OLAMIDE A Story of Hope Renewed

 

 OLAMIDE

A Story of Hope Renewed

By Olamide Ademola

      Sometimes, the greatest love stories start not with fireworks, but with the gentle light of hope. I met her at a small restaurant called Sojeun in Ilé Irúnmọlẹ̀. Her name was Olamide, but in my mind, she was already my new Àbẹ̀ní. She was a 100-level student of Dramatic Art. She looked so confident, poised and clearly at ease with herself. She sat on a wooden bench inside the small restaurant waiting for her meal to be serve. She never once looked my way; I was the one stealing glances, trying to catch her attention. The food she ordered  for that afternoon was Ẹ̀gúsí, ewédù, and Àmàlà. She ate with her hand not a spoon like other ladies on campus did. I found myself loving the way she enjoyed her meal. I had been to Sojeun only a few times before, but now I found myself going there more, hoping to see her again.

       It was one of my bosses from the Cultural Institute who introduced me to her and her two friends Deborah and another whose name I couldn’t remember. But Olamide’s name caught my attention immediately. We shared the same name, after all. We shared contact hope to get to know each other more. Later that day, I chatted her up on WhatsApp and told her that I would like her and her friends to join the musical troupe of my boss which is the reason my boss introduced them to me. She politely declined, explaining her busy schedule of rehearsals. She was invollved in the final year project play of her seniors and an ongoing performance called Ìjàyè, directed by a master’s student named Àkànjí. She was part of the orchestra.

     I kept checking on her via WhatsApp, and often we bumped into each other in the departmental classroom where I usually did my academic assignments. One afternoon, while we both sat in the departmental classroom, the usual quiet hum of students working around us. I noticed she was struggling with some sheet music tucked beside her books. The notes looked complicated, tangled like the stories she probably wanted to tell on stage. I cleared my throat softly, “Need a hand with that?” She looked up, surprised but not unkind. “It’s just a tricky piece for Ìjàyè,” she said, voice low but steady. “Àkànjí is very demanding.” I smiled, feeling a small connection spark.  “Àkànjí? I know him. We’ve been friends since his undergraduate days. He’s a very jovial guy but tough as nails when directing. He doesn't tolerate nonsense at all.” She smiled, a little more relaxed now. “Yes, exactly He doesn’t tolerate anything less than perfect.” I joked, “Well, that explains why you’re working so hard. He pushes people to their limits.” She chuckled, the sound like a secret breeze. We both laughed, the kind of laugh that loosens the tightness in your chest. For the first time, our conversation wasn’t through screens or shy glances. It was real and tangible. And though the words were few, something unspoken passed between us, I mean  a recognition and  a spark. After that day, the classroom didn’t feel so quiet anymore.

     The following week I went to the department to read, to catch up on my assignments, but also hoping to see her again. It was Monday night, the kind of quiet evening when the whole department seemed wrapped in focused energy. That was the day the final year project play officially started, and the air was thick with excitement and nervous anticipation. When I entered the classroom, there she was; Olamide, standing by the door with her friends. We exchanged greeting simple and warm. She started talking with her friend nearby, but when I called her over, she moved closer without hesitation. “Come sit here,” I said softly. She smiled easily, settling beside me like she belonged. We talked about the project, her assignments, the pressure of rehearsals. The conversation flowed naturally, free and effortless. After a while, she said she wanted to rest. I stayed by her side, asking about her experience, her hometown, her life beyond rehearsals. “I’m from Esie,” she said confidently, eyes bright. “A Yoruba town in Kwara State.” I smiled and said softly, “Esie, the land of the mysterious stone figures, the town where ancient stories breathe in every corner. A place known for its strength, resilience, and deep roots. Just like you.” She looked at me, surprised but pleased, as if hearing a part of herself spoken aloud for the first time. The classroom felt warmer that night. Two people, no longer strangers, just sharing a moment amid the noise of everything else.

      The minutes slipped by unnoticed as we sat there. The noise of the department faded into the background, leaving just the two of us in that shared space. I asked more about her family, about what it was like growing up in Esie how the town’s history and culture shaped her, her dreams, and her fears. She spoke freely, her voice steady and sure, painting pictures of the market days, the festivals, the warmth of her people. I told her about my own roots, my own stories, and she listened with genuine interest, occasionally teasing me for being too serious. We laughed easily, the kind of laughter that doesn’t need a reason. At one point, I noticed the tiredness in her eyes, the weight of all the rehearsals and responsibilities. “Maybe you should rest properly,” I said gently. “You’ve got a lot on your plate.” She nodded gratefully. “Yeah, it’s been intense, but it’s worth it.” As for me, I couldn’t say what was on her mind, but I knew this night left me with positive feelings and a quiet hope stirring inside me. Getting to know her more felt like discovering a new melody, one I wanted to keep playing. That night, sitting side by side, the classroom felt less like a place for work and more like the start of something I was eager to see unfold.

ANOTHER TIME TOGETHER 

     One quiet evening, we met again in the familiar classroom after hours. The hum of the building had softened to a gentle stillness. She was sitting by the window, playing absentmindedly with her twisted hair. Her fingers danced lightly over the strands, twisting and untwisting. I couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t spoil the hair,” I teased gently. She looked up, a small grin tugging at her lips. “It’s not properly made,” she said with a shrug. “I’m just trying to find a solution.” “Did you just do it ?” “Just two days ago,” she replied, eyes sparkling with a hint of mischief. “But it’s already acting up.” The twists framed her face perfectly, giving her a youthful glow like a fresh kid on the brink of something new and exciting. I thought about how next day was Children’s Day. A day for innocence, for fresh starts. Looking at her, I realized she carried that spirit with her every day. A quiet joy, a resilience that made her glow even in the dim light. And in that moment, I felt lucky to witness this small, beautiful piece of her world.

     As I watched her fiddle with those twists, a quiet thought crossed my mind like a prayer, really. If this feeling is a dream, I don’t want to wake up. Because it felt too real, too warm to be just a fleeting moment. There was something in the way she laughed softly, the way her eyes caught the dim light, that made me believe this was more than chance. I wanted to hold onto this feeling, to this hope and to her. And maybe, just maybe, she felt it too. The night wrapped around us like a gentle promise, and I found myself wishing for more moments like this simple, honest, and full of possibility. I didn’t know where this path would lead, but for now, I was content to walk it slowly, step by step with her.

     As the night deepened, we sat in comfortable silence like two souls quietly sharing the same space and the same hope. She looked at me then, eyes calm and steady, as if understanding the unspoken words lingering between us.No promises were made. No grand declarations, just a quiet knowing that something new had started like  a story waiting to unfold.

I thought about the past, about Àbẹ̀ní and how sometimes love doesn’t arrive the way you expect. But this time, it felt different. It felt like a fresh start like the gentle hands of Àbẹ̀ún my mother, guiding me toward something steady and real. I smiled softly, heart full. Because in meeting Olamide; my new Àbẹ̀ní, I found more than just hope. I found the courage to believe in love again. And that for now was enough.