The morning started like every other one in the village—hot, dusty, and thick with that stubborn smell of red earth that clung to everything. Olivia had woken up late, still irritated from the previous night's mosquito battle, and muttering about how "this kind of place should be removed from the Nigerian map."
The sun was merciless, the kind that glared down without a trace of pity. By 11 a.m., even the children in her class had lost all interest in arithmetic. They fanned themselves with their exercise books, eyes heavy. Olivia was barely holding it together too. Her sleek braids were tied in a loose bun, and sweat trickled down her neck like small beads of punishment.
"Madam, e go soon rain," one of the pupils said quietly. She turned with mild annoyance. "Rain? In this heat? My dear, the sky is as clear as glass. Nothing is happening."
But not even thirty minutes later, the clouds rolled in like soldiers. First, the breeze came—cold, forceful, sweeping the chalk dust off her desk. Then thunder grumbled somewhere deep behind the hills. The children gasped. Olivia frowned.
"Everybody sit down! It's just weather," she declared, though her own heart thumped a little.
Then the heavens split open.
The rain didn't come softly—it attacked. The first drops slammed against the zinc roof like handfuls of stones. In seconds, the entire school compound was drenched. The wind blew through the wooden shutters, making them flap violently.
"Close that window!" she yelled, running to one side of the classroom. The children struggled to obey.
and thenall of a sudden Olivia noticed in a flash, drip… drip… drip.
Right above her desk.
Olivia froze. A small brown stain on the ceiling was expanding rapidly. She blinked, then gasped as water splashed directly on her marking sheets.
"Oh my God! No, no, no!" she shouted, scrambling back as the leak grew into a small, determined waterfall. The pupils laughed, some nervously, others with the unfiltered glee of children watching an adult lose control.
"Madam, na that place dey always leak!" one shouted.
"Then why didn't anyone tell me?!" Olivia cried, clutching her soaked notebook.
The roof continued its betrayal. More leaks appeared—three, four, now five tiny streams of rainwater splashing onto desks, books, and tiny heads. The noise of the storm was deafening. The smell of wet wood and earth filled the classroom.
By now, Olivia's fine sandals were drenched, her make up beginning to run slightly, and her once-polite voice was lost in frustration.
"I can't believe this is where I'm serving! Is this a school or a swimming pool?" she muttered, dragging a desk under a safer corner.
Then came the moment she hated most—she heard his voice.
"Olivia! You're still inside? Come out before the roof gives way!"
It was him—Chidera. Calm, unfazed, standing by the doorway of the next classroom that somehow seemed to be holding up better. His white NYSC shirt was already wet, clinging to his arms, but he still looked infuriatingly composed.
She squinted through the rain. "I'm fine! I can handle myself! "Clearly," he said, as another splash of water hit her squarely on the shoulder.
She hissed, glared, and finally grabbed her bag. The pupils rushed out first, screaming and laughing as they dashed through the open compound. Olivia followed, half-running, half-slipping in the mud.
By the time she reached the veranda, she was soaked to the bone.
Chidera shook his head, trying not to laugh. "City girl, You better learn to respect weather forecast next time." Olivia folded her arms, shivering. "You find this funny? My notes are ruined, my shoes are soaked, and I look like—"
"—someone who's finally experiencing real life," he finished for her.
She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. "You're impossible."
"And you're stubborn," he replied, leaning against a pillar. "Next time, just listen."
Thunder boomed again, echoing through the schoolyard, and for a moment, they both looked up at the dark sky, speechless. The rain wasn't stopping anytime soon.
Then he said casually, "Hope you're ready to fix that roof after this."
She turned to him sharply. "Fix what? Me? I don't even know how to climb a stool properly, talk less of fixing zinc!"
Chidera chuckled softly. "Then you're about to learn."
The rain didn't stop. It went on and on, relentless — the kind of village rain that refused to be polite.
Hours passed, and the once lively compound became a swamp. The red earth had turned into thick, clingy mud that held onto every shoe like it had a grudge. The children had long gone home. Only a few teachers stayed behind, gossiping under the eaves, watching the sky grumble.
Olivia, however, wasn't in the mood for small talk. Her clothes were still damp, her bag soggy, and the paper smell of wet documents made her want to scream. She sat on a low wooden chair near the staff room, hugging herself and muttering every few minutes:
"I shouldn't even be here. I should be in Enugu, not… this!" Chidera heard her, of course. He was inside one of the classrooms, rearranging desks and pushing buckets beneath new leaks.
When he came out, holding a hammer and a piece of zinc, she raised an eyebrow.
"What are you doing? You can't fix that roof in this weather."
He shrugged lightly. "I've done it before. We just patch the leaking part from inside till it stops. The headmistress won't do it, so…"
"So you're the resident handyman now?" she said, tone sharp, almost mocking.
He smiled faintly. "Somebody has to make sure our heads don't get baptized every time it rains." That made her purse her lips, half-annoyed that he sounded so calm, half-impressed without wanting to show it. He walked past her, carrying his hammer like it was the most natural thing in the world, his NYSC khaki trousers rolled to the knee.
She watched him climb onto a desk and reach for the dripping section of the ceiling, tapping gently with the hammer. Every so often, droplets of water splashed his face. He didn't even flinch.
Olivia frowned, arms crossed. "You'll hurt yourself."
"Then you'll help me down, right?" he said without looking at her.
She breathe in "You wish."
But after a few minutes of pretending not to care, she found herself moving closer. The roof creaked, another leak began, and instinctively she reached for one of the empty buckets.
"Here," she muttered, sliding it under.
He glanced down, smiled a little, and said, "Teamwork."
"Please, don't make this sentimental," she shot back, though her lips twitched slightly.
Rain poured harder, the sound filling every corner of the building. He kept fixing, she kept moving buckets — both soaked, both stubborn. At some point, thunder clapped so loud that she screamed and nearly dropped the bucket.
Chidera laughed. "You're scared of thunder too?" "I'm not scared, it just… surprised me," she replied, glaring.
"Hmm. City people and excuses."
That earned him a playful shove. "You talk too much." "And you complain too much."
They both paused — caught in that strange silence when arguments turn into laughter but neither person wants to admit it. Their eyes met briefly, and something flickered. Not romance, not yet. But recognition.
Then she broke eye contact quickly. "I'm going to dry my bag," she muttered, walking toward the staff room again.
"Sure," he said softly, watching her go.
The rain began to slow, tapping gentler now against the roof. The air smelled fresh — wet soil, mango leaves, and something unexplainably new between them.
Chidera looked up at the patched ceiling, then at the doorway where Olivia had disappeared. He chuckled under his breath.
"Maybe this rain came to teach patience."
From inside, Olivia's voice carried faintly, "If you're talking to me, forget it! I'm still very angry!"
He grinned. "I wasn't," he lied.
By evening, the clouds had emptied everything they had. The rain slowed to a soft hiss, then silence. What it left behind was mud, the smell of soaked dust, and that still, heavy air that clung to skin like mist.
The school compound looked like it had survived a small war. Desks were dragged to corners, papers plastered to the floor. Somewhere, a goat bleated as if protesting the weather.
Olivia sat by the small window of the corpers' lodge, staring out at nothing. She was wrapped in a faded blanket Chidera had tossed her way earlier. It smelled faintly of detergent and sun, oddly comforting for something that looked like it had served generations.
Her phone lay useless on the table, battery long gone. She'd tried switching it on twice; it blinked, sighed, and gave up.
From the next room came the sound of soft humming — Chidera's voice, low, careless, singing some old highlife tune under his breath as he arranged things. She found herself listening even though she told herself she didn't care.
He appeared at the doorway eventually, holding two steaming cups of something. "Here," he said. "Not much, but it'll help with the cold."
She hesitated. "What is it?"
"Hot water and Milo. You want me to call it cappuccino?"
She rolled her eyes but took it anyway, muttering, "Thanks."
He sat on the wooden stool opposite her, both of them sipping quietly. Outside, the crickets had taken over the night. Somewhere in the dark, frogs were rehearsing for a concert.
"You worked hard today," he said finally. She raised a brow. "You mean when I was saving my head from your leaking roof?"
He chuckled. "Our leaking roof. You helped."
She didn't reply, just stared at the steam rising from her cup. The quiet between them wasn't awkward — more like a fragile truce. For once, she wasn't complaining about mosquitoes or the smell of kerosene.
Then he said something unexpected. "You know, I used to think city people never last here. You all come with fine accents and shiny phones, and by the second week you're crying to go home. But… you've lasted."
She looked at him sharply. "So you're impressed?"
"Maybe," he said with that infuriating calm smile.
Olivia scoffed, hiding the small warmth crawling up her neck. "Please. I'm only here because I have to be."
He nodded. "Sure. But sometimes what we have to do ends up teaching us who we are."
She stared at him, unsure how to reply. He wasn't trying to sound deep; that was the annoying part. He just said it like truth was an everyday thing to him. A few drops of leftover rain hit the window pane. She turned her gaze away from him, tracing the glass with her finger. "You talk like you've been through something."
He gave a half-smile. "Who hasn't?"
Another pause. The kind that lingers.
Finally she said, almost too softly, "You're not what I thought you were."
He tilted his head. "And what did you think I was?" "A bush guy who thinks surviving in a place like this makes him wise."
He laughed quietly. "And now?" She sipped the last of her drink. "Still bush. Just… a bit less annoying."
That made him laugh harder, the sound warm in the dim room. She couldn't help smiling, though she turned her face to the window to hide it.
Outside, the village settled into its night rhythm — slow, peaceful, full of hidden life. Inside, two corpers sat in silence that said more than either was ready to admit.
When the lamp flickered and finally went out, Chidera stood, stretching. "Generator's done for the day," he said. "Try not to think about Enugu tonight. You're already somewhere."
"Somewhere terrible," she muttered.
He smiled. "Somewhere real."
Then he left her there, the faint smell of rain and cocoa lingering in the air. And for the first time since she arrived, Olivia didn't feel like crying or cursing anyone. She just sat quietly, thinking of nothing in particular — except maybe how strange it felt to almost enjoy a day that had been a total disaster.