A Path Through The Harmattan – Chapter 5
Saturday night wrapped Enugu in a veil of warmth and streetlight. The dust had settled a little after the brief afternoon drizzle, and the air smelled like pepper soup and possibilities.
Henry stood outside Mama G’s suya stand near the Park, waiting.
The vendor, a D-shaped man with tribal marks and nimble hands, flipped meat over the open flames, the occasional hiss and crackle every time he sprayed the meat with oil punctuating the night’s rhythm. The stand glowed softly under a naked yellow bulb, illuminating trays of spiced meat and glistening onions.
Chika arrived five minutes late, wearing a navy blue maxi dress and brown leather slippers. Her hair was tied in a loose bun, a few strands fell carelessly over her forehead. Henry noticed the smudge of charcoal on her wrist before anything else.
“Work held you back?”, he said as she got closer.
She glanced down at the black stain and smiled. “Yeah. Power outage at the office. I ended up writing with our lantern light like I’m one village babe.”
He laughed. “Maybe you’ll write even better that way.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she said. “I might actually move to a hut in Nsukka and write a novel.”
“You will miss the suya amongst other things.”
She grinned. “You might have a point”
They ordered the suya, two sticks each with plenty of onions and pepper on the side and carried their food across the road to a low concrete ledge beneath a tree.
Around them, the city vibrated, children laughing, distant music playing from passing cars, partially intoxicated men shouting someone’s name with unnecessary passion.
“Have you ever thought about leaving?” Chika asked, tearing a piece of meat off her stick.
“Leaving where?”
“Nigeria. Enugu. Everything.”
Henry chewed thoughtfully. “I’ve thought about it. I even applied for a tech job in Estonia once.”
“Estonia?” she laughed. “Why?”
“Because it sounded far. Cold. Clean. Like the opposite of here.”
She nodded slowly. “But you’re still here.”
“I think… I’m afraid that if I leave, I’ll disappear.”
“Disappear?”
He sighed. “Here, I have meaning. People know me. My dance matters at least. If I go, I become just another black face in a place that doesn’t really give a sh*t.”
Chika was quiet for a moment. “That’s fair.”
“What about you?” he asked. “You could work for CNN, Al Jazeera, anyone.”
She shrugged. “I’ve had offers. A British paper once offered me a columnist role. But every time I picture it, I see my father’s compound. The red sand. My mother’s hands. I can’t leave that behind.”
Henry looked at her, and in the flicker of passing headlights, he saw it, the tension in her eyes, the weight she carried.
“Your father,” he said gently. “What’s he like?”
Chika hesitated. “Traditional. Like very. He thinks journalism is dangerous for a woman. He wanted me to become a pharmacist.”
“I’m guessing you didn’t take that well”
“Of course. He stopped talking to me for six months after my first published piece. Said he wouldn’t help me ruin my life.”
Henry raised his eyebrows. “Hmm…and your mum?”
“She prays for me. Every day. Says I’m stubborn like him, but that my stubbornness might save someone one day.”
“Sounds like someone worth writing for.”
Chika smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just pretending I’m braver than I am.”
Henry leaned back, wiping his hands with a tissue. “Everyone is pretending last last. That’s basically what adulthood is. Pretending you’re not scared while quietly praying everything doesn’t collapse.”
Chika laughed softly, honestly. He liked that he could make her feel genuinely happy.
“How about you, what are you most afraid of?”
Henry blinked.
It was a simple question. But it hit him like a bag of stones.
He stared at the half-empty paper suya wrap, the oil already seeping into the concrete beneath it.
“I’m afraid I’ll never be enough,” he said finally. “Not for anyone. Not for myself. That I’ll keep giving and giving until there’s absolutely nothing left, and still no one will be there.”
The words settled between them like dust.
Chika looked at him, her expression was blank. “Who left?”
Henry hesitated.
“My father,” he said. “When I was eight. Said he was going to get paint for the kitchen. Never came back. My mother never even threw out the half-finished can. It sat in our kitchen for three years like a lie no one was ready to admit.”
Chika didn’t reach out. She didn’t offer empty sympathy.
Instead, she said: “You deserved better.”
He looked at her, something raw flashing in his eyes. “Maybe. But life doesn’t care what you deserve does it?”
For a while, they sat in silence again, not awkward, but heavy. The kind of silence that comes after a harsh truth is spoken aloud.
A group of teenagers passed by laughing, one of them mimicking a dance move, another spitting a some bars of rap verse. The city didn’t care for confessions.
But Chika did.
She reached into her bag and pulled out a small brown envelope.
“What’s that?” Henry asked.
“My draft,” she said. “The article about you. I printed a copy.”
Henry hesitated before taking it.
“I haven’t submitted it yet,” she added. “Something about it still feels… incomplete.”
He flipped through the pages. The title read: “Dancing Through Dust: How One Man Moves the Spirit of a City.”
“The title feels like you’ve known me forever,” he said softly.
“Maybe I have,” she replied. “In a way.”
Their eyes met.
Something shifted.
But just before it could become something else, maybe a touch, or a confession, or even something foolish … Chika stood.
“I should go,” she said, brushing her dress down as crumbs of meat fell off.
Henry nodded, standing too. “Will you come to the festival next week?”
“I’ll be in the front row,” she said. “But I’ll be watching more than your feet.”
He didn’t ask what she meant. He already knew.
As she walked away, the scent of grilled meat and dust lingered, hanging on the scent of her perfume. And Henry stood there, envelope in hand, unsure whether he had just been seen, or exposed.
Maybe both.
