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Dj AfroNaija, Bénin (2025)

02/05/2025

How To Make A Mini Truck From Scratch

02/05/2025

The Heat Between Walls

Season 2, Episode 5 – When Doors Open

Six months had passed since Emeka first left. The calendar on Emeli’s wall was filled with circles, stars, and little notes in blue ink. Each one marked a call, a poem, or a promise.

Emeka was different now — more confident, more stretched. His name was in small magazines, his photo had appeared on a few literary blogs. But inside, he still carried the same notebook Emeli gave him on his 18th birthday.

One evening, Emeka stood outside a bookstore that now carried his book. He touched the cover and thought of her. His phone buzzed. A text from Emeli: “When are you coming home?” Simple. Honest. Heavy.

The next day, he walked into the publisher’s office. “I can’t sign a two-year deal. I need to breathe where I come from.” The editor raised an eyebrow. “You’re giving up your chance?” Emeka smiled. “I’m not giving it up. I’m choosing balance.”

Back home, Emeli was painting again — bolder strokes, brighter colors. She had been accepted into an online African art residency. It wasn’t fame, but it was purpose.

One weekend morning, Emeka returned. No warning. No drama. He walked into the compound with his bag, dusty shoes, and wide smile. Mama Nkechi’s grandchild screamed, “Uncle Emeka is back!”

Emeli heard the noise and ran out. She stopped mid-step. He stood there, a little taller, a little older. “You didn’t tell me,” she said, almost breathless. “Some stories are better told face-to-face,” he replied.

They hugged like two puzzle pieces finding their way home. The whole compound clapped and whistled. Even Aunty Rita muttered, “Hmm, at least she’s not waiting for ghost-boy anymore.”

That evening, they sat in their room. Nothing had changed — the fan still squeaked, the curtain still swayed. But their hearts had grown new roots.

“You gave up a lot,” Emeli said softly. “No,” Emeka replied. “I gained you — fully, without signal breaks and night calls.”

He pulled out a new notebook. “Let’s start something together,” he said. “You write, I paint?” Emeli asked with a grin. “No,” Emeka said. “We live, and we write about it after.”

They started walking in the evenings again, this time hand-in-hand, not just as lovers, but as a team. Neighbors watched and whispered — some jealous, some admiring. But they didn’t care anymore.

The landlord, inspired by Emeli’s art and Emeka’s rising name, offered them a new unit upstairs — bigger space, more light. “Free for the first three months,” he said. “Just make this place beautiful.”

They moved in that weekend. The first thing Emeli unpacked was her brushes. Emeka opened his laptop. In that room, walls weren’t barriers. They were canvases.

Emeka’s former editor called again. “We still want you. You can work remotely if needed.” Emeka looked at Emeli. She nodded. “Only if you still come home for dinner,” she teased.

That night, they hosted their first mini-event — just neighbors, snacks, and shared dreams. Emeli showed her paintings. Emeka read poems. Someone clapped too early. Someone cried.

After everyone left, they lay on the floor staring at the ceiling fan. “We’re not the same people,” Emeli whispered. “No,” Emeka replied. “But we’re still us.”

Outside, the city didn’t stop — cars honked, dogs barked, babies cried. But inside, the quiet was full of warmth, laughter, and plans.

In love, they had learned — it’s not about never leaving. It’s about choosing to return. Again and again. Through change, distance, and doubt.

And so, their story didn’t end. It just found new walls to keep the heat alive.

02/05/2025

The Heat Between Walls

Season 2, Episode 4 – The Middle of Everything

The days stretched, and with them, so did the distance. It had been two months since Emeka left. Emeli counted not in days, but in video calls, in missed goodnights, and in unfinished voice notes.

Her compound had become louder. Aunty Rita’s complaints. Power outages. Kids screaming. But inside her room, it was quiet — sometimes too quiet. Emeli painted again, but her colors were pale, soft like waiting.

Emeka had settled into his new world — meetings, events, deadlines. But some nights he would lie awake, replaying the sound of Emeli’s laugh like a song he didn’t want to forget.

On one such night, Emeli surprised him. She sent a short video — her in their old room, dancing badly to their favorite love song, laughing. “In case you forgot what joy looks like,” she texted.

Emeka watched it five times. Then he replied with a photo — him, holding up a printed version of the poem Still Ours, now pinned to his wall. “In case you forgot what your words do to me.”

But real life doesn’t wait. The publisher asked Emeka to consider signing a longer-term contract — two years. Travel. Full relocation. His hands shook holding the paper. It was everything he worked for. And everything that might take him further away.

Emeli’s mother came to visit unexpectedly. She hadn’t seen her in months. “You look thin,” she said. “And lonely.” Emeli smiled faintly. “I’m just… in between things.”

Over tea, her mother said gently, “Don’t shrink yourself waiting for someone to return. Grow where you are.” The words sank deep.

Meanwhile, Kosi invited Emeka for a night out — a literary mixer. Music, drinks, creatives in every corner. Emeka went, unsure. Kosi wore red. She looked stunning, but he only saw shadows of Emeli in everyone’s smile.

When Kosi leaned in and whispered, “You know I could love you if you let me,” Emeka pulled back. “I already have someone,” he said firmly. The moment passed like a test he didn’t expect.

Later that night, Emeka called Emeli. “I miss you more than I say,” he admitted. She replied, “Then say it more.” They laughed. And cried a little too.

Days later, Emeli got an unexpected invitation — an art exhibition for rising local talents. One of her pieces had been anonymously submitted by a coworker. She was shocked. And thrilled.

She called Emeka, bubbling. “I’m in an exhibition!” His joy was louder than hers. “You see? This is what I mean — you shine even when you forget you’re light.”

On the day of the show, Emeli wore a green dress, her hair in twists. People stopped by her painting — the one she made after watching the boy stare at the sky. It was titled Hope Has Eyes.

Emeka sent flowers to the gallery. The note read: “No matter where I go, I’m still yours. Don’t let distance lie to you.”

After the show, Emeli walked home under a soft drizzle, holding her heels in her hand. Her heart was full — not because of Emeka, not because of art, but because she was finally holding herself again.

That night, she called Emeka. “I’m proud of me,” she said. “And I’m proud of us.” Emeka smiled, voice low. “You’ve always had wings. I just wanted to walk beside you while you remembered.”

As they spoke, they didn’t promise forever. Just tomorrow. And maybe the day after. And in love, sometimes that’s more honest than vows.

In the middle of dreams and distance, two hearts still chose each other — not because it was easy, but because they still believed.

And belief, even more than love, kept the heat alive between their walls.

02/05/2025

The Heat Between Walls

Season 2, Episode 3 – Between Two Cities

The city Emeka arrived in felt bigger — louder, taller buildings, and colder faces. It wasn’t like home. But it was where his dream had led him, and he knew he had to walk through the fear to find what was his.

The publisher’s office was tucked behind a quiet street, with glass walls and polished furniture. The editor, a sharp-looking woman with reading glasses, flipped through his manuscript while he sat nervously across her.

“Your words are raw,” she said, not looking up. “But real. That’s rare. We want to work with you — one condition: stay here, at least for a few months.” Emeka’s throat tightened. This wasn’t part of the plan.

Back home, Emeli filled her time with painting, work, and avoiding questions from neighbors. Everyone kept asking, “When is your boyfriend coming back?” She smiled politely and said, “Soon.” But she didn’t know.

They called every evening — Emeka from a noisy dorm, Emeli from their quiet room. They spoke about everything and nothing. But sometimes, silence stretched too long between calls. Long-distance was heavier than she expected.

One evening, Emeli saw Dare again. He wasn’t stalking her. He was visiting someone nearby. But the sight of him stirred a feeling she didn’t like — not attraction, but the reminder of old wounds not fully healed.

Dare approached, casual. “You look stronger,” he said. Emeli smiled politely. “That’s because I am.” He tried to linger. She stepped back. “Don’t confuse my growth for interest,” she said, then walked away. She didn’t tell Emeka.

Emeka, meanwhile, started bonding with a fellow writer, Kosi — a bold, funny girl with waist-length braids and a laugh that reminded him of early mornings with Emeli. They talked about books, dreams, and city frustrations.

One night, Kosi said, “You’re lucky to have someone waiting.” Emeka nodded. “She’s my balance.” Kosi smiled and said nothing more. But later that night, she sent him a poem — about longing, about confusion, about stolen moments.

Emeka didn’t reply. He knew it was a line he couldn’t cross. He called Emeli immediately after, just to hear her voice. “You sound far,” she said softly. “I’m trying to stay close,” he replied.

Back in their compound, things were changing. A new tenant moved in — Aunty Rita, a widow with sharp eyes and a loud mouth. She questioned everything. “Why is this girl alone all the time?” she asked about Emeli.

Emeli tried not to care. But the comments stung. Loneliness had started sinking in like a slow leak. She missed Emeka’s noise, his plate-washing songs, even his scattered notebooks.

She painted less now. Her canvases sat blank. Until one day, she saw a boy in the compound staring at the sky. Something in his quiet gaze inspired her. She picked up a brush again.

Emeka was offered a guest spot on a local radio station — his first public reading. He called Emeli right after. “It’s happening,” he said breathlessly. “It’s really happening.” She smiled wide. “I never doubted it.”

That night, Emeli listened to his voice on the radio. As he read, her eyes filled with tears. Not because of the words — but because she could hear the man he was becoming. And she was proud.

The next morning, Emeka received an email. A publisher wanted to turn his story into a small book. Advance payment. Book tour. More months away. His heart beat fast. His hands trembled. His thoughts went straight to Emeli.

He called her. Told her everything. She was quiet. Then said, “I’m happy for you. But I won’t lie — it’s hard.” He replied, “Can you hold on?” She said, “I want to. But I need to know we’re still in the same story.”

That night, Emeka sat by his window and wrote a new poem — not for the publisher, not for a crowd. For her. He titled it Still Ours. He read it to her over the phone. She cried.

In two cities, under two different skies, they looked at the same moon. Still apart. Still in love. Still fighting the quiet war of distance.

And even though the road was longer than either expected, neither of them turned back.

02/05/2025

The Heat Between Walls
Season 2, Episode 2 – Old Flames, New Winds
Emeli stood outside her office building, phone to her ear, brow furrowed. The call had come from nowhere — her ex, Dare, had reached out after two years of silence. “I just want to check in,” he said. “You crossed my mind.”

She didn’t know why her hand trembled after the call. It wasn’t love. It wasn’t even interest. It was the way ghosts return — uninvited, but with memories you thought you’d buried.

She told Emeka later that evening. “It was just a call. Nothing more.” Emeka, washing plates in the kitchen, froze. “Why now?” he asked calmly. “I don’t know,” Emeli replied, honestly.

That night, Emeka couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t angry, but he was uneasy. Not about Dare, but about what Dare reminded him: Emeli had lived a whole life before him. And he wasn’t sure how much of it she was willing to share.

The next morning, Emeli found Emeka scribbling in his notebook. She peered over. A line read: “How do you love someone without holding their past against them?” She didn’t ask. But she knew it was about her.

Meanwhile, Emeka’s writing competition was heating up. He had made it to the top five, and the final showcase was happening soon — a live reading in front of a panel and a crowd.

Emeli offered to attend. “Front row,” she promised, smiling. Emeka nodded, grateful. But in his heart, he still carried that small ache — not jealousy, but the fear of being replaceable.

On the day of the reading, Emeka wore his best shirt. Emeli helped him adjust the collar. “You look like a poet about to change the world,” she teased. “I just want to change mine,” he replied, kissing her cheek.

The event hall was packed. Emeli watched proudly as Emeka took the stage. His voice was strong, yet tender. His story was about a boy who learned to trust a woman’s love after being raised on silence.

After the performance, people clapped. Some even stood. Emeli clapped the loudest. When Emeka returned to his seat, she kissed him in front of everyone. “You were brilliant,” she said. His heart settled.

Later that evening, as they walked home hand-in-hand, Emeli said, “You know, I met Dare when I didn’t know myself. I stayed because I thought that’s what love looked like. But it wasn’t love. Not really.”

Emeka said nothing. She continued, “With you, I’m not guessing. I’m building.” That was all he needed to hear. He squeezed her hand.

Back at the compound, trouble stirred. Mama Nkechi’s grandson had stolen money, and fingers were pointing in every direction. The compound was tense again — people whispering behind doors.

Emeka and Emeli stayed out of it, but the noise seeped into their peace. “Living here is starting to feel like walking on glass,” Emeli muttered one night.

That evening, a paper slipped under Emeka’s door. A typed offer: a publisher wanted to meet him after hearing his live reading. It was a dream — but the meeting was in another city.

“This could be the start of everything,” Emeka said. Emeli nodded, smiling wide, but inside her chest, something tightened. She was happy. But change always scared her.

A week later, Emeka packed a small bag. The bus would leave by 7 a.m. Emeli stayed up with him all night, helping him prepare. They didn’t talk much. Just soft glances and quiet hugs.

At the terminal, Emeka held her tightly. “You’ll wait for me?” he asked. Emeli smiled through her tears. “Always. But don’t just go and chase your dream. Catch it.”

The bus drove off, and Emeli stood on the curb long after it vanished. She had loved before. But this time, she had also been loved back.

As the morning sun broke through the clouds, she whispered to herself, “This isn’t the end. It’s the wind before our next chapter.”

01/05/2025

Na Condom

01/05/2025

The Heat Between Walls

Season 2, Episode 1 – Cracks in the Calm

Emeka and Emeli had settled into a rhythm — their little bubble of peace in the city. Weekends were spent together; weekday nights brought quiet dinners and shared playlists. It was the kind of peace that almost felt too good to last.

Emeli had started painting again — bold strokes on canvas that matched her emotions. Her colors were vibrant now: orange, turquoise, and deep brown. “It’s you,” she said when Emeka asked about the muse behind her latest work.

Emeka, meanwhile, was preparing for a writing competition. He stayed up late editing, whispering lines to himself. Emeli supported him, even when it meant sleeping alone. “I want you to win,” she said, brushing his cheek.

But with every passing day, the space between them stretched. Not in anger, but in silence. The kind that builds when two people grow quietly busy, forgetting to check in.

One night, Emeka missed their planned movie night. He came in tired, apologetic, and carrying takeout. Emeli smiled, but her eyes held something back. “It’s fine,” she said. But it wasn’t.

At work, Emeli faced pressure from her boss, who hinted that her art was a distraction. “Focus on the job you’re paid for,” he said. She didn’t argue — just swallowed the lump in her throat and nodded.

That frustration came home with her. Emeka didn’t notice. He was busy finalizing his short story entry. “One more hour,” he mumbled. Emeli didn’t wait. She went to bed with her back turned to him.

The following weekend, Emeli suggested they spend the day offline — no phones, no screens, just them. Emeka agreed reluctantly. But as the hours passed, he kept checking his phone for emails. She noticed.

“I just needed one day,” she said quietly. Emeka looked up, surprised. “I thought we were good.” Emeli exhaled. “We are. But sometimes, good needs work.”

That night, they had their first real argument. Nothing loud. Just sharp words and a door closed too quickly. It ended with silence — heavier than any insult.

Days passed. The air between them was cautious. They still talked. Still touched. But the rhythm was off — like dancing to a beat neither of them could hear anymore.

Emeli’s painting grew darker. Her newest canvas was stormy grey with streaks of red. “This isn’t about us,” she insisted. But Emeka wasn’t sure.

Then, unexpectedly, Emeka got a call — he’d made the writing competition finals. His eyes lit up. He ran to tell Emeli. She smiled, genuinely. “I’m proud of you,” she said, hugging him tight.

That night, they celebrated — not with loud joy, but with slow laughter, jollof rice, and wine. It felt like the old days, even if just for a few hours.

Before bed, Emeli said, “Promise me something.” Emeka turned. “Anything.” She said, “No matter how busy we get, let’s not forget this — this right here.”

Emeka nodded. “I won’t forget. But you have to tell me when I’m drifting.” She replied, “And you have to see me, even when I’m quiet.”

They held each other that night, tighter than usual. As if anchoring themselves back to the beginning.

The cracks were there, yes — but so was the will to repair. And sometimes, that’s what love really is: not perfect days, but the choice to keep trying.

As sleep took them, the city outside buzzed on — unaware of the two souls inside a small apartment choosing each other again.

And in the quiet, the flame between their walls burned on — not wild, but steady.

01/05/2025

The Heat Between Walls

Episode 5 – What Love Feels Like

The sun rose slow and golden over the city, casting long shadows across the compound. Emeka stood by his window, staring at the sky like it held answers. Today felt different — heavy, but full of promise.

Emeli had been quieter lately. Not distant, but thoughtful. She had told him once, “Sometimes, love is louder when it’s silent.” He understood now — she was processing, deciding, preparing herself for something.

He knocked on her door that morning with two cups of tea. She opened, wearing a wrapper and bonnet, her eyes still soft from sleep. “You’re becoming too sweet,” she teased. “Maybe,” he replied. “But it’s working.”

They sat together on the balcony, sipping tea and watching children chase one another. A neighbor’s radio played a love song from the early 2000s. It was one of those mornings that made you believe in forever.

Emeli turned to him. “Do you believe in soulmates?” Emeka looked at her, not smiling. “I believe in choice. Every day, I choose you. That’s stronger than fate.” That answer stayed with her all day.

That evening, Emeli invited him in again. But this time, it felt like something was shifting — the air was warmer, slower. She lit a candle. Not for romance, she said, but for calm. Still, Emeka felt his heartbeat change.

She wore a simple brown dress, bare shoulders and loose curls framing her dark face. Emeka couldn’t take his eyes off her. “What?” she asked, pretending not to know. “You’re beautiful,” he said. Just like that. No games.

They talked, and laughed, and shared silly secrets from childhood. Then, when the room fell quiet, Emeli took his hand and led him to the bed. “Tonight, I don’t want fear,” she whispered. “I want truth. I want us.”

Emeka paused. “Are you sure?” She nodded slowly, breathing in and out like she was letting go of a past version of herself. “I’ve never been more sure.”

They kissed, deeply, slowly — every movement deliberate, every touch asking for permission. Clothes came off gently, respectfully. There was no rush. They honored each other’s bodies like sacred ground.

It was soft. Honest. Full of murmured names and nervous smiles. And when their bodies joined, it wasn’t about lust. It was about connection — two hearts speaking without words, writing a new language.

Afterward, they lay entangled, the candlelight flickering over their skin. Emeli stroked his arm. “I thought it would be scary,” she said. “But with you… it felt like coming home.” Emeka kissed her forehead. “You are home.”

In the weeks that followed, their love grew deeper. They learned each other’s patterns — how Emeli liked quiet in the mornings, how Emeka hummed when thinking. Little details became the fabric of something real.

Kunle came around again, this time with a more open heart. He saw how Emeka looked at his sister — not with possession, but with peace. “Protect her,” Kunle said one evening. “She’s been through more than you know.” Emeka nodded. “Always.”

They began making plans together — slow plans. No pressure. No rings. But talk of shared rent, a writing studio, maybe even a trip to Ghana. “Let’s build a soft life,” Emeli said. “Our way.”

The compound neighbors now smiled when they passed. Even Mama Nkechi stopped gossiping and once said, “Love makes you glow, my dear.” Emeli laughed and touched her cheek. Maybe she was glowing.

Emeka published his first short story online — it was titled Between Her Walls. Emeli read it three times, each time slower than the last. At the end, she cried. Not from sadness, but from being seen.

One night, Emeli asked, “Do you think we’ll make it?” Emeka answered, “We already are.” She didn’t reply. She just reached for his hand and held it tight — like she never wanted to let go.

As the city lights flickered and generators hummed in the background, they danced barefoot in the living room to an old love song. No music player. Just her phone speaker. Just them. Just now.

And in that moment, wrapped in laughter and rhythm, Emeli knew: this was what love felt like — safe, slow, and full of warmth between the walls of their little world.

01/05/2025

The Heat Between Walls

Episode 4 – Between the Lines

The relationship between Emeka and Emeli was no longer a hidden spark; it was a steady flame. The compound whispered, but they didn’t care. Not anymore. There was something stronger than gossip between them — something real.

Emeli had never introduced any man to her close friend Ijeoma before, but this time felt different. So, one Saturday afternoon, she called Emeka over. “Ijeoma is visiting. Just be yourself,” she said, trying to hide her nerves.

Emeka came dressed neatly, holding a small pack of drinks. Ijeoma, tall and sharp-tongued, raised an eyebrow when she saw him. “So, this is the boy keeping you quiet these days,” she said. Emeka smiled, extending his hand politely.

To his surprise, Ijeoma warmed up quickly. They laughed over roasted groundnuts and old school jokes. Emeli watched them talk and felt something twist inside her — not jealousy, but the strange realization that Emeka could belong in her world.

After Ijeoma left, Emeli sat in silence, chewing her lip. “You impressed her,” she said eventually. “She never likes anyone.” Emeka replied, “I’m not trying to impress your friends. Just you.” That simple line made her heart thump.

Later that week, Emeka received bad news. His uncle in the village had passed away, and he needed to travel home suddenly. He came to say goodbye the night before. Emeli hugged him tightly, unwilling to let go.

“It’ll just be a few days,” he assured her. “I’ll call.” She nodded, forcing a smile. But as he left, the room felt colder. She didn’t realize how used she’d become to his presence — the warmth he brought even when they said little.

The days dragged. Emeka’s calls were brief — network issues, family duties, funeral traditions. Emeli understood, but it didn’t make the silence easier. She found herself waiting by her window again, like before.

One night, unable to sleep, she pulled out his notebook again. She read his poems under the dim bedside lamp, letting each word remind her of his voice, his laugh, his softness. She fell asleep holding the pages to her chest.

Emeka returned three days later. As soon as she heard his knock, she flung the door open. They hugged tightly, silently. The distance had been short, but the ache had been long. “I missed you,” she whispered into his shirt.

That night, they talked for hours — about his trip, the stories he heard in the village, and how much he thought about her. “You live in my head like a song,” he said. Emeli laughed, cheeks glowing. “Then I hope I’m your favorite tune.”

Things became more physical, but still slow. Touches turned to caresses. Kisses lingered. They explored each other like a book you don’t want to finish too fast. But there was still restraint — a mutual respect that anchored every desire.

One evening, Emeka asked, “Why do you always hold back?” Emeli looked at him, surprised. “I don’t want to lose myself,” she said. “I’ve done that before.” Emeka nodded. “Then let’s build something where you can find yourself.”

That sentence stayed with her. Days later, she found herself cooking his favorite meal. He came in and laughed. “This smells like a bribe,” he joked. “It’s an offering,” she replied, playfully. “For the boy who writes me into verses.”

That evening, after dinner, Emeli placed her head on his lap as he read aloud one of his new poems. His voice was soft, like velvet in her ear. She smiled, thinking, This is what safety feels like.

Suddenly, a loud knock came from her door. They both sat up, startled. It was her older brother, Kunle — unexpected and stern. “Emeli,” he said, entering without waiting, “I’ve been hearing things. Who is this?”

Emeka stood, calmly introducing himself. Kunle barely acknowledged him. He turned to Emeli, demanding answers. She stood her ground, firm but respectful. “He’s my friend. He’s someone I care about. And he treats me right.”

Kunle didn’t like it, but he left after saying his piece. Emeka looked worried. “Did I cause problems?” Emeli shook her head. “He’s just protective. He’ll adjust.” She smiled. “You’re not going anywhere.”

That night, Emeka stayed over — not in passion, but in solidarity. They lay side by side, hands locked, hearts steady. Sometimes love isn't fire and thunder. Sometimes it’s the courage to stay when things get hard.

And as the moon watched them through the window, Emeli knew: whatever came next, they were in it together.

30/04/2025

President Ibrahim Traoré has declared that childbirth services will be provided free of charge in all public hospitals nationwide. This bold move is aimed at enhancing healthcare accessibility and reducing maternal mortality rates.
The comprehensive initiative covers prenatal care, delivery, postnatal care, emergency C-sections, and related medications, ensuring that women have access to essential healthcare services without financial burden. The policy is a key component of the government's efforts to promote social welfare and alleviate poverty.
The announcement has been widely welcomed by human rights organizations and the general public, who view it as a significant step towards improving healthcare outcomes in Burkina Faso.
While Burkina Faso keeps facing attacks from terrorist groups, the international community and ECOWAS insist Burkina Faso go back to civilian rule.

30/04/2025

The Heat Between Walls

Episode 3 – The Things We Don’t Say

Days turned into weeks, and the city’s rhythm moved on — loud buses, morning markets, laughter echoing through the compound. But inside Emeli’s heart, the rhythm was slower now. Softer. Like the way Emeka said her name when no one was listening.

They no longer waited for excuses to be near each other. He helped her carry her shopping bags. She brought him food after class. They didn’t call it love. Not yet. But even the neighbors began to notice how their shadows often walked side by side.

“So, it’s like that now?” Mama Nkechi teased Emeli one afternoon. Emeli only smiled. She wasn’t the type to explain feelings. Especially ones she barely understood herself. But her eyes gave her away.

Emeka wrote more. Poems. Short stories. All about a woman with laughter like wind chimes and eyes that made his heart forget how to beat properly. He never showed them to Emeli — not yet. But they filled pages in the notebook he carried everywhere.

One Sunday, while most people went to church, they stayed in. Emeli wore a soft, long dress that danced around her knees. Emeka sat cross-legged on the floor beside her bed, helping her untangle her braids. The silence between them was filled with peace.

“Why don’t you ever touch me like you want more?” Emeli asked suddenly, breaking the calm. Emeka paused, fingers still in her hair. “Because I respect you,” he said. “And because I want more than just a moment.”

Emeli turned to face him. “What if I want a moment?” she asked. Her eyes weren’t teasing. They were serious — afraid, maybe. Emeka looked at her, really looked. “Then we’ll make the moment last,” he said.

That afternoon, their kiss was deeper. Not rushed. Not wild. But full of every word they hadn’t said. Emeka’s hands stayed gentle, even when her arms wrapped around his neck. Emeli’s breath caught, not from fear, but from how much she trusted him.

They lay down on the bed, still dressed, still quiet. Their bodies pressed together like poetry written in touch. It wasn’t about s*x — not yet. It was about closeness. About learning how someone feels without taking everything all at once.

Emeka touched her collarbone, trailing one finger slowly like he was reading her body like braille. Emeli closed her eyes, the sensation spreading like sunlight. “You’re dangerous,” she whispered. “You make me want to tell you everything.”

He smiled and kissed her cheek. “Then start with one thing,” he said. Emeli opened her eyes and whispered, “I’m scared you’ll leave. That this is just a phase for you.” The vulnerability in her voice made his chest ache.

Emeka held her tighter. “I’ve never felt this before,” he said. “I don’t want it to end. I don’t care how long it takes, Emeli. I want you.” The way he said it — calm, certain — made her blink away tears she didn’t expect.

They stayed in each other’s arms as the compound buzzed outside. Children laughed, pots clanged, and someone played a gospel song too loud. But all of that felt far away. In their little room, the world had shrunk to just two heartbeats.

That evening, Emeli sat alone by her window. Emeka had gone back to his flat. She missed him already, and it scared her. She had never allowed anyone this close. Not even past lovers. But with Emeka, her guard fell without force.

Emeka sat on his own bed, writing again. This time, the words came faster. He titled the poem The Woman Who Taught Me to Breathe. It wasn’t perfect, but it was hers. All of it.

The next day, he slipped the notebook under her door before going out. Emeli found it and sat down to read. Every page was full of her — her smile, her voice, even her fears. By the last poem, she was crying softly, hand over her mouth.

She knocked on his door that night. No words. Just a hug. A long one. One that said: I see you. I hear you. I want this too.

Emeka held her like she might vanish. “Are you okay?” he asked softly. She nodded against his chest. “I’ve never been more scared,” she admitted. “But I want to try.”

“Then we’ll go slow,” he said. “We’ll do it right. No hiding. No pretending.” Emeli smiled up at him. “And if people talk?” He shrugged. “Let them talk. Let them envy.”

That night, they didn’t sleep together — they just slept beside each other. And sometimes, in this noisy world, that kind of quiet is the loudest form of love.

Dj AfroNaija

02/05/2025

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