By the fourth month in the Olivia stopped counting the days.
She no longer woke up expecting the city noise of Lagos, the hum of air conditioners, or the smell of her mother's expensive perfume drifting through the hallway. Instead, she woke to the distant crow of a stubborn rooster and the rhythmic sound of someone fetching water at the borehole.
She didn't even need to check — it was always Chidera. That morning, she sat on her narrow bunk, watching him through the half-open window. Shirt off, NYSC trousers rolled up, his shoulders shining with early dew as he pumped the handle of the borehole. Each push sent water bursting out like effort and patience personified.
She frowned, shaking herself. "Focus, Olivia. Fetch your own water," she muttered, tying her scarf.
The first few attempts at fetching were… embarrassing. Her first bucket slipped off her hand and splashed on her feet. The village kids laughed, giggling in that sing-song Igbo that still sounded foreign to her ears.
One of them, a girl no older than ten, grinned.
"Aunty corper, you no strong o!"
Olivia forced a laugh. "You people should come and fetch it for me, abeg."
Chidera, who had been watching from the side, finally walked over. "Relax your grip," he said, gently adjusting her hand on the pump handle. His palm brushed hers for barely a second — warm, steady.
Something tightened in her chest.
She blinked and looked away. "Thanks. I can manage."
He smiled knowingly and stepped back. "I know. But even independent women deserve a little help sometimes."
She didn't reply, but her heartbeat had quickened.
Later that day, at school, the pupils were noisier than usual. Olivia was trying to teach English, but half of them didn't even understand what she meant by 'underline the correct answer.' They stared blankly, some whispering, some scribbling with chalk on the desks.
At some point, she just stopped talking and leaned against the wall, defeated.
That was when Chidera appeared at the doorway, holding a bowl of garri and groundnut.
"You look like you need this," he said, handing it to her.
Olivia blinked. "Are you serious? You just walk around with garri like a superhero?"
He grinned. "In this village, garri is superpower."
Despite herself, she laughed — a real laugh, the first one since she got there.
The kids noticed and started whispering. Someone even shouted, "Aunty corper is smiling o!"
She rolled her eyes but couldn't hide the smile anymore.
That evening, as she washed her clothes outside, she noticed her hands — the once polished nails now chipped, her skin slightly darkened by sun, her hair in a simple scarf.
Yet, somehow… she didn't hate what she saw.
The mirror in her small hand didn't reflect the city slay-queen anymore — it showed someone raw, real, adapting.
Chidera walked past and nodded approvingly.
"You're beginning to blend in," he said softly. Olivia scoffed. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm just surviving."
"Same thing," he replied, smiling, "only difference is attitude."
And just like that, he walked off again, leaving her staring at his back, water dripping from her fingers — and a strange new calm settling inside her.