The red dust rose behind the rickety bus as it coughed its way into the motor park at Uyo. The air shimmered with late-afternoon heat, thick with the scent of roasted groundnuts, fried plantain, and the sharp tang of petrol. Hawkers moved quickly among the parked buses, shouting over each other as they thrust chilled sachets of water and meat pies toward passengers leaning out of open windows.
Glory Ikpe stepped down carefully, adjusting her handbag on her shoulder while dragging her suitcase with her free hand. The bus door slammed shut behind her, and she paused for a moment, blinking against the brightness. Lagos had its own chaos, yes, but Uyo's motor park had a different rhythm — one that felt like a heartbeat she hadn't realized she missed.
She inhaled deeply. Beneath the mix of dust and diesel, she caught the faint sweetness of blooming hibiscus drifting from somewhere beyond the park walls. For a second, it felt like time hadn't moved at all. She could almost picture herself as the girl who left here eight years ago — eager, restless, ready to chase big dreams far beyond her hometown.
"Glory!"
Her head snapped up. That voice — unmistakable. Warm. Steady. Carrying through the din as though it had been waiting just for her.
Abraham Martial was weaving his way through the crowd, his tall frame rising above the vendors and travelers. He was dressed simply in a crisp white shirt tucked into dark trousers, but on him, simplicity had a way of looking deliberate, dignified. His grin widened as he reached her, and for a moment, Glory forgot about the dust, the noise, the heat pressing down on her skin.
"You finally remembered this side of the country," he said, effortlessly lifting her heavy suitcase from her grip. "Madam Lagos big girl."
Glory laughed, shaking her head. "Still talking too much, Abe. Some things never change."
"And you," he replied, eyes glinting, "still think you can escape me."
She rolled her eyes, but warmth spread through her chest. Being around him always felt like slipping into an old song she knew by heart — the rhythm unchanged, the melody instantly familiar.
As they made their way out of the park, the noise began to thin. The late sun slanted across the red earth, painting everything in a golden hue. Abraham carried her suitcase as though it weighed nothing, walking beside her with the ease of someone who had always been meant to.
"Ah! Glory has finally landed!"
The excited voice made her turn. Chiburuoma came rushing from across the road, wrapper tied loosely at her waist, hair wrapped with a bright scarf. She had always been the kind of friend who carried laughter with her like a second skin. Now, as she threw her arms around Glory, the years between them melted away.
"Look at you!" Chiburuoma exclaimed, squeezing her tightly. "Eh, Lagos did not finish you after all. You're still shining like kerosene lamp."
Glory burst into laughter, hugging her back. "I missed you, Chi. More than groundnut missed garri."
Abraham chuckled at their reunion, shaking his head as he loaded the suitcase into the boot of his car parked nearby. "If the two of you start with proverbs now, we'll never leave this park."
Chiburuoma shot him a mock glare. "Jealousy will kill you, Abraham. Go and find your own best friend."
The three of them laughed together, the kind of laughter that loosened something in Glory's chest. She hadn't realized how much she needed this — the familiarity, the easy warmth. Lagos was fast, sharp-edged, always pushing forward. But here, the world still made room for long hugs and playful quarrels.
---
They piled into Abraham's car, an older Toyota but immaculately kept. The windows were down, letting in the thick air scented with roasted corn from roadside grills. Chiburuoma squeezed into the backseat, already filling Glory in on wedding details.
"You came just in time," she said. "Rehearsal is tomorrow. We must go and fit you for aso ebi. Don't worry, I picked the color myself — royal blue. It will make you look like one of those queens in Nollywood films."
Glory shook her head, smiling. "You and your drama."
"Leave her," Abraham interjected with a smirk. "You know Chi will never change. She was born for spotlight."
"Exactly," Chiburuoma replied proudly, patting his shoulder from the backseat. "And some of us were born for love stories. Eh, Abraham? When will you—"
"Chi!" Abraham cut her off, his ears turning slightly red.
Glory raised her brows but said nothing. Some things, clearly, hadn't changed. Chiburuoma had always loved playing matchmaker, teasing Abraham endlessly about his secretive heart. But Glory had never pressed. She knew too well what it felt like to guard feelings too tightly to risk exposing them.
The car moved slowly through the town, past familiar landmarks that tugged at Glory's memory. The corner kiosk where she used to buy chin chin after school. The dusty football field where Abraham once convinced her to play goalkeeper — and she ended up flat on her back after a hard shot. The roadside church that rang its bell every Sunday morning before dawn.
Her chest tightened. So much of her remained here, hidden between these streets. And yet, so much of her had changed.
Abraham seemed to sense her thoughts. His eyes flicked toward her as he slowed for a group of schoolchildren crossing the road. "Strange, isn't it? Coming back."
Glory turned her face to the window. "It feels like nothing has moved… and at the same time, like I don't quite belong anymore."
For a moment, silence settled in the car, filled only by the hum of the engine and the distant call of a hawker advertising boli. Abraham didn't push further, but she felt his gaze linger on her a heartbeat longer before he returned his attention to the road.
---
When they finally pulled into her family compound, the familiar squeak of the iron gate greeted her. The veranda was alive with voices — her mother calling instructions, her younger cousins running about. As soon as she stepped out of the car, her mother appeared at the doorway, wrapper tied tightly around her waist, wooden spoon in hand.
"Ah, Glory! My daughter! You've come back to us."
Glory's heart softened. She hurried forward, embracing her mother. The smell of palm oil and fresh vegetables clung to her clothes.
"Welcome home," her mother murmured against her hair.
Glory closed her eyes, holding on a moment longer than necessary. For all her ambition, all her years in Lagos, home still had a way of reaching deep into her bones.
Behind her, Abraham lifted out the suitcase, his movements careful, respectful. Chiburuoma was already chatting animatedly with Glory's cousins, her voice rising above the noise. For a fleeting second, Glory watched Abraham as he stood there in the sunlight, shoulders broad, expression calm, as though he had never once wondered what life might be like beyond these borders.
And she felt it — that old pull. The one she had buried beneath career goals and city lights. The one she had told herself was foolish, impossible.
This summer, she realized, would not pass quietly.