Sometime in May

2. Things Left Unsaid

Noor sat on the edge of the bed, the watch resting in her palm. She turned it over, running her thumb along the worn links. She couldn't bring herself to let it go. Selling it felt like giving up the last piece of her life as she once knew it. Not yet, she thought—not unless she had no choice.

She slipped the watch back into her jacket and stood.

• • •

Later that day, Noor moved from shop to shop along the busy street. In Cairo, mornings were quieter; here, dawn belonged to danfos, okadas and hawkers shouting. At a tailoring stall, she spotted a handwritten sign: 'Assistant Wanted.' Noor asked if she could work there. She couldn't sew. The woman glanced at her, then returned to her machine. The bakery manager waved her away. The pharmacy clerk barely listened before shaking his head. By noon, Noor sat on a bench as the city hurried around her. Her stomach ached with hunger. She pinched the inner pocket of her jacket, where the watch was hidden. She couldn't imagine losing it. The little cash she had left was dwindling to nothing.

• • •

She stepped into the late-afternoon haze, the air thick with the city's restless hum. At a street corner, she asked a man, "Please, do you know anyone who buys watches?"

The fruit vendor pointed down the road. Noor thanked him and walked on, her steps tentative yet deliberate. She asked again—a taxi driver, a woman outside a fabric store—each time receiving vague gestures and half-directions until she found a small shop squeezed between a tailor's stall and a café.

Inside, it oozed metal polish and binding gum. The pawnbroker examined the watch under the lamp, turning it slowly.

"Here you go," he said, placing a small stack of naira notes on the counter.

"It's worth more than that. It's solid gold."

"Maybe where you're from. Here? This is my offer."

She looked at the watch in his palm—her father's pride—then imagined future unpaid rent receipts. Her stomach grumbled. She accepted it. Before leaving, Noor hesitated, then slid her last folded Egyptian pounds across the counter. "Can you exchange these as well?"

The pawnbroker examined the foreign notes, calculated, and added another bundle of paper to her pile. She counted carefully. The number mocked her. It wasn't enough. What was I thinking? Leaving Egypt wasn't a daring escape but a reckless rush into the unknown. Panic clenched around her chest. Noor took a shaky breath and heard her father's familiar, soothing voice: 'Hadi nafsik, ya Noor'—Calm yourself, Noor.

It anchored her. She refused to cry in front of the pawnbroker. She would stay calm and find a way.

• • •

The following day, determined not to sink into despair, Noor bought a few essentials and small decorations for her room. Since she hadn't found work, she reasoned that the least she could do was to make this temporary place feel like home. Before returning to the room, she stopped at the superintendent's office, the weight of the shopping bag tugging at her wrist.

"I wanted to ask about all your payment arrangements," she said.

"You're staying longer now?" he asked.

Noor hesitated, then shrugged. "I'm not sure. Until I have to go."

He looked at her for a moment, then reached for his ledger.

"Weekly," he said. "Every seven days. Cash."

Noor felt the weight of the remaining notes in her pocket. It was a silent countdown, a measure of exactly how much time she had between her current sanctuary and the street.

Upstairs, outside the window, a radio blared as 'ABC' by The Jackson 5 played, filling the room as she worked. She carefully unpacked her new belongings, stacking novels on the built-in shelves and fixing a Men in Black poster to the wall. She placed pots of Monstera in every corner, especially in all the bright places, and unrolled an Afghan rug, bringing the whole room together. Gradually, the space began to feel like her own.

• • •

At dusk, the shadows looted the last warmth from the street as Noor went out to buy something to eat and discovered sizzling akara and plantains. The oily, peppery crunch was a sharp departure from home, making the humidity feel less like a threat, more like an embrace. Who would have thought she could find peace for just a hundred naira?

As she walked back, she watched everything along the roadside. Children played football on the dusty ground, their laughter echoing. A woman sat, weaving her daughter's hair into tight, symmetrical braids, humming an old highlife tune. The sun slipped behind buildings, embarrassed to be watched as it left. Noor paused, wondering what it would feel like to belong somewhere so fully. She carried that warmth back to the complex, slipping into her room as the city's restless hum began to fade.

Eventually, she ran out of blinks and slipped into a strange, monochrome sleep, the kind where you feel awake but aren't.

A knock startled her, soft at first, then firmer, surer. A flutter rose in her chest as she reached for the handle, her hand trembling. She opened the door just enough to see him, the person she had been running from. Before she could recoil, he grabbed her, and she screamed.

Noor's eyes snapped open, her heart hammering. It was dark, the flat airless except for the chorus of insects and frogs outside. It felt like the beginning of the world in the middle of the night.

Then a delicate set of knocks came from the door.

Noor froze. Her ears pricked as a second, hesitant series of knocks followed. Stealthily, she crept towards the teak door, peering through the frosted olive-tinted glass. A figure stood bathed in the pale creamy glow of the hallway—not a ghost from Cairo, but a girl. Exhaling, she unsealed the door. The stranger seemed about her age, over five feet tall, with warm brown skin and her hair neatly braided in cornrows.

"Hi—sorry, I heard you scream. Everything alright?"

Her round face looked weary, yet she beamed, her large, slanted eyes bearing an old wound above them.

"Yeah. Just a bad dream. I'm fine."

The girl's expression remained unreadable.

"Okay. I'm Ayomide Acolatse. Everyone calls me Ayo. We're neighbours."

"Marhaban...Masa' al-khayr—Hi, evening, Ayo."

Ayo blinked at the Arabic greeting but said nothing. Ayo could have mistaken her for a nymph, and nearly did. Noor's smooth accent caught Ayo's attention and her focus lingered. Noor, still drowsy from her sleep, blushed—unintentionally demure.

"Sorry. I'm Noor Assad."

Ayo turned the name over privately—Noor. She wasn't sure she had it right, but she didn't ask.

"Nice to meet you."

"You too."

Ayo's gaze settled on a cardboard box at her feet.

"I'd just finished baking these and was taking them home, but I want you to have them instead." She shrugged, pride in her voice. "They're vanilla cupcakes."

Noor accepted the box and the simple gesture sent a surprising warmth flooding her chest.

"Oh—that's really nice. Thanks."

"I saw you move in yesterday. You haven't been out much."

"Yeah, I'm new. Don't really know my way around."

Ayo smiled. "Tomorrow's market day. You could come with me. I'll show you around."

"Really? That'd be great. I'd love that."

"Cool. Meet me at A26 around four."

"Okay."

Noor watched Ayo leave, a smile lingering as her footsteps faded. A nascent excitement bloomed in her chest. Lagos suddenly felt less like a temporary refuge and more like the start of something real.