The Lust We Felt Was Love

The air in Lisbon was soft and warm. When I stepped out of the airport, the breeze was so soothing. I could smell something sweet, like sea salt mixed with coffee. I held my suitcase tightly and looked around. Everything felt new and alive. It was my first time outside Nigeria, and even though I was tired, I could not stop smiling. I whispered to myself, “So this is Lisbon.” A woman waved from across the parking area. She held a small sign that said Welcome, Tari. Her name was Ivy. She worked with the writing fellowship that had brought me here. She had bright eyes and wore a yellow scarf. “You must be tired,” she said. “A little,” I replied, smiling. “But I am mostly excited.” We got into a taxi, and I sat by the window. The city was so calm, I saw different parts of the city passing by without rushing, old buildings painted in soft colors, narrow streets, and people walking hand in hand. There was laughter, the smell of baked bread, and the sound of someone playing a guitar far away. Everything felt different from Lagos, calmer, slower, but full of life. “This city loves stories,” Ivy said as we drove. “You will find inspiration everywhere.” I smiled. “I already feel it.” The drive was short. When we reached the apartment, I stood for a moment before the door. It was a small building, white with blue tiles around the entrance. The kind that looked old but well taken care of. I carried my bag up the stairs and opened the door to my new home. It was simple: a bed, a desk near the window, and a shelf with space for my books. From the window, I could see red rooftops and, far in the distance, the ocean shining in the light. I took a deep breath and smiled. “This is home,” I said softly to myself. That evening, I unpacked my bags. I placed my notebooks on the desk, a photo of my mom and Helen on the shelf, and my favorite blue mug near the window. Then I made a cup of tea and sat down, watching the city lights come on one by one. Lisbon felt peaceful. Lagos had always been fast, full of car horns, street vendors, and family voices calling from every corner. I loved it, but it never gave me space to breathe. Here, the silence felt kind. I could finally hear myself think. Still, a part of me missed home. I missed Mom’s loud laughter and the smell of pepper soup coming from the kitchen. I missed Tessy’s late-night talks and how we would dream together about everything we wanted to be. But I reminded myself that this was what I had prayed for, a chance to write freely and find my voice. That night, I lay in bed and looked at the ceiling. My heart was full and a little scared. But mostly full. I whispered, “Thank you, God. I am really here.” The next morning, I woke up early. The sun was already shining so bright, I could see it through the window. I wore a light dress and went outside with my notebook. The streets were bright and calm. The smell of coffee and fresh bread filled the air. I walked to a small bakery near my street. The woman behind the counter smiled warmly. “Pastel de nata?” She asked, holding up a small pastry. “Yes,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure what it was. She laughed and said, “Good choice.” I took a bite, and to my surprise, it tasted so sweet and soft inside. “Wow,” I said, my mouth was full. The woman laughed again. “Welcome to Lisbon,” she said. After breakfast, I walked around with no plan, through the streets, traders setting out their goods for the day. I stopped to watch an old man play the guitar while a few couples danced nearby. Children ran around with ice cream, and I could not help but laugh to myself. Everything here felt light and easy, like the city wanted me to be happy. When the afternoon came, I decided to rest at a café near the writing center. It was small and cozy, with green plants hanging from the ceiling. I sat by the window and ordered coffee. I planned to write about my first day. Just as I opened my notebook, the door opened, and a man walked in. He was tall, with messy brown hair and a tired but gentle face. He looked around like he was searching for something. When his eyes met mine, he smiled politely. I smiled back, then quickly looked down. He ordered a drink and sat at a few tables away. I tried to focus on my writing, but his voice caught my attention. It was soft and calm, with a light British accent, I guessed . Then my pen rolled off the table and landed near his feet. He picked it up and handed it to me. “You dropped this,” he said. “Thank you,” I replied, smiling. He nodded. “You’re not from here, are you?” “No,” I said. “ I just arrived yesterday.” “Ah,” he said, smiling. “That explains the look.” “What look?” I asked, because I was curious. “The look some people have when they see something new for the first time.” I laughed quietly. “You make it sound obvious." “It is. But it’s nice to see.” We both smiled. Then we fell silent again. It wasn’t awkward, just peaceful. After a while, he stood up to leave. He turned back to me and said, “Enjoy Lisbon. It’s a good place for people who love stories. I smiled. “That is good. I am a writer.” He raised his brows slightly. “Really? Then you are exactly where you should be.” He gave a small nod and walked out. I watched him go, feeling a strange calm in my chest. I did not know his name. I did not know if I would ever see him again. But something about that short moment stayed with me. Maybe it was his voice, or maybe it was the way he said "you are exactly where you should be." That night, I sat by my window again. The city lights were bright, and the air smelled of sea salt and roasted nuts. I opened my notebook and wrote about the day, the soft air, the colorful streets, and the stranger in the café. Finally, I wrote one last line: Maybe cities do not just wait for you. Maybe people do too. Then I closed my notebook, smiled, and whispered, “Goodnight, Lisbon.