Mall magic
942 Words
One week later, Amara was sitting on a bench in Amity Mall with Kamsi and Zainab, fighting over what flavor of frozen yogurt to get.
“You’re too predictable,” Zainab teased. “Cookies and cream, again?”
“It’s called loyalty,” Amara replied with a grin. “Besides, ice cream is my love language.”
“Pizza is your soulmate. Ice cream is your therapy,” Kamsi added, taking a selfie and dragging Amara into the frame. “Say: addicted-to-data!”
They laughed as Amara playfully stuck out her tongue. The trio had known each other since secondary school and could make anything—frozen yogurt, makeup shopping, gossiping about lecturers—feel like a Netflix series.
Amara scrolled through her phone absentmindedly, already editing their video for her w******p story. Her screen brightness was almost always on full, and her fingers never seemed to rest. She lived on that phone: t****k, i********:, voice notes, playlists… it was her second skin.
“I swear, if you break up with that phone, it’ll sue you for emotional damage,” Kamsi said.
Amara laughed and stood to go back to the counter. “I’m getting toppings. Who wants crushed Oreos?”
Zainab raised a hand. “Me. And no guilt.”
But before she could move far, something caught her eye.
No, someone.
Leaning casually against a pillar near the shoe store was a familiar face—dark-skinned, sharp-eyed, and undeniably confident. Damilare.
Amara stopped in her tracks.
He hadn’t seen her yet.
He was with someone else—an older guy who looked like a cousin or brother—but Damilare looked distracted, like he wasn’t really listening. He pinched at his thumb unconsciously, and Amara noticed that same scar. Faint now, but fresh around the edges.
A small frown tugged at her brows.
Her phone buzzed in her hand.
Zainab: If you don’t bring Oreos, we’re unfriending you. Officially.
Amara turned back to the counter, picked the toppings, and casually walked toward him.
When she got close enough, she said, “What are the odds?”
He turned—startled for a second—then smiled.
“Amara,” he said, like he’d been expecting her. “You again.”
“You’re following me.”
He laughed. “You say that like you didn’t walk right up to me.”
She tilted her head. “What are you doing here?”
“Came with my cousin. He’s obsessed with sneakers. I’m just waiting to be released.”
She smiled. “So you deliver by day and loiter in malls by afternoon?”
“Sometimes I eat. I’m very versatile.”
They both laughed.
A silence stretched between them—not awkward, just charged. And warm.
“You never told me your full name,” he said.
“Amara Nwokedi.”
“Sounds like someone who writes poetry and listens to Asa.”
Amara blinked. “I actually do listen to Asa.”
“I knew it,” he grinned. “You have that vibe.”
She raised an eyebrow. “And what vibe is that?”
“Easygoing. Soft. Like... someone who doesn’t shout but still gets heard.”
Amara blinked again. A compliment, but different. Personal.
He looked down briefly, then at her phone. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”
She swallowed, suddenly unsure what to say. Her heartbeat ticked faster.
“You have i********:?” he asked.
“I do,” she said, opening the app. “What’s your handle?”
He paused. “Actually... Can I have your number?”
This time, she hesitated.
Then smiled.
“Okay. But only if you promise not to send boring ‘Hi’ texts.”
“I don’t do ‘Hi’. I do full sentences. Punctuation and all.”
She handed him her phone.
He typed his name and number in.
“Damilare Adebayo,” she read aloud.
“Now you can stalk me properly.”
Back at the table, Kamsi gave her a slow smirk. “Soooo...?”
“You were right. He’s everywhere.”
“And he got your number?”
Amara smiled into her spoon. “He asked nicely.”
Kamsi nodded. “Dangerously polite. I don’t trust it.”
“You never trust anyone.”
“True. But still. Be careful.”
Amara didn’t answer. She just scrolled to Damilare’s contact. His name glowed on her screen like a new notification in her heart.
That night, he texted her.
Damilare: I used to think I liked silence. But now I wonder if I just hadn’t heard your voice yet.
She stared at the message, her heart jumping just slightly.
The next morning, Amara walked into her mom’s room to grab something and noticed a delivery bag from the same organic store.
“You still order from there?”
Her mom nodded. “Why?”
“No reason,” Amara said casually. “Just curious.”
Her mom squinted at her. “You’ve been smiling to your phone since yesterday. Hope it’s not one of those Abuja boys with crooked sense.”
Amara grinned. “He’s not from Abuja. He’s just... nice.”
Her mother rolled her eyes. “Hmm. That’s how it starts.”
Elsewhere in the city, Damilare sat in his small room, staring at a voice note Amara had sent—her humming something soft, soothing. Asa again.
He listened to it three times.
His breathing slowed with every replay.
He pressed a hand over his chest where anxiety always bloomed, but this time… it didn’t rise.
He didn’t understand it yet.
But he needed her voice.
Even more than he realized.
- Writer
