Chapter 8: The Rain Between Us
1623 Words
Rain had a way of changing Lagos.
Not enough to make it quiet.
Lagos, Tobi suspected, had forgotten how to be quiet years ago.
But rain negotiated with the city in ways nothing else could.
The danfo drivers became a little more patient.
Street hawkers disappeared beneath colourful umbrellas that looked too small for the jobs they were trying to do.
Children stretched out their hands to catch raindrops before hurried mothers pulled them back under shelter.
Even traffic seemed to surrender, inching forward instead of charging ahead as though every driver had finally accepted that nobody was escaping the gridlock today.
He liked rainy days.
Not because they were beautiful.
Because they reminded people they weren’t in control.
Beside him, Bami stood beneath the café awning with one hand wrapped around her paper cup.
The rain fell in silver sheets beyond them, drumming against parked cars and bouncing off the pavement in tiny splashes.
She hadn’t complained once.
Hadn’t sighed dramatically.
Hadn’t reached for her phone the way nearly everyone else around them had.
Instead…
She simply watched.
A little boy in oversized slippers danced barefoot through a puddle before his mother caught him by the arm, laughing despite herself.
An elderly man folded yesterday’s newspaper over his head and declared it “good enough.”
Someone across the road shouted that umbrellas in Lagos were merely expensive decorations.
The people waiting beneath the awning laughed together.
Even strangers found reasons to belong when it rained.
“What?”
Her voice was soft.
She hadn’t turned to look at him.
Yet somehow…
She knew.
He smiled.
“How do you always know?”
She finally glanced his way.
“Know what?”
“When someone’s looking at you.”
A small crease appeared between her brows as though she were genuinely considering the question.
“I don’t.”
“You just did.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
She looked back at the rain.
The corner of her mouth lifted ever so slightly.
“I could feel it.”
He chuckled.
“I didn’t know you could feel someone looking.”
“You usually can’t.”
She paused.
“…But sometimes you can.”
He wondered what she’d had to learn for that to become true.
He didn’t ask.
The silence returned.
It settled comfortably around them, asking nothing.
Some silences demanded to be filled.
This one didn’t.
Rain had become its own conversation.
Tobi found himself watching the people across the street.
A young woman held her heels in one hand while sprinting through the rain, laughing into a phone pressed against her ear.
Two mechanics abandoned an argument the moment the downpour began, working together to drag a motorcycle beneath a leaking canopy.
A bus conductor offered half his umbrella to an elderly passenger before climbing back into the danfo, already soaked to the skin.
His father would have noticed them too.
That thought arrived gently.
It no longer hurt the way it once had.
Grief, he had learned, became quieter with time.
It never really left.
It simply learned to sit beside you instead of standing in your way.
“Can I ask you something?”
Bami turned toward him.
“You can tell me it’s none of my business.”
She smiled.
“I appreciate the warning.”
“I thought it was polite.”
“It is.”
She waited.
“Go ahead.”
For a moment, he almost changed his mind.
The question had sounded harmless inside his head.
Now it felt strangely personal.
“I’ve noticed something.”
Her fingers tightened slightly around her cup.
“What?”
“You always write about other people.”
She blinked.
“The woman selling oranges.”
He nodded toward the busy street.
“The tailor.”
“The little boy who laughed because his bread nearly fell.”
“The security guard who waves at everyone.”
She listened quietly.
“But…”
He looked at the cream notebook tucked safely beneath her arm.
“…you never write about yourself.”
Something shifted across her face.
Not dramatically.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But he did.
Her smile didn’t disappear.
It simply grew tired.
He regretted the question immediately.
“You don’t have to answer.”
She looked away.
Rainwater rushed along the edge of the road, carrying bottle caps, leaves and tiny paper wrappers toward a drain already overflowing.
A woman struggled to keep her daughter dry beneath an umbrella that was clearly built for one person instead of two.
The little girl giggled anyway.
Finally…
Bami spoke.
“Because strangers don’t ask difficult questions.”
The words landed quietly.
Without accusation.
Without anger.
Just truth.
Tobi looked down.
“I’m sorry.”
She shook her head.
“You weren’t trying to hurt me.”
“No.”
“I know.”
She drew a slow breath.
“My editor says I spend too much time observing other people’s lives.”
“What do you think?”
She smiled faintly.
“I think she’s right.”
“And?”
Her eyes remained fixed on the rain.
“It’s easier.”
“Easier than what?”
She was silent for so long he thought she might not answer.
Then she said,
“Looking at my own.”
The rain seemed louder somehow.
Perhaps it wasn’t.
Perhaps some truths simply made the world fall quiet around them.
He could have told her she didn’t have to carry everything alone.
He could have reminded her that healing was possible.
He could have offered advice she hadn’t asked for.
Instead…
He simply stood beside her.
Sometimes presence was kinder than answers.
After a while, she laughed softly and shook her head.
“That sounded much sadder out loud.”
He smiled.
“It sounded honest.”
She looked at him then.
Really looked at him.
Most people rushed to rescue honesty.
He had simply…
Made room for it.
After a while, she nudged his arm gently.
“My turn.”
He laughed.
“I suppose that’s fair.”
She tilted her head.
“What’s your biggest fear?”
He stared at her.
“That’s your version of returning the question?”
“You asked first.”
He smiled despite himself.
“Fair enough.”
He looked out toward the street where the rain had begun to soften into a gentle drizzle.
“My biggest fear…”
He thought of board meetings.
Growing deadlines.
Phones that never stopped ringing.
People who hurried past each other without ever looking up.
“…is becoming too busy to notice people.”
She frowned.
“That’s your biggest fear?”
He nodded.
“My dad noticed everyone.”
He smiled at the memory.
“He knew the security guard’s children’s names.”
“The woman who sold oranges outside church.”
“The mechanic who fixed our car.”
“The man who swept our street every morning.”
“He remembered birthdays.”
He laughed quietly.
“As a child, I thought he spent too much time talking to strangers.”
“And now?”
“Now…”
His smile softened.
“I think he understood something I didn’t.”
“What?”
“People remember how you made them feel long after they’ve forgotten what you said.”
Bami watched him for a long moment.
She suddenly understood why kindness came so naturally to him.
It wasn’t something he wore.
It was something he’d been raised inside.
The rain eased into a light mist.
One by one, people stepped out from beneath shop roofs and bus shelters.
The city inhaled.
Then continued.
“I think that’s our cue,” Tobi said.
She nodded.
Together they stepped onto the pavement.
They hadn’t gone far when they both stopped at exactly the same moment.
An elderly woman stood at the edge of the crossing, struggling with two grocery bags that looked far heavier than she did.
Bami looked at Tobi.
“You saw her too?”
He smiled.
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Without another word, they crossed to her.
“Let us help you,” Bami said gently.
“Oh no, my children…”
The woman smiled apologetically.
“It isn’t far.”
“We know,” Tobi replied, taking one of the bags.
“We’re only borrowing your walk for a few minutes.”
The woman laughed.
Together they crossed the road at the unhurried pace of someone who had learned that kindness should never be rushed.
When they reached the other side, the woman blessed them more times than either of them could count before disappearing into one of the narrow streets.
For a moment, neither Bami nor Tobi moved.
“You know…”
She adjusted the strap of her handbag.
“I’ve never met someone who notices the same people I do.”
He smiled.
“I was thinking exactly the same thing.”
Recognition.
That was the word.
Not romance.
Not yet.
Just the quiet comfort of discovering another person who looked at the world the way you did.
As they reached the junction where their paths separated, Bami hesitated.
“I’ll see you next Thursday?”
The question escaped before she could reconsider it.
His smile answered before his words did.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
She laughed.
“Good.”
“Good.”
She turned first.
Halfway down the street, she glanced back.
Tobi was still standing at the junction.
Not watching her leave.
Simply waiting until she crossed safely before walking in the opposite direction.
For reasons she could no longer explain away…
Thursday had quietly become her favorite day of the week.
- Writer
