Henry had been admired by women before, on the street, in rehearsal, even once during a wedding dance performance when a woman’s mother shouted, “Na you go marry my daughter oh.” But this felt different, this felt new.
Chika Okeke was not impressed in the way most people were. She didn’t applaud , she didn’t gush. She simply looked at him like she had just read a line in a book that she simply couldn’t stop thinking about.
“Henry, Henry Agu,” he replied, offering his hand.
She took it. Her grip was firm, almost like she was trying to merge her palm with his, but her palm was soft, cushioning his with an all too inviting warmth.
“You’re the one leading the closing performance at the cultural festival?”, her voice cut through his drifting mind.
“Apparently so, at least that’s what brother Ugo keeps telling me,” he said with a soft smile. “Even though it can really only happen if more people actually show up to rehearsals.”
Chika chuckled, eyes scanning the dance floor behind him. Almost avoiding direct eye contact, “I’ve seen you online before. One of you guy’s performances went viral last year right?”
He gave a sheepish nod. “That actually wasn’t our plan. Someone’s uncle posted it without asking us. But I guess it turned out okay. Got me more than a few gigs.”
“You looked like you were dancing with ghosts,” she said thoughtfully, her tone more curious than flattering.
Henry tilted his head as he raised an eyebrow. “Ghosts?”
She shrugged, flipping open her notebook. “Not in a bad way jor. Just that … you dance like you’re chasing something you’ve lost.”
Henry paused for a moment, as if acknowledging that this person just saw right through him, and all from a video online. He said nothing. Then: “Maybe I am.”
She looked him in the eyes, slightly squinting, before looking back at her notebook, pen poised. “Can I ask you a few questions for my article?”
Henry gestured toward the pews near the side wall. “Do I get to ask you some too?”
Chika blinked. That wasn’t what she was expecting but. “Deal.” She said sharply.
They sat down, the hum of distant traffic drifting through the open church windows. A few of the other dancers lingered nearby, watching curiously but pretending not to.
“So,” she began, crossing her legs and balancing her notebook on her lap, “why dance?”
He exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the dilapidated concrete floor. “I guess because it’s the only thing that makes sense when nothing else does. When I’m dancing, I feel like I know who I am, or at the very least, who I could be.”
“Who you could be?” she reiterated, a smile slowly forming on her face, which she immediately stopped herself from doing.
Henry glanced at her. “Like… Not the guy behind a laptop twelve hours a day. Not the boy whose father left and never came back. Just… movement. The air, my rhythm. I feel more real in those moments.”
Chika scribbled something, then paused. “You’re a software designer? You don’t talk like a software designer.”
“Haha, how do software designers talk? Binary?”, he chuckled, “I guess I don’t, but most people just see the IT guy or the services, nobody really wants to know any more.”
She smiled. There was something honest about him, unguarded in a way that felt rare. She was used to politicians with polished lies… careful of every word they said, businessmen who mistook posturing for personality.
Henry was… simple. Not stupid, just uncluttered.
“What about you?” he asked, leaning slightly inward. “Why journalism?”
Chika hesitated, surprised. Few people cared enough to ask.
“Because I want to be a mirror,” she said finally. “To show people what they’ve forgotten about themselves. Even if it makes them uncomfortable.”
Henry nodded slowly. “That’s…brave.”
“Or foolish…” He added, as he raised his eyes to the ceiling in thought. Before returning his gaze to her
“I guess sometimes the best things can be both.”
They sat in quiet for a few seconds, the silence pulsing gently between them like a second drum.
“Will you be around for our next few rehearsals?” he asked.
Chika closed her notebook. “I think I will. The piece is due next week, but… I’m not quite finished observing.”
Henry gave a small, acknowledging laugh. “Then I’ll try not to disappoint.”
“Well you haven’t yet,” she said.
As she rose and turned to leave, her skirt brushing lightly against the bench, Henry watched her go, not with the curiosity of a man meeting a stranger, but with the unease of someone who had just glimpsed a path he didn’t know he was standing on.
The Harmattan wind stirred again outside, rustling the book pages by the chapel window. And somewhere inside him, a thought began to form. Soft, comfortable, dangerous…
Let her stay.