The days that followed were bright, but beneath the sunlight lay a strange restlessness. Emmanuel found himself waking before the rooster's crow, eyes wide in the pre-dawn hush. The morning air clung to him, thick and heavy, as if it carried whispers from a future no one wanted to speak aloud.
At school, Amina's presence remained a steady comfort, but something about her had shifted. She still smiled, but it flickered like a candle threatened by an unseen wind. She no longer met him under the neem tree during breaks. Instead, she stood by the school's rusted fence, her gaze fixed on the dusty road as if expecting someone—or something.
Emmanuel approached her quietly one afternoon. "You alright?"
Amina gave a small nod, her hijab catching in the breeze. "There's talk in our compound," she said. "My father… he says the village elders are uneasy. A man came down from Maiduguri. He brought stories. Bad ones."
Emmanuel felt a chill creep along his spine. "Stories?"
"He said girls are being taken. Schools burned. Families split overnight."
He swallowed, heart thudding. "But that's far away. That's up north."
"Not as far as you think," she said, eyes still on the road. "They're moving south."
The dry grass at the edge of the schoolyard rustled, dancing uneasily with the wind. Emmanuel turned his gaze to the horizon, but there was only open sky and parched land — no shadows, no marching feet. And yet, a knot twisted in his stomach, a quiet alarm sounding deep inside.
That evening, Emmanuel sat beside his father on the veranda, the old lantern casting shadows across Pastor Obadiah's lined face. He told him what Amina had said.
The old man listened without interruption, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. When Emmanuel finished, he nodded slowly.
"The world is changing, son," he said. "But God is constant. Fear is a natural thing… but we must not let it blind us to hope."
Emmanuel nodded, but the words settled uneasily in his heart. That night, sleep evaded him, slipping away like water through his fingers. He dreamt of empty classrooms and echoes of footsteps in the dark.
By the following week, the rumors had grown heavier—like clouds before a storm. People spoke in hushed tones at market stalls. Armed men were seen on the outskirts of town. The school principal started dismissing classes earlier, and the police patrols passed more frequently, though they brought little comfort.
At the next PTA meeting, the room was thick with unease. Parents clutched their children's hands a little tighter. Amina's father stopped allowing her to walk home alone. She arrived and left with her older brother, who kept a protective eye on her from a distance.
Yet despite it all, Emmanuel and Amina still found moments—small, precious ones—to meet. A passing glance in the corridor. A quiet exchange by the water tap. In those slivers of time, nothing else existed but them. Their bond had grown strong, even if the words to define it had never been spoken.
One Friday afternoon, the air felt unusually still. Emmanuel and Amina packed their books in silence, the classroom already half empty.
She turned to him. "If something ever happens…" she began, then paused.
He looked up. "What kind of thing?"
She shrugged, her eyes dropping to the floor. "I don't know. Just—if something happens… promise you'll remember me."
He stared at her, heart tightening. "I won't have to remember you, Amina. You'll still be here. With me."
She smiled then — soft and sad — a smile that felt too final, too knowing.
And then, without another word, she reached out and gently touched his hand. Her fingers were warm. Real.
Then she turned and walked away.
It was the last time Emmanuel saw her.
Three days later, the world split open.