The door that opened everything
The sun spilled through the blinds in streaks of gold, slanting across the living room tiles. Amara lay upside down on the couch, her legs over the backrest, her head dangling off the edge—scrolling, as usual. Her phone, decorated with tiny pizza and ice cream stickers, was practically an extension of her hand.
“Trending again,” she mumbled with a grin, tapping through a meme about Gen Z girls surviving on vibes, Wi-Fi, and vibes again.
Her playlist hummed in the background, a mashup of Afrobeats and soft soul. Somewhere in the kitchen, the microwave beeped. Her leftover pizza was ready, but she was in no hurry.
Ding-dong.
The doorbell echoed. She didn’t flinch. Probably a courier. Her mom was always ordering things—herbal teas, fabrics, soaps with ingredients no one could pronounce.
Another ding-dong.
“Coming!” she shouted, half-reluctantly dropping her phone on her chest.
She padded to the door in fluffy socks, swung it open—and froze.
Standing there, like he’d stepped out of a movie scene, was a boy. Tall, lean, and oddly magnetic. He held a brown paper bag in one hand and a clipboard in the other. A glint of sunlight caught on his skin, making him look polished, like light followed him.
“Delivery for Mrs. Ada Nwokedi,” he said, a lazy smile pulling on his lips. A dimple crept in, only on the left cheek.
“That’s... my mom,” Amara replied, caught off-guard.
He extended the clipboard. “Can you sign for her?”
She took it silently, writing Ada Nwokedi in quick strokes. Her eyes briefly scanned him. Clean nails. Faint scar on his thumb—looked raw. His brows twitched when he noticed her gaze.
“Bad habit,” he said casually. “I pinch my thumbs when I’m anxious.”
Amara blinked. “You get anxious?”
“All the time,” he replied, and smiled like it was no big deal. “I’m Damilare.”
“Amara.”
“Nice to meet you.” He handed her the bag. “You don’t look like your mom.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You know my mom?”
“I deliver here often. Never seen you around.”
She smirked. “I usually don’t open the door for strangers.”
“Lucky me.”
And just like that, he turned and walked away—confident, unhurried, whistling a tune she couldn’t place.
---
Later that evening, over dinner, Amara casually asked, “How long have you been ordering from that organic store?”
Her mom looked up from her plate. “A while. Why?”
“Nothing. The delivery guy seemed... familiar.”
“Tall one? Polite boy? I like him. Neat. Talks small-small.”
Amara hid her smile behind her cup. “Yeah. That one.”
---
That night, she lay in bed, pizza crumbs on her pillow and her phone resting on her chest. The boy’s face drifted across her mind more times than she’d admit.
He had a calming presence, but those eyes—something about them held a flicker. Like a switch that could flip.
She ignored the feeling.
Instead, she opened her voice notes app and recorded a snippet of her singing. Just her, humming an old Asa tune.
It was something she did sometimes when she couldn’t sleep. The world felt more peaceful when she sang.
She never imagined, not then, that her voice would become a weapon… or a comfort… in the hands of someone who would later take everything from her.
