Home is a song

Chapter 7 – When Friends Know Too Much

The morning sun had only just climbed over the mango trees when the compound started to stir. The sound of pounding yam drifted from a neighbor’s kitchen, and the scent of fried akara filled the air. Birds hopped lazily on the fence, and somewhere in the distance, someone was singing a gospel tune off-key.

Amara tied her scarf tighter and swept the compound, though her mind wasn’t really on the broom. Her thoughts kept drifting to last night — the soft light, Chike’s voice, that kiss that still made her heart stumble whenever she remembered.

“Amara!”

She looked up to see a familiar figure approaching — Ngozi, her closest friend since primary school, with two other girls trailing behind her. Ngozi was loud, lively, and never came without drama.

“See who is glowing like someone who won a visa!” Ngozi shouted, clapping her hands. “My goodness, Amara, what are you hiding from us?”

Amara laughed, shaking her head. “Ngozi, it’s too early for your wahala. Good morning jare.”

“Morning?” Ngozi grinned. “For you, every morning is honeymoon now, abi?”

“Abeg, leave me alone,” Amara said, smiling despite herself.

The other girls giggled. “Ngozi told us you and that fine youth leader, Chike, have been spending plenty of time together,” one of them teased.

Amara turned, pretending to look annoyed. “So now I can’t have male friends again?”

“Male friend that buys you suya and walks you home under the moonlight?” Ngozi teased, raising her brow. “My dear, even my grandma would call that love story.”

Before Amara could reply, they all burst into laughter. It was the kind of laughter that shook off tension — the sound of women who’d known each other long enough to read between smiles.

⸻

When the laughter died down, Amara poured them chilled zobo she had made earlier that morning. They sat under the shade of the orange tree, gossiping about everything from market prices to weddings.

“So, what brings you girls here this early?” Amara asked finally.

Ngozi crossed her legs dramatically. “We came to see our dear Chike off, of course. He said he’s traveling to Oju to see his mother. You think we’ll miss that?”

Amara rolled her eyes, trying to sound casual. “Ah, so it’s Chike you people came for, not me.”

Ngozi winked. “You? We see you every day. But that one—he’s fresh meat.”

The girls laughed again, and Amara threw a small pillow at her friend.

“Anyway,” Ngozi continued, straightening up, “after seeing him off, we’ll pass by the tailor. My introduction is coming up next month, and you, my dear Amara, are going to be on the bridal train. No argument.”

Amara’s eyes widened. “Ngozi! You didn’t even tell me the date yet.”

Ngozi grinned proudly. “Ah ah, it’s the first Saturday of next month. My husband-to-be said he wants it small, but you know me — small where? I’ve already started buying aso ebi.”

The other girls clapped and cheered, their excitement contagious.

Amara smiled genuinely. “Ngozi, I’m happy for you. You deserve every bit of joy that’s coming.”

Ngozi looked at her friend, her expression softening. “And you too, Amara. You deserve love again. You’ve been through too much to keep hiding from it.”

Amara blinked. “Ngozi…”

“No, I’m serious,” Ngozi said gently. “When I see how you and Chike look at each other, it’s like two people trying to remember the same song. Don’t fight it. Let it happen.”

Amara smiled faintly but didn’t answer. Her heart was still a puzzle she hadn’t figured out how to solve.

⸻

Just then, Chike appeared at the gate, a small travel bag slung across his shoulder. The girls immediately turned into a chorus of greetings.

“Fine boy!”

“You’re shining o!”

“Safe journey, our in-law!”

Chike laughed, looking embarrassed. “Good morning, everyone.”

Ngozi stood up with a flourish. “We came to escort you small. It’s not every day we get to send off our village celebrity.”

Chike shook his head, amused. “If you people keep teasing me like this, I’ll miss my bus.”

Amara was quiet at first, but her eyes followed him as he greeted Mama and thanked her for the previous night’s meal. Mama, of course, beamed proudly like she had raised him herself.

“You’ll greet your mother for us,” Mama said. “And tell her that good sons still exist.”

“Yes, Ma,” Chike replied, bowing his head slightly. “I’ll call when I reach.”

Then his eyes found Amara’s. For a moment, everything around them faded — the chatter, the laughter, even Ngozi’s dramatic waving.

“Take care of yourself,” he said softly.

“You too,” she replied.

He hesitated, as if he wanted to say more, but just smiled and walked toward the road.

Ngozi elbowed Amara lightly. “Ah, see how he’s looking at you. If love were electricity, your light bulb would explode.”

Amara couldn’t help laughing. “Ngozi, behave yourself.”

Ngozi flipped her braids proudly. “I’m just saying what I saw. Anyway, let me start planning your own introduction after mine. Two in one season!”

Everyone laughed again, and the conversation drifted back to clothes, hairstyles, and food plans.

⸻

As the girls finally got up to leave, Amara stood by the gate, watching the red dust swirl in the distance where Chike had walked away. Her heart felt strangely full — not just with longing, but with something gentler. Hope.

Ngozi turned back and called, “My sister, don’t overthink it. Love is like palm wine — sweetest when it’s shared fresh!”

Amara shook her head, smiling. “Go jare before I throw stone for you!”

They laughed, waving as they disappeared down the road.

When Amara turned back toward the house, Mama was watching her quietly from the veranda.

“Don’t worry,” Mama said softly, her eyes twinkling. “If it’s God’s story, it will end well.”

Amara smiled, her chest warm. “I know, Mama.”