She inhaled the faint scent of engine oil and soap that clung to the rag. Strangely, it wasn’t unpleasant. They stood in companionable silence, watching the rain dance in sheets of silver. The smell of wet earth and petrol mingled in the air. After a while, a goose spoke, his voice low and even above the rain. This city teaches you patience.

You can’t rush a storm or a dream. You just work little by little until the sun comes back. Evelyn turned slightly toward him. She was used to men who talked about money and deals, not storms and dreams. There was a quiet strength in his words, something steady and unpretentious. When the rain finally softened to a gentle drizzle, Agu stepped aside.

“It should be safe now,” he said. “But the road will be slippery. Walk carefully.” Evelyn handed the rag back, her fingers brushing his for the briefest second. “I will.” “And thanks again,” she murmured, a hint of warmth in her voice. Agu watched as she walked into the fading drizzle, her white jumpsuit glowing softly in the gray light. Chick nudged him from the doorway with a grin. So a day start, he teased.

But Agu only smiled, his heart quietly certain. The day had given him no promises, only a beginning. And in that simple exchange, between the clang of tools and the song of the rain, something unspoken had already taken root. The following weeks unfolded like a quiet unplanned dance. Morning after morning, the sounds of Inugu, the vendors calls, the honking Danfo buses, the metallic percussion of daily hustle, formed the backdrop of a slow but steady connection between Evelyn and Agu.

At first, their exchanges were brief, a polite nod when she passed, a simple good afternoon when he caught her eye. But small habits have a way of weaving themselves into the fabric of a day. And soon Evelyn realized she anticipated those moments almost unconsciously. Whenever Evelyn visited her friend Kemmy’s boutique, she found her gaze straying toward the corner where Agu worked.

Sometimes he was bent over an engine, sleeves rolled high, the senus of his forearms tightening as he loosened a stubborn bolt. Other times he sat on a wooden stool sketching quick diagrams of car parts on a scrap of cardboard for his apprentice. What surprised Evelyn wasn’t just his skill, but the pride and patience with which he worked.

There was nothing hurried about him. No sense of desperation. The way he spoke to his customers with respect, without flattery, hinted at a confidence that came from within, not from possessions. She caught herself noticing the small details. How he always wiped his hands before shaking a client’s.

How he made sure his apprentice ate before the long afternoon hours. how his laughter was never too loud, but always warm. It unsettled her. These were not qualities she had associated with a man who worked with grease and oil. One evening, as twilight draped the streets in amber, Evelyn again found herself near the workshop.

The day’s heat had given way to a soft breeze that teased the hem of her peachcoled dress. Agu was closing for the day, locking up his toolbox when he spotted her. “You again,” he said with a grin that felt like sunlight after a long rain. Do you always appear when the sky is prettiest? Evelyn felt a smile tug at her lips before she could stop it.

Do you always say things like that to every woman who passes? Only the ones who make the evening look dull by comparison, he replied, his eyes twinkling with a mischief that was gentle rather than bold. She laughed, an unguarded sound that startled her. It had been a long time since a man’s words made her laugh without effort. That night they walked together toward her street. The city hummed around them. Distant highlife music from a bar. The hiss of roasted corn on roadside grills.

The steady were of okadas. For once, Evelyn didn’t hurry. Au told her stories of his village, of climbing guava trees as a boy, of fixing his father’s bicycle with nothing but wire and sheer will. His voice carried the easy rhythm of someone who had nothing to prove.

Evelyn listened, sometimes asking questions, sometimes just letting his words wrap around the night air. When they reached her gate, Agu paused. “I’m glad the rain brought you to my workshop the other day,” he said. Evelyn tilted her head. “Because some meetings,” he answered with a quiet smile, “are more than chance.” She opened her mouth to respond, but found no words.

He tipped his cap and turned away, leaving her with a strange flutter in her chest. Over the following days, Evelyn’s thoughts betrayed her. She found herself replaying his laughter, his steady eyes, the way he listened without interrupting. Yet each time her heart leaned forward, her mother’s voice echoed sharply, “Never marry a poor man. Poverty is bitter.

” Au, for his part, never pressed. He continued to greet her, to offer small kindnesses, fixing her mother’s sputtering generator without charge, carrying her groceries when he happened to see her at the market. He never boasted, never demanded. His patience was like the slow growth of a tree, steady, unshaken by wind or rain.