Saturday morning started with noise. Not the usual Lagos traffic hum Olivia was used to, but the kind that carried a dozen different arguments from the road below — bargaining, laughter, goats protesting their own existence. The sun was already hot enough to toast bread, and the smell of firewood smoke snuck into her nostrils before she'd even opened her eyes.
She turned on her mat, grumbling. Her hair bonnet had slipped off in the night, and the mosquitoes had held another feast in her honor. She sat up, rubbed her face, and muttered, "God, abeg... I just want small peace this morning."
From outside, Chidera's voice rang out. "Olivia! We need to go to the market before it gets crowded!"
She blinked. "Market?"
"Yes now," he shouted back, laughter in his tone. "You say you want to cook, abi you think indomie go appear from heaven?"
She rolled her eyes. "Why's everything so loud in this place?" she murmured, dragging herself off the mat and reaching for her sneakers — still somehow white despite the mud she'd walked through yesterday.
By the time she stepped outside, the morning had fully come alive. Children ran barefoot with plastic kites, a woman was roasting corn under a mango tree, and somewhere down the road, a radio was playing an old highlife tune through static. Chidera stood by the gate holding a black nylon bag and a small list written in his neat handwriting.
"What's that?" she asked, stretching.
"Market list," he replied. "Pepper, tomatoes, fish, oil, maggi. You said you wanted stew."
She squinted at the paper. "So... you wrote it like an exam script?"
He laughed. "Organization is key."
She smiled, slipping her phone into her small purse. "Fine. But don't think I'm carrying anything heavy o."
They started walking down the red earth road. The village road was uneven, bordered by bushes that looked alive and plotting. Olivia sidestepped puddles and stones with exaggerated care while Chidera, dressed in a simple T-shirt and slippers, strolled like the world owed him nothing.
"You walk like there's a red carpet," he said, amused.
She sniffed. "There should be one. These roads are a human rights violation."
Chidera chuckled, shaking his head. "You Lagos girls. Always dramatic."
She didn't answer, mostly because she was trying not to ruin her shoes. When they reached the open market square, Olivia froze. It was a sensory overload — noise, color, and smells colliding in perfect confusion. Women sat behind wooden tables shouting prices like auctioneers, flies danced around fish trays, and the air was thick with heat and chatter.
Chidera turned to her. "Welcome to paradise."
She blinked. "This is hell's branch office."
They moved through the narrow paths between stalls, dodging basins and barefoot toddlers. Olivia's expression was a cocktail of fascination and horror. The market women called out to her — some in Igbo, some in English.
"Aunty fine girl! Come buy tomato!"
"See your hair! Lagos fine girl, I get pepper wey go sweet you well!"
She managed an awkward smile, pretending she didn't hear most of them. Her city composure was cracking.
Chidera stopped by a tomato seller, greeted her cheerfully in Igbo, and started negotiating. Olivia watched the back-and-forth like it was a live play. The seller hit his hand playfully. "Fine boy corper, you too stingy o!"
Chidera laughed. "No be stingy, mama, na economy."
Olivia rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling. When he finished, the woman winked at Olivia. "Hold your man well o, he sabi price."
Olivia's head jerked. "He's not—" Chidera quickly cut in, handing over money. "Thank you, mama. God bless you."
As they moved away, Olivia muttered, "You people just call anybody couple in this place."
"Maybe they see chemistry," Chidera teased.
"Maybe they need glasses," she shot back.
He only laughed harder.
They reached the fish section, and the smell hit her like betrayal. Olivia covered her nose with a handkerchief. "What is that smell?"
"Fresh fish," Chidera said innocently.
"That's not fish — that's trauma."
He bought two tilapias while she turned away dramatically, pretending not to gag. The seller found her funny, chuckling under her breath.
"You go learn, fine girl," she said kindly. "One day you go cook better soup with this."
Olivia forced a smile, clutching her bag like it could save her dignity.
They went on — buying oil, onions, maggi cubes. With each stall, her irritation gave way to a strange kind of awe. The market women worked hard, their laughter and hustle mixing into something almost admirable. She wouldn't admit it, of course.
At one point, a young boy brushed past and almost knocked down her purse. She turned, scolding instinctively, "Hey! Watch it!" But when the boy turned around with wide innocent eyes, carrying a baby strapped to his back, her voice softened.
"Sorry," she mumbled.
Chidera noticed but said nothing. He only smiled slightly, as though he could see something she couldn't yet — the small cracks appearing in her city-girl armor.
When they finally packed their items and started heading back, Olivia exhaled like she'd survived a war.
"If anyone ever tells me to go shopping here again," she said, "I'll call the police."
Chidera grinned. "But you managed. That's progress."
She looked at him sideways. "I survived, not enjoyed."
"Same thing in this country."
She almost laughed but stopped herself. "You're annoying."
"Yet you're still walking beside me."
Olivia said nothing, but she didn't move away either. The red dust clung to her sneakers, her hair smelled faintly of smoke, and for the first time, she didn't feel completely like she didn't belong.
The market noise faded behind them, leaving only their footsteps and the lazy hum of the afternoon sun.
By the time they got back to the lodge, Olivia was sweating like a melted candle. Her white sneakers were now a tragic shade of rust, and the nylon bag in her hand had stretched dangerously thin under the weight of all the market goods.
"I swear, if this bag tears and everything pours, I'll just die here," she grumbled.
Chidera took the bag from her before it actually ripped. "You don't have market stamina. You need training."
"Please, this is not NYSC boot camp." She fanned herself with the market list. "I'm still recovering from that fish smell."
Chidera laughed and headed toward the small outdoor kitchen space they shared. Olivia walked behind him, blowing away flies on her path. The compound was alive with chatter — children chasing each other, a local woman pounding yam rhythmically, and the faint sound of a radio playing a Yoruba gospel song through static.
One of the village women, Mama Ifeoma, was sitting outside peeling cassava. She raised her head and called out, "Corper Olivia! You go market today?"
"Yes ma," Olivia answered politely.
"Ah, I see. You dey try o. I no know say Lagos girls sabi waka under this sun."
Olivia forced a smile. "We adapt, ma."
The woman chuckled knowingly. "Hmm. Small small. The sun here go teach you humility." That stung more than she'd admit. She muttered under her breath, "This woman dey use proverb drag person."
Chidera, hearing it, nearly choked on his laughter. "You brought that one on yourself."
"Abeg, she should mind her business," Olivia said, slipping past him into the kitchen area.
But even as she complained, she couldn't help glancing at Mama Ifeoma again. The woman's hands moved with practiced grace, peeling cassava without looking down, humming an old tune. There was something peaceful about it, something Olivia didn't quite understand.
Chidera was already unpacking the tomatoes and fish. "You want to help?" he asked.
She hesitated. "I don't touch raw fish. I'm a vegetarian today."
He laughed "You've been a vegetarian since the day you came here."
"I'm fine with that lifestyle."
He gave her a playful look. "So I should cook everything again?"
"Well," she said, tossing her braids, "you're the one who enjoys this village lifestyle. I'd hate to deprive you of your hobby."
He rolled his eyes but didn't argue. Instead, he began washing the ingredients with water from a plastic bucket. Olivia watched from a distance, half-admiring, half-pouting.
It wasn't long before another voice interrupted — a sharp, nosy tone. "Corper Olivia! Na you fine pass for here o!"
Olivia turned. It was one of the young village women — fair-skinned, wearing a short wrapper and too much powder on her face. She leaned on the kitchen doorway with a smirk.
"Thank you," Olivia said carefully.
The woman giggled. "But you dey too form. You no dey greet people well. We no bite o."
Olivia blinked. "I greet everyone."
"Na that your small 'hi' you dey call greeting?" the woman mocked. "For here, you go say good morning, ma or good afternoon o. Na respect."
Before Olivia could respond, Chidera stepped in. "Aunty, no vex. She still dey learn."
The woman looked him over with a sly smile. "You too dey defend her, Chidera. E be like say you like Lagos girls well-well."
He laughed lightly, avoiding the bait. "No be so o. We just dey help ourselves."
The woman eyed Olivia one last time before walking away with a smug look. Olivia's jaw tightened.
"I don't like that girl," she said flatly.
"She's harmless," Chidera replied, chopping onions.
"She's annoying. And what's her problem with greetings? I said hi."
"In her world, 'hi' means you're forming."
"Well, in my world, 'hi' means I'm trying to be polite without conversation."
He chuckled. "That's your problem. Too much class warfare."
Olivia annoyingly crossed her arms, but she couldn't shake the sting. It wasn't just about the rude girl — it was the realization that she still didn't belong. Every word, every laugh, every look reminded her that she was out of place.
She watched Chidera cook, his easy way of blending in, his ability to joke with everyone without losing himself. It irritated her. He didn't struggle like she did. He didn't resist.
"You really like it here?" she asked quietly.
He didn't look up. "I like peace. The world's noisy enough."
She tilted her head. "You think this is peace?"
"Compared to Lagos? Absolutely."
She smiled faintly, though she wouldn't admit she agreed.
As the smell of stew filled the air, Olivia caught herself breathing easier. Something about the scent, the faint breeze, and the golden late-afternoon sun over the compound made the place feel... less ugly. Still messy, still loud, but a little softer.
Chidera dished some stew into a bowl and handed it to her. "Taste." She hesitated, then dipped her spoon in. It was good — spicy, smoky, real. She tried to hide her surprise but failed.
"Not bad," she said.
He smiled
"Don't push it."
They both laughed — quietly, easily.
From the other side of the compound, Mama Ifeoma's voice rose again. "Corper Olivia! You go cook for husband soon o!"
Olivia groaned. "I'm moving out."
Chidera just laughed until his shoulders shook.
The night came down quiet but thick, the kind that wrapped around you like smoke and made every sound sharper. The small compound was mostly dark except for the faint orange glow of a kerosene lantern sitting on the kitchen bench. A few crickets sang their endless song from the bush behind the fence, and somewhere far off, a generator coughed before dying again.
Olivia sat outside, on the low wooden stool near her door, arms crossed and eyes on the sky. The stars here were too many, too bright. It annoyed her at first — like the universe was trying to show off — but now she watched them often, half lost in thought, half pretending she wasn't.
She could still smell the stew they'd cooked. Her hair carried the scent of smoke, and her fingers, faintly, of palm oil. Her phone battery had died hours ago, leaving her detached from the world she used to live in. No Instagram scroll, no group chat drama. Just silence, crickets, and the occasional frog croak that sounded disturbingly human.
From inside the kitchen, she could hear Chidera laughing softly with someone — probably one of the villagers who liked to hang around him after dark. He was easy to talk to. Everyone said so. The women selling vegetables, the old men playing draughts under the mango tree, even the headmistress. Everyone liked Chidera.
She didn't know why that bothered her though.
Olivia shifted on the stool, then frowned as she caught a snippet of conversation floating from the other side of the fence. Two women were gossiping, their voices lowered but not low enough.
"Na that Lagos corper I dey talk about," one said in Igbo-accented English. "The one wey dey form queen every day."
Her friend laughed. "Hmm. You no see as she fine? Maybe she think say this place no reach her level."
"Na so. But she go humble. This place go teach her."
Olivia's chest tightened. She wanted to pretend she didn't care, but the words sat heavy, pressing against the pride she'd been carrying like armor.
Then, the worst part — she heard Chidera's name.
"That boy wey dey stay with her... him own too much sef. Every time, he dey defend am. Maybe she don do juju for am."
Both women cackled like witches.
Olivia froze. Her stomach twisted with something she couldn't quite name — anger, shame, or maybe both.
She stood up abruptly, pushing the stool aside. Her first instinct was to storm into the kitchen and demand what nonsense they were talking about. But she stopped herself at the doorway. Chidera was there, talking quietly to one of the village boys, showing him how to measure something on a paper scale. His smile was genuine, unaware of the storm brewing a few steps away.
For a moment, Olivia just stared at him — at how easily he fit in here, how he seemed unbothered by all the things that drove her mad.
Then the jealousy crept in, soft and sour. Maybe he didn't defend her out of loyalty. Maybe he just pitied her — the spoiled city girl who couldn't stand dust or cook without setting water on fire.
She turned and walked to her room before the thoughts could take root.
Inside, her lantern flickered weakly, throwing long shadows across the cracked wall. She sat on her bed, hugging her knees, the heat sticking to her skin. The market, the rude girl, the gossip — all of it pressed into her mind like fingerprints.
She told herself she didn't care what they thought. She told herself she was above it. But then she remembered how Chidera had laughed with them, eaten with them, lived like one of them. And she — she was still the outsider, the one waiting for her posting to make sense.
The door creaked. Chidera's voice followed softly. "Olivia? You done sleep?"
She swallowed. "Almost."
"You no wan chop again?"
"I'm fine."
Silence. A few steps closer. The lantern light caught his outline — broad shoulders, easy posture, the smell of wood smoke clinging to him.
"You vex?" he asked quietly.
"No. Just tired."
He hesitated, clearly unconvinced, but didn't push. "Alright. Rest well then."
She nodded without looking up. "You too."
When he left, she stared at the doorway long after his shadow disappeared. Her throat tightened.
For the first time since she got to the village, she didn't feel angry.
Outside, the frogs croaked again. The night swallowed her thoughts whole. And somewhere between the weight of the quiet and the faint memory of his laughter, Olivia realized she had started caring — but she'd rather die than say it out loud.