CHAPTER 2 – THE BOY WITH THE QUIET STORM
1149 Words
Kamal did not speak again after that whisper.
Not a word.
Not a hum.
Not a sigh loud enough to decode.
He kept his eyes on the desk like he was afraid that if he looked anywhere else, his thoughts would spill out in front of everyone. Aisha watched him through the corner of her eye, pretending to be focused on her notebook, but she could feel it — that strange heaviness around him, like he carried thunder inside his chest.
When break finally ended and the class filled up again, he sat straighter, shoulders pulled tight, jaw clenched. It was the type of posture you see in someone who’s always waiting for something bad to happen.
The teacher droned on.
Aisha barely heard anything.
Her mind kept drifting back to that drawing.
The girl drowning.
The empty eyes.
The reaching hand.
Who draws something like that unless they’ve lived it somehow?
She didn’t want to pry.
She barely handled her own problems, talk less of another person’s darkness.
But something about him tugged at her curiosity in a way she didn’t expect.
Halfway through the lesson, he slowly opened his sketchbook again — not to draw, just to flip through it.
He turned the pages gently, almost tenderly, like someone handling old wounds.
Aisha couldn’t see the images clearly, only flashes:
A boy standing in the rain.
Hands covering a face in shadows.
A house drawn with jagged lines.
Broken furniture.
A belt lying on the floor.
A dark, faceless figure in the corner.
And then… a child curled up on a bed.
Her heart squeezed.
This wasn’t art.
This was testimony.
She forced herself to look away before he caught her staring.
The lesson ended.
Students gathered their things and scattered outside.
But Kamal stayed in his seat again, and so did she.
Another silence settled between them — different from the first.
This one felt less lonely… almost comfortable.
“You like drawing?” she asked after a while.
Her voice was soft, hesitant, but curious.
Kamal blinked, caught off guard.
“I guess… it’s the only thing that makes sense sometimes.”
She nodded, understanding more than he realized.
He traced a finger along the edge of his sketchbook.
“It’s easier to draw feelings than talk about them.”
His voice was calm but carried the weight of someone who had swallowed too many words in his lifetime.
Aisha looked at him fully this time, taking in the details: the tired eyes, the faint bruise hiding beneath the sleeve of his shirt, the way his bottom lip had a small cut like someone had split it days ago.
“Did you draw that girl today?” she asked quietly.
Silence.
His fingers tensed.
“Yeah,” he whispered.
“She’s… someone I’m trying to save.”
Aisha felt a chill run through her spine.
Before she could ask more, the door slid open and a group of boys walked in loudly, laughing as they snatched footballs from under desks.
“New boy!” one of them shouted. “We’re playing later, you join?”
Kamal stiffened visibly.
“No… thanks.”
“Ahn-ahn, you dey form?” another boy teased.
Kamal didn’t respond.
He kept his eyes down.
The boys shrugged and left, but Aisha didn’t miss the way his shoulders relaxed once they were gone — like he had been bracing for something.
“Kamal,” she said softly.
“You okay?”
He took a slow breath, then another, as if practicing not to shake.
“Yeah. I’m just… not used to people.”
She chuckled under her breath.
“Welcome to the club.”
He looked at her — really looked — and something shifted in his eyes.
Recognition.
Maybe relief.
The bell for closing time rang.
Chairs scraped.
Students rushed out.
Teachers began packing up.
Aisha moved her bag to her desk, preparing to leave.
Kamal didn’t move immediately.
He watched the classroom empty out first, like he needed everyone gone before he could breathe properly.
She noticed.
She noticed everything.
When they finally stepped outside the school building, the air smelled like wet soil and fried akara from the street vendors. The sky was still moody, grey like it hadn’t finished crying.
Aisha tied her headscarf tighter and started walking toward the gate.
To her surprise, Kamal walked beside her — not too close, not too far… like someone quietly matching her pace out of instinct.
They walked in silence for several steps.
Then Aisha asked, “Where’s your house?”
“Not far,” he replied.
“You?”
She pointed toward the road leading to her street.
“I’m down there.”
He nodded.
Another pause.
A long, thick silence.
Then, softly, he asked, “Were you staring at my drawing earlier?”
She inhaled sharply.
So he did notice.
“I wasn’t trying to invade,” she said gently.
“It just… caught my eye.”
His jaw clenched again.
For a moment, she thought he would get angry.
But instead, he murmured…
“You’re the only person who didn’t look away like it was something disgusting.”
Her heart pinched.
“Why would I?” she whispered.
He hesitated, then shrugged sadly.
“People don’t like seeing broken things unless they’re the ones who broke it.”
Aisha froze.
The words hit her too deep.
Like he unknowingly spoke straight to her bones.
They reached the bus stop.
He was supposed to turn left.
She was supposed to continue straight.
But neither moved.
It was like both of them knew —
something was beginning here.
Something neither asked for,
but both desperately needed.
Kamal finally lifted his gaze to meet hers.
His eyes were soft, but bruised in a way that no sketch could capture.
“Aisha,” he said quietly,
“Please don’t ask me what happened. Not yet.”
She nodded.
“I won’t.”
Relief flooded his face, subtle but real.
“Thank you.”
And for the first time since he entered that classroom, he gave her a tiny smile — small, fragile, but genuine.
It lasted only a second.
But it was enough.
Then he turned and walked away, the sketchbook held close to his chest, like a shield he couldn’t afford to drop.
Aisha watched him until he disappeared around the corner.
She didn’t know why her heart felt heavy.
She didn’t know why she felt responsible for someone she had just met.
She didn’t know why she wanted to protect him from whatever darkness he carried.
All she knew was this:
This boy wasn’t just a new classmate.
He was a quiet storm…
the kind that rains on you before you realize you’re soaked.
And somehow, without planning it,
without wanting it,
Aisha had stepped right into the center of it.
And the storm wasn’t close to over.
- Writer
