A short story from palixia.com

When the Harmattan Softened

Lagos never slept, but on some nights it slowed down just enough to let feelings catch up.

That was how Daniel met Zainab—on a night when the city paused.

The harmattan had come early that year, dusting the air with cold and memories. Daniel was standing outside a roadside café in Yaba, waiting for a bus that never came on time. His phone battery was dead, his mind heavy with things he couldn’t explain to anyone. Life after university hadn’t turned out the way he imagined. Dreams felt expensive. Hope felt like something for other people.

Then he heard her laugh.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was soft and sudden, like a secret escaping.

He turned and saw her standing a few steps away, struggling with a stubborn takeaway pack. She was dressed simply—jeans, a hoodie, a scarf wrapped loosely around her hair. Nothing about her screamed for attention, yet everything about her demanded it.

“Sorry,” she said, noticing his stare. “This thing doesn’t want to open.”

Without thinking, Daniel stepped closer. “May I?”

She nodded.

Their fingers brushed as he helped her tear the seal. It was nothing, really—but it felt like something.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m Zainab.”

“Daniel.”

They stood there awkwardly, two strangers pretending they weren’t suddenly curious about each other.

“My bus is late,” she said.

“Mine too.”

They laughed, and just like that, the night softened.

They started seeing each other after that—not in a planned way, but in the way Lagos relationships often begin. One meeting turned into two. Two turned into shared rides, long walks, and conversations that stretched past midnight.

Zainab was studying architecture, balancing school with helping her mother run a small fabric shop in Mushin. Daniel worked at a media company that paid little but demanded everything. They came from different worlds, but somehow spoke the same emotional language.

They talked about everything—faith, fear, family pressure, and the quiet panic of becoming adults in a country that didn’t make it easy.

“Do you ever feel like Nigeria is testing us?” Zainab asked one night as they sat on the steps of her apartment building.

“All the time,” Daniel replied. “Like an exam we didn’t prepare for.”

She smiled. “And yet, we’re still here.”

That was Zainab. Hopeful without being naive. Strong without trying to prove it.

Daniel fell in love slowly, then all at once.

But love in Nigeria was never just about two people.

It was about expectations.

Zainab’s mother noticed first. She asked questions that sounded harmless but carried weight.

“Is he Muslim?”

“No, Mama.”

“Does he have plans?”

“Yes.”

“Plans don’t pay rent.”

Daniel’s own family had opinions. His mother liked Zainab but worried aloud.

“Inter-religious relationships are hard, my son.”

“I know,” Daniel said.

“Love is not always enough.”

That sentence followed him everywhere.

The breaking point came during harmattan again, one year later.

Daniel lost his job.

The company downsized. Apologies were given. Promises were made. None of them fed anyone.

He didn’t tell Zainab immediately. Pride held his tongue hostage. When he finally did, she listened quietly, her eyes filled with concern rather than disappointment.

“We’ll figure it out,” she said.

But weeks passed. Stress crept in. Arguments replaced laughter. The future became a question neither of them could answer.

One evening, Zainab said softly, “My mother has someone she wants me to meet.”

Daniel felt the words before he understood them.

“Are you saying—”

“I don’t want to,” she interrupted. “But I can’t keep fighting everyone. I’m tired.”

He nodded, pretending to be stronger than he was.

“Do what you have to do.”

They hugged goodbye under a sky heavy with dust. It felt final, even though neither of them said the word.

Time did what it always did—it moved forward without asking permission.

Daniel took freelance jobs. Struggled. Grew. Zainab focused on school, avoided places that reminded her of him, learned how to breathe through longing.

They didn’t speak for months.

Until one evening, Daniel published a short essay online about love, pressure, and choosing yourself in a difficult country.

Zainab read it at midnight.

She cried.

The next day, she sent him a message.

Are you still writing?

He replied almost instantly.

Always.

They met again at the same café in Yaba.

They looked older. Stronger. Still familiar.

“I didn’t marry him,” Zainab said, before Daniel could ask.

“I didn’t stop loving you,” Daniel replied, before she could speak.

Silence settled between them, warm and careful.

“This won’t be easy,” she said.

“I know.”

“My mother—”

“I know.”

“Our worlds—”

“I know,” he repeated. “But I also know what it feels like to lose you.”

She reached across the table and held his hand.

Outside, Lagos roared back to life. Danfos shouted. Generators hummed. The city resumed its chaos.

But inside that small café, two people chose each other again—not because it was easy, but because it was true.

And sometimes, in Nigeria, love survived not by being loud…

@palixia.com

…but by refusing to leave.