The rain had just ended. The streets were still wet and shining under the light that was giving off by the street lamps. The atmosphere carried the smell of frying food and smoke from cars.
Chike was in his small taxi; he was resting with his hands on the wheel. He was very tired. He had been driving since the morning but still, he needed some money for his bills.
He turned up at the bus stop at about nine o'clock. There were only a few people standing there waiting, some were pacing and others were wet. He assumed it could be his last trip of the night. Then he saw her.
She took her time, grasping a folder to her chest. Her hair was moveless and only a few strands were around her face. Her face was gloomy with a little smile. She leaned down and knocked on his window.
"Are you free?" she asked.
Chike nodded.
She didn't even hesitate but got out of the cab and sat in the front seat, not in the back like the majority of people. That caught him off guard.
Her perfume was soft, almost sweet. It filled the car.
“Where to?” Chike asked.
She gave him an address nearby. He started the car.
For a while, they said nothing. The radio played old highlife songs. The city lights passed in a blur. Chike stole quick glances at her. She looked out the window most of the time. Once or twice their eyes met. Each time, Chike looked away first.
“You’ve been driving long?” she asked at last.
“Since morning.”
“That’s a long day. You must be tired.”
Chike gave a small smile. “Tired doesn’t pay bills.”
She laughed softly. The sound stayed in his head.
They started to talk. About the rain. About fuel. About traffic. Just little things. But her voice made it easier.
At a stoplight, her folder slipped. A paper slid to his feet. Chike picked it up and gave it back. Their fingers touched for a second.
“Thank you,” she said.
“No problem,” he whispered. But his heart was racing.
“Do you like driving?” she asked.
“I like the freedom,” he said. “Not the stress.”
She nodded. “I work in a law firm. Every day feels like a fight. Sometimes I wish I had freedom like that.”
Chike chuckled. “Sometimes I wish I had your kind of job. Something steady.”
She smiled. For a moment, he forgot he was just a driver.
When they reached her stop, she paused. “You didn’t ask my name.”
He laughed. “You didn’t ask mine either.”
“True. I’m Amara.”
“Chike.”
She leaned back in before stepping out. “Goodnight, Chike.”
“Goodnight, Amara.”
And then she was gone. But she stayed with him.
The next night, she was there again. Same place. Same time. Same seat.
And then it became a routine.
Amara was part of his nights. Sometimes quiet, eyes closed from a long day. Sometimes talking about her office, her sick mother, her struggles.
Chike shared his own stories. His failed dream of being a designer. His loneliness. His thoughts about love.
They laughed. They argued about music. They told stories. The taxi stopped being just a taxi. It became their own space.
One night, the car skidded on a wet turn. Amara grabbed the dashboard, and Chike caught her hand.
The car stopped shaking, but he still hadn't let go.
Her hand felt cold, but inside his, it was warm. She said, "I think I was meant to meet you."
Chike could only respond with silence. He gave her hand a tight squeeze before letting it go.
The next day she missed her train.
She didn't come the following evening either, and he waited in vain.
The night after, she still wasn't there, so he went away.
On the third day, he started doubting her existence.
At the fifth night, when he was leaving, she came running by. Panting. Holding her bag tightly against her chest.
She slid into the seat.
“Where were you?” Chike asked.
“My mother was sick. I stayed with her.”
“She’s better now?”
“Yes.” Her voice dropped. “I missed this.”
Relief filled him.
One night, he asked, “Do you ever think about us… outside this car?”
Amara looked at him for a long moment.
Then she whispered, “Every day.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t wait for the taxi anymore,” he said. “Maybe dinner. Coffee. Something real.”
She was quiet, then nodded. “Yes. I’d like that.”
That night, Chike couldn’t sleep. He kept hearing her yes.
One Thursday, they stepped out together. For the first time.
The city was loud. Horns, voices, music. But none of it mattered.
They walked side by side. Their hands brushed, then held.
The world moved fast around them, but together it felt calm.
But it didn’t last.
Weeks later, during a storm, Chike waited at the usual spot. Amara never came.
He tried her number. Disconnected.
He went to her address. The gate was locked. A neighbor answered.
“She traveled,” the woman said.
“Where?” Chike asked.
“To the village. Her mother died. But… she hasn’t come back.”
The words hit him hard.
Chike kept on going day after day. He was driving all the time but the place next to him was vacant. He sometimes thought that he saw her smile even in the rain.
Once, he even seemed to get a slight whiff of her fragrance. One night, during a storm, he stopped. The rain was pounding the roof very hard.
He held the steering wheel with his hand and in a low voice said, "Amara". Hearing the rain hitting the car, he felt like he was hearing her voice too. He opened his eyes.
The voice that was gone, but the echo stayed. Chike never met her again. Not anywhere in the city. Not in the rain. But every drop of the rain on his windshield, every time he was driving through the night without a sound, she was there. She left a void in him that he could never fill. Still, that void was her laughter, her voice, her warmth.
Life went on as usual. People got on and off the bus. But nobody sat next to him as Amara had. Love discovered in the rain. Love lost in the storm. Yet, whenever it rained, Chike was still very attentive. He listened so long and so carefully that he could sometimes catch her laughter again. The faint sound of a laugh in the rain.
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