The midday sun hung lazily over St. Agnes Comprehensive School in Edena, its light spilling across cracked classroom walls and dusty corridors. The voices of students echoed across the yard—laughter, chatter, a few sharp insults tossed carelessly like stones.
Under the old Man Tree at the far end of the compound, Amara Nwosu sat alone.
The tree was ancient—its wide trunk rough with age, its thick branches spreading like a father's arms. Beneath its shade, the world was quieter. You could almost hear your thoughts breathe. That was why Amara came there—to escape the noise and the cruelty.
She bent over her notebook, trying to finish her homework before the next bell. But it was hard to focus. Her eyes stung, and her hands trembled slightly.
Just minutes earlier, Ngozi and her friends had cornered her near the tap.
"You think you're better than us because you always answer teacher's questions?" Ngozi had sneered. "Look at your hair—like wire! Even your shoes are crying!"
The others had laughed, loud and mean. Amara had stood frozen, clutching her books like a shield until they grew bored and walked off, their laughter following her like dust.
Now she sat under the tree, blinking fast so her tears wouldn't fall.
Her mother always said crying in public made people think you were weak. "Keep your tears for God, not for mockers," Mama would whisper whenever Amara came home upset.
So she cried silently now, biting her lip, her heart aching in that familiar way that had no words.
"Why are you hiding here again?"
The voice startled her. She looked up quickly.
A boy stood a few steps away—tall for their age, his shirt half untucked, tie loose, and eyes sharp but kind. Everyone in school knew him. Tunde Adebayo, son of Major Adebayo, the retired soldier who once led the Edena youth drills. Tunde was smart, confident, and—most important—fearless.
Amara quickly wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "I'm not hiding," she said softly.
Tunde smiled a little, stepping closer. "Then what are you doing?"
"Thinking."
He tilted his head. "About what?"
"About how the world can be loud even when you're quiet."
Tunde grinned, a boyish, crooked grin that made his face brighter. "That sounds deep. You like sitting under this tree a lot."
"I do. It listens."
He frowned. "Listens?"
She nodded, brushing the dirt with her pencil. "My papa told me trees have memories. He said this one is called the Man Tree because people used to sit here and tell it their worries, and somehow, they'd feel lighter."
Tunde chuckled. "So it's a gossip tree."
Amara laughed before she could stop herself. The sound surprised them both.
He sat down beside her, cross-legged, looking up through the thick leaves. The air was cooler here, the sunlight breaking into gentle patterns across their faces.
"Do you draw?" he asked, noticing her open notebook.
Amara hesitated. "Sometimes."
He leaned closer. "Can I see?"
It was a sketch of the Man Tree—rough but beautiful. You could tell she saw things differently from everyone else.
"This is really good," Tunde said, honestly impressed. "It even looks like the real thing."
"Thank you," she murmured, suddenly shy.
They sat quietly for a while, watching a few boys play football near the fence. The whistle of the wind through the branches made a low hum, almost like a song.
Tunde plucked a small green mango and tossed it from hand to hand. "You know," he said, "people only tease you because they can't do what you do."
"What do you mean?"
"They can't keep quiet. They can't draw. They can't stand alone. So they talk."
Amara looked at him, her lips parting slightly in surprise. Nobody had ever said it that way.
"Thank you," she whispered.
He shrugged. "Don't thank me. Just don't let them win."
The bell rang then, sharp and loud. Tunde stood and offered his hand. She hesitated before taking it. His grip was warm, strong, and steady.
"Come on," he said. "If you stay too long, the seniors will say you're lazy."
She smiled, letting him pull her up.
As they walked back together, Amara felt something new—something she couldn't quite name. It wasn't friendship yet, but it was the beginning of one.
Over the next weeks, they found each other often—at the tap, in the library, under the Man Tree. Sometimes he helped her with Mathematics; sometimes she brought him oranges from home.
Their classmates noticed, of course.
"Ah, Amara and her soldier boy!" they would tease.
But Tunde didn't care. He'd just grin and tell them, "At least she can spell 'discipline.' You can't even spell your own names."
That always ended the laughter.
Amara learned he lived near the barracks with his father, a man whose voice could silence a room. "He's not bad," Tunde said once, staring at his shoes. "He just believes life is war."
"What about your mother?"
"She died when I was seven."
Amara went quiet. "I'm sorry."
He nodded, forcing a smile. "That's life, my father says. You feel pain, then you move on."
But even at twelve, Amara knew some pains never really left.
One Saturday afternoon, the sun was fierce, and the air smelled of dust and mango. Amara sat under the Man Tree waiting. She had brought a small plastic bag of puff-puff her mother made that morning.
Tunde arrived late, running and panting. "Sorry. Papa made me polish his boots."
She laughed, handing him the bag. "Then you've earned these."
He tore into the puff-puff greedily. "Ah, your mother knows how to fry happiness!"
She giggled. "Don't choke on it."
When they finished, they lay on the ground staring at the sky through the leaves. The silence between them was easy now.
"Amara," he said suddenly, "do you ever think about leaving Edena?"
She turned to him. "Sometimes. I want to see other places. But I also want to come back."
"Why?"
"Because home doesn't stop being home, even when you go far."
Tunde nodded slowly. "I'll go far too, one day. My father says I'll be a soldier like him."
"Do you want to?"
He thought for a long time. "I don't know. But maybe when I'm older, I'll understand."
Amara smiled faintly. "If you ever go, don't forget the Man Tree."
He looked at her, eyes serious for once. "I won't."
But childhood promises are fragile things.
A few weeks later, Tunde stopped coming to school for days. When he finally returned, he was quiet, distracted.
At break, he came to the Man Tree and sat beside her without a word.
"My father got me an admission letter," he said finally. "Military school in Zaria."
Amara's pencil fell from her hand. "When?"
"Next week."
Her chest tightened. "So soon?"
He nodded. "He says it's time I became a man."
Amara stared at the red earth, blinking fast. "Will you write to me?"
"If they allow us to."
She swallowed hard. "You'll forget me."
Tunde reached into his pocket and pulled out something folded—her drawing of the Man Tree, worn at the edges.
"I won't," he said. "I'm keeping this. When I look at it, I'll remember you."
Amara bit her lip to stop it from trembling. "You promise?"
"I promise."
They sat there until the bell rang, neither moving, the wind whispering softly through the branches above.
When he finally stood to leave, he looked back once and said, "The Man Tree will keep our secrets safe."
Amara nodded, her throat too tight to speak.
He turned and walked away, sunlight glinting off his short-cropped hair until he disappeared behind the classrooms.
That evening, Amara went back to the Man Tree alone. She knelt, pressed her hand against its rough bark, and whispered, "Keep him safe."
The tree said nothing, but a mango dropped softly at her feet, as if in answer.
And as the sky darkened over Edena, the girl beneath the Man Tree cried quietly for the boy who had become her peace—and who was now walking into a world she could only imagine.