Chapter 3: Halima, Like Morning Dew

If Tunde and I were childhood friends, then Halima was like morning dew on mango leaf—close, shining, but never truly yours.

It was a saying the elders used for first loves: the ones you see shining from afar, never daring to touch. For Tunde, Halima was that quiet, gentle presence, always on the edge of his dreams. I sometimes caught him staring at old yearbooks, his eyes softening at her picture.

We met in secondary school.

A muddy compound behind Mama Sade’s akara stall, with cracked walls and the smell of burning bush. Faded school uniforms, the aroma of akara frying in the morning air. We were the children of privilege, brought to school in drivers’ cars, our shoes always shined by the gate man. Halima arrived on the back of an okada, her school bag worn but her spirit undimmed.

Unlike us, who came from well-off families, Halima was the struggling student in our class.

She lived in a cramped flat near Oke Bola, shared with her mother and two brothers. Yet, every morning, she greeted everyone with a smile and shared her meat pie even when she had little. Some of the girls mocked her second-hand shoes, but she never let their words stick.

She was pretty, did well in her studies, always cheerful and hardworking.

Her laughter could brighten the darkest day, and her report cards hung on the principal’s noticeboard every term. She helped teachers carry books, tutored weaker students, and never forgot anyone’s birthday. Even the strictest teachers softened when she entered the room.

From the moment she transferred to our class, she caught Tunde’s eye.

He started coming to school early, waiting by the assembly ground just to say good morning. Sometimes, he’d pretend to need help with homework just so she would talk to him. The other boys teased him, but Tunde just smiled—a smile different from the one he showed the rest of us.

I once thought Tunde only liked Halima because she was new.

I dismissed his crush as puppy love, something that would fade after a term or two. After all, we had seen new students come and go before. But Tunde’s eyes always found Halima in the crowd, no matter where she stood.

Until the day Halima was wrongly accused of stealing the class dues.

The news spread like wildfire: someone had taken the PTA contributions. Before anyone could even check the facts, fingers pointed at Halima—the outsider, the one with no powerful family. I felt a cold anger in my chest, knowing how quickly people could turn.

Some girls dragged her into the girls’ toilet.

They hissed at her, pulling her by the sleeve, calling her names. 'Omo, see as you dey form for us—oya, confess!' The toilet was far from the main building, always damp, with broken tiles and graffiti scratched into the doors. I heard the commotion from the corridor and ran as fast as my legs could carry me.

When I heard about it and rushed over, those girls had already left.

Their laughter echoed down the hall, cruel and triumphant. I pushed open the creaking door, my heart pounding. The harsh scent of disinfectant stung my nose.

In the empty toilet, only Halima was left, her shirt taken off.

She sat on the edge of the sink, shoulders hunched, bare skin dotted with goosebumps. Tears streaked her cheeks. Her bra hung loosely, twisted awkwardly around her chest. I felt my own face burn with anger and shame on her behalf.

I took off my jacket, ready to go in and help, when I saw Tunde come out from one of the stalls.

He stepped out quietly, clutching her crumpled shirt and skirt in his hands. His face looked drained, all the colour gone from his cheeks. He avoided my gaze at first, as if he too felt out of place.

He was holding Halima’s clothes in his hands.

The fabric was shaking in his grip, his knuckles white. For a split second, I wondered what people would think if they saw him here. The world has a way of twisting even the kindest intentions.

Halima had her back to him, her voice shaking with tears: "You should go. If someone sees us, wahala go too much."

Her words came out in a trembling whisper, thick with fear. She pulled her arms around herself, trying to cover up. Her voice sounded so small, so helpless, I wanted to gather her up and shield her from the world.

Tunde answered, "Then we won’t explain. Just wear your clothes first."

He tried to sound brave, but his voice cracked. The way he stood—rigid, uncertain—showed just how much he cared. I could see he wanted to help, but also wanted to respect her space.

They both stood there for a moment, but in the end, Halima gave in.

She nodded, wiping her face with the back of her hand. She took the shirt from Tunde, her fingers shaking. The air was thick with things unsaid.

But for some reason, she couldn’t fasten her bra.

Her hands fumbled with the clasp, frustration written all over her face. She bit her lip, trying not to cry again. I knew that feeling—the panic when your dignity is slipping away.

Without thinking, Tunde stepped forward. "Let me help."

He sounded so awkward, but his eyes were steady. He moved carefully, like a boy afraid of breaking something precious. I watched, surprised at his tenderness.

He looked serious, his movements clumsy and awkward.

His fingers shook, and he kept glancing away, as if the toilet walls were about to sprout eyes. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat.

After he finished, I clearly saw his ears turn so red, like pepper just dey burn am.

He couldn’t even look up at Halima, and I stifled a smile despite myself. If embarrassment could kill, Tunde would have fainted on the spot. Na real wah.

When he turned around, Tunde met my eyes.

He froze, eyes wide as bushbaby’s. In that instant, I saw his fear—not of me, but of the story people would tell if they saw him here. He swallowed hard, then tried to gather himself.

A flash of panic crossed his face, but he quickly calmed down and walked over to me:

He squared his shoulders and gave me a look, part warning, part plea. His voice was quiet, urgent, the kind that made you listen even if you didn’t want to.

"You came just in time. Help her."

He said it gently, as if he was handing over something fragile. For the first time, I realised Tunde was braver than I’d given him credit for.

He walked out of the toilet, then came back to remind me, "Abeg, keep this matter to yourself."

He hovered at the door, glancing up and down the corridor. "Don’t let anyone hear about this," he whispered. "Halima no deserve more trouble." I nodded, tucking his secret away in my heart.

I agreed.

I picked up Halima’s shirt and helped her dress. She sniffled, mumbling thank you. We didn’t talk about what happened, but in that moment, I silently promised myself to always stand by her side. Some wounds never heal, but friends can help carry the pain.

But by closing time, trouble don wear shoe—everybody for school dey talk.

But that very afternoon, a photo of Tunde helping Halima get dressed...