When Eyes First Open
1474 Words
Act One
Scene One
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The sun burned low over the red roofs of Aremo, casting long shadows across the narrow roads. It was a typical evening in the old Yoruba town — the smell of smoke from firewood mingled with fried akara, children’s laughter echoed in the distance, and the slow hum of daily life crawled toward nightfall.
Adesewa sat in the backseat of her father’s Prado Jeep, windows down, head tilted slightly to the breeze. Her phone buzzed in her hand, but she didn’t care to check it. She was tired — not physically, but spiritually. Tired of the overbearing expectations, of the image she had to maintain as the daughter of Chief Alade, one of the wealthiest men in Oyo State.
Her eyes drifted lazily over the roadside, past women selling tomatoes and children chasing tires, until they landed on him.
He stood by a small wooden stall, arranging bundles of firewood beside an older woman — his mother, perhaps. His shirt was faded, hands darkened with soot, but he stood tall. Straight-backed. Calm. Unshaken by the chaos of his environment. And for a brief second, his eyes met hers.
That moment. That *split* second.
Time hesitated.
Tolu noticed her too, though he wasn’t used to attention from rich girls in tinted cars. Her eyes were soft, curious — not mocking. Not judging. It startled him.
The car rolled on.
Adesewa turned back quickly. “Driver, slow down,” she said impulsively.
The man blinked. “Ma?”
“Nothing,” she murmured, shaking her head. “Forget it.”
She looked down at her phone and whispered to herself, “Who is he?”
—
Later that night, under the soft hum of a ceiling fan, Adesewa lay in her wide bed staring at the ceiling. Her room was luxurious — everything from the silk sheets to the crystal lamp screamed wealth. But she felt distant. Empty.
And that boy — the one with firewood — he filled her thoughts. His calm eyes, his stillness. He seemed... different.
She opened i********:, scrolled past parties and pre-wedding shoots, then closed it. It all felt fake.
Meanwhile, across town, Tolu finished stacking the last piece of wood. His mother coughed behind him. “Tolu mi, you’ve worked hard today.”
“I’ll wake early tomorrow, Mama. We’ll sell more before the sun rises.”
She touched his arm gently. “You’re growing into a good man.”
But his thoughts were elsewhere. “Mama… do you believe someone like me could talk to someone from… another world?”
She chuckled. “Have you seen a vision again?”
“No,” he smiled slightly. “Just a question.”
“You can talk to anyone, my son. But the world doesn’t always listen kindly.”
He nodded slowly. And yet, he remembered her eyes. The rich girl in the car.
And somewhere deep inside, something stirred — not desire, not greed… but a sense of connection. A question that refused to fade.
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Act One
Scene Two
Three days passed.
Aremo’s morning market buzzed with rhythm — women bargaining, okada engines growling, traders shouting praises of their wares. It was here that fate moved again, quiet and unnoticed, like wind shifting a leaf.
Adesewa, dressed simply in jeans and a blouse, walked through the market with her cousin Simi. She wore a scarf and sunglasses — not for fashion, but for disguise. Her family would never allow her to stroll through the “commoners’ market” on a weekday. But she had insisted, stubborn and curious. She told Simi, “I just want to breathe real air.”
“Or maybe you're searching for someone,” Simi teased.
Adesewa didn’t answer. But her eyes were already scanning.
And then, she saw him.
He was across the market, carrying a sack of firewood over one shoulder, face damp with sweat, shirt clinging to his back. He looked older in this light — stronger. But still calm. Still grounded.
Simi noticed her freeze. “Wait… is that the guy?”
Adesewa nodded slowly.
“You like him?” Simi whispered, almost laughing. “That’s not your class, Sewa.”
“I don’t care,” she said, already walking toward him.
Tolu didn’t see her until she stood right in front of him.
He paused mid-step, blinking.
“You remember me?” she asked.
He nodded once. “You passed in a car.”
“You didn’t forget.”
“I don’t forget things that stand still in chaos,” he said softly.
That line hit her like a poem. “What’s your name?”
“Tolu.”
“I’m Adesewa.”
He nodded again, unsure what else to say.
“You live here?” she asked.
“All my life.”
“You go to school?”
“I couldn’t. I help my mother.”
There was a pause. The crowd swirled around them, unaware that something rare was unfolding — two strangers from different worlds meeting without masks.
“Can I buy from you?” she asked.
He looked confused. “Buy what?”
“Your firewood.”
He hesitated, then smiled faintly. “You don’t look like someone who cooks with firewood.”
“I’m not,” she admitted. “But I want to support your work.”
He dropped the sack gently, pulled out a small bundle, and tied it. “It’s not charity if it has value,” he said.
She handed him money. He almost refused it.
Then she said, “Do you come here every day?”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And just like that, she turned and walked off — leaving him standing there, holding money he wasn’t sure he should keep, heart beating to a rhythm he didn’t understand.
—
That night, Adesewa stared at the firewood bundle beside her bed.
It wasn’t just wood. It was proof.
Proof that even in a place like Aremo, someone could make her feel alive.
She smiled.
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Act One
Scene Three
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The next day came with rain — gentle, drizzling drops that softened the dust of Aremo and wrapped the town in a quiet hush.
Adesewa didn’t care. She was up early, dressed plainly again. Her cousin raised an eyebrow as she grabbed her scarf.
“You’re going back there?” Simi asked.
Adesewa gave a small smile. “Yes.”
“You’re really serious.”
“I don’t know what I am,” she replied. “But I feel something.”
Simi didn’t stop her.
At the market, Tolu was already there, helping his mother cover the firewood from the rain with a torn tarpaulin. He wasn’t expecting her. But when he looked up and saw her standing a few feet away, his lips parted, surprised but not alarmed.
“You came again,” he said.
“I said I might.”
She stood beside him now, close enough to smell the rain on his shirt. Close enough to hear the slow, steady beat of his breath.
Tolu gestured to a small bench under the wooden stall. “You want to sit?”
She hesitated, then nodded. The bench was wet. He quickly took off his scarf — an old faded one — and wiped it down before letting her sit.
She noticed the gesture.
“I’ve never sat in a place like this,” she said softly.
“And I’ve never spoken to someone like you,” he replied.
They both smiled.
Adesewa looked at him. “Do people talk down to you because you sell wood?”
“Sometimes,” he said. “But wood burns the same whether it’s bought by a rich hand or a poor one.”
She laughed gently. “You always speak in quotes?”
“I don’t know. Maybe poverty teaches you to find meaning in silence.”
They sat there, just two young souls, soaked in soft rain and deeper curiosity. It wasn’t love yet. Not quite. But it was real. A realness neither of them had felt before.
He asked, “Why are you here, really?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I’m tired of everything else being fake.”
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the drops hitting the tarpaulin above them.
Then she whispered, “Can I come again tomorrow?”
He nodded. “Yes.”
---
That night, both of them lay in their separate homes — him in a one-room space with a leaking ceiling, her in a mansion with polished floors and crystal chandeliers.
But their hearts beat to the same rhythm — new, unsure, and terrifyingly hopeful.
Neither of them slept much.
Because something had started.
Not a fairy tale.
But something truer.
Something stitched in rain, silence, and firewood.
- Writer
