Set me free

The Visitor

The scent of fresh fabrics and ironed cotton filled the little shop as Ada Nwokedi flipped through a customer’s fabric options. The morning sun filtered in through the glass door, warming the racks of ankara and lace lined along the wall.

Amara sat on the edge of the long cutting table, scrolling through her phone absentmindedly.

A slim, neatly dressed guy in a cream-colored shirt pushed the door open and stepped in. His cologne introduced him before his voice did.

“Good morning, ma,” he greeted Ada with a smooth, confident tone. “I want to sew senator. For my cousin’s wedding.”

Ada smiled. “You came to the right place. Sit down, let me measure you.”

But his eyes flicked to Amara. “You don’t look like a tailor,” he said, smiling at her.

Amara glanced up. “That’s because I’m not.”

“Good,” he said, laughing. “Then it won’t be weird if I ask for your number?”

Ada cleared her throat playfully. “My dear, let me measure you fast fast before you carry your wahala to my daughter.”

Amara turned her face away, hiding her smile.

The guy chuckled but turned back to Ada as she brought out her measuring tape. “No offense ma. Your daughter is… fine.”

“Thanks,” Amara said lightly, “but I’m not taking numbers right now.”

At that moment, the curtain shifted, and Zainab stepped in holding a bag of oranges. She paused, instantly catching the tail end of the exchange.

“Ohh,” she grinned. “So this is what you do at the shop, Amara?”

Amara rolled her eyes. “Please don’t start.”

Zainab leaned close and whispered, “But this guy is cute na. At least cut him small slack.”

Amara shrugged, nonchalant. “He’s not my type.”

“What is your type then?” Zainab nudged her.

But Amara didn’t answer. Deep down, she felt something loyal keeping her from entertaining the idea — something quiet but firm. Damilare.

Ada, still kneeling with the measuring tape, threw her eyes up playfully. “Oga, hurry up o. Before you spoil market. Show me your style before you finish flirting with person wey no be your size.”

Everyone burst into laughter.

After he was done explaining what style he wanted, he quickly glanced at Amara and introduced him. "My name is Sam what's yours?" "Amara" she lazily replied.

Ada was becoming bothered by the bold move from the customer so she tried to dismiss him. "Shebi you are done? Come and be going na"

He gave another brief smile to Amara then made his way through the door. Amara couldn't help but notice his ass. "See his strong yansh" Amara chuckled. "Your eyes can travel " Zainab counter attacked.

---

Later that afternoon, Amara lay on the sofa at home, flipping through her course notes. Her phone buzzed.

Damilare:

Let’s see this weekend. Maybe a beach day? Or just food and gist? I miss hanging out.

She stared at the message a while before replying.

Amara:

My weekend’s tight. I have some group meetings, but… I’ll try to make time.

She typed and deleted the message twice before sending it.

Then locked her phone and placed it under the pillow.

She didn’t tell Zainab. Not this time. She didn’t want teasing. Or raised eyebrows.

Something about Damilare felt safe. Familiar.

---

That evening, just before dusk, Damilare showed up at the shop. He said he came to fix the humming fan in the back room.

He greeted Ada warmly, made a few jokes, tightened a screw, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

Amara was arranging fabrics by the wall when she caught his eyes on her — not the usual brotherly glance or joking smirk.

This look was longer. More curious. Deep.

It made her pause for a second. It almost made her shiver.

But she shook it off quickly and returned to folding.

Whatever it was, she wasn’t going to overthink it.

She trusted him.

She had to.