When love finally found me

TWO: Nwoke Igbo

Two hours later, Ijem and Trent had already gotten to know a little about each other.

Ijem had proudly listed her “unofficial qualifications” without hesitation: recent law graduate waiting for law school, self-certified professional house chef, and event planner after successfully handling a few family gigs.

Trent had laughed.

“So basically,” he said, leaning back on the sofa, “you cook, plan events, and argue for a living?”

Ijem narrowed her eyes at him dramatically. “I prefer the term multi-talented.”

That earned another laugh from him, warm and effortless enough to make her unexpectedly relax around him.

Somewhere along the line, she had started calling him Nwoke Igbo, mostly because of the way he slipped between English and Igbo. So naturally, despite that smooth American accent, she still wasn’t used to.

“You really enjoy calling me that, huh?” he asked, amused.

“Well,” she said, tilting her head, “you sound like somebody that learned Igbo from YouTube tutorials.”

His hand went to his chest dramatically. “That’s disrespectful.”

“Am I wrong?”

“Not completely. I actually learned from my parents.”

That made her pause.

“Oh?”

He nodded, still smiling, but softer now. “My adoptive parents are Nigerian.”

Ijem blinked. “Wait… seriously?”

“Yeah. From Udi.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “No way. So is my mum.”

“My adoptive parents are from there,” he repeated.

“Adoptive?” she echoed before she could stop herself.

For the first time since he arrived, Trent hesitated slightly. Not enough to make things awkward. Just enough for her to notice.

“I was adopted,” he explained quietly. “By a Nigerian couple.”

Ijem straightened a little, the teasing energy between them fading without warning.

“Oh.”

He gave a small shrug, though his expression softened around the edges.

“My biological parents died when I was three,” he continued. “My father was American, and my mother was Korean. From what I was told, they passed away in an accident. My adoptive parents were close friends with them, so they took me in and raised me alongside their own children.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Outside, a keke rattled past the window, the sound briefly filling the silence between them.

“It must’ve been hard,” Ijem said carefully.

He shook his head once. “Not really.”

Then, after a second, he added more honestly, “I was loved. Properly. I never lacked anything.”

Something about the certainty in his voice made her believe him.

“I’ve always known I was adopted,” he said. “They never hid it. In fact, they made sure I stayed connected to where I came from.”

“They sound like good people,” she said softly.

“They are.”

A faint smile returned to his face, warmer now. “My dad insisted I learn Igbo properly because of our Nigerian family. And my mum… she believed identity mattered. She used to say if you belong to more than one place, you should be able to speak to all of them.”

He let out a small breath, almost amused at the memory.

“So my Saturday mornings were basically Igbo lessons, Korean lessons, and me begging to watch cartoons instead.”

That made Ijem laugh. “That sounds like torture.”

“It was,” he admitted, smiling now. “But I’m grateful for it.”

“And yet,” she said, leaning back slightly, “you’re here sounding like somebody’s village first son.”

“Thank you,” he replied proudly. “I take that as a compliment.”

She shook her head, smiling before she even realized she was doing it.

Truthfully, she hadn’t expected the conversation to become this comfortable. Or this personal. There was something strangely easy about talking to him. Something that made it difficult to remember that he had technically arrived as a complete stranger only a few hours ago.

At some point, he had also started calling her Ijem instead of her full name, like it had always belonged there.

And strangely… she didn’t mind it.

When her mother finally returned home, Ijem quickly ended the conversation and hurried outside to help her carry in the things she bought from the market. Afterward, she quietly disappeared back into her room.

She told herself it was nothing.

Just a visitor. Just a conversation.

Nothing to think too deeply about.

But about an hour later, just as he was preparing to leave, her mother called her out to say goodbye.

Reluctantly, she stepped back into the sitting room.

Trent was already standing near the door, composed as always.

Then, casually like it meant nothing, he looked at her and said,

“Can I have your number? Just in case I need that event planning thing.”

The way he said it was so normal it almost wasn’t.

Almost.

Still, something about it made her suddenly aware of herself.

She nodded anyway and reached for her phone.

A few taps later, his number was saved.

As Nwoke Igbo.

When his phone lit up in his hand, she caught a glimpse of what he had saved her name as.

Ijem.

Just Ijem.

The realization tugged faintly at the corner of her lips.

And just like that…

Ijem had accidentally made a friend.

And for some reason, as she made her way back to her room, she realized she couldn’t wait to tell Uchechi everything that had happened.