The campus canteen wasn't exactly the place for romance. The ceiling fans creaked like they had arthritis, the aroma of over-fried plantains fought with the smell of biro ink and sweat, and the lady at the counter had a permanent frown that said, Don't try me today. Still, for Emmanuel, it suddenly felt like the most charming café in the world.
Funmi walked beside him with quiet confidence, like she owned every square foot her sandals touched. Emmanuel, trying to play it cool, tucked in his toothpaste-stained collar and wiped his palm discreetly on his jeans.
She noticed.
"You always this nervous, or is it just the magic of my presence?"
"Oh, this? No, I just sweat when I'm happy. It's a… medical condition," he replied with a smirk.
She laughed. "You're funny. In a clumsy, mildly concerning way."
They reached the counter, and Emmanuel made a show of inspecting the menu like he was choosing between filet mignon and caviar.
"So... what do you recommend from this fine establishment, madam?" he asked.
"Nothing with beans," she said firmly. "Unless you want to ruin your next three hours."
They settled on jollof rice, fried plantain, and one bottle of malt each. The cashier didn't smile. She rarely did. But Funmi paid anyway, even as Emmanuel half-heartedly protested with one hand in his empty pocket.
"You can pay next time," she said, leading him to an empty table near the window.
"Next time," he repeated. He liked the sound of that.
As they ate, the conversation slid from small talk into something warmer. She told him about her love for poetry, her obsession with sunsets, and how she hated cucumbers but ate them anyway because "they make you look responsible." He told her about his dreams of becoming a writer, his childhood pet goat named Senior Man, and how he once fainted during a spelling bee because he forgot how to spell "necessary."
"N-E-C-E—wait," she teased, pointing her fork at him. "You fainted?"
"On national television," he said with mock pride. "It was the moment my village people knew I was gifted."
Funmi chuckled, nearly choking on her plantain.
It felt easy—too easy. Like they'd known each other longer than the thirty-five minutes since he almost faceplanted in front of her.
But beneath the laughter, there was a quiet pull. A curiosity. Each question carried a flicker of interest; each answer peeled back a layer neither of them expected to reveal.
"You ever feel like…" she started, pausing, "…like you're in the middle of something important, but you won't realize it until it's gone?"
Emmanuel looked at her, his smile fading just enough to match her tone.
"I do," he said. "Right now, actually."
Her eyes held his for a second too long.
And just like that, someone turned on a generator nearby, and the fans roared to life with the grace of a broken tractor. The moment shattered, but it didn't disappear—it simply tucked itself quietly between them.
As they stood to leave, Emmanuel grabbed a napkin and scribbled something down with a borrowed pen.
"What's this?" she asked.
"A poem," he said. "Well, more like a.... receipt."
Funmi unfolded the napkin and read:
"A fall, a smile,
A stolen glance—
And somehow, lunch became a chance."
She smiled. "You're full of surprises, Emmanuel."
"You haven't seen anything yet."
They walked out into the fading sun, the air thick with warmth and the kind of silence that didn't need to be filled. And though neither of them said it, both were already wondering when they'd see each other again.