The morning sunlight spilled lazily into the small living room of the Ogbodo residence. The curtains were half-drawn, fluttering with the weak breeze that sneaked in through the open window. A transistor radio hummed somewhere in the corner, carrying the voice of a local announcer advertising palm oil and kerosene. Desmond sat slouched in the only armchair that hadn't lost its foam, one leg stretched, phone in hand, his thumb scrolling absentmindedly.
His younger siblings, two boys hardly past their early teens, were playing ludo on the tiled floor, their laughter breaking out in bursts each time someone shouted "six!". Their mother moved between the kitchen and the living room, a wrapper tied around her waist, her voice sharp as she scolded one of the boys for almost toppling the tray of sliced vegetables she had set aside.
"Desmond, come and help me position this table well," she called without even looking up.
"Mama, abeg… one minute," Desmond mumbled, eyes glued to his phone screen. He wasn't scrolling anymore—he was setting up a video call. The call connected, and two faces lit up the phone: Collins, his university course mate now working in Enugu, and Kelvin, his childhood friend who had managed to hustle his way into owning a barbershop in town.
"Guy!" Collins shouted the moment his face appeared, his wide grin almost blinding. "See fresh boy! Desmond don soft o."
Desmond chuckled, tilting his phone for better light. "Soft ke? Na hustle dey ground, no be beans."
Kelvin leaned forward until his face filled the screen. "No lie, my guy. Na that babe matter dey make you fresh. Glory, abi?"
At the mention of the name, Desmond smirked and sat up straighter in his chair. His mother, who had only half-heard, turned her head sharply from the kitchen doorway. "Which Glory again? Desmond, hope you're not wasting your time on women when you should be planning your future?"
"Mama, abeg leave matter," he said quickly, waving his hand in dismissal. His friends were already laughing.
"Guy, talk true," Collins pressed, "that girl dey enter your eye die, abi?"
Desmond adjusted the phone so his mother wouldn't overhear too much. "See ehn… Glory no be ordinary girl. The way she carry herself, the way she dey look person… If I play my cards well, she go be mine. No shaking."
Kelvin whistled. "Guy, no dey yarn dust. We know say you sabi package, but you sure say she no get person already?"
Desmond's jaw tightened. He had thought of Abraham—he always did—but he pushed the thought away like swatting a stubborn fly. "Leave am. Na me she dey respond to. Abraham fit dey form around her, but na me she dey give attention. Shey you dey whine me?"
The friends burst into laughter. His mother clapped her hands together loudly from the kitchen. "Desmond! I don't know what nonsense you people are laughing about, but you better respect yourself. Focus on something meaningful."
"Mama, it's just gist," he muttered, turning the volume down.
---
Across town, in a quieter compound bordered by hibiscus flowers, Abraham was sitting outside on a wooden chair, enjoying the stillness of late morning. His phone was face-down on the table beside him, a half-drunk glass of zobo sweating in the heat. He had planned to rest; yesterday's outing with the boys had stretched late into the night, and his body still carried the weight of laughter, FIFA arguments, and suya.
The sound of approaching footsteps pulled his attention to the gate. A tall young woman stepped through, pausing to greet an elderly neighbor before continuing toward his side of the compound. She wore a simple Ankara gown that brushed just below her knees, flat sandals that revealed polished toenails, and her hair tied back neatly in a puff. No makeup, only a touch of lip gloss that caught the sun.
"Good morning," she said, smiling as if the day itself belonged to her.
Abraham blinked, surprised but quick to respond. "Morning… Christiana, right?"
"Yes," she nodded, her voice carrying the faint Yoruba lilt. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
He gestured to the chair opposite his. "Not at all. Please, sit."
She lowered herself gracefully, smoothing her gown as she did. Up close, her beauty seemed almost effortless—her skin glowing in the sun, her eyes bright with the curiosity of someone new to the town. Abraham found himself noticing more than he intended. He cleared his throat, shifting slightly.
"I actually came to ask a small favor," she said, folding her hands on her lap. "I'm still trying to settle down, and someone told me there's a stream not far from here. I want to see it, maybe splash a little. I haven't entered a natural water source before. Could you… show me the way?"
Abraham hesitated only briefly. "Of course. It's not far. I can walk with you."
Her smile widened. "Thank you. I didn't want to get lost on my own."
---
Back in Desmond's living room, the conversation on the video call had shifted. Collins was narrating how he managed to convince a girl from his office to go out with him, while Kelvin interjected with loud commentary. Desmond laughed, but his mind kept circling back to Glory.
"You people don't understand," he said suddenly, cutting into the conversation. "Glory is not just fine, she get class. When she enter anywhere, e be like the whole place dey pause. That's the kind of girl I want."
Collins raised an eyebrow. "But you sef gats level before you fit carry that kind babe. You sure say she dey look your direction?"
Desmond leaned closer to the screen, his voice dropping. "I dey tell you—she dey respond. I don catch the signs. That other guy, Abraham, him just dey waste him time."
"Mama go hear this one," Kelvin teased.
Sure enough, their mother had caught the name again. She stepped into the room, hands on her waist. "Desmond, who is this Abraham you keep mentioning? And why are you dragging this Glory matter like it's food? Ehn? You think life is all about chasing women?"
Desmond pressed his lips together, embarrassed in front of his friends. "Mom, please, it's really not what you think."
His friends snickered. Desmond forced a laugh, but a flicker of irritation crossed his face.
---
Meanwhile, Abraham and Christiana had stepped out of the compound. The narrow path leading to the stream wound between cassava farms and scattered palm trees, the red earth warm beneath their feet. Birds chattered overhead, and the occasional motorcycle buzzed past on the distant road.
"So, how are you finding the place so far?" Abraham asked, breaking the silence.
Christiana adjusted the strap of the small bag slung across her shoulder. "It's peaceful. Different from Lagos. There, the noise never stops. Here… I can hear myself think."
He smiled. "You'll get used to it. The calm can be addictive."
She laughed softly, the sound like glass beads clinking together. "I think so already." She glanced at him briefly. "You've been here all your life?"
"Mostly. Work takes me around sometimes, but this is home."
There was a pause, filled only by the sound of their footsteps. Christiana tilted her head, studying him. "You know, you don't talk like most people here. Your English is smooth, polished. Are you sure you're not hiding Lagos somewhere in your past?"
Abraham chuckled. "Maybe I just read too much."
She laughed again, lightly brushing his arm. The gesture was casual, yet Abraham felt it linger. He looked at her properly then—the curve of her smile, the way the sun lit her skin. He caught himself staring and quickly looked ahead.
---
Back at the Ogbodo house, Desmond's call had ended, leaving him with the noise of his siblings and the occasional clatter of pots from the kitchen. He leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling.
His mother reappeared, wiping her hands on a towel. "My son, listen to me. Beauty is not everything. If you like this Glory girl, that is fine, but don't lose your head. Women are many, but life is only one. Make sure you are not fighting battles that don't concern you."
Desmond sat up, his expression firm. "Mama, this one concerns me. I know what I'm doing."
She sighed, shaking her head. "Just remember—no woman is worth losing yourself for."
Desmond didn't reply. He was already imagining Glory's face, the way she smiled, the possibility of her standing beside him, not anyone else. Especially not Abraham.
---
The stream finally came into view, glistening under the sunlight as it snaked through the trees. A few women bent at the banks, filling plastic containers, their chatter carrying in the air. Christiana's eyes lit up.
"It's beautiful," she said, stepping closer. "Thank you for bringing me."
Abraham nodded. "No problem. You'll need to come early in the mornings if you want less crowd."
She crouched to touch the water, letting it run over her fingers. Then she looked back at him, her smile softer this time. "I really appreciate it. Not everyone would take the time."
Abraham shrugged. "It's nothing." But his eyes betrayed a flicker of something—acknowledgment of her beauty, the warmth of her presence. He quickly looked away again.
As they began the walk back, laughter punctuated their small talk. It was easy, almost too easy, and Abraham wondered briefly if she always had this effect on people.
---
From across the road, half-hidden behind a hibiscus hedge, Glory stood still. She hadn't planned to see them; she had only been passing through after running an errand for her cousin. But the sight of Abraham and Christiana walking together, side by side, their laughter floating through the air—it froze her in place.
Her chest tightened. She told herself it was innocent, he's just helping her settle in. But the way Christiana tilted her head toward him, the way Abraham actually smiled back—it gnawed at her.
She forced her legs to move, turning away quickly, pretending she hadn't seen anything. But inside, a quiet storm gathered. She didn't speak it, but the fear was clear: someone else might be stealing what her heart already claimed.
Glory walked faster, her footsteps heavy against the red earth, her thoughts louder than the buzzing cicadas around her.
And in the silence between them all—Desmond at home plotting, Abraham walking beside beauty he hadn't asked for, and Glory carrying unspoken jealousy—the rival flame burned brighter, waiting for its time to blaze.