Chapter 4 The Language of Shyness

Chapter Four

Kemi had always believed that words lived best in books.

They behaved better there - neatly arranged, thoughtful, without the heat of confrontation. In books, love was slow and poetic. In real life, it was clumsy, loud, and far too quick. And when people spoke, they often didn't mean what they said.

This was why Kemi rarely spoke unless she had to.

In the classroom, her voice barely rose above a whisper. In the market, she stood behind her mother like a shadow. At home, she spoke in yeses and nods. Even in her dreams, she walked quietly, listening more than she ever dared to say.

But now, words were beginning to press against her ribs - gentle at first, then urgent, like seedlings searching for sun. They were mostly about him.

Corper Tunde.

Since their brief exchanges, her mind had been a spinning reel of moments replayed in different variations: What if I had said something more? What if I had asked a question? What if he had asked me one?

That Thursday, she stood outside the dusty classroom that had been borrowed for the Literary Circle. Her hands trembled slightly as she clutched her notebook to her chest. She was fifteen minutes early, yet already considered turning back.

She could pretend she had forgotten. Or that she was sick.

But her legs didn't move.

Inside, she could hear the shuffle of paper. Then his voice.

"You're early."

She turned slowly. He was seated on one of the wooden desks, legs crossed casually, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a copy of Things Fall Apart in his hand.

Kemi swallowed.

"I... I didn't want to be late," she said, barely audible.

"I'm glad." His smile came easily, but not too wide. "You're the first one."

She stepped in, cautiously, as if entering another world. The air inside the room was warm and filled with the scent of chalk and sun-warmed books. A single louvered window was propped open, letting in slanted light.

"You read poetry, right?" he asked.

Kemi nodded.

"Good. Today we'll start with Soyinka."

Other students trickled in, mostly the curious ones - boys who wanted to impress Tunde, girls who wanted to sit close. But when the session began, they quieted, caught by the rhythm in his voice as he read aloud:

"I shall speak for the hornless deer...

and the voiceless throat of the buried."

He didn't explain every line like most teachers. Instead, he asked questions that pulled the room into thought.

"What do you think it means to be voiceless?" he asked, glancing at the students. "Do you ever feel that way?"

No one answered at first.

Then, Kemi raised her hand - slowly, as if raising it might break her.

Tunde looked surprised, but pleased. "Yes, Kemi?"

She spoke, barely above a breath. "It means... being full of things to say. But having nowhere safe to say them."

The room fell quiet.

Then, Tunde nodded slowly. "Yes," he said. "Exactly that."

And just like that, something shifted.

After the session ended, the other students left in clusters, chattering loudly, some still laughing over how Bisi mispronounced "metaphysical." But Kemi lingered, waiting until the room emptied.

Tunde remained at the desk, organizing his notes.

"You were brave today," he said without looking up. "I noticed."

Kemi felt heat rise to her cheeks. "I don't usually speak."

"I know." He looked up. "But when you do, you say things that matter."

No one had ever said that to her before. Not her teachers, not her mother, not even her grandmother. People noticed her quietness, yes - but rarely honored it.

She nodded, unable to form a proper reply.

"I'm glad you're here," he added. "Keep coming. The club needs voices like yours."

She walked home that day not on her feet, but on air.

At the compound, her mother was pounding pepper with a stone grinder while Iya Ronke sat nearby, slicing okra and humming an old folk song. The air smelled of firewood and fermented locust beans.

"You're late," her mother said, not unkindly.

"Literature club," Kemi replied softly.

Her grandmother looked up, eyes narrowing. "Is that what the corper is teaching now - books that will make girls foolish?"

Kemi opened her mouth, then closed it again. She wanted to say that books didn't make girls foolish. That some books helped girls find the truth in themselves. That one book, or one person, could change the way a girl saw the world.

But she said nothing.

Instead, she helped stir the soup.

That night, under the baobab tree, Kemi wrote in her notebook:

"I am a voice the world forgot to listen to.

But he heard me.

Even if it was only once."

And for the first time in her life, she wondered what it would feel like to be truly known.

Not just seen.

But understood.