Girls Like You

Tunde said she was different from other girls. She believed him.

Sewa didn’t plan to go to the faculty welcome party.

She had assignments. Two chapters of Introduction to Communication Theory that she hadn’t started. A media history timeline due on Monday. And she had promised her mother on the phone that morning that she was “just focusing on her books.”

Then Zainab said four words: “There’ll be free food.”

So she went.

The party was in the open space behind the Faculty of Arts building. Plastic chairs. A DJ playing from two speakers that were working harder than they should. A table with jollof rice, fried rice, small chops, and drinks. A banner that said “WELCOME FRESHERS” in letters that were already peeling off.

It wasn’t glamorous. But it was alive. Students everywhere. Laughing. Dancing. Taking pictures. Freshers trying to look like they belonged. Senior students moving through the crowd like they owned the place.

Because they did. That was the unspoken rule. Campus had levels. And freshers were at the bottom.

Sewa was standing near the food table with Chisom, eating a spring roll that was more oil than filling, when Zainab appeared out of nowhere.

“That’s him,” Zainab said, nodding toward the other side of the space. “Tunde Coker. President of the faculty association. 200-level. Every fresher girl has been asking about him since orientation week.”

Sewa looked.

She wished she hadn’t.

He was standing with a group of guys near the DJ booth. Tall. Not huge, but the kind of tall that you notice across a room. Clean face. Low haircut with a sharp line. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and jeans and somehow looking better than every boy in the place who had tried harder.

But it wasn’t the looks. It was the way he carried himself. Relaxed. Confident. Not the loud kind of confidence that needs an audience. The quiet kind that knows it’s being watched and doesn’t care.

“Don’t even think about it,” Zainab said.

“I’m not thinking about anything.”

“Your face is thinking about it. Your face is writing a whole essay.”

“Zainab, I’m eating a spring roll.”

“And staring at Tunde Coker. I have eyes, Sewa.”

Chisom laughed. Sewa threw a napkin at Zainab. They moved on. The party continued. Sewa told herself she wasn’t going to look again.

She looked again.

And this time, he was looking back.

He came over twenty minutes later.

Not in a rush. Not with a pickup line. He just walked over to where Sewa was standing alone because Chisom had gone to get more food and Zainab was dancing with some boy from 300-level.

“You’re not dancing,” he said.

“I don’t really dance.”

“Everybody dances. You just haven’t heard the right song yet.”

She should have rolled her eyes. It was a line. The kind of thing boys say when they’re testing the water. But he said it with this half-smile that wasn’t cocky. It was warm. Like he was letting her in on a joke that only the two of them understood.

“I’m Tunde.”

“I know. Apparently everybody knows who you are.”

He laughed. “Is that good or bad?”

“I haven’t decided yet.”

Something shifted in his face. Interest. The kind of interest that said she had just done something most girls didn’t do. She hadn’t melted. She hadn’t giggled. She’d pushed back, just slightly, and he liked it.

“What’s your name?”

“Sewa.”

“Sewa.” He said it the way Adeyemi had said it. Slowly. Like he was saving it. But where Adeyemi’s version made her stomach tighten, Tunde’s version made it flip. Different feeling. Completely different.

They talked for forty minutes. Not about anything deep. About campus. About the food. About the DJ who kept playing the same Davido song. About Sewa’s department and Tunde’s complaints about a lecturer who gave everyone C’s regardless of what they submitted. He was funny. Easy to talk to. He asked questions and actually listened to the answers instead of waiting for his turn to speak.

When the party started winding down, he said, “Can I get your number? I’d like to talk to you again.”

She gave it to him. Her fingers typed it out before her brain could convene a meeting about whether this was wise.

Walking back to the hostel, Zainab appeared beside her like a spirit.

“You gave him your number.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I have been watching you for forty minutes and I saw you type something into his phone. And unless you were saving the bursary’s number in his contacts, you gave him your digits.”

Sewa said nothing.

Zainab put her arm around her. “Sewa, listen to me. I like you. You’re a good girl. So hear this with love. Tunde Coker collects numbers the way pastors collect offerings. Every semester, new freshers. Every semester, new numbers. I’ve been on this campus for one semester and I’ve already seen the pattern. Please be careful.”

“We just talked, Zainab.”

“That’s how it starts. They ‘just talk.’ Then they ‘just text.’ Then they ‘just hang out.’ And before you know it, you’re sitting in your hostel at 2am wondering why he hasn’t replied in six hours.”

Sewa laughed. Zainab didn’t.

“I’m serious.”

“I hear you. It was just a conversation.”

Zainab looked at her the way her mother looked at her when she said “I’ll be fine, Mummy.” Like she wanted to believe it but didn’t.

He texted the next morning. 7:14am.

“Good morning, Sewa. I hope the DJ from last night isn’t stuck in your head too.”

She smiled. Stupid, involuntary, can’t-control-it smile. The kind that starts before you give it permission.

She replied. He replied. She replied again. By noon, they had sent forty-seven messages. She counted. She didn’t mean to count but she counted.

He remembered things. That she was from Ibadan. That she was studying Mass Comm. That she didn’t like the spring rolls at the party. Small things. The kind of things a person only remembers when they’re paying attention.

Or when they’ve done this enough times to know exactly what to remember.

By the end of the week, Sewa was checking her phone every ten minutes. Not because she was waiting. She told herself she wasn’t waiting. But her thumb kept opening his chat. Just to check. Just in case.

Zainab noticed. Said nothing. Just raised an eyebrow every time Sewa smiled at her phone.

Friday evening. Room 14. Sewa was on her bed texting Tunde when Sharon walked in from the bathroom. Towel on her head. She glanced at Sewa’s screen, and for half a second, something crossed her face. Quick. Sharp. Like someone had pressed a bruise she thought had healed.

“Who are you texting?”

Sewa looked up. “Tunde.”

Sharon’s face went still. Not angry. Not surprised. Something else. Something that looked like recognition. Like she was watching a film she’d already seen and knew how it ended.

“Tunde Coker?”

“Yes. Why?”

Sharon opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Then she shook her head and reached for her moisturizer.

“Nothing. Just… be careful.”

She said it quietly. Almost to herself. Then she put in her earphones and lay on her bed. Conversation over.

Sewa stared at her for a moment. Be careful. Zainab said the same thing. Now Sharon. Two different girls, two different backgrounds, same two words.

She looked back at her phone. Tunde had sent a voice note. She pressed play. His voice filled her earphones. Warm. Laughing. Telling her about something funny that happened in his class.

She smiled again. But this time, underneath the smile, something else was sitting. Small. Easy to ignore.

A question she didn’t want to ask.

What does Sharon know about Tunde that I don’t?

END OF EPISODE 4

Next Episode: “The Roommate” – She thought she knew Zainab. She didn’t know anything.

TWO people have told Sewa to be careful. Zainab from experience. Sharon from something deeper. And Sharon’s face when she heard Tunde’s name? That wasn’t nothing. What happened between them? 💔 Drop your theories in the comments.