THE FIRST SPARK

This phone has truly exhausted me. The same Infinix I’ve been managing since my 100 level at LASU last year, it was the speaker, crackling like a faulty radio whenever I played music or took a call. Now the screen has turned into a full spiderweb after one careless drop at home.

I should have replaced it long ago, but money doesn’t grow on trees. The SIWES stipend barely covers anything, household contributions take whatever is left, and a new phone sits far from my list of priorities. So repair it is, My second trip with this stubborn device to TechPro on Alof Street, just two streets away from our compound.

It was a Saturday. The Lagos heat pressed down heavily, the kind that slows everything to a crawl. By early afternoon, I finally stepped out, dressed in a simple black T-shirt and black jeans light enough for the weather, dark enough to feel like armour. My short hijab was pinned neatly over my braids.

The sun caught my fair skin almost immediately, but black was still my colour. It made me feel less exposed as I moved through the familiar streets.

I walked with my shoulders straight, hands tucked into my pockets, stride firm and direct. People never failed to comment.

“Fatimah, you walk like a man.”

Or, with a laugh, “You should eat more beans so you can grow tall.”

Beans.

The irony never failed to amuse me. Beans was my favourite food. I ate it often enough to know it wouldn’t change anything.

I usually smiled when they said it, sometimes even laughed along, but the words lingered longer than I let on. Being small made people feel free to speak. Being quiet made them think I didn’t mind. I hated the feeling of being cataloged, measured, and weighed by strangers. That same cold scrutiny, that constant awareness of my limitations, was what shaped my entire life.

Money had always been a quiet pressure in my life, not loud enough to announce itself, but heavy enough to shape every decision. I calculated. I managed. I stretched what little I had until it almost snapped, then held it together with patience.

At home, nothing was ever truly settled. Conversations turned sharp too easily. Arguments repeated themselves like a stuck record. I learned early that the safest way to survive was to stay observant, stay quiet, and keep control of myself even when everything else felt chaotic.

Control mattered to me, not the loud kind, but the quiet kind. The kind where I chose when to speak, when to leave, when to react. I didn’t like depending on anyone; dependence always came with disappointment. If I could manage things on my own, even a tired phone, even my emotions, then I felt steady.

Standing under that relentless sun, heading out to repair something I should have replaced long ago, reminded me how limited my choices really were. It wasn't a weakness, I told myself. It was reality. Still, reality didn’t stop the familiar weight from settling in my chest.

So I kept moving. Forward. Controlled. Black clothes, steady steps, quiet distance. If I couldn’t control my circumstances, at least I could control myself.

TechPro was still in its familiar spot, the door propped open to catch whatever faint breeze dared to wander in, the generator humming its usual steady tune. Inside, the three apprentices were busy as always one testing a charger, another cleaning a circuit board, the third organising tools.

Today there was a different face behind the counter: a tallish man with a neatly trimmed beard, wearing a navy polo shirt that fit well across his broad chest and a face cap tilted casually. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone who owned the place.

“As-salamu alaykum, sister,” he greeted, looking up with an easy smile as I approached.

“Wa alaykum salam,” I replied, sliding the phone across the counter.

He picked it up, examined the spiderweb cracks, and nodded. “This one will need a new screen. We don’t have the original in stock right now.”

He turned to one of the apprentices, a lanky boy in a faded T-shirt. “Go to Jankara market quick. Buy this Infinix screen original, not china and pick up the other parts we need for the customers coming later.”

The boy grabbed some cash from the drawer, nodded, and hurried out.

The owner turned back to me. “It won’t take long. Maybe twenty, thirty minutes. Have a seat.”

I perched on one of the plastic stools near the wall, keeping my eyes lowered at first, the slight shyness that still catches me with unfamiliar faces but I warmed up soon enough as the minutes stretched.

He wiped his hands on a cloth and leaned casually against the counter. “Hot today, isn’t it? This heat is something else.”

I nodded. “Yes, it is.”

“You stay around here?” he asked, voice light, conversational.

“Okepopo,” I said, keeping it short.

“Ah, close by. I’m Ahmed.” He smiled again. “You come here often for repairs?”

“Sometimes,” I answered, neutral. I wasn’t in the mood for long talk, but I didn’t want to seem rude either. Small talk was harmless.

He kept it going asking about the phone brand, whether I was studying or working, light questions that didn’t dig too deep. I gave short, polite answers, letting the conversation flow without giving much away. Control, always.

The apprentice returned sooner than expected, slightly out of breath, carrying a small plastic bag of parts. Ahmed took the new screen, tested it quickly, and got to work. His hands moved with practiced ease, replacing the cracked one in minutes.

When he was done, the screen looked brand new. He handed the phone back, his fingers brushing the edge of mine for the briefest moment.

“How much?” I asked.

“Fifteen thousand,” he replied.

I nodded, pulling out my phone. “Please, what’s the account number? I’ll transfer it now.”

He recited the digits slowly, and I typed them in carefully, double-checking the name Ahmed Adewale before hitting send. The transfer went through with the familiar chime.

“Thank you,” I said, picking up the phone and slipping it into my pocket. I turned toward the door, ready to step back into the heat.

“Sister, wait” he called just as I reached the threshold.

I paused and looked back.

He smiled, a little less casual this time. “Abeg, you fit drop your number? Just in case any issue comes up later with the screen.”

It was a common enough line in these kinds of shops, but the way he said it eyes lingering a moment longer than customer service required told me it wasn’t really about the screen.

I knew exactly what it was.

Still, I gave it anyway.

He typed the digits in quickly, then glanced at the screen where my name had appeared with the transfer notification. “Fatimah,” he said, saving the contact with a small nod. “Thank you, Fatimah. Take care.”

I stepped out, walking briskly back down Alof, past the hawkers calling their wares and the old weathered walls that had stood longer than most of us had been alive.

When I pushed open the compound gate, the voices hit me instantly.

“Shey oko ni iwo yi?!” Mother’s voice rang out, high and furious, carrying through the open windows and down the corridor. “Is this what a husband does?!”

The reply came sharp and loud from Father. “Shey iyawo ni iwo yi?!” he shot back, his tone heavy with anger and sarcasm. “Is this what a wife does?!”

Their words bounced off the walls, overlapping in the familiar rhythm of an argument that had played out too many times before. Money, respect, blame always the same cycle, just wrapped in different accusations.

Neighbours on their balconies swept the same patches of floor over and over, eyes flickering toward our flat, whispers drifting like smoke. Heat rose to my cheeks beneath my fair skin. Everyone in the compound knew our business; no one ever said it to my face. I hated the exposure more than the argument itself.

There was no way I was going inside right then. I pulled my earbuds from my pocket, slipped them in, turned the volume up until Wizkid drowned everything else, and cut through the back alley to Aisha’s place one street over.

Aisha had been my friend since secondary school back when we were both quiet girls trying to disappear in the back row of class. She was tall and dark-skinned, the kind of tall that made teachers pick her for every errand, but she never liked the attention. Introvert like me in some ways, though her quiet came from strict parents who watched her every move. Yet, strangely, they always welcomed me. Whenever I showed up at their door escaping noise, escaping questions they let me in without fuss, offered food, and pretended not to notice the storm I carried behind my eyes.

She opened the door that evening with her usual calm expression, phone in hand, already knowing it was me from the knock.

“Fatimah,” she said simply, stepping aside.

I brushed past her into the familiar sitting room cooler, quieter than anywhere else on the Island right then and dropped onto the old sofa.

“Bored,” I said quickly, the same lie I always used.

She didn’t press. She never did.

We scrolled through TikTok for hours, laughing softly at silly videos, talking about nothing that mattered. I stayed quiet at first, letting the peace of her house settle over me, then eased into the conversation once I felt safe.

Eventually, as evening began to cool the air outside, my phone buzzed in my hand, WhatsApp notification.

An unknown number:

“Assalamualaikum sis, Ahmed from TechPro . Phone working well now? Just checking.”

The owner himself following up.

My mood was still low from the echoes of home, but the message was harmless. A lot of guys did this after fixing something checked in once or twice, then tried to stretch the conversation. I had seen it plenty of times before. He owned his own small business, Muslim, Yoruba, the kind of man aunties would approve of on paper. Safe. Predictable.

I could reply, keep it light, let him think he was making progress. It would give me something to do, a small distraction from the boredom and the noise at home. When I got tired of it, I would simply stop replying. No drama, no explanations. I had done it before.

No real feelings involved. Feelings only complicate things.

I typed back:

“Alhamdulillah, it’s perfect. Thank you.”

Sent.

A small, sharp thrill stirred in my chest.