Bumping into the music star in the market

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

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