“Well,” I teased, slipping into my natural accent, crisp and sharp, “your pronunciation needs work. But your… other skills...” I let the sentence hang, grinning wickedly.
She playfully swatted my arm. “Marley! You are such a naughty woman.”
“I’m only naughty for you,” I said, pressing a kiss to her collarbone.
“Mmmm, I see,” she whispered, but her voice wavered slightly, and I caught the way her fingers trembled as they found mine. Even after last night, she still blushed at her own boldness.
The playful atmosphere softened into something tender. I leaned down slowly, giving her time to pull away if she wanted, but instead she met me halfway. Our lips touched gently, and I could still feel her inexperience in the careful way she kissed, like she was still learning this new language of intimacy.
“You’re so beautiful,” I murmured against her mouth, meaning it completely. Snow was falling steadily outside the window now, creating a hushed, private world just for us.
We spent the rest of the day wrapped in warmth while winter painted the windows white. I was gentle with her, patient in a way I’d never been with anyone else. Every touch I gave her was careful and reverent. She would hide her face in my shoulder sometimes, overwhelmed by her own reactions, and I’d wait until she was ready to look at me again, those dark eyes wide with wonder.
The snow kept falling as the afternoon melted into evening, muffling the world outside until it felt like we were the only two people left in existence.
This is what my parents meant, I realised as she dozed against me. When they said love should feel safe. Growing up watching their gentle devotion, I’d always wondered if I’d recognise that same tenderness when I found it. Now, stroking Kelechi’s hair as snowflakes drifted past the window, I understood. It wasn’t just desire or sex, it was wanting to protect this shy, brilliant girl who trusted me with her firsts, who made me want to be worthy of that trust.
And that scared me more than anything, because wanting someone this much meant they had the power to break you. And for the first time in my life?—
I wasn’t sure I wanted to run.
XIV
“Be careful what you set your heart upon — for it will surely be yours.”
— James Baldwin
Chapter Fifteen
Kelechi
“I’m so glad you could make it today. Omoh, the snow’s been getting heavier every day,” Funmi said as she settled across from me. She peeled off her winter gloves and set them aside, flexing her fingers like they were stiff from the cold.
“Oh, likewise. I’m sorry for bailing last time, but school has been absolutely hectic these past few weeks,” I replied, shrugging out of my coat and hanging it on the back of my chair.
“Abeg ee, no need to apologise. Trust me when I say I totally understand. I blame it on this oyibo man’s weather,” she said, and we both dissolved into laughter.
It was past three in the afternoon, and Mama Toyin’s restaurant was a warm sanctuary against the bitter Vancouver cold. The familiar scent of palm oil and scotch bonnet peppers filled the air around us, making my chest tight with homesickness. Jollof rice sizzled on plates being carried past our table. Voices drifted from the kitchen, Yoruba and broken English and bursts of laughter, mixing with the gentle clink of cutlery against ceramic bowls.
Funmi had been talking up this place in our chat for weeks, swearing it was the only spot a few minutes from Maple Ridge that had proper Nigerian street food. Looking at her now, I could see why she needed it.
Her light skin looked almost pale under the fluorescent lights, and there were dark circles under her eyes that make-up couldn’t quite hide. The freckles scattered across her cheeks and nose made her look younger than I knew she was, but something in her posture, the slight slump of her shoulders, made it too obvious that she was carrying more weight than she let on.
We placed our orders, and soon after, we were served two bowls of goat meat pepper soup with agidi.
I scooped a generous amount of broth into my mouth, and my tongue buzzed with that perfect burn, that perfect peppery burn that made your tongue buzz and your eyes water just a little. The goat meat was tender, falling apart at the touch of my spoon. God, I’d missed this. I’d missed the way Nigerian food made every part of your mouth wake up at once.
“So, tell me, how’s Canada treating you?” Funmi asked, tearing into her meat.
A bit of pepper caught between her front teeth, and she ran her tongue over it absent-mindedly.
“It’s… different,” I said carefully as I diverted my attention to my food, watching steam curl up from my bowl. “The cold is something else. But I’m managing, sha.”
She paused mid-spoonful and squinted at me. “When you say you’re managing, are you surviving and not actually living?” she asked, her Yoruba accent thickening slightly. “What’s really going on?”
I stirred my soup, the metal spoon clinking against the ceramic.
Around us, the restaurant buzzed with the comfortable noise of other Nigerians finding comfort in familiar flavours. An older woman at the next table was arguing loudly with someone on her phone about money transfers, while a group of young men near the window were debating football in rapid Pidgin.
