Morning swept over Owerri with the calmness of still air before a gathering storm. The campaign trails had grown louder across the state. Supporters marched through busy streets carrying placards and small flags. Young men gathered in town squares wearing identical shirts while loudspeakers rattled walls with campaign jingles. Slogans filled the radio, promises stretched across the mouths of men who had nothing to lose, and everywhere the tension thickened like smoke. But in a small corner of the university, far from the drums and chants, Obinna sat beside a girl who did not care for any of it.
Nneka had grown used to the rhythm of avoidance. She kept her circles small, trusted no one too quickly, and preferred silence to unnecessary questions. Art had always been her retreat, her way of breathing clearly in a world that suffocated honesty. She did not need grand moments. She only needed stillness and truth. Yet, since that first rally, since that brief and unexplained interruption of her peace, Obinna had become something she could not quite name. He did not belong in her world, and she had never planned to make space for him, but somehow he remained.
He arrived at odd hours, never announcing himself, never demanding her time. He would sit near her studio while she painted or beside her on benches during her sketching walks. He never asked to see the drawings. He never offered praise or criticism. He simply existed nearby, present but unpressing, like a quiet hum that slowly becomes a song you can no longer ignore. She found that strangely comforting.
The university buzzed with talk of the upcoming election. Students were divided, not only by political party lines but also by interest and indifference. Some wanted reform. Others wanted free data and new hostels. Some supported Obinna. Others mocked his youth. Nneka listened to it all without reacting. She had stopped trying to change people's minds. Everyone believed what they needed to believe to survive.
One afternoon, while clouds hung low and warm air clung to everything, Obinna returned to her usual spot beneath the old mango tree. Nneka had spread out a canvas on the grass. Her paintbrush moved slowly, deliberately. Obinna sat beside her without speaking. He had learned to wait for her to speak first or not speak at all.
The campaign team had begged him to attend a youth debate that evening, but he had chosen to come here instead. They would not understand. They measured success by applause and trending hashtags. Obinna had begun to measure it differently. He had begun to notice how time slowed near Nneka, how his thoughts softened when she was around. He was learning that winning hearts did not always require volume. Sometimes it required quiet presence.
Nneka dipped her brush into a glass jar and traced a curve across the canvas. Her fingers were steady. Her back straight. She never rushed her art. She allowed the process to unfold like prayer, slow and purposeful.
Obinna watched her movements and felt the familiar calm settle over him. He thought about the boy he used to be before politics claimed him. Before the weight of expectations rested on his shoulders. Before people began calling him hope. Back then, he only wanted to make his father proud and maybe repair the broken pipe that flooded their compound every rainy season. Now his days were filled with numbers, endorsements, interviews, and behind every handshake was a calculation.
With Nneka, there were no calculations.
That evening, Obinna returned to the campaign office where the team was reviewing posters. Tunde stood near a whiteboard filled with maps and projected voter counts. He looked up as Obinna entered.
"You disappeared again," Tunde said without smiling.
Obinna said nothing.
"We have work to do. The debate tonight could swing the undecided voters. Your absence will raise questions."
Obinna picked up one of the posters and studied it. His own face stared back at him, smiling the way candidates were trained to smile.
"I am tired of selling images," he said quietly.
Tunde frowned. "That is what campaigns are. Images. Impressions. You know this."
Obinna nodded but said nothing more. That night he did not attend the debate.
He returned instead to the university, not to speak with Nneka but simply to walk the quiet paths lined with old trees. He passed the closed canteen, the locked lecture halls, and finally the art studio. Light spilled from the windows. He knew she was still inside. He stood beneath the nearest tree and looked up.
Inside, Nneka stood over her canvas, wiping her hands with a cloth. Her eyes were fixed on something beyond the paint. She looked peaceful, as if she belonged entirely to the world of color and imagination. Obinna turned away and walked home.
The days that followed became a dance of balance. Obinna attended more rallies, held community meetings, and met with party elders. But each time he returned to the noise, he carried a piece of her silence with him. It became a shield. A reminder that not every battle had to be loud. That sincerity could still exist without microphones.
Rumors began to spread as election day drew closer. Opponents accused him of arrogance. Some claimed he had secret foreign sponsors. One even suggested he had ties to illegal contracts. Obinna's team scrambled to counter each accusation. Press statements were issued. Defenses were built. His opponents grew sharper in their tactics, and yet Obinna remained steady. He had faced worse in the past. He had endured betrayal, rejection, and loss. But nothing unnerved him like the possibility of losing what he had found in silence.
One morning, he received news that an anonymous blog had posted a photo of him walking near the university art studio. The post speculated about a secret lover, accused him of neglecting his duties, and included exaggerated claims about lavish dates with a mystery girl. Obinna read the post in silence. Tunde burst into his office minutes later, waving his phone and shouting about damage control.
"We have to respond quickly. Deny everything. Say you were inspecting a mural project. Say it was a planned visit."
Obinna looked at him and said, "I will not lie."
Tunde stared at him in disbelief.
"They are using this to destroy your image."
Obinna nodded. "Let them."
Tunde dropped into a chair, exhausted.
"She is not even part of this campaign. She is not a party member. Why risk your entire journey for someone who does not even vote?"
Obinna stood and walked to the window. The city stretched before him, noisy and restless.
"Because for once, I found someone who looks at me and does not see a politician," he said.
That afternoon, he returned to the university, but Nneka was not in her usual place. He searched the benches, the canteen, and the studio. She was nowhere. He waited for hours. As the sun fell behind the trees, he stood in silence.
She did not come.
The blog post had reached her. Nneka had seen the photo and read the comments. Her heart felt torn between anger and sadness. She had always known that getting close to him would carry consequences. She had tried to stay distant, to preserve her quiet life. But somehow, without realizing it, she had let him in. Now the world had come too close.
She stayed away for three days. Then four.
Obinna did not try to call. He did not send messages. He respected the distance.
But he returned every day to the tree.
On the fifth day, she appeared.
She walked slowly, her canvas bag slung over her shoulder, her scarf tucked tighter than usual. She stood in front of him for a moment without speaking.
He rose to his feet.
She did not smile. She did not cry. She only said, "I do not belong in your world."
He looked at her carefully.
"Then I will make space in mine," he said.
And this time, she did not walk away.