The cultural festival had always been a big event at St. Michael’s, but this year, it felt different. The entire church compound was buzzing with activity. Colorful fabrics flapped on canopies, the scent of fried akara and jollof rice wafted through the air, and the sound of talking drums echoed off the old brick walls. Laughter and prayer intertwined like smoke and incense.
Henry stood behind the stage, staring at his reflection in the cracked mirror that leaned against the wall. His costume — an embroidered white tunic with red beads hanging from the neckline — fit him perfectly. But he didn’t feel perfect.
He hadn’t spoken to Chika since the suya night.
She’d said she’d be front row.
She hadn’t called. She hadn’t texted. Not even a “good luck” message.
He hadn’t reached out either.
And yet, she haunted him.
Brother Ugo clapped his shoulder. “You’re up after the choir finishes. Ready?”
Henry nodded, eyes still on the mirror. “Yeah. Just… grounding myself.”
“You always get weird before shows,” Ugo grinned. “Must be your genius ritual.”
Henry smiled faintly but said nothing.
As Ugo walked away, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He thought of the dust in the air, the sounds of children chasing each other near the gate, the echo of Chika’s voice telling him he danced like he was praying.
He opened his eyes.
And walked onto the stage.
The drums began slowly — low, steady, like a heartbeat. The lights were warm, golden. Henry stood still at center stage, head bowed. The crowd hushed.
Then he moved.
It was slow at first — a twist of the shoulder, a lean of the spine. Then came the rhythm, the power. His arms cut through the air, his feet stomped in perfect time, the beads on his tunic dancing with him. It was storytelling without words, and the audience was spellbound.
His movements told a tale: of a man searching for something — freedom, perhaps, or love. Of a spirit rising and falling. Of a boy who became a man but forgot who he was.
Somewhere near the back of the crowd, a child whispered, “He’s flying.”
And he was.
When the final drumbeat fell, Henry dropped to one knee, arms stretched wide, chest heaving.
The applause was thunderous. He could hear whistling, clapping, voices shouting his name.
But his eyes scanned the front row.
She wasn’t there.
He stood up slowly, heart beginning to cave in on itself.
Not there.
He bowed, then walked offstage into the corridor behind the church, ignoring the pats on the back, the congratulations, the bright camera flashes from the church’s social media team.
He needed air.
He pushed open the back door and stepped outside. The compound was quieter here, the sounds muffled by the thick chapel walls.
Then he heard her voice.
“I saw everything.”
He turned.
Chika stood leaning against the generator house, arms folded, the wind tugging at her braid. She wore a white blouse and patterned ankara skirt, simple earrings that glinted in the moonlight.
“You weren’t in the front row,” he said, half-accusatory.
“I was in the shadows,” she said. “Some stories are better felt from a distance.”
He exhaled, tension slipping from his shoulders. “You disappeared.”
“You didn’t chase.”
The silence between them sharpened.
“I was afraid,” she admitted. “Afraid that I’ve started to care too much. That I’m losing control.”
Henry looked at her. “Of what?”
“Of myself. Of the story. Of you.”
He stepped closer. “Why is that a bad thing?”
“Because I don’t know what you want from me.”
Henry paused, looked away, then back. “I want you to see me. To see that everything I’ve been saying, doing… it’s not just for the article. It’s for you.”
She blinked. “You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
Chika stepped forward now, the space between them shrinking like time itself was bending. “Henry, I’ve been alone for a long time. I’ve built walls around myself. I know how to protect the version of me the world expects — the strong, composed woman who writes about broken things. But I don’t know how to be loved.”
His voice was quiet. “You don’t have to know. Just let it happen.”
And for a moment, it almost did.
Their hands found each other. Their eyes met. The air held its breath again.
But then—
Her phone rang.
The ringtone cut through the magic like a blade.
Chika looked down.
“It’s work,” she whispered.
He let go of her hand. “Of course.”
She hesitated. “Let me call you later?”
Henry didn’t reply.
She answered the call, turned away, her voice fading into the distance as she walked off behind the generator shed.
And Henry stood there, heart pounding, not from the dance, but from the emptiness she left behind.
He looked up at the sky.
No stars.
Just smoke and mirrors.
