The days of the holiday slipped past like water through the fingers. Every morning Amara woke to the noise of Uyo's traffic, helped her aunt at the stall, and told herself she would not look for him. And almost every evening, when the market thinned and the air cooled, she found her feet carrying her toward the road that led to the old bridge.
Ekanem was usually there first. Sometimes he would be cleaning mud from his boots after a long day on his father's farm, sometimes sitting with a small radio balanced on his knee, humming along to a tune half lost in static. The first time she arrived without warning, he looked up and smiled as though he had been expecting her all along.
From then on, the palm trees by the bridge became their place.
They talked about everything—the future, the weight of family expectations, the foolish quarrels of elders. Ekanem told stories about his village: how his grandmother used to frighten children with tales of river spirits, how during the harmattan the palms turned silver under the dust.
Amara listened, fascinated. "Your side sounds almost like ours," she said once.
"Almost," he agreed, throwing a pebble into the stream. "But people prefer to count differences. It gives them something to fight for."
She thought of her father's words—Never trust them. Yet sitting beside Ekanem, hearing the calm rhythm of his voice, she could no longer see the reason for such hate.
One evening, he brought roasted plantain wrapped in newspaper and two small pears. "Eat," he said, handing her one piece. "This is from our farm. Sweet like peace."
She laughed. "Is peace sweet?"
"If both people want it, yes."
His words stayed with her long after she returned to her aunt's house. She painted them later that night in her sketchbook, beneath a small drawing of two palms leaning toward each other: Peace is sweet if both people want it.
The holiday ended before she was ready. Aunty Ngozi had to travel to Aba for a new shipment of fabric, and Amara was expected home to help her mother prepare for the coming yam festival.
On the last evening, she and Ekanem sat quietly by the bridge. The sound of the stream below was low and steady; fireflies blinked among the trees.
"So you are going," he said after a while.
"Yes. Tomorrow morning."
He nodded, picking at the bark of the bench with a stick. "Maybe I'll see you again when I bring plantains."
"Maybe." She tried to smile, but her chest felt heavy.
He looked up. "Will you remember me?"
Amara met his eyes. "Even if I try not to."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then, very gently, he reached for her hand. His palm was rough, warm with the day's work. She didn't pull away.
The wind rustled through the palms above them, and somewhere far off, a nightbird called.
The next morning, Amara boarded a bus back to Umudia. The market noises faded behind her, replaced by the steady rhythm of the road and the smell of dust and diesel. As the bus crossed the old bridge, she looked out through the window. The palm trees stood tall on both sides, their fronds swaying like slow waves.
She thought of Ekanem—his laughter, his kindness, the simple honesty in his eyes—and of the secret that now rested in her heart.
When she reached home, her father was waiting in the veranda chair, the familiar bowl of groundnuts beside him.
"Welcome, my daughter," he said, smiling faintly. "I hope the city did not spoil you."
Amara set down her bag and forced herself to meet his gaze. "No, Papa. I learned a lot."
He nodded. "Good. The world out there is full of strangers. Keep your head, eh?"
"Yes, Papa."
That night, long after everyone had gone to bed, she opened her sketchbook again. The last page held the drawing of the two palm trees and the words she had written beneath them. She traced them slowly with her finger, whispering into the quiet room, "Peace is sweet if both people want it."
Then she closed the book, hid it beneath her pillow, and listened to the wind outside rustle through the distant palms at the border—the same trees that now carried her secret.