CHAPTER 5: THINGS LEFT UNSAID
1609 Words
Asaba — Two Days After the Kiss
The sound on set had changed.
Not the hum of lights or the chatter of extras or the distant yelling of a director late on his cue. No, this was subtler. A tension humming beneath the rhythm of the production. A quiet rearrangement of space whenever Simi and Kweku entered the same frame.
He would pass by camera B, sunglasses hung on his shirt collar, and someone would whisper,
“Are they…?”
“No, but something dey there sha.”
("No, but there’s definitely something going on.")
It wasn’t just about the kiss anymore. It was the way they looked at each other when they thought no one was watching. The way she adjusted an actor’s agbada and caught his eye across the set. The way he angled the lighting during her costume reveal scenes just a little softer than usual like he was lighting her instead of the actor.
---
Inside the Wardrobe Tent – 11:03 a.m.
Simi tightened the wrapper around a background actress’s waist, deep red Akwaete, lined with gold embroidery. She made sure the coral beads lay just right on the girl’s shoulders before stepping back.
“Perfect,” she muttered. But her hands trembled.
She hadn’t spoken to Kweku since the kiss. Not really. He hadn’t kissed her again. And yet, every part of her still buzzed like that moment was caught in replay beneath her skin.
“Simi!” someone called from outside the tent.
She stepped out and nearly collided with Felicia, the production assistant short, sharp-eyed, always in sneakers and wristbands.
“Director is looking for you,” Felicia said. “Scene 24 costume tweak.”
“I’ll be there.” Felicia paused, then added with a smirk, “You know camera boy was asking of you too.”
Simi frowned. “Camera boy?”
“You know who I mean. The Ghanaian fine b—” She stopped. “—guy.”
Simi ignored her and walked past, her cheeks warm.
***
Flashback – The Morning After the Kiss
She had woken up and stared at the ceiling for over thirty minutes, unsure if it had really happened. Her lips still felt full. Her thoughts still echoed with his words.
"Then let’s start slow… Stitch it. Don’t rush it."
But slow felt like torture. Especially when she’d gone the whole day without a single word from him.
She had passed him on set, and he had nodded politely no smirk, no whisper. Just distance. Professionalism, like nothing had shifted between them. She hated how much it stung.
***
Back to Present — 1:20 p.m.
They were filming a scene in an ancestral shrine setting, smoke bowls, cowrie curtains, and elders in dark Isiagus embroidered with Nsibidi symbols. Simi’s hands moved methodically, adjusting beaded cuffs and ironing wrinkles, but her eyes kept drifting toward camera A. Kweku was crouched low, steadying the shot with a focus that made her stomach twist.
She wasn’t used to being the one who waited for a sign. Who read body language like tea leaves. Who ached for confirmation that something real had happened. After the take, she walked to the back to get more fabric clips — and there he was. Waiting. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said simply. She didn’t look at him. “I’ve been working.”
“So have I.” She turned then. “Good. That’s what we’re here for, right?”
He didn’t flinch. “You’re angry.”
“No, Kweku. I’m just confused. You kissed me, then disappeared. You act like it didn’t mean anything.”
He stepped closer. “It meant everything.”
She blinked. “Then why.....?”
“Because if I touch you again, I won’t stop.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy like soaked fabric.
“Then don’t touch me,” she said, voice low. “But don’t pretend you don’t feel it too.”
***
Cape Coast – Flashback – Kweku, Age 24
The house had already been half-empty when he returned for the funeral. His mother’s tailoring machine covered in cloth, her last outfit unfinished on the line. He remembered standing in the living room while uncles debated over the land. One said it should go to the eldest cousin. Another suggested selling it entirely. Nobody mentioned what she wanted. Nobody cared that it was her shop.
That was the day he stopped trusting families to carry legacy.
That was the day he packed her scissors, some old sketches, and walked away.
***
Asaba — 5:37 p.m.
The clouds gathered fast the kind of rain that announced itself with drum rolls.
The crew scrambled to cover equipment. A few tents nearly flew away. Someone shouted, “Make una carry dat light comot o!”
("Please take that light away!")
Kweku and Simi found themselves stuck beneath the same canopy as the thunder began.
“You always bring rain with you,” she muttered.
He chuckled. “Maybe the rain follows you.”
They stood side by side, quiet again. She turned to him. “You said something before. About your mother teaching you to see people.”
“Yes.”
“What did you see when you first saw me?”
His voice was quiet. “A woman holding her breath. And waiting to be chosen.”
Her lips parted.
“And now?” she asked.
He stepped closer, just an inch. “Now I see someone who’s finally ready to choose herself.”
A crack of thunder broke the air. But neither of them moved. Simi swallowed. The rain began to soften.
“My mom died from cervical cancer,” she said suddenly. “Three years ago. She never told anyone. Not even me. She just... hid it. Until it was too late.”
Kweku turned to her, eyes soft.
“She used to smile all the time, even when she was in pain. She’d say, ‘If I cry, who will hold this house together?’ Like it was her duty to stay quiet. To stay strong.”
“You carry that silence too,” Kweku said gently.
Simi looked away. “When she passed, my father... he changed. Or maybe he’d always been like that. Cold. Distant. Disappointed that I didn’t study law like he wanted. He told me her death was a sign I should come back home. That I was wasting my life chasing ‘cloth and colors.’”
She wiped her eyes with the edge of her sleeve.
“I was twenty-five. I’d just moved to Lagos to start my own fashion line. I couldn’t even mourn her properly. I was too busy defending myself.”
“You don’t owe anyone an apology for chasing light,” he said.
She laughed weakly. “Tell that to my father.”
“I would. And I’d mean it.”
For the first time in days, her shoulders dropped.
“Thanks for listening,” she whispered.
“I always do.”
Their eyes met. Not as costume designer and cinematographer. But as two children who had lost something irreplaceable. And were still learning to live with the echo.
And for the first time since the kiss, she didn’t feel like running.
Later That Night — Production Lounge
The rain had paused, but the night was heavy with wet air and quiet laughter. A few crew members lingered around, drinking malt and eating suya. The director was still arguing about reshooting Scene 11, but Simi had slipped away. She needed silence. Thread. Pins. Solitude.
The wardrobe trailer was half-lit. She entered to check on a ripped hemline when the door opened behind her.
Kweku.
She turned slowly, heart in her mouth.
“You followed me,” she said.
He closed the door gently. "I needed to see you without the noise."
She looked at him hair slightly damp, eyes darker in the low light. The space between them felt charged, like one spark would light everything.
“What do you want from me, Kweku?” she asked.
He stepped forward. "Not your body. Not first."
“Then what?”
"Your permission."
That silenced her.
“To what?” she whispered.
“To care. To stay. To not run even when it gets complicated.”
Simi’s voice cracked. “I don’t know how to let people in.”
“I’ll wait,” he said. “Just... don’t shut the door.”
She blinked back tears. “What if I mess this up?”
He stepped forward until their foreheads nearly touched.
“Then we’ll fix it. Frame by frame.”
Then, slowly like the first slow shutter click he kissed her.
Not rushed. Not demanding. Just soft, like asking a question.
She kissed him back.
And that night, in the quiet of the costume trailer, beneath threads and old beads, they stitched something new between them.
Something fragile. Something real.
And outside, the rain began again soft this time, like blessing.
- Writer
