A Path Through The Harmattan – Chapter 4

By Friday, Henry’s mind was no longer his own.

Something had taken hold of him, something that made him restless, it sat just beneath his skin, like an itch he simply couldn’t scratch. In the days since his last meeting with Chika, it felt like everything had changed and yet nothing really had. The streets of Enugu still pulsed in their usual rhythmic fashion: the shouting fruit sellers, the keke drivers fighting for space, the overly insistent presence of a city trying to outrun time. But for Henry, time had slowed.

He found himself itching to rehearse more than usual, dancing even when there was no underlying need to. He stayed late after the troupe had packed up, moving alone in the empty hall with only the echo of his footsteps and the all too present ringing of Chika’s voice in his ears.

“This wasn’t the interview. This was just me wanting to know you.”

What did she mean? What did she want to know? And what did he want to give?

Friday evening came with the usual burnt orange sky and the smell of charcoal rising from the roadside suya stands. Henry slowly walked to the church, the rehearsal bag on his shoulder felt heavier than usual. His steps slowed even more at the gate of St. Michael’s. He wasn’t late, but he wasn’t early either. The rehearsals would have already begun. Still, he was hesitant.

He was about to push open the side door when he heard voices inside. Voices he was unintentionally listening for.

“…I’m just saying, she’s here again. That journalist. She doesn’t even dance, what is she looking for Kwanu? And she’s been here like three times this week 00,” someone whispered.

A giggle followed. “You think she likes him?”

Henry’s stomach twisted, he wasn’t embarrassed, it was more of a confused feeling. It was a strange thing for him, being the subject of someone else’s conversation, especially one of this nature. To hear his name dressed in curiosity, passed around in whispers like a rumor.

He pushed the door open, and the laughter abruptly stopped.

“Henry!” Brother Ugo called. “We were just about to start the opening sequence. Come and take your place.”

Henry nodded, then glanced briefly at the back of the hall. Before swiftly returning his gaze to the stage.

There she was again.

Chika sat with her notebook closed, she wasn’t focused on the dancers, her eyes were locked squarely on him. She didn’t wave. Not even a smile. She just looked at him, searching, almost like she was waiting for something.

He took off his shoes and took his place.

The drums led the sequence and bodies moved in accordance. Henry danced, but not in his usual way. His steps were sharp, technical, calculated. He landed each movement perfectly. Yet something was missing.

It was Chika who first noticed. Her pen stayed still. Her brow furrowed.

When the rehearsal was over and the troupe clapped for themselves, Henry stepped off the floor and reached for his bottle of water. Chika approached, arms folded across her chest.

“That was … precise,” she said.

“Thanks.” He responded while trying to keep a calm demeanor

“But that wasn’t you.”

Henry looked at her, surprised. “How so?”

“I mean, the last time you danced, you were on fire. Tonight, you were… like an ant following orders.”

He gave a small, dry laugh. “I’m probably just tired.”

“Probably,” she said, unconvinced.

They walked together to the side of the church, near the garden where trees grew in tight rows. The twilight gave everything a soft hue, it felt as if the world itself was holding its breath, tense but purposeful.

“Can I ask you something?” she said.

He nodded.

“Have you ever been in love?”

Henry’s heart skipped a beat, he inhaled, slowly.

“Once. I guess. A while ago. Secondary school.”

“You guess? What happened?”

“She moved to P.H. Her father got one job with Shell. We texted for like a few weeks after. Then that slowly faded into not talking at all.”

“That’s it? No heartbreak?”

Henry shrugged. “I think I was too young to know the difference between love and infatuation. But I remember missing her, almost like someone had cut off a part of my body.”

Chika smiled. “You always talk like you’re reciting a poem.”

He looked at her. “Aren’t we all just poems waiting for someone to listen?”

She didn’t answer. Instead, she sat on the low concrete ledge near the church fence and patted the space beside her. 

Henry joined her, his body still glistening with sweat and vibrating rhythmically.

The silence between them was different this time. It didn’t ask to be stopped. It was full on its own, serving a purpose.

“I don’t usually let people in this easily,” she said after a while.

“I was about to say the same,” he replied.

“Then why now?”

He thought about it. “Maybe because it’s been so long since someone asked me real questions. Maybe because I’m tired of pretending I’m fine when I’m not.” The words slipped out without his permission

Chika turned toward him. “You’re not fine?”

He met her gaze. “Is anyone?” He said, defensively.

She looked away.

“I’ve been writing stories for six years. Stories about kidnappings, corruption, displaced families, abandoned children. I feel like I know how to use other people’s pain to build something beautiful. But I don’t know how to deal with mine.”

Henry swallowed. “That’s the thing about people who feel too much. Forgetting to save a piece of the empathy for ourselves.”

Chika’s eyes grew wet, but she didn’t look away. “Is it selfish that I like talking to you?”

“No,” he said gently.

She nodded slowly.

They sat together until the sun disappeared behind the hills, and the world was encased in dusk.

When they finally stood up, Henry reached for her hand without thinking. She let him hold it, just for a moment.

Not tightly. Not possessively.

Just like two people trying to remember what it felt like to be held without breaking.