Oxygen 7

A week later, I was still buzzing from telling Maduka off. It wasn’t clean or pretty, my voice had cracked, my hands shook as I spoke but it felt good, like I’d finally clawed something back for myself.

I kept waiting for the guilt to hit, the itch to check his TikTok, but it didn’t come. For once, I was too busy living which was an extremely strange comfortable discomfort. I’d spent the week dodging my phone, afraid I’d see his name pop up in a notification, and instead filled my nights with quick sketches, smearing charcoal across old notebooks until my fingers turned black. It felt like I was rebuilding something, piece by piece.

Read Part Six Here

Staniel successfully dragged me out to some campus art fair that afternoon. He said my paintings needed air, not just fading in my dorm bedroom wall. I’d grumbled, but he’d won.

So there I was, leaning against a table, watching people mill around my canvases—reds and yellows streaking across them like my moods.

A girl with pink short Fulani braids and cute little butterflies clipped on stopped, tilting her head. “This one’s really wild,” she said, smiling. “I like it.”“Thanks,” I mumbled, cheeks pulling back in a smile.

Wild. Yeah, that tracked.

It was an emotional piece I'd made about Maduka, a girl on her knees and in chains behind a tall male figure who had his back turned on her.

I'd meant to represent the power dynamic we shared but I got carried away so there the piece was with a pool of blood underneath her knees with an artistic twist of the blood coming from the male figure's slashed wrists.

Staniel sidled up, smirking. “See? Told you you’re a genius. Now stop hiding and mingle.”When I showed him the art, he'd immediately understood... at least to some extent and I think he felt pride in having insider knowledge on how best to interpret it.“Easy for you to say,” I shot back. “You’re not the one with your soul on display.”He laughed. “Please. My soul’s on display every time I open my mouth.”I rolled my eyes, but he wasn’t wrong.

Staniel's soul was always on display, he was real and authentic not caring what people thought about him.I used to be like that too. But for a long time, all I cared about was getting approval from Maduka, all I cared about was what Maduka thought of me, to the point I stripped off bits and bits of myself to please him so he'd finally fully choose me. But he never did.

I remembered being sixteen, before Maduka, dancing with my girls at a school party, laughing so hard my stomach hurt, not caring who watched. That girl felt so far away, but standing here, with my art out in the open, I could almost taste that freedom again.That layered realization slowly rested on me as I stared away from my art and into the crowd and that's when I saw him—Osita, across the quad, standing by a booth with some of his course mates, engineering models, all gears and wires.

He was in a plain black shirt, hair full and thick, talking to some guy with a clipboard. My stomach did a little flip—not the Maduka kind, no... not a storm, just… a flutter.I felt a calm blush cross over my cheeks as I took him in, he looked so professional and mature as he tapped the clipboard in his course mate hand and shook his head.

Staniel followed my gaze. “Oh, look. Oc is here. Gonna say hi, or just stare like a creep?”

“Shut up,” I hissed, elbowing him. “I’m not staring.”“Sure you’re not.” He grinned, then shoved me forward. “Go. I’ll watch your art.”I glared, but my feet moved anyway.

Osita glanced up as I got closer, and his face lit—soft, not smug, just… glad. “Estella?”

“Hey,” I said, hands jamming into my pockets. I felt nervous but in a good way, like my brain was teaching me that fear and excitement was all just the same feeling.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Same.” He nodded at the booth. “We're working on an assignment. You?”

I jerked my head toward my table. “Paintings. Staniel’s idea.”

He smiled, small but real. “Wow. I love art. Alot. Can I see?”

My throat went dry. See? Hm. Can he see? “Uh, sure. If you want.”

We walked back together, and I felt every step, hyper-aware of how close he was, how he didn’t fill the air with noise like Maduka always did but just utter quiet that allowed you to hear the birds chirping on a tree, feel the soft breeze on your skin, hear the crunch of the ground underneath as you walked.

Staniel raised an eyebrow as we approached but didn’t say anything, just handed me my water bottle like a smug babysitter.

Osita stopped at my canvases, studying them. Not rushing, not gushing—just looking. “These are… alive,” he said finally. “Like they’re moving.”

I blinked, heart stuttering at how he saw right through the paint to the pain inside me. “That’s… yeah. Thanks.”

He glanced at me, eyes warm. “You’re good at this. She's on her knees but yet, he's the one who's bleeding. Even with his back turned, he has no face but the way you draw the tightening of his muscles on his hands, he's holding her chains right? That's why he's bleeding, because they're wrapped tightly around his wrists they dig into his skin. I mean it matches with their positioning but you only showed it as her chains when in honestly, they're both in chains.”

My cheeks burned again, and I took a sip of water to hide it. I felt stripped. Seen, down to the soles of my feet, I felt seen. His words hit deeper than I expected, like he’d peeled back the canvas and found the parts of me I’d hidden even from myself. “You… you got all that from one look?” I asked, voice soft, almost afraid he’d see more if I let him keep talking.

He shrugged, a flicker of something heavy crossing his face, like a shadow he didn’t want to name. “I’ve seen pain in art before. My sister’s stuff… it’s like that sometimes.

"You really do love art huh? How are you so good at this?" I wondered aloud and he chuckled softly, like he was embarrassed.

"I’m sorry, I sometimes get carried away. I don't know... I grew up watching my sister paint, she throws all her emotions into her art kind of like you do too. You're really good.”

My cheeks burned some more. “I try. What about you? Do you paint too?”

He chuckled, rubbing his neck. “I used to. But now I just create another way using my hands. Engineering's not as pretty but I love seeing my creations come to life.

”Pretty’s overrated,” I said, and he laughed—quiet, easy, like we’d done this a hundred times.

We stood there, chatting about uni—his assignment deadlines, my dyslexia making lectures a nightmare. It wasn’t fireworks or declarations. Just… us. Two people, talking. No pressure to be anything more.

Staniel wandered off eventually, muttering about finding Tolu, leaving us alone. Osita shifted, glancing at me. “So, that call the other night… didn’t think you’d actually use my number.”I smirked, leaning against the table. “What, you thought I’d frame it?”, I giggled at my joke and he stared at me then let out a short laugh.

“Maybe.” His grin was teasing, but soft. “Glad you didn’t.”

“Me too,” I said, and meant it.

Later, we grabbed overpriced egusi and akpu—which he kept calling fufu as he ordered it, from a campus stall, sitting on a bench under some scraggly tree. The sun was dipping low, painting everything orange, and I kept stealing glances at him—he ate his 'fufu' with a fork, chipping off the edge with the sides of the fork before piercing into the piece and dipping into the soup, while I ate with my right hand, squeezing and scooping whenever I could, his hands around the soft drink cup, the way he listened when I rambled about paint brands. He didn’t interrupt, didn’t push, just nodded like it mattered while slowly eating swallow with his cutlery.

“You’re quiet,” I said after a while, nudging him. “What’s going on in there?”

He shrugged, sipping his coffee, a tightness in his jaw like he was holding something back.

I tried to not focus on the fact that he was eating 'fufu' with coffee because I still wasn't sure which one was crazier, him ordering such a combo or such a combo being sold.

“Just… thinking. It’s been a rough week. Family stuff.”I waited, leaned closer towards him ready to empathize and be present for him...but he didn’t elaborate. Didn’t spill like Maduka would’ve, all drama and desperation.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I said, surprising myself because I wasn't even sure yet if I meant that. “I just… hope it’s okay.”

I definitely meant that.

His eyes met mine, surprised, then soft. “Thanks. It will be.” and again I waited, lingered my gaze on his face. spiritually and mentally nudging him to go on. But he didn't? He just returned back to his meal.

He didn't tell me? He… didn't? I didn't know how to feel about that just quite yet.

Did he not want to tell me? Why doesn't he want to tell me? Did he view me as untrustworthy? Or did I make him too uncomfortable with my eye contact? My desperation for more information, did he sense it and is now choosing to withdraw fully?

Did I... chase him away? Scare him off? Does he.. hate me?

"You have pretty eyes." Osita randomly said and it felt like my body slowly returned back to Earth again, I didn't even notice when it'd left in the first place but his words felt so... grounding.

Like... reassurance? Was this. what reassurance felt like? Or was this just a random compliment I should probably respond to.

"Thank you." I smiled at him in response and he sighed softly and a wave of silence peacefully settled above us.

We sat in that quiet, the kind I used to hate, the kind that made me itch for noise, for chaos. But with him, it didn’t feel empty. It felt… full, somehow. Like breathing clean air after years of smoke.

“You ever feel like you’re running from something?” I asked, staring at my cup.

He nodded, slow. “Yeah. All the time. You?”

“Used to,” I said. “Not so much lately.”

He smiled, just a little. “Good.”

My phone buzzed—Staniel, probably ready to drag me home. A notification flickered before his text: a new comment on Maduka’s latest TikTok. My thumb hovered, but I swiped it away, locking the screen. Not today. I looked at Osita instead. “We should do this again. But no watching you eat akpu like a foreigner please.”

His grin widened, still soft, still him. “Akpu? You’re such a joker, who calls it Akpu when it's government's name is clearly Fufu?” he said, nudging me lightly, his elbow brushing mine in a way that felt playful, not possessive. “Foo-Fuh?" I teased, mimicking the way he pronounced the word with a giggle. "I do Osita, I also eat my akpu like its swallow that it is, so when next we hang out, I'm going to make you wash your hand and eat the proper Naija way.” I told him with a giggle and his grin widened even more. “Huh, I've never really eaten with my hands before but why not, yeah. I’d like that.”

I stood, brushing off my jeans, feeling lighter than I had in weeks. No rush, no void, just… something starting. Something small, but mine.

And for once, that was enough.

The art fair stuck with me longer than I expected. People liking my paintings—calling them “wild,” “alive”—it buzzed in my head for days, like a song I couldn’t shake. I kept thinking about Osita’s quiet nod, too, the way he’d looked at my work like it wasn’t just scribbles. But mostly, I kept thinking about me—how I’d stood there, not crumbling, not needing anyone to prop me up. For once, I wasn’t Maduka’s girl or Staniel’s sidekick. Just Estella.

And God knows how much I've missed just being me. Being nothing else other than myself. Like I was back in secondary school, before the drama, when I’d braid my hair in bright colors and laugh loud enough to echo down the halls.

I woke up that Saturday with paint on my mind. My room was a mess—clothes everywhere, wilted flowers still mocking me from the corner—but I didn’t care. I dragged my easel to the window, cracked it open to let the heat in, and grabbed my brushes. No plan, no sketch—just me and the canvas. Red slashed across it first, then yellow, then a deep purple I’d mixed too dark by accident. It wasn’t pretty. It was mine.

Staniel barged in around noon, unannounced as usual, Tolu trailing behind him like a shadow. “Girl, you alive in here?” he called, kicking a stray shoe out of his path. “Smells like paint and regret.”

“Shut up,” I shot back, not looking up. “I’m working.” He grinned, flopping onto my bed. “Picasso’s in her zone. I respect it.”

Tolu stepped closer, peering at my work in progress. “Reminds me of that storm last week. All chaos, but… pretty.”

I glanced at him, surprised. Tolu didn’t talk much—Staniel usually stole the air—but when he did, it landed. “Thanks,” I said, meaning it.

Staniel propped himself up, arms behind his head. “So, what’s this? Your ‘I’m over Maduka’ phase? Or your ‘Osita’s got me dreamy’ phase?”

“Neither,” I said, dipping my brush in blue. “It’s my ‘I’m me’ phase.”

He raised an eyebrow, grinning. “Deep. I like it.”They stayed for hours—Staniel yapping about some uni drama, Tolu nodding along, me painting. At one point, Stan grabbed my phone, blasting music through my tiny speaker. “We need a vibe,” he declared, then started dancing, all hips and swagger, like he was still on the football pitch showing off.

“Sit down, idiot,” I laughed, flicking paint at him. A blue speck hit his cheek, and he gasped, clutching his chest.“Assault! Tolu, defend my honor!”

Tolu just smirked, sipping water from my bottle. “You’re on your own, love.”

I grinned, watching them—Staniel twirling, Tolu shaking his head. I missed this, us. No Maduka, before the tears, before I forgot who I was. My brush moved faster, streaks of gold cutting through the chaos on the canvas. It felt good—messy, loud, alive.

Later, Staniel dragged us to this underground spot—a queer night tucked in some dingy bar off campus. He’d heard about it from Tolu’s cousin, swore it’d be “life-changing.” I wasn’t so sure, but I went anyway, still buzzed from painting. Earlier, I’d noticed a girl in the crowd at the art fair, her short twists catching the light, a silver ring glinting on her thumb as she sketched in a notebook. Now, seeing her here, I wondered if it was fate.

The place was cramped, dim, pulsing with Afrobeat and sweat. No rainbow flags—too risky—but you could feel the queer in the air, the way people moved, the glances that lingered. Staniel fit right in, dragging Tolu to the dance floor, his laugh cutting through the noise. I hung back, sipping a warm Coke, watching. The girl from earlier was there, leaning against a wall, her thumb ring flashing under the neon lights as she swayed lightly to the beat.

A girl with short twists slid up beside me, her smile sly. “You’re Stan’s friend, yeah?”

“Yep,” I said, eyeing her. “Estella.”

“Chika.” She nodded toward the crowd. “First time here?”“Yeah. You?”

“Nah, I’m a regular.” She leaned closer, voice low. “You dance?”

My stomach flipped—not nerves, just… something. “Sometimes.”

She grinned, tugging my hand. “Come on, then.”

We danced—slow at first, then faster, her hands brushing my hips, mine finding her shoulders. No pressure, no promises—just bodies moving, heat and rhythm. I remembered that night at the uni party, the women I’d twirled with, how it’d felt to want them again. Maduka never got that—never saw it as real. But this? This was real.

My sexuality was real, my attraction to women was real.Staniel whooped from across the room, Tolu clapping beside him. “Get it, Es!” he yelled, and I flipped him off, laughing.Chika’s breath was warm against my ear. “You’re good at this.”

“You too,” I said, grinning back.

We swapped numbers after, then she winked and slipped back into the crowd with a sway, no big deal—just a maybe, a possibility. I didn’t need her to complete me. I was already whole.

Back home, I sprawled on my bed, staring at the ceiling. The canvas sat by the window, drying, gold glinting in the dark. Staniel’s voice echoed in my head—Get it, Es—and I smiled. He’d always seen me, even when I couldn’t. Him and Tolu, they were my anchor, my chaos, my family.

I didn’t check Maduka’s TikTok. Didn’t text Osita either. Just lay there, breathing, feeling the weight of me—not too much, not not enough. Just right.