The university courtyard had transformed into a mosaic of color, sound, and scent. Flags from every continent fluttered on clotheslines strung above, while booths lined the perimeter, each offering a taste of home, steaming dumplings, spiced curries, grilled meats, sweet teas.
It was the Festival of Nations, and for one day, the world was united by music and food.
Zina had arrived early, her booth draped in rich Ghanaian cloth and decorated with carved masks and calabashes. Bowls of jollof rice, kɔkɔɔ, and spicy shito were arranged with care. She wore a waist wrap of bold Kente and gold beads that jingled softly with each movement.
Akin stood across the square at his own table, arranging plates of amala, efo riro, and pounded yam. His dashiki bore the royal blue and white of Oremi. He looked up and caught her eye. She smiled and waved.
They hadn't spoken about the feud for weeks. Here, among fellow students and friends, their heritage was something to celebrate, not something to divide.
But the past had a way of showing up uninvited.
By noon, a crowd had gathered near the stage where student groups were preparing to perform traditional dances. Zina was helping a pair of girls tie their headwraps when a tall Nigerian student approached her booth. He looked older, maybe a graduate student, with a sharp jaw and the air of someone used to being obeyed.
"You're from Ghana?" he asked, inspecting the food without touching it.
"Yes," Zina said politely.
"Dakira?"
She froze. "Yes."
The man nodded slowly, turning to glance at Akin's booth. "Then you're the one everyone's been talking about."
Zina stiffened. "I'm sorry, I don't think I know you."
"You don't," he said. "But I know what you are. Your people slaughtered Oremi warriors in the night, centuries ago. You wear gold while your hands are still red."
A small hush fell over the booth. Akin, who had just begun crossing over with a plate of fried plantain for Zina, heard the last words.
"That's enough," he said sharply, stepping between them. "This is not your kingdom. You will not bring war to a festival of peace."
The man looked at him. "You're Oremi and you side with her?"
"I side with the future."
A tense silence stretched between them.
Then Zina stepped forward, her eyes blazing. "Tell me something, egbon. When your ancestors were killed, did they leave the land angry or did they plant hatred into your heart before they died? Because I feel sorry for you. Carrying a war you never fought."
A nearby student from Brazil clapped awkwardly, thinking it was part of a performance.
The man scoffed, turned, and walked away.
Zina's hands shook slightly. Akin touched her arm. "Are you okay?"
She nodded, blinking fast. "I didn't come here to fight. I just wanted to share my food. My culture."
"And you did," he said gently. "With pride."
Later that evening, the drums began.
Each country's students took the stage to perform. When it was Nigeria's turn, Akin was called forward. He hesitated, then climbed the platform. His hands trembled as he began to beat the gangan(the talking drum), his rhythm steady, strong.
And then, unexpectedly, Zina joined him. She walked across the square, climbed onto the stage, and began to dance, adowa steps bold and fluid, her arms raised in graceful circles.
Two cultures. Two bloodlines. One rhythm.
The crowd erupted in cheers.
But in the far corner, a girl from Senegal