The first time Emmanuel saw her, it felt like time hit the brakes—like even the wind had stopped mid-whistle to stare. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and he was late for a philosophy lecture he had every intention of sleeping through. His shoelace was untied, he was holding a half-eaten meat pie, and to top it all, he had toothpaste on his shirt collar—a gift he hadn't noticed from his morning multitasking.
Funmi appeared out of nowhere. Or rather, from behind the library, sunlight clinging to her like it had nowhere else to be. Her hair bounced with each step, her laughter floated into the air like a favorite melody, and her eyes—God help him—were dancing with mischief. She was surrounded by friends, but she walked like the main character of a scene he wasn't prepared for.
He stopped walking. Mid-bite. Mid-thought. And then, like the socially confused philosopher he wasn't, he stared.
"Bro, you alright?" a random guy nudged him, brushing past. "You look like you just saw your future and forgot how to blink."
"I think I did," Emmanuel mumbled, meat pie still poised near his mouth.
Funmi noticed him. Not immediately, no. But eventually, her gaze swept over her shoulder, probably wondering who the strange guy was who had frozen like a paused movie. Their eyes met.
And stayed.
She smiled. Not the polite kind, not the kind you give to beggars or lecturers or the aunties who ask if you're married yet. No. It was the kind that made his stomach tumble like badly cooked jollof rice—warm, unexpected, and absolutely dangerous.
He panicked. He tried to smile back and tripped over his own shoelace.
With all the grace of a wounded chicken, he stumbled forward, arms flailing, meat pie airborne. It landed—beautifully, tragically—right at the foot of a sculpture of some long-forgotten campus hero.
Laughter erupted from her group. Not mean, just... delightfully amused.
Funmi tilted her head and walked toward him. "You okay?" she asked, her voice like a Sunday morning—calm, unhurried, full of something sweet.
Emmanuel looked up from the ground, rubbing his wrist. "I was... uh... practicing a new technique for stress relief. It's called 'falling with style.' I read about it on—" He paused. "Never mind."
She laughed. "Well, you get points for commitment."
"I get points for embarrassing myself in public. That's... something."
She reached out and helped him up. "I'm Funmi."
"I'm Emmanuel. First of his name, destroyer of pastries, tripper of shoelaces."
She laughed again—louder this time—and something in his chest clicked. As if whatever clock ran the universe had just marked a moment neither of them would forget.
And somewhere, not too far away, the forgotten meat pie began to attract ants.
"Tell you what," she said, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. "Since you sacrificed lunch for the sake of entertainment, let me buy you a replacement."
"Oh wow. You're paying for the date already? You're very progressive."
"Who said it's a date?" she said, eyebrow raised.
He grinned. "Well, you're feeding me. That's step one in every Nigerian love story."
She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. "Let's just call it a peace offering. You know, for laughing at your... graceful descent."
They began walking toward the nearby canteen, his limp barely noticeable now.
"So, Emmanuel," she said, looking at him sideways, "do you always make this kind of entrance?"
"No. Only for women who smile like home and laugh like poetry."
Funmi blinked. "Wow."
He shrugged. "It's either that or talk about the weather. I figured I'd shoot my shot."
And just like that, a story began—softly, unexpectedly, in the time between an awkward fall and a shared laugh.