Dust and Distance". The rooster crowed too early again. Or maybe Olivia just hadn't slept properly. The tiny ceiling fan, more decoration than device, had coughed its last bit of life around midnight, and she'd been left wrestling heat and mosquitoes like unpaid bills. When she finally sat up, the morning sun was already leaking through the slanted wooden shutters, cutting dusty lines across her face.
She hissed. "Another day in paradise," she muttered, voice heavy with sarcasm.
Outside, the village was already alive with chatter—the laughter of schoolchildren, and the clang of a metal buckets.
She pulled her hair into a lazy bun and walked out of her small room, muttering curses under her breath when her slippers sank into the mud near the doorway. It must have rained a little in the night.
Chidera was outside, of course. Shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbow, fetching water from the well like someone auditioning for "Village Idol." The sun caught the sweat on his neck, and she hated that she noticed.
He turned as if sensing her stare. "Good morning, city girl," he said, his voice calm, teasing, carrying that maddening confidence that made her jaw tighten.
Olivia rolled her eyes. "It's just morning. Nothing good about it." He chuckled softly, hoisting the bucket. "Depends on who's looking."
"Depends on who's sweating," she shot back, crossing her arms.
"Ah, but you Lagos girls don't sweat, right? You just glow." She ignored him and marched to the outdoor bench near the kitchen area, pulling her phone from her pocket. No network bars. Again. The empty screen mocked her. Enugu corpers were probably posting pictures of their clean toilets and breakfast buffets right now, while she was out here with red mud and goats.
"Still no service?" Chidera asked, wiping his hands on a rag. She didn't look up. "No. Maybe the network also got posted to this place by mistake." He laughed—an easy sound that made her even more annoyed. "You talk too much when you're angry."
"I'm not angry."
He raised a brow. "You're always not angry."
Olivia looked at But then he smiled—a small, knowing smile that somehow disarmed her defenses for half a second. She turned away quickly, pretending to inspect her nails.
He poured water into the plastic drum near the wall. The metallic splash echoed between them. For a moment, it felt like the sound of their unspoken thoughts.
She caught herself watching the movement of his hands again—steady, practiced, capable. Something about it stirred something quiet inside her, but she swallowed it fast. "You really enjoy this village life o, don't you?" she asked, voice cool.
He shrugged. "You find peace where you can. Besides, not everything fancy is fine."
"Hm. Spoken like someone who's never been to The Palms."
He grinned. "True. But I've been to the kind of place where your phone actually works."
That made her laugh before she could stop herself. Just a small, involuntary burst, quick enough for her to hide behind a scoff. "You think you're funny."
"I know I am," he said, rinsing his hands. "You just don't want to admit it."
Her face softened a little as she stared at him—dusty shirt, calm eyes, the kind of quiet strength she didn't understand. Somewhere in that moment, the annoyance and curiosity blended into something else, but she blinked it away quickly.
"Anyway," she said, standing up. "I'll be late for school."
Chidera tilted his head. "You mean you'll arrive when you feel like arriving." She almost smiled. "Exactly."
And as she walked away, bag slung over her shoulder, he watched her go. There was something in her walk—a stubborn grace, a leftover pride from a life too far away from red mud and creaky wells.
He sighed, half amused, half tired, and whispered, "Na wah for this girl o."
Olivia didn't hear him, but somehow, she felt it—the invisible thread that was starting to pull both their worlds closer, even though she still swore she'd rather die than admit she was beginning to like him.
"Small Things, Loud Thoughts"
The school compound looked even duller under the noon sun. Tin roofs shimmered, the chalkboard in Primary Five had more holes than lessons, and Olivia was already sweating through her neat white blouse before the first bell rang.
Her pupils, a small army of restless energy, were half-chanting the alphabet. She sighed, tapping the ruler against the desk. "Eyes on me, not the goat outside."
A few kids giggled. A few just stared. The goat bleated in perfect rebellion.
Halfway through her English class, the chalk broke in her hand. She looked down, saw the empty box beside the blackboard, and muttered, "Of course." She grabbed her water bottle — empty — and hissed again.
Across the compound, Chidera's laughter floated from another classroom.
When the bell finally rang, she stormed out toward the staff room, hunting for more chalk.
Then she heard a voice behind her. "You're looking for this?"
She turned. Chidera, holding out a box of chalk like it was treasure.
She blinked. "You stole that from the other class, didn't you?"
He shrugged. "Borrowed. You city people don't understand sharing."
She rolled her eyes but took it. "Thanks."
He didn't move. Just stood there, smiling faintly. "You could say that word properly, you know."
"What word?"
"Thanks. With feeling."
She laughed "Don't push your luck."
He laughed softly and stepped aside, letting her pass. Their shoulders brushed — barely — but it was enough to make her heartbeat stumble once before she caught it again.
The afternoon dragged. The heat grew heavier, children louder, chalk dust thick on her fingers. But every time she passed the window, she caught glimpses of him outside — helping the carpenter fix a bench, showing a boy how to write his name, smiling at something small. It annoyed her how effortlessly he fit here.
When school closed, Olivia lingered. She was trying to lock the classroom door when the key jammed. She twisted, pulled, muttered curses under her breath. The door refused.
A voice behind her again. "Allow me."
She didn't have to look to know it was him.
"Don't bother," she said quickly. "I can handle it."
"Sure you can," he murmured, stepping closer.
He reached past her, his arm brushing hers. His hand turned the key once, clean click, and the padlock obeyed. She swallowed the urge to smile.
"Must be nice," he said quietly, "knowing everything, doing nothing wrong."
She turned to face him, defensive out of habit. "What's that supposed to mean?"
He looked at her for a long second, eyes unreadable, then smiled. "Nothing,you just try too hard not to like this place."
Before she could think of a comeback, he was already walking away, bag slung over one shoulder.
Olivia stood there, watching his figure fade down the path toward the corpers' lodge, dust rising around his shoes. The words stuck somewhere between her throat and her pride.
Later that night, she would tell herself he irritated her. That was safer than the truth.
The evening came soft and slow, painted in burnt orange and humming with crickets. The air around the corpers' lodge smelled faintly of smoke and palm oil. Olivia sat on the low stool near the door, fanning herself with a piece of cardboard, pretending to scroll through her dead phone.
Chidera was outside, crouched beside a small charcoal stove, stirring something that smelled suspiciously good.
"Again?" she asked, not looking up. "You don't get tired of cooking?" He grinned. "You don't get tired of complaining?"
He flipped the spoon and said, "You can join, you know. I'll even let you taste before it's done."
Olivia wrinkled her nose. "Please. I don't eat village experiments."
"Then starve elegantly, madam."
He kept stirring, and she kept pretending she wasn't curious. The smell of fried pepper and fish drifted toward her, and her stomach betrayed her with a low growl.
Chidera heard it. Of course he did.
Without a word, he scooped a bit into a small bowl, walked over, and set it in front of her. "Just in case elegance doesn't fill your stomach."
She hesitated. "You're so sure I'll eat it."
"I'm so sure hunger doesn't have pride."
She opened her mouth to retort, then sighed. "Fine. Only to prove you wrong."
He smiled. "That's my favorite reason."
The first bite burned her tongue, but it was delicious. She hated that it was. "Not bad," she said casually. "For village food." "High praise from the city queen," he teased.
She ignored him, focused on her food. He watched her quietly for a moment, then sat beside her, close enough that she could smell the smoke on his shirt. They ate in silence, the night stretching between them, warm and fragile.
After a while, he said softly, "You'll leave when service ends."
She nodded. "Obviously."
He stirred the ashes with a stick. "And go back to Lagos. Noise, lights, everything."
"That's the plan."
He looked at her, half-smiling. "And forget this place. Forget me."
She froze for a second, then scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself."
"I wasn't," he said quietly. "Just stating the obvious." That silence again. Longer this time. Heavy, uncomfortable, alive.
Olivia looked away first. "You think too much."
"Someone has to," he replied. "You're too busy pretending nothing here touches you."
She shot him a look, more wounded than she meant it to be. "You don't know me."
He met her eyes. "I know enough."
For a heartbeat, neither moved. The fire popped. A moth fluttered between them, died in the smoke. She finally stood up.
"Goodnight, Chidera."
He nodded. "Goodnight, Olivia."
She walked inside, shut the wooden door behind her, leaned against it, and exhaled like she'd been holding her breath all evening. Outside, he sat staring at the fading coals, a small smile tugging at his lips—the kind people wear when they don't know whether to hope or to stop trying.