The village festival had arrived, and Ipetu-Ode was alive with color, drumming, and the smell of roasted corn and jollof rice. Women dressed in bright wrappers, men in agbadas, children chasing each other with laughter echoing against clay walls. It was the perfect stage for destiny—or disaster.
Zainab, reluctantly dragged by Bimpe, tried to stay in the background. "I don't need all this attention," she muttered as she balanced a tray of snacks.
"You love it!" Bimpe teased. "Don't lie."
Zainab rolled her eyes, scanning the crowd. And there he was—Kunle, talking to some elders about family matters. She noticed him glance in her direction, his lips twitching as if holding back a smile.
Her heart skipped. She quickly turned away.
Trouble, of course, never waited.
A young man named Tunde, a childhood admirer of Zainab, noticed her too. And when he saw Kunle looking at her, jealousy flared like fire in dry grass.
"Who is that?" Tunde asked a friend, eyes narrowing.
"Some city boy, I think," the friend replied.
Tunde's jaw tightened. He had imagined himself as the one to marry Zainab. And now this newcomer, this smooth-talking stranger, was stealing her attention—or so he assumed.
Kunle, oblivious to Tunde's brewing anger, approached Zainab with a tray of palm wine.
"Here," he said softly. "For you."
Zainab blinked. "I… I don't drink palm wine," she stammered.
"Then let me carry it for you," he replied lightly, trying to mask his amusement.
Before she could respond, Tunde stepped forward. "Oh, Zainab, you should be careful. Some men are not what they seem."
Zainab froze. Tunde's tone was half warning, half challenge.
Kunle looked at him, eyebrow raised. "I think I can take care of myself," Zainab said coolly.
The tension was thick enough to slice with a knife. Villagers watched with growing amusement.
Then came the dance competition. Traditional drummers pounded their drums as men and women danced, twirling, stomping, laughing. Bimpe grabbed Zainab.
"You're going to dance!" she shouted.
"I don't dance in front of people," Zainab protested.
"You will!" Bimpe dragged her onto the circle anyway.
Kunle watched, captivated. She moved with grace, her laughter ringing over the drums. He noticed the tiny crease of worry on her forehead every time Tunde glanced her way.
He stepped forward, offering his hand. "Dance with me?"
Zainab hesitated. Then, slowly, she placed her hand in his.
The circle parted slightly as they danced, their movements hesitant at first, then flowing in rhythm with the drums. Villagers whispered. Some cheered. Others teased. But Kunle didn't care. Zainab's hand in his, her laughter in his ears, the way her eyes softened when she smiled—he didn't want this moment to end.
By the end of the dance, Tunde's jealousy was obvious. He muttered under his breath, "This isn't over."
Zainab, catching her breath, glanced at Kunle. "You make dancing look easy," she said, smiling despite herself.
Kunle grinned. "Only with the right partner."
For a brief moment, the world seemed to stop. Drums faded, the crowd's laughter softened, and two hearts, stubborn yet drawn together, beat in sync.
That night, Zainab lay in bed thinking of the festival. She laughed quietly at herself for enjoying the dance. She realized she was slowly letting someone into her heart again.
Kunle, on the veranda, stared at the night sky, thinking about the girl who refused to look at him directly yet had captured his attention completely. He had no idea what the future held, but he knew he wanted her in it.
And somewhere between drumming, laughter, and village gossip, the first threads of love began to weave themselves into something strong, vibrant, and impossible to ignore.