She gasped dramatically. “Excuse me?”
The chicken made a sharp turn. They both followed—and collided.
“Oof!”
“Ah!”
They stumbled into each other, nearly falling, but somehow stayed upright.
For a second, they just stood there laughing.
“You’re not serious,” Amara said, shaking her head.
“You’re the one who invited me to a marathon,” Namdi replied.
Finally, the chicken slowed slightly, distracted by some grains on the ground.
“This is our chance,” Amara whispered like a strategist.
Namdi nodded. “We attack from both sides.”
“You go left.”
“You go right.”
“No, you go right.”
“Why?”
“Because you look like someone who will fail on the left.”
He laughed. “Fine.”
They moved carefully. Slowly. Quietly.
Then—
“Now!” she shouted.
They both lunged.
This time, success.
Namdi grabbed the chicken, holding it awkwardly as it flapped wildly in his hands.
“I got it,” he said, surprised at himself.
Amara clapped excitedly. “Yes! Give it to me.”
He handed it over, still catching his breath.
“You see?” she said proudly.
“Teamwork.”
“Or my hidden talent,” he replied.
She rolled her eyes playfully.
As she adjusted the chicken under her arm, she finally looked at him properly.
Not just a glance this time.
A real look.
Her expression shifted slightly—curious.
“You’re not from here,” she said.
“What gave me away?” he asked.
“Everything,” she replied simply. “Your shoes, your accent, the way you almost fainted chasing a chicken.”
“I did not almost faint.”
“You almost fainted.”
He smiled. “Okay, maybe a little.”
She laughed again.
And there it was—that smile. Closer this time. Brighter. Unfiltered.
Namdi felt something shift inside him.
Extending his hand, he said, “Namdi.”
She looked at it for a second, then shook it.
“Amara.”
Her grip was firm. Confident. Not shy. Not impressed. Just real.
They began walking slowly now, no longer chasing anything.
“So what do you do, Namdi-who-runs-after-chickens?” she asked.
“A bit of business here and there,” he replied casually.
“A bit?” She raised an eyebrow. “You talk like someone who is hiding something.”
“Maybe I am.”
She smirked. “Mysterious man.”
“And you?” he asked. “Apart from chasing animals.”
“I sell meat in the market.”
“That explains everything.”
“What does that mean?”
“You’re clearly experienced with difficult customers,” he said, nodding toward the chicken.
She laughed loudly. “This one is not a customer. It’s a problem.”
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