In between sundays

Night vigil

Chapter five— Night Vigil

Last night was night vigil, and only Peter — the light-skinned one — showed up from the two brothers.

After the service, we finally got the chance to speak properly. He called me a funny name, but I didn’t catch it clearly. I had just been on a phone call before, and my mind was still half-elsewhere, trying to process what I’d just said to the other person. So when he said the name, I just laughed and shook my head, pretending I understood. Then I reminded him he was the photographer today, and that made him laugh too. Somehow, that small back-and-forth broke the ice.

We started talking, really talking, and it was easy to forget we were surrounded by people. Shyness, fear, friends, school — it all came out naturally. He told me he’s been seriously looking for admission and that he’s writing the Post-UTME exam tomorrow. He admitted, quietly, that he was still nervous and a little scared, even after preparing. I could feel it in his voice, that mixture of determination and doubt that makes someone seem human in a way you notice deeply.

He spoke about his shyness — the kind that makes you hesitate even when you want to move forward. He said he sometimes watches YouTube videos to figure things out, even things like how to approach a lady. I teased him gently, saying, “But you’re not shy with ladies, right?” I added a little thought about how the world has gotten so strange, that people search online for almost everything — even things we could figure out on our own if we just tried. He smiled, a little embarrassed, but not defensive.

I asked him to watch how his brother could be playful sometimes, just to learn from him. He didn’t directly say anything about it, but I could tell he noticed. Then he told me he often feels nervous in social situations, that sometimes he wants to be around people but doesn’t know how. I said, softly, “Maybe that part of you wanting to be around people is your real self.”

He paused, and I could tell my words hit him in a way he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t dramatic or loud, just a quiet moment of understanding between us. I teased him lightly afterward, saying he should call me a philanthropist for giving him that insight. He laughed, and it was the kind of laugh that fills a small space and leaves a trace in your chest.

Then we drifted into school talk — his exam tomorrow, my own routines, our shared worries. He told me he wants to learn more, to grow, and I listened, thinking how easy it is to underestimate someone when you only see their quiet exterior. He’s a fashion designer, and most of his friends are guys, he said, almost like he was explaining a part of himself that not everyone sees.

The funny name thing kept replaying in my mind. I still didn’t hear it clearly, but the way he said it — playful, soft, a little awkward — it stuck. I liked it. I liked how human he was, how real he was.

We ended up shaking hands three times before we finally parted. Three times, and each shake felt different — like we were reintroducing ourselves each time, as if the previous encounters had only been rehearsals for this conversation. We even did a proper re-introduction, saying our names as if to remind each other who we were, in case the other had forgotten.

By the time I left, I felt something new. A mix of excitement, comfort, and a strange sort of longing. It’s funny how honest conversation can make someone feel closer than months of silent glances. How fear and shyness can be bridges instead of walls. How small, seemingly unimportant moments — a shared laugh, a subtle compliment, a hand shake — can make you notice someone in a way you haven’t before.

And all through it, I kept thinking about the next Sunday. How will it feel when I see him again? Will the conversation pick up where it left off, or will it be quiet like the first few Sundays?

All week, I kept waiting, seriously waiting, replaying every word, every glance, every small pat and tease in my mind. I even checked out outfits to wear, thinking maybe one choice or another could make Sunday come faster, or maybe make him notice me more.

And somehow, all of it — the waiting, the replaying, the small preparations — made me feel alive in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time.