Intellectual 2cent

Do we tell them? Or do we pretend we’ve never met?

📖 The Girl on the Bus

Part 3 – The Awkward Table

For a long moment, I couldn’t breathe.

She was standing right there. Chioma, the girl from the bus. The same girl whose number sat folded in my pocket. Her eyes widened the second they met mine, and I could tell she was just as shocked.

But before either of us could react, my mother broke the silence with her usual dramatic flair.

“Sit, sit! You must feel at home, my dear,” she said, ushering Chioma to the seat right beside me.

I shifted uncomfortably. My siblings giggled behind their hands, curious at my sudden stiffness. Chioma lowered herself gracefully into the chair, clutching her bag tightly as if it were her lifeline.

My mother bustled around, serving rice and stew as though this were a royal banquet. “Miracle, why are you sitting there like a statue? Talk to her now!”

I cleared my throat. “Uh… good afternoon.”

Chioma gave a polite nod. “Good afternoon.” Her voice was steady, but her eyes told a different story. She wouldn’t look at me directly, yet every time our eyes accidentally met, we both quickly looked away.

My mother beamed, mistaking the tension for shyness. “You see how she’s reserved? That’s how you know a proper wife. Not all these Lagos girls wasting their lives on Instagram.”

The table erupted in light laughter, but I barely heard it. My mind was a whirlwind.

How was this even possible? Yesterday, she was a stranger on a bus. Today, she was seated at my family’s table, being presented as my future wife.

“Tell him about yourself, Chioma,” my mother urged, spooning more rice onto her plate.

She smiled politely and began to speak. She discussed her studies, her father’s church, and her plans to start a small business. Everyone listened intently. Everyone except me. I was stuck replaying yesterday in my head. the spilled bag, her laughter, the paper in my pocket.

Halfway through her story, she glanced at me. Just once. But in that brief look, there was an unspoken question.

Do we tell them? Or do we pretend we’ve never met?

I shifted, feeling the paper crinkle in my pocket. My palm grew sweaty.

Suddenly, my younger sister blurted out, “Mummy, why is Miracle so quiet? He’s usually not like this.”

The table fell silent. All eyes turned to me. My mother frowned.

“Well, Miracle?” she said. “What do you think of Chioma?”

The room held its breath, waiting for my answer.

And Chioma’s eyes, wide and unblinking, were locked on mine.

—To be continued in Part 4