*Chapter 1: Amina’s Life in the Village*

The first thing Amina heard every morning was not an alarm, but the rooster at Baba Tunde’s compound three houses down. It had a voice like it was personally offended by the sun’s delay. She would lie in bed for a few minutes longer, listening to it, and to the softer sounds that followed—the rustle of palm fronds against her zinc roof, her neighbor Mama Ngozi calling her goats back from the road, the distant hum of the motorbike that passed at 6:15 sharp, carrying students to the secondary school in town.

Her room smelled of old wood, dried hibiscus from the sachets she hung on the window, and the faint trace of jollof from last night’s dinner. The walls were painted a faded mint green, chipped at the corners where the rainy season had tried to claim them back. On one wall hung a poster of Fela Kuti, yellowed at the edges, and beneath it, a small shelf of books with cracked spines. _Things Fall Apart. The Joys of Motherhood. A tattered copy of Songbook for Beginners._ Music had always been her quiet rebellion.

Amina was twenty-four, and to most people in Epe Village, that meant she was running out of time to “settle down.” Her aunt, Auntie Folake, said it at least twice a week, usually while pounding yam in the kitchen. “A girl with your face and your voice should be married by now, Amina. Not hiding in that little room with your piano like it’s going to marry you back.”

The “piano” was a secondhand keyboard Auntie Folake had bought her three years ago from a trader in town, after Amina had spent six months teaching herself on the church organ. It was missing two keys, and the sustain pedal stuck if you pressed it too hard, but it was hers. In that room, with the door closed and a kerosene lamp flickering, Amina was not the quiet girl who helped Auntie sell akara at the market every Saturday. She was someone else. Someone whose voice didn’t shake when she hit the high notes. Someone who wrote songs about things she couldn’t say out loud.

Her days had a rhythm, predictable and gentle. Mornings at the market, helping Auntie. Afternoons at the community center, where she taught music to a group of children who ranged from seven to fifteen and had more energy than discipline. They called her “Miss Amina” with a mix of affection and mischief. Little Chinedu, who had a voice too big for his body, always asked her to teach him “the song from the radio.” Amina would smile and say, “We’re learning scales today, Chinedu. The radio can wait.”

Evenings were for the village. The air cooled, people sat outside on plastic chairs, and stories moved from compound to compound like smoke. Amina would sit on her low stool by the gate, mending clothes or writing in a notebook with a pen that was almost out of ink. Sometimes Old Papa Yusuf would walk by and stop to listen if she was humming. He never said much, just nodded and said, “That one has the voice of someone who has seen both rain and sunshine.” Then he’d shuffle off, and Amina would feel both seen and exposed.

Epe Village wasn’t on any map that mattered. It had one tarred road that ended at the town market, a borehole that worked three days a week, and a church that doubled as the town hall when there was a meeting. News traveled slowly here, unless it came on a phone with 4G. The closest thing they had to a celebrity was Kemi, who had gone to Lagos two years ago to work as a sales girl and now posted pictures in wigs and makeup that made the younger girls sigh and say, “One day.”

Amina didn’t dream of Lagos. Not really. Lagos felt loud and fast and hungry, a place that chewed people up and spat them out if they weren’t careful. She liked the way the harmattan dust settled softly on everything in December, making the world look muted and calm. She liked that everyone knew her name, and that if she forgot salt at the market, someone would call out, “Amina! Take mine, you’ll pay me back with a song!”

But there was a restlessness under the calm. It showed up at night, when the village slept and she couldn’t. She would sit at her keyboard, playing the same four chords over and over, trying to shape the feeling into a melody. The feeling didn’t have a name. It was like standing on the edge of something—like the village was safe, but small. Like her voice was meant for more than the community center and the church choir.

She had never told anyone this. Not Auntie Folake, who would say it was pride talking. Not her friend Bisi, who was already engaged and talked about wedding lace more than anything else. Not even Chinedu, who believed she could sing anything if she wanted to.

The only person who knew was her notebook. Pages filled with lyrics, crossed out lines, melodies sketched in a shorthand only she understood. One song, “Quiet Light,” kept coming back to her. It was about a girl who glowed in the dark but was afraid to let anyone see.

That evening, the village was unusually quiet. The power had been out since morning, and without the hum of the small generator at the clinic, the night felt deeper. Amina sat outside, her notebook on her lap, the moon bright enough to read by. She was humming, barely audible, when she heard the sound of a car engine struggling on the dirt road.

Cars rarely came this far into the village at night. The road was bad, and most people who had cars preferred not to ruin them on potholes. She stood up, curious despite herself.

Headlights cut through the darkness, and the car sputtered to a stop near the old iroko tree at the village entrance. The engine died, and for a moment, there was only silence. Then a door opened, and a voice muttered, “This is ridiculous.”

It was a man’s voice. Deep, frustrated, and not from around here.

Amina hesitated. Village rules were clear—you didn’t approach strangers at night. But curiosity, and the fact that the car was blocking the path to Mama Ngozi’s goats, made her step forward.

“Good evening,” she called out, keeping her voice steady. “You’re stuck?”

The man turned, and for a second, the moonlight caught his face. She didn’t recognize him, but there was something familiar about him, like a song she’d heard once and couldn’t place. He was tall, wearing a hoodie and a cap pulled low, and he looked tired in a way that had nothing to do with the bad road.

He stared at her for a moment, then sighed. “Yeah. Stuck. And lost. And probably about to be eaten by mosquitoes.”

Amina couldn’t help it—she laughed. It was soft, but it sounded loud in the quiet night.

“You’re not in Lagos anymore,” she said.

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You know Lagos?”

“I’ve seen it on TV,” she said. She walked closer, stopping a few feet away. “I’m Amina. I live down that path. Do you need help?”

He hesitated, then ran a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to get to… nowhere, actually. I just needed to drive. Away.”

Amina looked at the car, then at him. He didn’t look dangerous. He looked lost. And there was something in his eyes that reminded her of her own restlessness at night.

“The iroko tree is the only thing that knows this road,” she said. “Follow me. There’s a place you can turn around, and my aunt makes the best akara in the village. It’s cold now, but I can heat it up.”

He looked surprised. “You’d invite a stranger into your home?”

“In Epe, strangers become neighbors by morning,” she said with a small smile. “Unless you’re a thief. Are you a thief?”

“No,” he said, almost laughing. “Definitely not a thief.”

“Good. Then come on. Before the mosquitoes write their names on you.”

As they walked, the man didn’t say his name. Amina didn’t ask. There was something about the way he kept his head down, the way he seemed to shrink when a dog barked nearby, that told her he wasn’t here to be found.

In the village, people didn’t ask too many questions. They offered water, they offered food, they offered silence if that was what you needed.

Amina led him past her gate, past the compound where Chinedu lived, past the church where she sang every Sunday. Her life was small, but it was full. Full of children who sang off-key, of Auntie Folake’s loud laughter, of nights when the stars were so close it felt like you could reach out and touch them.

She didn’t know it yet, but the man walking behind her would change the rhythm of all of it.

For now, she just unlocked her gate and said, “Welcome to Epe Village. Don’t mind the rooster. He’s dramatic.”

Inside, the keyboard waited in the dark, and on her shelf, the notebook lay open to a page that read: _Sometimes the song finds you before you find the singer._

Market day in Epe Village had a rhythm all its own. By seven in the morning, the narrow road between the two rows of stalls was already a river of voices, smells, and color. Tomatoes piled high in red pyramids. Dried fish laid out on newspapers, their smell sharp enough to wake the sleepy. Women in head ties shouted prices that changed depending on how long you stood there. Children darted between legs, clutching coins for chin-chin and roasted groundnuts.

Amina moved through it like she always did—head slightly down, greeting people by name, helping Auntie Folake arrange the baskets of akara and moi. Her hands were dusted with flour, her wrapper tied tight around her waist, and her hair tucked under a faded blue scarf. She wasn’t invisible, but she didn’t stand out either. In Epe, that was how she liked it.

“Miss Amina! Save me two pieces for Chinedu after school!” Mama Ngozi called out as she passed, balancing a bowl of yams on her head.

“Only if he practices his scales today,” Amina replied, laughing.

She was reaching for a fresh batch of akara when the accident happened.

A shoulder bumped hers—hard enough to make her stagger. A basket wobbled, and a handful of pepper scattered across the dusty ground.

“Ah! Sorry, sorry!”

The voice was familiar. Not from the village. Low, a little rough, like he’d been talking too much or not enough sleep.

Amina looked up and froze.

It was him. The man from the iroko tree. The one who’d driven in last night with tired eyes and a voice that didn’t belong to Epe. He’d shaved now, but the hoodie was the same, the cap pulled low over his face. He looked out of place among the market crowd, like a painting hung in the wrong gallery.

He didn’t recognize her. Or maybe he was pretending not to. His eyes flicked past her to the spilled pepper, and he crouched immediately, scooping it back with his hands.

“I’m really sorry,” he said again. “I wasn’t looking where I was going. Are you okay?”

Amina swallowed. Her heart was beating faster than it had any right to. Nobody in the market was paying attention. To them, he was just another tall stranger with good manners. Nobody knew that the man apologizing to her in Yoruba with a Lagos accent was Jaden Cole.

She knew because of the scar above his left eyebrow. She’d seen it a hundred times on her phone screen, paused on music videos at 2 a.m. when she couldn’t sleep. Jaden Cole. The Afropop star with three Headies awards and a voice that could make a stadium go quiet.

“Miss?” He looked up, and his eyes met hers.

Recognition flashed across his face, but it was gone in an instant. Replaced by something careful. Guarded.

“I’m fine,” Amina said quickly, keeping her voice low. She crouched too, helping him gather the last of the pepper. “It’s just pepper. It washes off.”

“You’re sure?” He glanced around, then leaned in slightly. “You won’t tell anyone, right?”

Amina understood immediately. He wasn’t here to be found. If word got out that Jaden Cole was in Epe Village, the market would shut down in ten minutes. Phones would come out. The road would be blocked.

“My lips are sealed,” she said quietly. She stood, brushing dust off her wrapper. “But you should be careful. People here notice strangers.”

He followed her lead, standing and adjusting his cap. “Noted. Thanks. For not screaming.”

“I don’t scream,” Amina said. “Much.”

That earned her a small, real smile. The kind that made her remember why his songs sold out arenas.

Auntie Folake appeared then, wiping her hands on her apron. “Amina! What’s going on? Who’s this?”

Amina’s mind raced. If she introduced him, it was over.

“This is… Jide,” she said, the first name that came to mind. “He’s a friend of a friend. Visiting from Lagos. Jide, this is my aunt, Folake.”

“Jide,” the man said smoothly, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you, ma.”

Auntie Folake shook it, eyeing him up and down. “Lagos people. Always rushing and bumping into others. You’ll stay for akara? On the house, since you spilled pepper.”

Jaden—or Jide—looked at Amina, a silent question in his eyes. She gave the smallest nod.

“Only if it’s not trouble,” he said.

“No trouble,” Auntie Folake said, already handing him a paper plate. “Eat. You look like you haven’t eaten in two days.”

He ate standing by the stall, keeping his cap low, answering Auntie Folake’s questions with short, practiced answers. _Yes, I work in Lagos. No, I don’t have a wife yet. Yes, the traffic is bad._ Amina watched him, fascinated. This was the version of Jaden Cole the world never saw—polite, slightly awkward, eating akara with his fingers like he’d done it before.

When he finished, he wiped his hands and turned to Amina.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, so only she could hear. “For… this. For not making it a thing.”

Amina