Between the rainbow and the harmattan

The Rainbow Beyound

Chapter 5

The house was unusually quiet that night, the silence pressing against Ada’s ears like a heavy blanket. Harmattan dust clung stubbornly to the curtains, coating their faded fabric with a pale, ghostly film. The dry wind slipped in through the cracks of the window frames, rattling them like impatient fingers drumming on a locked door.

Her father’s words still clung to her chest, each syllable etched into her bones like scars:

“If you disgrace this family, you are no longer my daughter.”

The sentence replayed endlessly, like a stubborn song on repeat. No matter how many times Ada rolled over or buried her head in her pillow, the memory refused to fade.

She lay stiff on her narrow bed, staring at the ceiling until her eyes blurred. The faint orange glow from the streetlight outside slanted across the room, cutting stripes of light and shadow over her body. Her heart thudded loudly, so loud she feared it would wake the entire house.

In the next room, her mother hummed softly as her rocking chair creaked in its familiar rhythm. Normally, the sound carried Ada into sleep, wrapping her in a cocoon of comfort. Tonight it weighed heavily, not as solace but as a reminder: a reminder of the quiet, obedient life she was expected to continue, generation after generation.

But her heart no longer bent so easily.

On her desk lay Kele’s sketchbook. Its once-cream cover was smudged with graphite, the edges softened from years of travel. Ada reached for it with trembling hands, as though it were a fragile relic. She turned the pages carefully.

Scenes bloomed before her eyes: Lagos streets bursting with noise and color, crowds of people captured mid-motion, faceless women drawn with such aching tenderness that Ada felt their stories whisper between the lines. And then—herself.

Ada’s breath caught. Her own likeness filled a page, captured in pencil strokes alive with devotion. Her eyes turned upward, lips parted as though on the cusp of speaking truth. But what startled her most wasn’t the accuracy of the sketch; it was the way Kele had seen her.

Not as timid Ada. Not as the daughter silenced at the dinner table. But as someone who could lift her chin and reach toward something bigger. Someone full of possibility.

She pressed the sketchbook to her chest. A shiver ran through her, not from harmattan chill but from courage that suddenly felt within reach.

Her phone buzzed, startling her. She scrambled to silence it before her father stirred.

Kele: The bus to Abuja leaves at dawn. I’ll wait for you by Ojota. If you don’t come, I’ll still go… but Ada, I hope you’ll choose us.

The words glowed on the screen, simple yet searing. Ada’s throat tightened. This was no longer about secret smiles or stolen touches in shadow. It was about a choice — her life, her freedom.

Could she do it? Could she step beyond everything she knew?

Her chest rose and fell in rapid waves, but when she closed her eyes, she saw Kele’s smile, soft and sure. And the answer whispered back to her: Yes.

⸻

Dawn crept over Lagos slowly, painting the horizon in coral streaks and muted gold. The first muezzin’s call floated across the rooftops, overlapping with the faint ringing of church bells in the distance. The streets stirred awake: keke horns sputtered, hawkers called out their wares, and the smell of akara frying in hot oil drifted through the morning air.

Ada moved carefully through her family’s morning routine, each task weighted with secret urgency. She swept the veranda, her broom bristling over cracked tiles. She poured hot water into enamel cups, steam curling upward. She folded her father’s agbada neatly over the chair. Her hands performed the motions automatically, but her heart pounded to a rhythm that said: soon, soon, soon.

Her mother noticed. She always noticed.

“You’re distracted,” she murmured, pausing mid-sweep, eyes narrowing.

Ada forced a smile. “I’m just… thinking.”

Her mother leaned the broom against the wall and studied her daughter carefully, eyes searching her face for cracks. Ada felt exposed, as though her thoughts might spill out at any moment.

Finally, her mother spoke, voice low. “You carry something heavy tonight. I don’t know what it is. But Ada—” her voice wavered, then steadied. “Remember that the world outside can be cruel. Don’t go chasing things that will break you.”

Ada’s lips trembled. She wanted to scream, But Mama, I’m already breaking inside.

Instead, she stepped closer, took her mother’s hand, and pressed her lips gently against it. “I’ll be fine,” she whispered.

Her mother’s eyes softened, though shadows of fear still lingered. “You have your father’s stubbornness,” she said, half-smiling. “But you have my heart. Carry both wisely.”

Ada swallowed hard and nodded, slipping away before her resolve crumbled. She lifted her small travel bag over her shoulder. It felt impossibly heavy though it held only a few clothes, a bottle of water, and Kele’s sketchbook. Heavy because it carried every secret she had ever hidden, every possibility she was about to risk.

⸻

Ojota buzzed like a hive.

Conductors shouted at the tops of their lungs: “Abuja straight! Jos direct! Last seat remaining!” Buses coughed clouds of exhaust, their yellow paint chipped and faded. Women balanced trays of groundnuts and Gala on their heads, weaving between travelers. The air swirled with dust, diesel, and the sharp tang of roasted corn.

Ada’s chest tightened. She clutched her bag closer, eyes darting nervously. Then she saw her.

Kele.

Standing tall beside a yellow bus, scarf fluttering in the breeze like a quiet banner. Her figure was steady against the chaos, her backpack slung casually over one shoulder. When she lifted her head and their eyes met, Ada felt time collapse into a single moment.

Her father’s voice thundered inside her skull: If you disgrace this family…

But then Kele smiled.

Not a broad grin, but that small, sure smile that said: I see you. I believe in you.

Ada’s feet moved before her mind could stop them. Step by step, the noise of Ojota faded into background hum.

When she reached her, her chest was heaving.

“You came,” Kele whispered, wonder filling her voice.

Ada’s throat ached, but she forced her words out. “I don’t know what tomorrow holds. But I know this—” her voice cracked, then steadied. “I’d rather walk into uncertainty with you than live safely in a cage.”

Kele’s fingers slid into hers, warm and firm. “Then let’s write our own tomorrow.”

⸻

The bus doors groaned open. Passengers jostled forward, climbing aboard, clutching bags and children. The conductor’s voice rang out like a final call: “Abuja straight! Last boarding!”

Ada hesitated for the briefest moment, glancing back at the city that had raised her. The cracked pavements, zinc rooftops, verandas where women sold puff-puff for ten naira. Her father’s sharp voice, her mother’s humming lullabies, the house that was both her shelter and her prison.

Fear stabbed her chest like a blade.

But then Kele’s hand squeezed hers, anchoring her.

Together, they boarded.

The bus lurched forward with a screech, rattling as it merged into the river of Lagos traffic. Ada pressed her forehead to the window, watching the city blur past. Each landmark they left behind felt like shedding another skin.

Inside, the bus was a chorus of humanity: babies crying, traders arguing over fares, a man reciting prayers under his breath. The air smelled of sweat, petrol, and dust. Yet through it all, Ada felt cocooned, shielded by the simple fact of Kele’s shoulder brushing hers.

They sat in silence at first, letting the vibrations of the bus hum through their bones. Then Kele leaned close, her whisper tickling Ada’s ear. “Are you afraid?”

Ada nodded, tears pricking her eyes. “Terrified.”

Kele smiled softly. “Me too. But courage isn’t about not being afraid. It’s about choosing anyway.”

Ada’s heart steadied.

She let her head fall against Kele’s shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of soap and dust. For the first time in months, her lungs filled easily.

The horizon stretched wide, painted in golds and faint pinks. Through the dusty glass, Ada imagined a rainbow arcing across the sky — fragile yet defiant, a promise that beyond the dust, there was color waiting.

Her heart whispered, not with fear this time, but with resolve:

This is only the beginning.