Behind the calm
710 Words
Damilare started showing up more often. At the park, near Amara's school gate, sometimes at the small shawarma spot near her street. Always unannounced, but never unwelcome.
They grew closer.
Late-night chats turned into early morning calls. Voice notes, stickers, long texts about music, food, and life. There was a gentleness about Damilare that pulled Amara in.
One Sunday afternoon, he brought her suya wrapped in old newspapers and sat beside her on the concrete steps outside her house.
She asked, "Why are you always this calm? Like nothing ever gets to you."
He chuckled. "Because I’ve already fallen apart. What’s left is practice."
She didn’t understand it then. She laughed it off.
---
It happened on a rainy Tuesday.
Amara was home alone. Her mom had gone to the market. Damilare came over with an umbrella and an excuse—he was “just around the area.”
They sat together on the couch, sipping hot Lipton tea, the window fogging up from the steam.
“You know I really like you,” Damilare said softly.
Amara looked away. “I know. I like you too.”
He moved closer, gently brushing a lock of hair from her face. He leaned in, his breath warm and slow. Their faces were inches apart.
Amara coughed suddenly and leaned back.
“Too soon,” she said, her voice gentle but clear. “I’m not ready for that.”
There was a short pause.
Damilare didn’t frown. Instead, he smiled, his expression soft.
“I’ll wait for you,” he said, stroking her cheek lightly. “Till you’re ready. No rush.”
Amara relaxed. She thought it was maturity.
---
A week later, Amara finally invited him in to meet her mom, Ada Nwokedi.
He came in a neatly ironed shirt, flowers in one hand and a pack of fruit juice in the other.
“Mama Amara,” he greeted, bowing lightly.
Ada smiled, amused. “So you’re the Damilare I’ve been hearing about. The delivery boy turned best friend?”
He laughed shyly. “Yes ma. That would be me.”
She asked him questions—school, family, faith. He answered with practiced humility and gentle eye contact. Ada watched him closely, but she found nothing threatening.
“Polite boy,” she told Amara later. “That one has home training.”
And that was that.
---
On a warm Thursday afternoon, Amara sat with her friends, Kamsi and Zainab, under the mango tree behind the lecture hall. They were eating gala and sipping chilled drinks.
“So,” Kamsi said with a smirk, “how’s your Damedev doing?”
Amara laughed. “You people won’t stop calling him that.”
“You haven’t denied it though,” Kamsi pressed. “There’s a vibe. You like him.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t,” Amara replied, smiling. “He’s sweet. He listens. And... I don’t know, I see something building between us.”
Zainab rolled her eyes. “He’s too perfect. No guy is that calm all the time.”
“Zee,” Amara said gently, “he’s not pretending. He’s been nothing but kind to me.”
Zainab leaned forward, her eyes narrowing. “Do you really know him though? Like really know him? Where does he live? Who’s in his family? Why does he always just appear like he’s tracking your location?”
Amara blinked. “He doesn’t track me. He says he likes being around me.”
“That’s not an answer,” Zainab shot back. “That’s a line.”
Kamsi raised her hands. “Let’s not turn this into a battle. Zee, I get you’re protective. Ama, I know you trust your gut. But maybe just… be observant.”
Amara sighed. “Look, Damilare has never done anything to make me feel unsafe. He’s patient. When he came close to kissing me, I said no. And he backed off. Sweetly.”
Zainab stared at her. “Just promise me if he ever makes you feel even the slightest bit uncomfortable, you’ll tell someone.”
“I promise,” Amara said.
But deep down, a small thread of discomfort tugged at her chest.
She shook it off. Not Damilare. He was the calm,the comfort.
Wasn’t he?
- Writer
