The Nigerian restaurant was a small, cozy spot tucked into a quiet street corner, its entrance marked by a hand-painted sign and the smell of sizzling spices wafting through the air. Inside, the atmosphere was lively. Afrobeats hummed softly in the background, blending with the chatter of patrons enjoying pepper soup, suya, and steaming plates of jollof rice.
Wale walked in with Sophia and the others, his steps lighter than usual. The scent of the food, the sound of laughter—it all felt like a warm hug from home. "This place," he said with a nostalgic smile, "smells like my mom's kitchen on Sunday afternoons."
Sophia watched him as he spoke, his face lighting up in a way she hadn't seen before. It was the kind of happiness that came from deep within, tied to memories of comfort and belonging.
They settled at a table near the back, the group immediately launching into a lively debate over who had the best jollof rice—Nigeria or Ghana. Wale, naturally, defended Nigeria with an almost theatrical passion. "Ghanaian jollof is just rice pretending to be jollof," he declared, his tone earning a mix of laughs and groans.
"Be careful," Sophia teased. "You might start an international incident."
Wale chuckled. "Some truths are worth the risk."
As the evening went on, Wale began to share childhood stories, each one more animated than the last. He recounted sneaking into his neighbor's mango tree with his friends, getting caught, and being chased away by the stern old man who owned it. "We thought we were stealthy until he brought out his cane," Wale said, laughing at the memory.
Sophia found herself smiling too, drawn in by the way he spoke. There was a confidence in his voice, a humor that felt effortless. She realized that beneath his occasional shyness was someone deeply rooted in who he was, someone who carried pieces of home wherever he went.
But as the plates were cleared and the group ordered another round of drinks, Sophia's phone buzzed on the table. She glanced down at the screen, her heart sinking at the name she saw. It was a message from her friend back in the UK: "Your ex has been asking about you. Says he wants to talk."
For a moment, the room seemed to blur. The music, the laughter—it all faded into the background. She put her phone face down and tried to focus on the conversation, but the text lingered in her mind like an unwanted guest.
"Everything okay?" Wale asked quietly, leaning closer.
Sophia nodded quickly, brushing it off. "Yeah, just... something from back home."
But Wale noticed the shift in her expression, the way her shoulders tensed just slightly. He didn't press her, though. Instead, he made a subtle effort to keep the mood light, cracking jokes and redirecting the group's attention.
Later, as they left the restaurant and walked toward their dorms, Wale and Sophia found themselves lagging behind the group. The night air was cool, the streets quieter now.