Amara in London

The rain in London did not ask for permission. It just fell. Amara Okafor stood outside Heathrow Airport with one suitcase, one small bag, and one big dream that was already getting wet. Ah! God, abeg na!" she shouted, laughing even as the cold entered her bones. "Lagos sun, where are you when I need you?" People walked past her fast. Nobody looked. Nobody smiled. Everybody was wearing black, grey, and hurry. In Lagos, if you shout for help, ten people go answer you. For London, if you shout, ten people go pretend say dem no hear you. Amara dragged her suitcase and followed the crowd. Her phone was at 4%. Her heart was beating like drum. “Mama, I don reach," she whispered. "Your daughter don reach London." Her mama had prayed over her suitcase that morning in Lagos. She had put one small Bible inside, one pack of chin-chin, and one note: _My daughter, shine. No let London change your heart._ Amara smiled. She would not let London change her. She entered the train and sat near the window. London passed like a movie - tall buildings, red buses, grey sky, and people wey no dey smile. “Excuse me," she said to the man beside her. "Abeg, which stop be Brixton?" The man looked at her like she spoke another language. He pointed at the screen and went back to his phone. Amara sighed. Okay. London go teach her to be strong. When she finally came down at Brixton, the rain had stopped small. She was carrying her heavy suitcase up the stairs when it slipped - “Ah!” Strong hands caught it before it fell. Amara looked up. Tall. Brown hair. Blue eyes like cold water. Black jacket. Face wey no smile. “You should be careful," he said. His voice was deep and quiet. "That suitcase could have hurt someone." “Thank you," Amara said, breathing fast. "You just saved my life and my clothes. God bless you." He stared at her. Nobody had said God bless you to him in a long time. “Where are you going?" he asked. “Brixton Road. Number 14. I get small room there," she said. "I be new for London. My name na Amara. Amara Okafor." “Daniel," he said after a pause. "Daniel Carter." Amara smiled - her big, warm, Lagos smile. "Daniel, you be angel? Because you just appear from nowhere." For the first time in two years, Daniel Carter almost smiled. “I am not an angel," he said. "Come. I will help you carry it. It is heavy." As they walked together under the grey London sky, Amara talked and talked - about Lagos, about mama, about jollof rice, about her dream to become a writer. Daniel did not talk much. He just listened. And for the first time in a long time, London did not feel so cold.