The morning sun stretched golden fingers across the rooftops of Bauchi as Emmanuel knelt beside his bed, whispering a prayer into the silence. The scent of akara and fried plantains drifted in from the kitchen where Mama Obadiah sang hymns while preparing breakfast.
"Father, thank You for today," Emmanuel said quietly, eyes closed, fingers woven tightly. "Thank You for life, for school, and for... her."
His voice faltered at the last word, and a soft smile played at his lips. He could already see her in his mind — Amina, sitting two desks ahead in her neat hijab, her eyes dancing with kindness and quiet mischief.
"Emmanuel! Breakfast!" his mother called from the kitchen.
He rose quickly, tucking his Bible under his arm, and made his way to the small table where his younger brother Paul was already devouring his food like a soldier who hadn't eaten in days.
"You're late," Paul said with a mouthful. "Dreaming again? About that girl?"
"Shut up, Paul," Emmanuel muttered, his cheeks reddening.
Mama Obadiah turned from the stove, frowning. "Girl? Which girl are you always dreaming about?"
Paul grinned. "Amina. The one who borrows his physics notes."
Emmanuel's mother's expression darkened. She set the pan down harder than necessary. "That Muslim girl?"
"Mama—"
"Don't 'Mama' me. I've seen her. The one in the hijab, always lingering around you. You are not to talk to her again."
Emmanuel stared at her. "But... she's just a friend. She's kind, she—"
"Kind or not, she's not one of us," Mama snapped. "There are plenty of good Christian girls in this town. You'll bring confusion into this house. Her people don't believe what we believe."
Paul looked between them, chewing slower now.
"Jesus taught us to love our neighbors—" Emmanuel began.
"Love doesn't mean mixing light with darkness," she cut in, her voice tight. "You're still a boy. You don't understand these things. I won't let you dishonor your faith or your family."
The silence that followed was heavier than any teasing. Emmanuel looked down at his plate, appetite gone, heat rising behind his eyes. He wanted to argue, to defend Amina's goodness, but the words lodged in his throat like stones.
At school, the weight of his mother's warning clung to him like dust. He barely noticed the crowded corridor or the jeering boys playing football with a plastic bottle. His eyes scanned the schoolyard until he found her — seated beneath the neem tree, her notebook open, her lips moving as she studied aloud.
He approached, hesitantly. "You're early," he said.
She looked up, smiling. "I like the quiet. Helps me think."
"You always say that."
"And it's still true."
They laughed, but his smile was thinner today, the easy rhythm of their friendship dulled by the echo of his mother's voice.
"You pray a lot," she said suddenly, her voice thoughtful.
"I try to," Emmanuel replied. "Why?"
"Just wondering. My uncle says we pray to different gods, but when you talk about your faith... it doesn't feel different."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe love speaks the same language."
Her gaze held his a little longer. But even then, Emmanuel felt the rift pulling at the edges — invisible but growing.
Then the bell rang.
Neither of them knew that in less than two weeks, everything would shatter. That the peace of their school would be broken by chaos. That the schoolyard would be littered with shoes, with notebooks fluttering like fallen leaves, and names whispered in grief.
But for now, there was light. There was laughter. And between them, something tender and fragile, caught in the crosswinds of belief and belonging.