The evening sun was sinking behind the hills, painting the sky in soft gold and red. The village of Orua lay quiet, its houses made of clay and wood, standing close together as if whispering secrets to one another. Smoke rose from small cooking fires, and the sound of chickens clucking filled the air.
Sola stood at the doorway of her small home, her hands folded against her chest. She was only twenty-four, yet her eyes carried a sadness too heavy for her age. Her husband, Tunde, had left months ago to work in the city. He promised to send money, to return with gifts, to build a better life. But promises were like wind—they passed and disappeared.
The villagers whispered. Some said Tunde had another woman in the city. Others said he was struggling, too poor to return. None of them mattered to Sola anymore. What hurt her most was the silence. Weeks passed, and no letters came. No messages. She was a wife, yet she felt abandoned, like a widow with no funeral to mourn.
Inside the house, the walls felt too empty. The bed, too wide. The nights, too long. Sola often lay awake listening to the crickets, feeling the ache of loneliness spread inside her like a slow fire.
That evening, she walked to the stream with a clay pot balanced on her head. The path was quiet, shaded by tall trees. The air smelled of damp earth. She stopped to rest by a fallen tree and closed her eyes for a moment.
That was when she heard footsteps.
She turned. A man was walking toward her, carrying a basket of firewood. He was tall, his skin dark and shining with sweat, his shoulders broad. His name was Kunle—the carpenter's son. Everyone in the village knew him. He had just returned from the army, strong and confident, yet carrying a quiet sadness of his own.
Their eyes met. For a moment, neither spoke.
"You should not be walking alone at this hour," Kunle said, his voice deep and calm.
Sola lowered her gaze. "It is not far. I will fetch water and return."
Kunle smiled faintly. "Let me help you." He set down his basket, lifted her pot with ease, and carried it as if it weighed nothing.
As they walked side by side, silence stretched between them. But it was not an uncomfortable silence. It was soft, like the hush of the evening wind.
At the stream, Sola bent to fill the pot. Her reflection trembled in the water—her face pale, her eyes tired. She wondered when she had last truly smiled.
"Does Tunde write to you?" Kunle asked suddenly.
Her hand froze in the water. She lifted the pot, droplets spilling down her arm. "No," she whispered.
"I see." Kunle's eyes darkened, though he said no more.
They walked back together, the weight of unsaid words pressing between them. At her doorstep, Kunle set the pot down gently.
"Thank you," Sola said, her voice low.
Kunle nodded, his eyes lingering on hers for a moment longer than necessary. Then he turned and walked away.
That night, as Sola lay in bed, she could not sleep. The memory of Kunle's gaze haunted her. It was not pity. It was not curiosity. It was something else—something dangerous. Something she should not feel, yet her heart whispered for it.
The days passed. Each time she went to the stream, she found Kunle there. Sometimes by chance, sometimes by fate. They spoke little, but each word seemed to carry weight.
One evening, as the sky burned orange, Sola slipped and almost fell on the wet stones by the stream. Kunle caught her arm, steadying her. For a heartbeat, she felt his strength, his warmth. Her heart raced wildly. She pulled away quickly, her cheeks hot.
"You must be careful," he said softly.
Their eyes locked. Neither moved. Neither spoke. The air was heavy, filled with unspoken desire.
That night, Sola dreamed of him. His hands. His voice. His eyes that seemed to see through the walls she had built around her heart. She woke with her chest pounding, guilt burning inside her. She was a married woman. Tunde was still her husband, even if absent.
But loneliness was a hunger. And hunger always searched for food.
The village gossip grew. People noticed Kunle helping her carry water, noticed the way his eyes followed her. Whispers spread like dry grass catching fire.
One afternoon, her neighbor, Mama Bisi, leaned close and muttered, "Be careful, Sola. People talk. A woman without her husband must guard her steps."
Sola forced a smile, but her heart was trembling. She knew the danger. But she also knew the truth: the more she tried to avoid Kunle, the more her heart pulled toward him.
The harvest season came. The village fields were full of yam mounds and maize stalks. Men worked with cutlasses, women with baskets. The air smelled of roasted corn, the laughter of children echoing through the dust.
Sola walked to the market one afternoon, carrying cassava to sell. She saw Kunle again, this time cutting planks outside his father's workshop. His hands were strong, guiding the blade with precision. Sawdust clung to his arms, his sweat glistening in the sun.
He looked up and saw her. Their eyes met. For a moment, the world around her faded—the market noise, the shouts, the laughter. It was only him. Only those eyes that seemed to ask questions she could not answer.
Sola's steps faltered, her heart pounding, before she forced herself to look away and keep walking.
That evening, Sola sat outside her house, staring at the sky. The stars were bright, scattered like diamonds. The moon cast its soft light over the village, quiet now after the day's work.
Her heart was restless. She thought of her husband, Tunde, so far away. Did he still think of her? Did he still love her? Or had the city swallowed him completely?
And then she thought of Kunle—so near, yet so forbidden. His presence was like fire: dangerous, but warm.
The night breeze carried the sound of footsteps. She turned. Kunle stood a few paces away, his face half in shadow.
"I was passing," he said quietly. "I thought to greet you."
Sola's chest tightened. "You should not be here," she whispered.
"I know." He stepped closer. "But I could not help it."
Her breath caught. For a moment, she wanted to tell him to leave, to protect her name, her marriage, her soul. But another part of her—the lonely part, the hungry part—wanted him to stay.
The silence stretched. The night seemed to hold its breath.
And in that silence, something fragile, dangerous, and sweet was born.
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