BETROTHED (11)

Ziba left as soon as assignments were dished out and attendance was taken by the class rep.

She sighed at the sight of the road leading into the University of Tenja. It was always busy. Dust hung lightly in the air, stirred up by motorcycles, old cars, and the constant movement of people going in and out of the campus.

 On both sides of the road, small wooden stalls were arranged closely together, selling fruits, vegetables, grains, and everyday household items. Traders called out to passersby, their voices blending into the noise of engines, footsteps, and conversation.

Motorcycles moved in and out of traffic, carrying students, traders, and workers. An old green car pushed forward slowly, its horn sounding as it tried to make space through the crowd. Students walked in groups, some in uniforms, others in casual clothes, talking as they made their way toward the campus.

In the distance, the semi-new buildings of the University of Tenja stood clearly. The halls were still fresh with paint in some places and unfinished in others, with zinc roofs and plain cement walls that showed the school was still growing. The main building sat at the centre, larger than the rest, facing the road like a quiet anchor to all the movement around it.

The road itself was dusty and uneven, marked with footprints, tyre tracks, and scattered stones. Palm trees lined parts of the area, and electric poles stretched across the road, with wires running overhead.

Everything moved at once: people, vehicles, trade, and noise, forming the everyday rhythm of life around the university. She carefully waited and allowed the traders hawking their onions to pass before crossing the road.

“I would think you were running away from me, Ziba.” The voice wasn’t exactly Mama Yola’s, but there were similarities in how the words were pronounced, the intonation, the pitch.

Ziba turned to see a beautiful mahogany-skinned lady with an oval face and neat cornrows, decorated with a few cowries. She was tall, almost as tall as Ziba, but Ziba knew she still pulled a few inches over her.

 Her mother often praised her height, and the memory made her smile. She quickly tucked the smile away, not wanting the lady to think she welcomed being followed out of class all the way to the road.

“My name is Amena, Mama Yola’s daughter.”

Ziba raised a brow. Anyone who knew Mama Yola could see the resemblance from afar, “Figured.”

Amena smiled. “My mama must have done a number on you for you to run away from me.”

Ziba let the smile escape. “You have no idea. She took all my breathing space.”

They both laughed at the familiarity they shared with Mama Yola. Ziba knew, deep down, that Mama Yola meant well, but sometimes she found that hard to believe.

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I don’t plan to be one. I actually need a babysitter myself, if you ask me.” Amena smiled gently. She had to tread carefully, Ziba was watching her closely, like she could see her thoughts. Mama Yola had already warned her about how guarded Ziba was.

“I would like to see you before we go home for the holidays.”

Ziba sighed. She wasn’t friendly, but she seemed to attract people, and she never understood why. First Mena, now Amena. She made a mental note to tell Mena that she had found her namesake, just with an ‘A’.

“I need time,” Ziba said, struggling to keep a warm face.

“I can work with that. Thank you, Ziba.”

Amena crossed back over the road and headed straight for LT C1 Fellowship.

The thought of seeing Bro. Chima again made her quicken her steps.