Obianuju

Salisu could walk now without limping.

He tested it in quiet, careful ways. Stretching out his leg when he stood, rolling his shoulder before lifting his bag, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he didn’t fully trust the ground beneath him. Or maybe… he didn’t trust his body just yet.

I watched him press his heel into the earth. He winced a little, then stood straighter. This time, there was no flinch. No pause. Just a quiet decision.

He looked up and caught my eye. He gave the smallest nod.

I didn’t smile, but my fingers tightened slightly around the dried leaves in my lap.

He didn’t need them anymore.

---

That morning was quiet and hot. The air felt thick, like it hadn’t moved all night.

Ikechukwu crouched by the fire pit, adding dry grass to the pile of grey coals with slow, practiced movements. The flames flickered to life again, soft and low.

Salisu sat across from him, cleaning his knife with a piece of cloth. He didn’t speak. Didn’t even glance up. The sound of metal against cloth was steady, almost like a rhythm.

I crushed the leaves in my hands a little harder than I needed to. My fingers felt restless.

“We’re almost out of firewood,” Ikechukwu said after a moment, eyes still on the fire. His tone was even, but there was something sharp beneath it. Like flint waiting to spark.

“We still have yesterday’s pile,” I said quietly.

“Not enough to last till evening.”

“I’ll come,” Salisu said, standing up.

Ikechukwu looked at him. “You sure?”

Salisu tilted his head slightly. “I’m walking, aren’t I?”

Their eyes met for a moment—steady, unreadable. Not warm. But not hostile either.

“Fine,” Ikechukwu muttered. “Let’s go.”

---

The path curved around the old banana grove, where the thick trunks bent like tired arms holding the sky.

I walked behind them—far enough not to interrupt, but close enough to hear their voices and the crunch of leaves under their boots.

For a while, they didn’t speak. The only sound was the dry undergrowth snapping beneath their steps and the low rustle of wind moving through the trees.

Salisu bent down, picked up a branch, and added it to the basket on his back. I saw him wince just a little, but he kept going.

“You sure you’re okay for this?” Ikechukwu asked.

“Didn’t you already ask that?” Salisu replied, glancing over his shoulder.

“I mean it.”

“And I meant what I said.”

Another silence followed. A bird cried in the trees above us. Farther in the forest, a monkey screamed once, then went quiet.

Ikechukwu picked up a long, bent stick and smacked it against a nearby tree to test its strength. It snapped with a clean sound. He nodded and tossed it into his pile.

“You’re not the only one carrying stuff, you know,” he said, his tone low but pointed.

Salisu looked at him sideways. “What are you trying to say?”

“Just saying… we all have reasons. You’re not the only one with weight on your shoulders.”

“I never said I was.”

“No,” Ikechukwu replied, softer now. “But you act like it sometimes.”

Salisu didn’t answer. Instead, he reached down, picked up a heavy log, and lifted it with both hands. His jaw tightened as he adjusted the weight.

“Careful,” Ikechukwu muttered, not looking directly at him.

“I’ve got it,” Salisu said, steadying the load.

They stood like that for a second—both holding branches, both still. The wind picked up and stirred the leaves. They didn’t speak. They didn’t look at each other. But something changed in the silence.

It wasn’t peace exactly.

But it wasn’t war either.

---

When we came back, the basket was full. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, throwing long shadows across the clearing.

Ikechukwu dropped his load beside the fire pit and stretched his arms behind his back. Salisu lowered his bundle more slowly, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“Here,” I said, offering him the flask of water.

He took it and nodded. “Thanks.”

Ikechukwu didn’t say anything, but he looked at Salisu for a moment longer than usual before walking off toward the tent.

I watched them both.

Something between them had shifted.

---

That night, the fire flickered warmly, casting golden light on our small group.

Amara had already fallen asleep, curled up beside her bag. Ngozi sat cross-legged, humming softly while braiding her hair. The younger boys crouched in the dirt nearby, playing a quiet stone game.

Ikechukwu sat on a low log, sharpening his blade with slow, even strokes.

Salisu walked over and sat next to him—no words, no hesitation.

No one looked surprised.

No one shifted away.

Ikechukwu didn’t glance up. But he didn’t move either.

I sat across the fire from them, pretending to check my dried herbs again, but I kept glancing their way.

“Your knife’s getting dull,” Salisu said after a while, nodding toward Ikechukwu’s blade.

“You volunteering to fix it?” Ikechukwu asked without looking up.

Salisu pulled a sharpening stone from his pocket. “Pass it here.”

Ikechukwu hesitated, then handed the knife over.

They didn’t talk after that. Just the quiet sound of the stone sliding along metal, again and again.

But the silence between them had changed. It wasn’t cold anymore. It felt full—heavy with things they didn’t say but maybe didn’t need to.

When the fire crackled louder, Ikechukwu nudged a stick back into the flames. A few seconds later, Salisu did the same.

Their movements matched—steady, unspoken, easy. Like two people who had stopped guarding themselves against each other, and started guarding something together.

It wasn’t friendship. Not yet.

But it wasn’t a fight anymore either.

And for now, that was enough.

---

Later that night, I lay down beneath the trees. The forest hummed softly all around me—the crickets, the wind, the low whisper of leaves.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we might make it through this.

Maybe not without scars.

But not alone either.