Olivia woke up early that morning feeling lighter, almost human again. The fever was gone, and her body felt alive — fragile but free.
She stretched, smiled faintly at the sunlight streaking through the window, and thought, Maybe this day won't be so bad.
Outside, the village had already begun its usual rhythm — laughter from the nearby market, pounding pestles, and the faint smell of burning firewood.
She could hear Chidera talking to someone outside. His voice carried that calm authority she now noticed every time he spoke.
When she stepped out, he looked up. "You're up early."
"I've been wasting too much daylight," she replied, pretending to adjust her scarf.
He raised a brow. "Since when do you care about daylight?"
She smirked. "Since my 'nurse' decided to remind me of my mortality."
He laughed. It was the easy kind of laughter she hadn't heard between them for days. Something about the sound made her chest feel… strange.
But as she moved to hang her towel on the line, she noticed something odd. A paper — half folded, half hidden — had fallen beside the wooden chair he'd left by her window.
It must have slipped from his pocket earlier.
Curiosity whispered before her conscience could stop it.
She bent down and picked it up.
It was a letter — neatly written, slightly creased at the edges. The handwriting was clean, almost formal. The top read:
"To my dearest Chidera,
I hope your stay in Nsude is teaching you the humility we talked about…"
Her heart froze.
Nsude. That was their village posting.
And the tone — it wasn't from a friend. It felt… parental.
Against better judgment, she kept reading.
"Your mother and I are proud that you chose to stay hidden for a while. I know you could have used your father's name to get a lighter post, but I'm glad you didn't. Let her see you as ordinary before she knows who you really are. We both believe you'll come out of this a better man.
— Dad."
Olivia's hands trembled slightly.
She folded the letter back, fast, heart racing.
She shouldn't have read it. But she had.
And now, her mind was a storm.
"Let her see you as ordinary before she knows who you really are."
The words repeated in her head like a curse. Who was "her"? Her stomach sank as realization crept in. Could it be… me?
Just then, she heard footsteps approaching — Chidera's voice again, closer this time. She shoved the letter under the towel pile and tried to act natural.
"Olivia," he called, "you've been too quiet. You okay?"
"Yeah," she said, forcing a small laugh. "Just thinking about breakfast."
But her smile was tight. Her heart wasn't in sync with her mouth.
The rest of the day dragged.
Olivia cooked, cleaned, even helped the children recite their English alphabets, but her thoughts refused to rest.
Every time she saw Chidera, her chest tightened. Every smile he gave her now carried a strange aftertaste — like sweetness hiding something sour.
He didn't notice her shift. He was his usual self — playful, kind, completely unaware of the confusion swirling in her head.
By noon, they sat under the mango tree behind the lodge, marking the children's homework.
He leaned close, teasing her over her exaggerated red marks.
"You've failed half this class," he said with mock surprise. "You want them to hate English?"
"They should learn to spell properly," she muttered.
He laughed softly. "You're impossible."
She smiled faintly, but her eyes darted toward his bag — the same one where the letter had likely come from.
Her throat felt dry.
"You ever get tired of this place?" she asked suddenly.
"Sometimes," he said, still scribbling on a paper. "But I remind myself it's temporary. You?"
She shrugged. "Every second."
He chuckled. "Figures."
Then, without thinking, she said it: "So what happens when you leave? You go back to the big city? Back to your real life?"
He looked at her sharply, pen frozen.
"What do you mean by that?"
She tried to sound casual. "You just don't seem like someone who belongs here."
His tone dropped. "And what do I seem like?"
Her words tangled. "Like someone pretending."
For a moment, silence fell heavy between them.
The playful breeze stopped feeling playful.
Chidera leaned back slowly. "Pretending," he repeated softly. "That's a big word."
She looked away, heat rising to her cheeks. "Forget I said that."
He didn't press.
He just nodded, lips pressed tight, and returned to marking papers — but the space between them grew louder than any argument.
That night, Olivia couldn't sleep. The letter kept replaying in her mind like a haunting echo.
"Let her see you as ordinary before she knows who you really are."
If he really was someone important — someone with family influence — why was he here? Why the secrecy? Why act like a simple corper?
And worse… why not tell her?
The oil lamp flickered faintly beside her as she sat up, staring at the wall.
Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe it was nothing.
But something told her it wasn't nothing.
Outside, the night insects chirped like a choir. She could hear Chidera faintly humming from the next room.
It should've been comforting. Instead, it made her angry.
The next morning, when she saw him at the school gate helping one of the pupils fix a broken sandal, she hesitated before walking over.
"Morning," he said cheerfully, wiping his hands.
She forced a nod. "Morning."
"You look like you didn't sleep."
"Maybe I didn't," she said curtly.
He raised an eyebrow. "Something wrong?"
She wanted to say it. She wanted to shove the letter in his face and demand answers.
But she didn't.
Instead, she just smiled tightly. "No, nothing's wrong."
And for the first time since she arrived in that village, she lied to him — cleanly, perfectly.
Later that day, when he waved at her from across the compound, she pretended not to see.
The letter, folded neatly and tucked deep in her drawer, felt heavier than a stone.
Because now, Olivia wasn't just fighting her feelings anymore.
She was fighting the truth — and the fear that she was the one being tested.