Chapter 5: When We Were Fire
Five years ago.University of Lagos.The art studio smelled like turpentine and dreams.
Ama Zarah Okeke was in her second year, already known on campus as "The Color Girl." Her paintings had started to earn attention beyond the studio walls, even catching the eye of a visiting artist who offered her a summer mentorship.
But she didn't care about fame. She just wanted freedom. Her canvas was her rebellion.
That evening, she was the last student in the studio, bent over a half-finished piece. Her afro puffed messily under a paint-streaked scarf. She wore oversized jeans and her favorite faded tee that read: Make Magic Loud.
That's when he walked in.
Not with swagger, but with silence. Holding a camera, not a brush.
Jordan Eze, third-year film student. He wasn't in her department—but everyone knew him. His short film had just won a campus award. Girls whispered about him. Professors nodded when his name came up.
He didn't look like much. Simple shirt, sneakers, a leather sketchbook tucked under one arm.
But when he looked at her painting, his face shifted.
"That's not a painting," he said, eyes still on the canvas. "That's a confession."
Ama looked up, frowning. "And you are?"
"Jordan. I document stories. Yours is screaming."
She hated him instantly. And yet, when he turned to leave, something inside her whispered, Ask him to stay.
"Do you always interrupt strangers with deep thoughts?" she called after him.
He smiled. "Only when they paint like heartbreak."
That was how it started. Not with fireworks, but with friction.
Over the next few weeks, he showed up more often. Sometimes with questions. Sometimes with food. Sometimes with silence—just sitting beside her as she painted.
He started filming her process, asking questions like:
"Why do you always hide red under layers?"
"Who taught you to draw eyes like they're begging?"
And Ama, who never let anyone close, found herself answering.
He never tried to touch her. Never flirted too obviously. But his presence grew roots.
One night, after her final showcase, the lights went out in the theatre. Her last piece was about to be unveiled.
The crowd panicked. Ama nearly cried.
Then she felt his hand in the dark.
"Breathe," he whispered. "Let the silence speak for you."
He kissed her then—soft, unsure.
But it was the only thing that made sense in the dark.
Back to Present Day...
Ama sat on her bed after the rooftop meeting, that memory pressing heavy against her ribs. How could something so distant still burn so clearly?
She clutched the new brush he gave her—its wood smooth, the carving deep.
"Create something that matters."
She whispered it like a vow.