model face."
She smacked his arm. "You're not funny."
---
Working with Idris was like walking through morning fog—quiet, gentle, and unexpectedly clear once you adjusted.
They met during lunch breaks, mostly in the library or the art room. He always arrived on time, notebook in hand, sleeves rolled, a pen behind his ear. He didn't talk too much, didn't joke like Abiola, but when he spoke, he did so with purpose.
"Amina," he said one afternoon as they bent over the presentation outline. "You do know you're smart, right?"
She looked up, startled. "What?"
"People talk like you're just quiet. But you're smart. Observant."
She blinked at him, unsure how to process the compliment.
"You wrote this?" he pointed to a handwritten paragraph she'd added under "Yoruba trade practices."
She nodded slowly.
"It reads better than the textbook."
Her cheeks warmed. "Thank you."
He didn't smile often, but when he did, it wasn't like the other boys. It didn't come with mischief. It came like dawn—slow, soft, almost reverent.
And yet, Derin noticed.
---
"You like him, don't you?" she asked one Wednesday after school, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Amina froze. "What?"
"Don't act confused."
"I don't."
"You do."
"I don't."
"Well, even if you do, he won't like you back."
The words sliced through the air, quiet but sharp.
"You think someone like Idris would end up with someone like you?" Derin's voice was low. "With your secondhand shoes and pity-story background?"
Amina felt the heat rise in her ears. "I didn't ask for him to like me."
"Good. Because he doesn't."
And with that, Derin turned and walked away.
Amina stood still for a long time, staring at nothing. Her throat burned, her fists clenched. But she didn't cry. She couldn't. The tears had dried up a long time ago.
---
By Friday, the project was nearly complete.
The three of them stood by the whiteboard in the empty library, papers scattered, the air thick with heat and the smell of markers. Abiola was cracking jokes again, his laughter echoing through the space. Idris leaned back against a shelf, arms crossed, watching Amina sketch on the final visual aid.
"You should do this for a living," Idris said.
She glanced over her shoulder. "Sketch?"
"Design. Create. You're good."
She offered a shy smile. "I want to."
"You will."
He said it with the kind of confidence that didn't need proof.
Abiola raised a brow. "Ah ah, Idris. Small encouragement, small smile. Be calming down."
Idris chuckled. "I'm just stating facts."
Amina's heart fluttered, just for a second.
---
That night, Mrs. Badmus knocked on her door.
Amina opened it, surprised.
"Come downstairs," the woman said stiffly. "Your uncle is on the phone."
"My...?"
She followed without question, nerves on edge.
Mr. Akinyemi's voice came through the speaker. "Amina, how are you?"
She stood still, unsure how to respond.
"Fine, sir," she said finally.
"I heard you're doing well in school. That's good. Keep your head down. Don't get distracted."
"Yes, sir."
"I'll send some money next week for textbooks."
Her throat tightened. "Thank you, sir."
The call ended quickly, no warmth in his tone.
Mrs. Badmus turned to her. "Don't get comfortable because of small praise. Remember where you came from."
Amina stared at the floor. "Yes, ma."
---
Cultural Day arrived with sunshine.
The school field was bursting with colour ankara banners, palm fronds, tents, and food stalls. Students wore native attires, drums echoed across the compound, and laughter floated on the breeze.
Amina wore a simple adire gown her grandmother had sewn before she left Ibadan. It wasn't flashy, but it felt like home.
Abiola wore an agbada so big, he almost tripped twice.
And Idris... wore a dark green aso-oke with silver embroidery, looking like he stepped off a movie set.
Even Derin couldn't hide her stare.
"You look... sharp," Amina said shyly.
He gave a rare smile. "You too."
Their presentation was the last of the day. As Idris stepped forward to speak, something shifted. His voice carried across the crowd—deep, calm, precise. He wove Yoruba culture with modern-day business examples, linking the past to the present. When he spoke about Amina's designs, using them as examples of creativity rooted in tradition, the entire crowd turned to look at her.
She almost shrank.
But then she met his eyes—he nodded once, steady, sure.
And she stood taller.
When the applause came, it was loud. Real.
They came third overall, but to Amina, they had already won.
---
That night, she wrote in her journal:
Today, I felt seen.
Not pitied. Not tolerated. Seen.
Maybe... maybe this is the beginning of something.
---
Later, as she folded her clothes, someone knocked gently.
She opened the door to find Idris standing there, holding a sketchpad.
"You forgot this," he said.
"Oh—thank you."
He hesitated, then added, "I meant what I said. You're going to be something big."
She held the sketchpad to her chest. "Thank you."
"I mean it."
And then he left.
The air felt warmer for a long time after.