The salon was buzzing that evening, clippers whining, men laughing over gossip, the heavy scent of hair oil clinging to the air. I had come for nothing more than a shave and haircut, but the crowd inside was suffocating. Every chair was filled, impatience thick in the room. With a sigh, I stepped back outside, letting the evening breeze wash over me.
I leaned against the wall, listening to the muffled hum of voices inside, and my thoughts drifted. It was strange, three years of teaching, three years of steady living, yet tonight, on the eve of my students' graduation party, I felt restless, unsettled. Maybe it was because the journey that had brought me here still pressed on me like an old scar.
I remembered Lagos, 331 miles away, south of here, where it all began. I could still feel the scorching heat of the sun on my neck, the dust in the air, the folder of certificates clutched tightly in my hand. I would wipe at the covers again and again, as if polishing them could change the future. I had walked those streets with pride, believing the world was open to me.
I had graduated from Lagos State Polytechnic, the best Chemical Engineering student of the year. The polytechnic operated on three campuses, Ikorodu, Isolo, and Surulere, with Ikorodu serving as the permanent site. I remembered standing there in my gown, full of ambition, sure that the labour market would welcome me. I dreamed of the oil sector, of hard hats and refineries, of proving myself where only the best thrived.
But Lagos had other plans.
Applications turned into silence. Rejection letters became routine. The city that pulsed with life and opportunity gave me nothing but closed doors. Days blurred into months, months into years, until my optimism withered.
Then came the call from home. Abuja. The Federal Capital Territory, 331 miles north of Lagos. A place carved out of rocky terrain, filled with ministries, embassies, and government institutions. They called it the Rock City, for its landscape, but also for its unyielding weight of politics and power. My family wanted me there. "Opportunities will come," they said. I had no choice but to obey.
My father welcomed me warmly. He was an electrical engineer, a consultant in a private firm owned by an Indian man named Pranay. For a while, I worked with him on electrical designs and drawings. But though he smiled, I caught the lines of disappointment etched on his face. "Don't worry, son," he said once, his hand on my shoulder. "You'll find a job soon."
I nodded, but inside, doubt gnawed. Each day I left the house to search again, the world seemed smaller, the options fewer.
Then, one afternoon, I stumbled across a posting for a teaching job at ABUTECH Academy. It wasn't the oil rigs I had dreamed of, but I told myself, a bird in hand is better than thousands in the forest.
Weeks later, the call came: I was hired as a Chemistry and Mathematics teacher. My heart swelled with cautious joy. Three years passed, and I grew into the role, earning respect, shaping young minds, eventually becoming the senior teacher. I had built something of myself again. Yet beneath the routines, beneath the smiles, I sometimes wondered, was this all fate had for me?
A soft gust of air brushed my face, tugging me back to the present. The sun was dipping low, shadows stretching across the street. And then, I saw it.
A figure.
At first, just a shadow gliding past. But as it neared, she came into focus.
Her long raven-dark hair spilled down her back like a waterfall, catching the glow of the streetlights. Her heart-shaped face was framed in softness, but her eyes, bright, alive, expressive, held something deeper. She wore a fitted dress, elegant in its simplicity, accentuating her slender figure. Yet it wasn't her beauty alone that held me, it was her aura. A presence so radiant it seemed to hush the noise of the street, to bend the moment around her.
My breath caught. My pulse stumbled. Something inside me whispered, this was no ordinary encounter.
I straightened my shirt, steadied my breath, and before fear could stop me, I moved toward her.
"Hello," I said, my voice careful, warm. "Beautiful evening, isn't it?"
She turned, and her lips curved into a smile, gentle, mysterious. "Yes," she replied.
The sound of her voice lingered. Encouraged, I asked, "Mind if I walk with you for a while?"
She nodded, and together we moved down the street, our steps falling into rhythm.
We spoke lightly of the weather, the quietness of the neighborhood. Then, out of nowhere, she asked, "Do you always speak to strangers this easily?"
Her question startled me. I chuckled nervously. "Not always. Only when something tells me the stranger is worth knowing."
Her eyes glinted with amusement, but also something else, something guarded. "Hmm. Careful, Samuel," she said softly. "Not every stranger is safe."
I froze. "You know my name already?"
She smiled faintly, almost evasively. "You told me, didn't you?"
But I hadn't.
Before I could press further, she changed the subject, asking instead, "What do you do?"
"I teach Chemistry and Mathematics," I replied.
Something flickered across her face, a shadow I couldn't name. "Teaching," she murmured, as if weighing the word. "That means you shape minds. You influence futures."
I nodded, curious. "Yes. Why do you say it like that?"
She hesitated, then shook her head. "Never mind."
Her voice was gentle, but the way she said it left me certain she carried stories untold, secrets too heavy for the night to hold.
Finally, she handed me her phone. "Here. Put your number in."
When I returned it, I asked, "And what may I call you?"
"Victoria," she said. The name hung in the air, strange and beautiful.
"Well, Victoria," I said softly, "I hope this won't be the last time we talk."
Her smile lingered, but her eyes, those bright, mysterious eyes, seemed to flicker with something else. Regret? Fear? "We'll see," she murmured.
And then she turned, walking away into the night, her shadow fading into the streetlights until she was gone.
That night, I lay in bed unable to sleep. Her smile, her voice, her words haunted me. Each detail replayed endlessly, refusing to fade.
By morning, I could no longer resist. I dialed her number.
She answered quickly. "Hello?"
"Good morning," I said, my heart racing. "How did you fare through the night?"
"I'm fine, thank you," she replied gently. "I'm on my way to work."
Her words were ordinary, but her tone, soft, careful, carried a weight, as if she held back something she wasn't ready to reveal.
I smiled into the silence. "Good to know. I just wanted to check on you."
"Thank you," she whispered. And then the line went dead.
I lowered the phone slowly, unease curling in my chest. The exchange had been simple, harmless even, but it felt like an unfinished sentence.
I didn't know it then, but meeting Victoria was no accident. She was carrying a past that would collide with mine in ways I could never have imagined. This was only the beginning of a storm that would test everything I thought I knew, about myself, about love, about destiny.