Ela's Magnet

11/12/2025

Last Episode ...Salt Between Two Rivers

Years passed like pages turning in a book no one realized they were reading.

The construction site was long completed.
Mama Mfon’s shop had expanded twice—more shelves, more customers, and eventually a small free-standing kiosk.

Mfon completed her NYSC, then started work at a private school as an administrator.

During those years, life moved both quietly and loudly.

She married first.

A youth pastor from her church—gentle, calm, deeply rooted in scripture.
A man who fit into the space her heart was willing to open.
Her family approved.
The marriage was simple and beautiful, filled with songs, prayers, and the quiet certainty that she had chosen someone within her world.

They built a peaceful home—nothing flashy, but steady like sunrise.
Children came.
Responsibilities came.
Yet peace remained.

She didn’t forget Izoduwa, but the memory became soft, like a chapter bookmarked but never reread

Izoduwa’s life went differently.

He too married—not long after she left the shop permanently.
A beautiful Edo woman chosen through family gatherings and subtle cultural matchmaking.
Their wedding was grand.
Coral beads.
Drums.
Ceremonial processions.
Everything expected of an Edo son.

For a while, they were happy.
They had two children, bought land, built a house.

But harmony is not always guaranteed by tradition.

Differences grew—tiny ones at first, then bigger, until the silence between them became a language of its own.
Arguments became frequent.
Accusations.
Resentment.

Ten years later, their marriage collapsed, quietly but conclusively.

He moved into a smaller apartment.
He focused on his work, on his children, on repairing the pieces of himself that had broken quietly over the years.

And in the quiet nights when he cooked in silence or scrolled through old photos, her memory—the Efik girl who once handed him cold water—returned like a whisper he didn’t ask for.

One evening, everything changed.

He was scrolling through Facebook, trying to mind his business, when he saw her.

A face from the past.

She looked the same, yet different.
Older, but gentler.
Her smile still carried that soft warmth he remembered from Mama’s shop.

Without thinking too much, he sent a friend request.

It took three days before she accepted.

When she did, his heart knocked against his ribs—not with romantic hope, but with the bittersweet shock of revisiting a road he once walked barefoot.

He messaged her.

> “Mfon… it has been a long time.”

She read it.
Didn’t reply immediately.

Hours later, she responded politely.

> “Yes. I hope you are well.”

The conversation was short, almost formal.
But he felt something crack open inside him.

They chatted occasionally—nothing inappropriate.
Work.
Children.
Life.
Just old acquaintances catching up.

Yet with every message he sent, he felt the pull of the past.

A pull he knew was dangerous.

A pull she knew was deadly.

One evening, he confessed something simple but heavy.

> “You were one of the purest people I ever met.”

Her heart tightened.
This was the kind of message a married woman had no business receiving.

She didn’t reply.

He waited.

The next morning, she sent a longer message—long enough that he knew she had thought deeply before writing it.

> “Izoduwa, we had something once… something pure, but something I had to walk away from.

I am married. Happily.
You are single again.
I don’t want our communication to become something that will make me fall where I once stood strong.”

He read the message three times.
Each sentence hit like truth wrapped in grace.

She continued:

> “I respect you.
I care about your wellbeing.
But I cannot keep talking to you like this. Not because of you—because of me.
I know my boundaries, and I won’t cross them. Please understand.”

Then she ended with:

> “I wish you peace, healing, and joy. But I must let go of this friendship before it becomes a temptation.”

After sending the message, she did something hard—
something discipline demanded,
something loyalty required,
something many people aren’t strong enough to do.

She blocked him.

Not out of hate.
Not out of pride.
But out of fierce self-control.

Izoduwa stared at the blank screen.

He felt the closure in his chest.
The finality.

And strangely… he respected her more in that moment than he ever had.

“She was always disciplined,” he murmured to himself.
“That’s the woman I knew.”

He leaned back, exhaled deeply, and let the years finally settle.

Life continued.

They never spoke again.

But sometimes, when rain fell heavily or when he saw a woman arranging goods in front of a shop, he remembered her.

Not with regret.
Not with longing.

But with gratitude for the small but honest chapter they once shared.

TO THE READERS — Let’s Talk

Do you think Mfon was right?
Was she justified to block him completely?

Should she have married Izoduwa back then?
Or would their cultural and spiritual differences have torn them apart later?

What do you think?

Your thoughts matter.

LESSONS FROM THE WHOLE STORY

Here are powerful takeaways woven into this series:

1. Attraction alone is never enough. Values, beliefs, lifestyle direction — these matter MORE than butterflies.

2. Cultural and religious differences can’t be swept under the carpet. Love is beautiful, but marriage is daily work. Shared foundations make the work lighter.

3. Boundaries protect blessings.
Mfon didn’t block him because she was harsh. She blocked him because she valued her home, her peace, and her covenant.

4. Not every good person is your person. Two good people can still be a bad match.
Compatibility is not the same as chemistry.

5. Some connections are lessons, not destinations. Their paths crossed for growth, not marriage.

6. Healing requires letting go.
Izoduwa didn’t stalk the past.
He respected her choice and rebuilt himself.

7. Godly discipline is not old-fashioned — it’s wisdom.
Many fall because they overestimate their strength.
Mfon stayed standing because she knew her limits.

THE END.

02/12/2025

For days after their conversation, Izoduwa visited the shop less often.
Not because he didn’t want to come…
but because he didn’t trust his heart not to cross the boundary she had drawn.

And Mfon noticed.

Her mother noticed too.

“Mfon, your Engineer customer don reduce him visits o,” Mama teased one morning while arranging loaves of bread. “Hope you never do your usual forming holier-than-thou and chase the young man?”

Mfon pretended to be busy restocking sachet water.
“Mama, leave me.”

“I no go leave you,” Mama pressed. “The way that young man dey look you… Hmmm. If na so Efik men dey look woman, you for don marry since.”

“Mama!” Mfon hissed, cheeks warm.

But Mama only laughed.

Inside her heart, though, the laugh faded quickly.
She liked Izoduwa.
He was respectful, well-behaved, never arrogant despite being an engineer.
But she also understood her daughter’s boundaries.
Mfon’s moral compass wasn’t flexible.
Not for love,
not for money,
not for culture.

Still… something was changing.
You cannot hold fire and not feel heat

Meanwhile, on the construction site…
Izoduwa stood with two foremen, supervising a foundation dig when one of the workers nudged him.

“Oga, we no see you for Mama Mfon shop again,” the man said. “Hope say una never quarrel?”

Izoduwa wiped sweat from his forehead.
“No quarrel.”

The worker exchanged a knowing look with the others.

“Oga, no vex, but… that girl like you.”

He stiffened.
“How do you know?”

“Oga, we sabi. Woman wey no like man no dey laugh with am the way she dey laugh with you. And she dey always bring your drink cold—extra cold. If na other customer, she no dey check fridge twice.”

The men laughed lightly.

But Izoduwa didn’t.

He felt that familiar tightening in his chest—the mixture of longing and restraint.

“She likes me,” he murmured, “but she cannot have me.”

The workers didn’t understand, so they let it go.

But the words followed him even after work.
They followed him when he entered his room.
They followed him when he removed his bead bangles.
They followed him when he lay down at night.
They followed him into sleep.

The knowledge that she cared,
yet chose distance…
It hurt in a slow, honourable, dignified way.

Two weeks later, life intervened.

The rainy season came early.

Floodwater made the roads slippery.
Work slowed.
Sales slowed.
People stayed indoors more.

One afternoon, after a particularly heavy downpour, Mfon stood inside the shop rearranging chin-chin and biscuits when she heard someone cough outside.

It was a rough, dry cough.

She stepped out and saw an elderly man, drenched, leaning heavily against a tree stump. His wrapper was soaked. His hands trembled.

“Papa! Are you okay?” she asked, rushing toward him.

The man tried to speak but only coughed harder.

Without hesitation, she guided him inside the shop, sat him on a stool, and gave him warm water from a flask. Mama joined her and the two women attended to him gently.

“Where is your family?” Mama asked.

The man pointed toward the direction of the construction site.
“My son works there…”

Who could it be?

A few minutes later, a young labourer stormed into the shop—panicked.

“Ah! Papa! I don dey find you since rain start!” he cried.

Then he saw Mfon and Mama helping his father.
He fell to his knees.

“Thank you, thank you! God bless you!”

The rain had stopped, so the boy and his father began the slow walk back to their cluster of huts behind the site.

But as they left, the labourer turned back.

“Oga Engineer must hear this,” he said with conviction.

And he did.

The Next Morning

The sun was bright.
The air smelled of wet sand.

Izoduwa walked towards the shop with purpose, holding something long wrapped in brown paper. He had not visited in two weeks.

Mfon noticed him immediately—her heart skipped, but her face stayed controlled.

“Good morning,” she said gently.

“Good morning,” he replied, voice warmer than before.
“Your kindness… I heard about what you did yesterday.”

She shrugged.
“It was nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing,” he said quietly.
“You helped an old man. A stranger. You sheltered him. You comforted him.”

Mfon said nothing.
But her heartbeat softened.

“And I…” he continued, looking directly at her, “I am grateful. Because he is one of my men.”

“Oh?” she said.

“Yes,” he nodded. “His son told me.”

She looked away shyly.

He cleared his throat.
“I brought something for you.”

Her eyes widened slightly.
“For me? Why?”

He hesitated, then extended the long brown parcel.

She didn’t open it yet.
She only stared at it.

“What is this?”

“An umbrella,” he said simply.

Her lips parted.

“Every time it rains,” he explained, “you stand outside to cover your mother’s goods with nylon. I’ve watched you many times. You always get drenched.”

She blinked quickly.

“So I bought the strongest one I could find. Industrial-level. It won’t spoil easily.”

Her throat tightened.

He wasn’t buying her love.
He wasn’t buying her weakness.
He wasn’t trying to break her discipline.

He was simply… being thoughtful.

“I can’t collect expensive gifts from you,” she whispered.

“It’s not expensive.”

“That’s not the point,” she said.

He nodded.
“I understand.”

He didn’t push it.
Didn’t beg.
Didn’t insist.

Instead, he leaned the umbrella against the shop wall.

“If you don’t want it,” he said quietly, “use it for the shop. Not for yourself.”

That way, she could keep her boundary intact.

She swallowed hard.

“You are… too kind, Izoduwa.”

“Not kind,” he murmured.
“Just a man who cares.”

Their eyes met,
and something inside her trembled.

But just as gently, she broke the moment.

“Izoduwa… please. I don’t want us to become anything that will make both of us suffer later.”

He inhaled sharply, nodding once—slow, resigned, but respectful.

“I know,” he said.
“And I also know you mean it.”

She looked away, blinking rapidly.

He stepped back.

“If you ever need help—any help at all—just call me.”

“I won’t trouble you,” she replied softly.

“It won’t be trouble,” he corrected gently.
“It will be honour.”

Then he turned and walked away.

She watched him go again,
the umbrella leaning quietly against the wall beside her,
a symbol of the care he gave
and the love she refused to indulge.

Stay tuned for Episode 5, the last

23/11/2025

The weeks rolled by, and Izoduwa found reasons—real or invented—to visit Mama Mfon’s shop. Sometimes he came for cold yoghurt. Other times for pure water. Sometimes for cabin biscuits. And sometimes… for nothing at all.

But Mfon acted like she didn’t notice, even though she did.

By now, the site workers had stopped teasing him. They had already concluded in their minds that “Oga Izoduwa don love that Efik girl.”
They called her “Madam Engineer wife” when he wasn’t around.
A few bold ones even called her that behind him.

But Izoduwa pretended deafness. He simply continued patronising the shop with a calm dignity that made people mind their business.

One breezy Thursday evening, after most workers had returned to their quarters, Izoduwa stopped by again.

Mfon was seated on a low stool, her legs stretched out, snapping open a fresh carton of bottled drinks. The sun was lowering behind the nearby buildings, bathing the shop in a warm orange glow.

She looked up when she heard his steps.

“Good evening, Engineer Izoduwa,” she said, smiling.

And there it was again—that thing in her voice. Warm. Respectful. A little shy. A little cheerful. It was the kind of tone a woman used for someone she wasn’t sure she should like, but somehow… still liked.

“Good evening, Mfon,” he replied, standing a bit awkwardly, as he always did around her. “Hope the day was not too stressful?”

“Normal,” she said, shrugging. “How is the worksite? I heard they poured concrete today.”

He blinked. “You know about concrete?”

Mfon laughed. “My mother’s shop is opposite a construction site. I’ve been listening to una since I was seventeen.”

The sound of her laughter pulled something soft inside him. He sat on the wooden bench outside the shop.

She handed him a bottle of cold water without him asking.
He collected it, their fingers brushing lightly.

Neither of them reacted, but the air around them changed.

“Mfon, can I ask you something?”

She paused, cautiously.
“Ask.”

He cleared his throat, uncertain.
“I’ve noticed… you always wear your small necklace. The gold one with the tiny cross. You never remove it.”

She touched the necklace subconsciously.
“It’s important to me.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “That is why I asked.”

She looked at him properly now—longer than usual.
“Engineer, is there something you want to say?”

Izoduwa inhaled deeply. His voice dropped, lower and more sincere.

“Yes. But I don’t know if I should.”

“Say it.”

He looked down at the water bottle, rubbing his thumb along the cold plastic.
“Mfon… I like you.”

Her heart thudded once—slow but heavy.

“I’ve liked you since the first day you chased that boy away from the shop because he refused to pay for zobo,” he added, smiling slightly.
“You didn’t know I was watching. But I was.”

She couldn’t stop the shy smile that escaped.

But she also couldn’t stop the tightening in her chest—the reminder of a line drawn long before she ever met him.

“Engineer Izoduwa…” she began softly.

He interrupted her gently. “Just Izoduwa. Please.”

She nodded.
“Izoduwa, you’re a good man. A kind man. But you and I… we are from different worlds.”

He leaned forward slightly.
“Different worlds don’t scare me.”

“But they scare me,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

“What scares you, Mfon?”

She looked away.

He waited.
He had always been patient with her.

Finally, she spoke.

“My mother taught me never to play with my faith. And never to marry a man whose heart does not face the same direction as mine.”

His brows knitted gently.
“And what direction is that?”

“The path of Christ,” she said simply.

A quiet moment stretched between them.
Not tense.
Not hostile.
Just… heavy with truth.

Izoduwa exhaled slowly.
“You believe I can’t walk that path?”

“I believe it is not a path a person should walk because of another human being,” she answered.
“It should come from the heart. Your heart.”

He didn’t argue. Didn’t pretend.

That was one thing she liked about him—his honesty.

“I won’t lie to you,” he finally said.

“My people’s ways are different. I grew up inside the traditions of my fathers. We honour our ancestors. We keep certain rites.”
He looked up at her, eyes steady.
“And I have never seen a reason to stop.”

“I know,” she replied softly.

“And yet…” he continued, voice lowering, “I still find myself drawn to you. Stronger than I expected.”

Her fingers tightened around the carton she was opening.

“I feel the same,” she whispered before she could stop herself.

He froze.

She froze.

For a few seconds, neither breathed.

Then she quickly looked away, embarrassed.
“I didn’t mean—I mean—I shouldn’t have said—”

“Mfon,” he said gently, “you said the truth.”

She swallowed hard.

“And because of that truth,” she said, “I need to be careful.”

Silence. And then—

“Your family,” he said quietly.
“They won’t accept me?”

“They won’t understand you,” she corrected.
“And even if they tried… what of your people? Will they understand me?”

He didn’t answer because the truth was bitter.

His people valued lineage.
An Edo man bringing home an Efik Christian woman who didn’t speak their language?
A woman who wouldn’t join their traditional rites?

It would raise eyebrows.
Questions.
Resistance.
Pressure.

And she knew it too.

The orange evening light dimmed.
Their faces became silhouettes in the fading sun.

“Izoduwa,” she finally said, her voice steady but soft with pain, “some feelings are true but not meant to grow.”

He nodded slowly.
Even if his heart disagreed.

He stood up.

“So… this is the line?”

“For now… it’s the boundary I have to keep.”
Her eyes glistened, but she didn’t look away.
“It doesn’t mean I don’t care. It just means I refuse to lose myself.”

He respected that more than she knew.

“Then I won’t pressure you,” he said, his voice firm, even though something inside him cracked.

He took one slow step back, then another.

She watched him go, wishing he would stay.

He walked away, wishing she would call him back.

But neither moved.

Here are two hearts drawn to each other, two cultures pulling them apart, and a silence thick with everything they couldn’t say.

Would Mfon change her mind? Would Izoduwa compromise?

Episode 4 tells it all.

Keep tabs to get the final gist.

19/11/2025

The following weeks came with their usual rhythm: the sun rising early, the dust settling late, the steady noise of cement mixers and shouting labourers. But for Izoduwa, each day gained meaning from one simple thing—the moment he would cross the road and step into Madam Ekaete’s shop.

He didn’t have to ask for Mfon; she was always there.
He didn’t have to search for her voice; it always floated over the noise.
He didn’t have to pretend interest in certain items; he had already memorized the shelves.

Yet he still pretended.

And every day, the soft spark between them grew—not recklessly, not openly, but like a fire hidden under ash.

One morning, he arrived earlier than usual. The sky was still grey, the air still cold. He found Mfon sweeping dust from the front of the shop while her mother was inside sorting provisions.

“Good morning,” she said, looking up with mild surprise.

“Morning,” he replied, hands in his pockets. He didn’t know whether to smile or act casual. He ended up doing something in-between, a confused half-smile that made her chuckle softly.

“You came early today,” she observed.

He nodded. “Work started early. They’re pouring the foundation today.”

“Ohhh.” She leaned on the broom handle. “So you came to buy something before heading there?”

He hesitated. “Yes… no… actually—yes.”
He didn’t know what he was saying.

She tilted her head. “Which one should I pack for you?”

“The, uh… yoghurt?” he said, though he normally didn’t drink yoghurt at 7:30am.

She raised one brow, amused. “The small one or the big one?”

“The… very big one,” he said confidently, even though that large bottle always made his stomach uncomfortable.

She passed it to him, smiling. “You will manage.”

He opened it and took a quick sip, if only to hide the embarrassment on his face.
It was too sweet.
He swallowed it anyway.

Mfon watched him for a moment, then asked, “Why do you always come here?”

He almost choked on the yoghurt.

“Me? I—well—I buy things. For the site. For energy.”

She nodded slowly, eyes narrowing playfully. “Hmm. You buy groundnut yesterday. You buy biscuit day before. You buy two packets of noodles on Monday. You buy four pure waters every day—even when it’s raining.”

He scratched the back of his neck.

“And now yoghurt in the morning?” she continued.

He swallowed hard. She wasn’t mocking him; she was simply noticing everything.
She had been noticing him.

“I like the shop,” he finally said. “It’s calm.”

She blinked. “Calm? With all the shouting?”

“You make it calm,” he said, softer than he intended.

The broom in her hand stilled. A faint blush coloured her cheeks. She looked away quickly at the ground, sweeping imaginary dust. She didn’t know what to say, and she didn’t trust herself to reply something that would encourage him further.

She was silent long enough that he cleared his throat and forced a change of subject.

“Your mother is inside?”

“Yes,” she said. “She’s arranging milk.”

“I should greet her.”

Mfon nodded, still avoiding his eyes.

Inside the shop, Madam Ekaete greeted him warmly.
“Izo! My engineer! My number one customer!”

He laughed, bowing slightly in greeting. “Good morning, ma.”

“You came early today,” she said, eyes twinkling. “My daughter is sweeping outside, abi?”

He nodded.

“And you are buying yoghurt? Morning yoghurt?” She smirked knowingly. “Engineer, if na my daughter bring you here every day, no shame. Just talk. We no bite.”

“Ma…” he muttered.

“I have watched you,” she continued, lowering her voice. “You are respectful, well-behaved. But be careful with my daughter’s heart. She no dey do boyfriend anyhow. That girl dey fear God well well.”

His eyes softened. “I know. That’s one thing I like about her.”

Madam Ekaete looked at him thoughtfully, then stepped closer. “Izo, you get wife?”

“No, ma.”

“You dey find wife?”

“Not… actively,” he lied.

She chuckled. “Engineer, if you wan follow that one talk, you must talk with sense. She no go follow any man wey no dey fear God.”

He nodded. “I respect that.”

But Madam Ekaete wasn’t finished.
She pointed at the beads on his wrist.

“That thing you wear—they no be church thing. That one no be Bible. That one no be pastor give.”

He looked down at the beads, then met her gaze without flinching.
“No, ma. It is from home. From my father. It is who we are.”

She sighed. “I like you, but my daughter—she is strong in her faith. And she no go change am for anybody. Even if she likes you small.”

His heart skipped.
“She likes me?” he asked before he could stop himself.

The woman smiled. “I no say she talk am. But I be her mother. I dey see things.”

That sentence lingered in his chest long after he left the shop.

Three days later, during lunch break, he found her alone behind the shop, washing plastic crates. Her mother had gone to buy stock, and the place was quiet except for distant construction noise.

“Let me help you,” he said.

“No, I’m almost done,” she replied.

But he took a crate from her anyway, dipping it into the soapy water.
Their hands brushed for a moment.
Neither of them spoke.

After a long silence, she said, “My mum talked to you, abi?”

He froze. “Maybe.”

Mfon sighed. “She likes putting mouth in things that don’t concern her.”

“This one concerns her,” he replied gently.

She didn’t argue.

He rinsed the crate slowly. “She said you fear God.”

“I do.”

He glanced at her wrist. A small cross bracelet glinted in the sunlight.

“You wear your belief, just like I wear mine,” he said.

She looked at his beads. “Yes… but our beliefs don’t go in the same direction.”

He inhaled deeply. “But you like me?”

Her shoulders stiffened. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

She bit her lip, refusing to look at him. “Izo… even if I like you… it can’t go anywhere.”

He stared at her, heart sinking. “Why not?”

“Our foundations are too different,” she whispered. “And I won’t compromise my faith. Not for anyone.”

The words pierced him—not sharply, but slowly, like something dragging through his chest.

She wiped her hands and stepped back.

“I respect you,” she said. “But that boundary can’t shift.”

He nodded, swallowing hard. “I understand.”

But understanding didn’t ease the ache tightening inside him.

He didn’t know, not yet, that this was only the beginning of a heartbreak that would span years.

He also didn’t know that some promises—once spoken—become the seeds of pain that both people must carry.

And he didn’t know that the small fire warming his chest would soon become a flame he could no longer contain.

Want to know what happened next?

Type 'Episode 3' in the comments

18/11/2025

17/11/2025

The harmattan that morning felt like powdered dust drifting through the air, soft enough to settle on skin but heavy enough to sting the eyes. Izoduwa stepped off the tricycle at the junction and took a moment to look around. The construction site where he supervised labourers was just ahead, but something else had begun to give this street a different kind of importance.

A small provision shop sat across from the site—its wooden shelves packed with everything site workers needed to survive the day: chilled drinks, sachet water, yoghurt, bread, groundnuts, garri in transparent containers, biscuits, chewing gum, razor blades, tins of milk, packets of noodles, ci******es, phone cards, and all the small things that keep people going when they work long, sweaty hours.

From early morning, the place always buzzed. Labourers shouted across the road, asking for “pure water five!” or “one cold malt!” A wheelbarrow boy might stop for biscuits. A bricklayer would come to buy garri, groundnut, and bottled water—the perfect “site lunch.” The shop smelled of cardboard, dust, nylon, and the coolness of drinks from the freezer humming in the corner.

But the real pull of the shop was not the goods.
Not for Izoduwa.

It was the girl behind the counter.

Her name was Mfoniso, though her mother shortened it to Mfon whenever she needed something urgently. She had just finished her degree and was waiting for her NYSC posting. For now, she was helping her mother, Madam Ekaete, run the shop.

She didn’t look like someone who belonged in a noisy roadside stall. There was a gentleness to the way she arranged items, wiping dust off sachet-tomato packs and lining up drinks in perfect rows. She dressed simply—clean tops, modest jeans or skirts, hair loosely tied back—but even in simplicity, she had a quiet dignity that made her stand out.

The first time Izoduwa walked into the shop, it wasn’t intentional. He had only come in to buy cold water after settling a clash between two workers. But then he saw her—head bent slightly, counting change for a customer, her soft Efik accent rising above the noise. Her “thank you” sounded like something carefully wrapped in cotton wool.

He looked at her once and knew he would return.

And return he did—almost every day.

Sometimes he bought yoghurt. Sometimes a packet of groundnuts. Sometimes a drink he didn’t even like, just for the excuse to stand there. Other days, he bought more than he could finish—biscuits, gala, anything—just to prolong the small moments when she handed the items to him with that calm, pleasant expression.

“Good morning, sir,” she always greeted.

“Good morning, Mfon,” he replied, trying to sound casual, even though her voice made something warm settle in his chest.

At first, their conversations were light:

“How much is the big yoghurt?”
“Do you have cabin biscuit?”
“Your pure water dey cold?”

But there were subtle glances—soft, shy, respectful. She noticed how his eyes held sincerity, how he always said “please” and “thank you,” how he never pushed his luck or tried to cross any lines. Many site men acted familiar with her, sometimes too familiar, and she handled them with firm politeness. But Izoduwa was different. He behaved as if she was someone deserving of honour.

Her mother noticed.

Mothers always notice.

One afternoon, when Izoduwa came to buy garri and groundnut “for energy,” Madam Ekaete folded her arms and eyed him.

“Izo, you buy something today, you go still buy tomorrow. My daughter go soon go service o! Before your money finish for here.”

Mfon quickly bent over the freezer, pretending to rearrange drinks.
Izo cleared his throat, shy but amused.

“Madam, person no fit buy small things again?”

“You fit,” the woman replied, smiling knowingly. “But make sure na the thing you dey buy—no start to dey price my daughter join the garri.”

“Ma, abeg!” Mfon said softly, mortified.

He laughed—quiet, warm, unforced.
And that was when the affection deepened, though neither of them said it.

There were small moments—tiny, fragile moments—that hinted at something more:

The day he helped her lift a heavy crate of drinks and their fingers brushed lightly.
The day she noticed he had a small scratch from work and quietly handed him antiseptic wipes.
The morning she asked, “Have you eaten?” and he felt something shift inside him.

He started looking forward to those interactions more than the construction work.
She found herself smoothing her hair or adjusting her scarf when she saw him crossing the road.

Yet, despite these small stirrings, Mfon maintained her distance.
Not coldness—just discipline.

Her faith shaped her behaviour. She wasn’t raised to encourage undue closeness with men, especially men whose beliefs didn’t align with hers. And she knew, from little things he had said, from the beads around his wrist, from the stories he hinted at, that Izoduwa was a traditional worshipper. He spoke of ancestors with pride, of culture with reverence. There was no shame or secrecy in his voice.

She respected that.
But she also knew it made him Someone She Should Not Get Attached To.

So each time their eyes lingered, each time she felt a flutter of warmth, she suppressed it gently.

Izoduwa, on the other hand, felt himself drawn in deeper.
He admired her gentleness, her poise, her integrity.
She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t trying to attract anyone.
She simply was—and that was enough.

He found himself thinking of her during breaks, wondering what she was doing, if she was resting, if her mother was stressing her too much. He liked that she wasn’t impressed by his position as a site supervisor. She treated him like a normal customer—no fawning, no over-respect.

But she didn’t know the depth of his thoughts.
She didn’t know he talked about her to his closest friend.
She didn’t know he saw her as the kind of woman a man could build a home with.

She didn’t know he wasn’t just buying yoghurt, garri, or cold malt.

He was buying moments—
moments to see her,
moments to hear her voice,
moments to dream.

Moments that, in another world, might have grown into a love story.
But in this world…
they were the beginning of something sweet, delicate, and painfully temporary.

What's that?

Watch out for Episode 2... Salt Between Two Rivers.