He shook his head.
“No.”
He reached for something simple: a plain white T-shirt and a pair of jeans.
Looking at himself in the mirror, he smiled slightly.
“Let’s see if you notice me this time.”
Outside, the village moved at its own rhythm.
Women balanced baskets on their heads. Men gathered under trees, discussing everything and nothing. Goats wandered without direction.
Namdi walked slowly, taking it all in.
Then suddenly, a loud, urgent voice cut through the air.
“Hey, handsome! Help me!”
He turned sharply.
And there she was, running straight toward him.
And behind her—a chicken. Fast, determined, and completely uncooperative.
“Hey, handsome! Help me!”
Namdi barely had time to process her voice before the chicken darted past him like a criminal escaping prison.
“What?”
Amara came running after it, her wrapper slightly lifted so she wouldn’t trip, her face a mix of frustration and determination.
“Don’t just stand there!” she shouted. “Catch it!”
Namdi blinked. “I—I don’t know—”
The chicken flapped wildly again, brushing against his leg.
That was it.
Instinct—or maybe pride—kicked in.
“I’m coming!” he said, suddenly running after it.
The chase was chaotic.
The chicken zigzagged through narrow paths, under wooden benches, between confused goats, and past children who instantly turned the whole thing into entertainment.
“Catch it, uncle!”
“Run faster!”
Amara laughed breathlessly as she chased after it. “You’re too slow!”
“I run companies, not poultry!” Namdi shot back.
“Today, you run poultry!”
He lunged, missed, and nearly fell.
“Careful!” she said, grabbing his arm briefly to steady him.
Their eyes met for half a second.
Then—
“The chicken!” she shouted again.
They ran side by side now, closer than before.
“What’s your name?” Namdi asked between breaths.
“Amara! Focus!”
“I am focused!”
“No, you are not. You’re running like someone who eats only in restaurants.”
“And you’re running like someone who owns this chicken!”
“I do own it!”
“That explains the attitude.”
“It’s stubborn like you.”
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