Unspoken flame
849 Words
Chapter Two
The note lay beneath Ada’s pillow for two days before she dared to touch it again. Every time her roommate turned away in sleep, every time the corridor outside grew silent, she would slip the folded paper into her palm, tracing the curve of the handwriting with trembling fingers.
If you ever want to stop hiding, meet me again.
The words echoed like a drumbeat in her chest. What did it mean to stop hiding? And what would it cost?
On the third evening, she gave in. She returned to the café, telling herself she was only going for the suya smoke and the hum of poetry. But her eyes betrayed her the moment she stepped inside. They sought, they searched, they found.
Kele was there.
She leaned over a sketchpad, doodling in wide, careless strokes. When she noticed her, a smile spread across her face like sunlight breaking free of cloud.
“You came.”
Ada hesitated, hovering near the doorway, ready to flee if anyone was watching. “I—It’s not what you think. I just… wanted to listen again.”
Kele patted the empty chair beside her. “Then sit. Words sound better when you don’t stand at the edge of them.”
Ada sat, her heart a restless drum. She wanted to disappear and yet remain forever in that chair, caught between safety and danger.
They talked. Not about secrets, not yet. About books and music, about how Lagos always seemed to run faster than the people inside it. Kele’s laughter filled every pause, unafraid, rich. Ada found herself laughing too, though she pressed her hand to her lips, afraid of being too loud.
When the evening thinned and the crowd spilled into the streets, Kele leaned close. “Walk with me.”
It wasn’t a question.
They wandered through the restless city, past akara sellers and danfo buses belching smoke, past neon signs flickering with stubborn life. Kele spoke about their dream of opening a small fashion studio, a place where clothes would be more than fabric — they would be freedom stitched together.
“And you?” Kele asked suddenly, tilting her head. “What do you want, Adaora?”
Ada faltered. No one had ever asked her that so directly. She thought of her parents, their voices weaving futures of law school and respectable husbands. She thought of her poetry, of the lines that burned her throat when she swallowed them back.
“I want…” She paused, then shook her head. “I don’t know.”
Kele studied her in silence, then smiled gently. “You’ll find out. Maybe sooner than you think.”
The days after blurred into a secret rhythm. Ada found herself drawn to Kele like a moth to flame. She learned the tilt of her smile, the cadence of her voice when she recited lines by memory. She learned how it felt to walk side by side without touching, yet sensing the electricity of every near-brush.
For the first time, Ada felt alive. For the first time, she let her heart speak in poems she would never show Chiamaka, in laughter she saved only for Kele.
And yet, fear shadowed every joy.
One afternoon, they met at a small café tucked behind Tejuosho market, a place with peeling red chairs and tea sweet enough to drown worry. Ada’s notebook lay open between them, and she had allowed Kele to read a few unfinished verses.
“This line,” Kele whispered, tapping the page, “—‘I ache for the freedom of light hidden in shadows’—this is you, Ada. Don’t tell me it’s just metaphor.”
Ada’s cheeks flamed. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because people will hear. Because…” Her words faltered. “Because it’s dangerous.”
Kele leaned closer, voice low but fierce. “Living half a life is more dangerous.”
Ada opened her mouth to reply, but movement at the doorway froze her.
Chiamaka.
Her best friend stood there, blinking at the sight of them, two notebooks open, Kele’s head bent close to hers.
“Ada?” Chiamaka’s voice carried surprise, laced with curiosity. “I didn’t know you… had a friend here.”
Ada’s throat closed. Words tangled. Excuses lined up, weak and brittle.
Kele, unbothered, simply smiled. “We’re poets. And poets always find each other, don’t they?”
Chiamaka’s eyes narrowed, flicking between the two of them. She gave a slow nod, her smile polite but tight, then excused herself with the promise of “catching up later.”
When she left, Ada slumped into her chair, breath shallow. “She saw us. She’ll ask questions. She always asks questions.”
Kele reached across the table, her fingers brushing hers in the faintest touch — quick, almost invisible. “Then give her answers only you can live with.”
But Ada knew it was not so simple. In Chiamaka’s eyes lingered something sharper than curiosity — something that might soon unravel everything Ada was trying to protect.
- Writer
