Amina locked her bedroom door, clutching the sleek iPhone in her palm. The device felt alien yet thrilling—its glass surface cool against her skin, its weight like holding a year's worth of school fees. She traced the Apple logo with her thumb, marveling at its absurd luxury. *Ifeanyi gave this away like it was nothing.*
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She tapped the screen, gasping when it lit up. The village preacher's rants echoed in her mind: *"Phones are white man's juju! They steal your soul with invisible fire!"* She rolled her eyes. The man feared radios, called bicycles "metal demons," and swore electricity was witchcraft. But Amina had read about power grids in physics. This was science, not sorcery.
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Her fingers fumbled across the icons. She opened the music folder first—rows of foreign names flashed by: *Taylor Swift. Celine Dion. Michael Jackson.* The tinny speakers crackled as she played a song, the English lyrics blurring into a melodic hum. She couldn't decipher the words, but the rhythm coiled around her, strange and intoxicating.
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Then she found the photos.
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Scrolling through, she glimpsed towering cities—Paris with its iron lattice tower, Berlin's graffiti-clad walls, Nairobi's skyline at sunset. Ifeanyi stood in each one, grinning in crisp suits or casual wear, his confidence radiating even through pixels. But it was the *other* folder that made her breath hitch.
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Recycle Bin.
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She tapped it.
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The first image loaded slowly: Ifeanyi shirtless on a beach, his back to the camera, muscles rippling like carved mahogany. The next showed him facing forward—broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, his abdomen a defined map of ridges and shadows. His skin glowed under the sun, damp with seawater or sweat, his afro slightly tousled. Amina's throat went dry. She'd seen village boys bare-chested during farm work, but *this*... this was like the Greek statues from her history textbook, if the gods had been forged from fire and cocoa butter.
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Her fingers moved on their own, swiping to the next photo—then the next. Each one more daring than the last. A low heat pooled in her belly. She glanced at her door, then yanked her bedsheet over her head, cocooning herself in the glow of the screen.
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Under the fabric's veil, the world shrank to just her, the phone, and the hammering of her heart. She traced Ifeanyi's collarbone on the screen, her own fingers brushing lightly over her neck, then lower—
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***Tap-tap.***
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Amina jolted, nearly dropping the phone. The sheet slipped away as a second knock came at her window. She shoved the iPhone under her pillow, her pulse roaring in her ears.
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She yanked the curtain aside.
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Emeka stood outside, shirtless again, his lean frame silhouetted by moonlight. Two pathetic chest hairs curled above his sternum—*two!*—like misplaced spider legs. Amina scowled, torn between slamming the window and yanking them out for interrupting her.
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"What?" she hissed.
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Emeka grinned, oblivious. "I saw your light on. Wanted to check if you—"
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"Shhh!" Amina glanced toward Ifeanyi's hut, then Grandma's. "You'll get us both killed!"
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But she opened the window anyway.
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Two Boys, One Window
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Emeka's eyes zeroed in on the sleek iPhone box on the floor like a vulture spotting carrion. He bent to pick it up. "*Oya*, what's this?"
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Amina snatched it from his hands, shoving it under her pillow. "My dad's new phone. I just kept the box because... it's cute." Her voice was tighter than a drumhead.
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Emeka wiped biscuit crumbs off his mouth with the back of his hand, squinting at her. "*Cute?* Since when do you care about phone boxes? Let me see the—"
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"*No!*" She kicked his shin lightly. "Why are you even here? And stop eating my biscuits like a starved goat!"
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Emeka popped the last biscuit into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously. "*Mchew!* You're *oyibo* now? '*My biscuits*'—as if I didn't share my *akara* with you last week."
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Amina folded her arms. "That *akara* was stale."
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"Liar! You ate *three*—"
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***Tap-tap-tap.***
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Both froze. Another knock at the window.
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Emeka's eyes bulged. "*Oshit!*" He dove under the bed, scattering biscuit crumbs like breadcrumbs for a very obvious trail.
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Amina yanked the curtain open, expecting Emeka's nosy little brother. Instead, Ifeanyi stood outside, his grin sharp enough to slice through the night.
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"*Amina*," he purred.
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Her stomach did a backflip. "Ifeanyi! What are you—?"
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"Shhh." He pressed a finger to his lips, then dragged an old wooden garden box—half-rotted and still clumped with soil—beneath her window. He dumped the dirt unceremoniously onto her mother's prized hibiscus, stepped onto the box, and hoisted himself up until they were eye-to-eye.
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Amina recoiled. "Are you *mad*? My father will skin you alive if he sees you!"
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Ifeanyi leaned on the windowsill, unfazed. "Then you'd better let me in."
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"*No!*" She glanced toward the bed. Emeka's foot was sticking out. "I mean—not now. It's late."
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Ifeanyi's gaze flicked to the biscuit crumbs leading to her bed like a criminal's confession. His smirk deepened. "*Ah.* I see."
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"See *what*?"
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"Nothing." He held up his hands, but his eyes glittered with mischief. "Just wanted to check if you liked your gift."
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Amina's cheeks burned. The phone under her pillow felt radioactive. "It's... fine."
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"*Fine?*" Ifeanyi clutched his chest in mock agony. "I steal my father's iPhone, risk exile to the village of *No Electricity*, and all I get is *'it's fine'*?"
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Amina fought a laugh. "You *stole* it?"
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"Borrowed. Permanently." He winked. "Did you find the *special* folder?"
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Her pulse spiked. Under the bed, Emeka let out a muffled *"Eh?!"*
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Ifeanyi's head tilted. "Was that a rat?"
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"*Yes!*" Amina slammed the window shut—but Ifeanyi caught it, his fingers curling around the frame.
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"Wait." His voice dropped, suddenly serious. "Tomorrow. Meet me at the river. Noon."
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"Why?"
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"You'll see." He released the window, stepping off the box. "Wear something... *less*."
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Amina gasped. "*Ewu!*" She hurled a pillow at the glass, but he was already gone, his laughter floating back like a challenge.
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Under the bed, Emeka emerged, covered in dust and betrayal. "*Special folder?!*"
ns216.73.216.191da2
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