The Ikpe compound was quieter than usual that evening. The aftertaste of Sunday service still lingered—half in the laughter of the children playing in the backyard, half in the tension that refused to leave Glory's chest.
She sat on the veranda with Chiburuoma, the cool breeze brushing against their faces as the night crept in. A kerosene lantern burned faintly on the small table beside them, its light flickering shadows across their features.
Chiburuoma broke the silence first. "So, are you going to tell me what exactly is going on between you, Abraham, and Desmond?"
Glory sighed, staring at her hands folded neatly in her lap. "There's nothing going on. Not really."
Chiburuoma chuckled, shaking her head. "Please. The way Abraham was burning holes into Desmond with his eyes today? If that's 'nothing,' then I don't want to see what 'something' looks like."
Glory's lips curved in a reluctant smile. "He was just… protective, I think. Maybe too protective."
"Protective, jealous—same thing." Chiburuoma leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Glory, you know Abraham likes you. Anyone can see it. The question is—what do you want?"
The words hung in the air, heavy with truth. Glory looked away, her eyes tracing the outlines of the compound wall, the moonlight washing over the rough cement.
What did she want?
Her mind replayed fragments of moments she wished she could ignore—the way Abraham's jokes made her laugh until her sides hurt, the night in his house when their eyes had met, when laughter had almost spilled into a kiss. The way his presence steadied her, even when he said nothing.
But alongside those memories came Desmond's persistence. He was bold, confident, unafraid to show what he felt. And though she didn't encourage him, part of her wondered if her silence was giving him more room than he deserved.
She pressed her palms against her knees, restless. "Chi, it's not that simple. He hasn't said anything. Not directly."
Chiburuoma raised a brow. "You want him to write you a letter first? Or kneel down with ring inside church? Glory, sometimes a man's actions speak louder than words. Did you not see the way he looked at you today? If that's not confession, I don't know what is."
Glory chuckled, shaking her head. But her heart raced at the memory of his eyes on her—intense, searching, unguarded.
They sat in silence for a while, the distant sound of a generator humming in the neighborhood. Then Chiburuoma stretched and stood. "I'm going home. Don't stay out here too long, before mosquitoes decide you're their dinner."
Glory smiled faintly as her friend disappeared into the night. She remained on the veranda, staring into the night, lost in thoughts she couldn't easily shake.
Later, in her room, she lay on the bed with the lantern turned low. The walls felt closer somehow, the air thicker with unspoken words. She turned onto her side, hugging her pillow, her mind replaying the moment in Abraham's house—the laughter, the closeness, the sharp interruption when Chika returned.
Her heart whispered the truth her lips wouldn't admit: she wanted Abraham. She wanted his steadiness, his humor, his quiet strength. But she also wanted him to be the one to say it, to bridge the gap she couldn't cross on her own.
As sleep crept in, she whispered into the dark, a confession only the night could hold: "If only he'd just say it…"