Olivia woke up to a silence that didn't feel peaceful — the kind that swallows everything, leaving you with only your own heartbeat and the buzz of distant insects. The night's rain had washed the sky clear, but inside the lodge, the air was heavy, stale, and hot.
Her first instinct was to grab her phone.
She pressed the power button. Nothing. Tried again. Still nothing.
"Don't do this to me," she whispered, shaking it gently like it was a child misbehaving. The screen blinked for half a second, flashed the low-battery icon, and gave up again.
She sighed dramatically, dropped it on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. "Fine, dead, You're dead. Just like my life right now."
The generator hadn't been refilled since the night before. The sockets looked like decorations. The air outside hummed with early morning chatter — chickens arguing, kids laughing somewhere near the borehole, and a woman scolding her son in a rhythm that could pass for a song.
Olivia sat up, stretched, and groaned. She hadn't slept properly. Mosquitoes had held a concert on her legs all night. And now her last hope of connecting to Lagos had betrayed her.
She looked across the small corridor — Chidera's door was half open. He was already awake, of course. Probably one of those irritating people who greeted mornings like they were blessings.
She dragged herself out, muttering under her breath, "He better not say 'good morning' to me."
Too late. "Good morning, Olivia!" His voice came bright, annoyingly cheerful.
She frowned at him. "What exactly is good about it? There's no light. My phone's dead. And I just killed a mosquito that looks like it drank half my blood."
He chuckled, stirring something in a small pot on the stove outside. "At least you're alive to complain. That's a good start."
She rolled her eyes and sat on the bench near him, watching the smoke curl up lazily. "You enjoy this, don't you? This whole 'bush life' thing."
He smiled. "I don't enjoy it. I survive it. There's a difference."
"Hmm," she said, pretending to think. "Maybe I should start surviving too. Beginning with your food, because I'm starving."
He laughed. "You? Eat village food? Please. This one that you asked me last week if the stew had 'branding.'"
She glared at him. "I was joking."
"You said it with your full Lagos accent."
She huffed, folded her arms, and looked away. But her stomach betrayed her with a loud growl.
Chidera burst out laughing. "See? Your body has adapted faster than your mouth."
"Don't push it," she warned, trying to hide a smile. He handed her a small plastic plate of what looked like yam porridge. "Eat. The network's been down since last night anyway. Even if your phone worked, it'd be useless."
That made her pause. "Wait. No network?"
He nodded. "None. The mast near the junction went off during the rain."
Olivia blinked. "So I can't even call anyone?"
He shook his head. "Welcome to total disconnection." She sat there, spoon in hand, staring into space. No calls. No messages. No scrolling through old chats. Just her, a stubborn corper, and a world that didn't know what 'refresh' meant.
"This is how people go mad," she muttered.
Chidera grinned. "Or how they finally learn peace."
"Peace?" she repeated, looking at him like he'd just said something insane.
He shrugged. "When there's nothing to distract you, you start hearing yourself clearly."
She made a face. "I don't want to hear myself. My thoughts are loud enough already."
"Then you'll fit right in," he said, smiling, turning back to his pot.
Olivia sighed again, long and dramatic. But when she took her first spoonful, her face softened slightly. The food wasn't bad. Spicy, smoky — not Lagos-level fancy, but it hit something deep.
She looked at him quietly for a while, then muttered, almost too low for him to hear, "Thanks."
He looked up, surprised. "What was that?"
"Nothing. I said this yam is too salty."
He smiled knowingly. "Sure, sure."
And outside, the village rolled on — quiet, cut off, indifferent to her frustration. For once, Olivia wasn't online, wasn't pretending to have it all figured out.
She just sat there, chewing slowly, watching Chidera hum to himself — and wondering why disconnection suddenly didn't feel as terrible as she thought.
The day dragged like an old film reel — dusty, slow, and half-forgotten. By the time the sun began its lazy descent behind the thick palm trees, the village had turned honey-gold. Kids were chasing each other barefoot, the smell of fried garri mixed with smoke from the kitchen huts, and somewhere in the distance, someone was singing a sorrowful Igbo hymn.
Olivia sat outside the corpers' lodge, elbows on her knees, her phone in her palm like a dead relic. No signal. No light. Just her reflection on the black screen. She sighed.
"This place is trying to erase me," she muttered.
From the corner of her eye, she saw Chidera carrying a bucket and some planks, hammer tucked into his waistband. His white NYSC vest was already brown from dust, but he moved with that calmness she found both irritating and oddly attractive — like nothing ever got to him. "Na you build house you come do for this camp?" she teased as he dropped the planks beside the wall. He looked up, smiling faintly. "Somebody has to fix what's falling apart."
Olivia scoffed. "Abegi, everything here is falling apart — including my mental health."
He laughed quietly. "You'll survive. You just haven't adjusted fully yet."
She frowned, hugging her knees tighter. "Adjusted? To what — fetching water like it's a sport? Or sleeping beside mosquitoes that sing lullabies?"
Chidera leaned on the wall, watching the sky shift from gold to amber. "You think life waits for you to adjust before it moves on?"
She glanced at him, slightly caught off guard by the tone of his voice. "What's that supposed to mean?" He shrugged. "People come here and count days till they leave. But the village… it doesn't stop living. You either learn from it, or you miss the lesson."
Olivia went quiet for a few seconds. That line — miss the lesson — landed harder than she wanted to admit.
"Hmm. Philosophical corper," she said finally, trying to sound amused. "Maybe you should start a podcast."
He smiled, eyes still fixed on the sunset. "Maybe I already did. You just don't know how to listen."
Her lips parted, but no words came out. Something about the stillness around them — the hum of crickets, the warm air, the orange dust floating between — made her heart do a strange little flip.
"Anyway," he said after a while, wiping his hands on his shorts. "I'll be in the backyard if you need help charging that your phone when the generator comes on."
"I didn't ask for help," she muttered.
"I know," he said, walking away, "but you'll still get it."
And for the first time since she arrived, she didn't roll her eyes.
She just watched him disappear behind the lodge, her phone forgotten in her lap, the silence around her heavier — but somehow comforting.