LOVE BENEATH THE RAIN TREE




I was twenty-six, fresh out of NYSC, and nursing the weight of dreams that hadn’t yet come to pass. Port Harcourt was hot that January—both in weather and in the chaos of life. I had just landed a teaching job at a private secondary school in D-Line, barely enough to keep body and soul together, but it was something. That’s where I met her.

Her name was Boma.

She wasn’t a teacher. She was the corper assigned to the school. A Biology major from UniBen, posted to Rivers State reluctantly, judging by how she sighed every time NEPA took light.

The first time I saw her, she was wearing a white NYSC shirt that looked too big for her, standing at the gate arguing with a gatekeeper who refused to let her in because she hadn’t signed in the previous day.

I stood at a distance, watching the back-and-forth until I couldn’t take it anymore.

“She’s with me,” I said. The gateman hesitated but eventually nodded.

She turned to me, eyes wide, lips parted. “I don’t even know you.”

“You do now.”

That was how it started.

We Grew Like Morning Dew

Over the next few weeks, we found rhythm.

During breaks, we sat under the big rain tree near the school field. That tree became our safe space—a haven from noisy students and endless lesson notes. Boma loved boiled groundnuts. I hated them but still bought them just to watch her crack them between her teeth, eyes squinting in focus like she was solving a riddle.

She was brilliant. Not just book-smart—heart-smart. She listened more than she spoke. She laughed with her whole face. Her voice was soft, like a Rivers breeze right before rainfall.

“Why Port Harcourt?” she asked one day, her knees brushing mine.

“I was born here. Grew up here. My parents live in Rumuokoro. You?”

“Benin City. But PH feels like a different planet.”

“You’ll like it eventually.”

“I don’t like anything for now. Except maybe groundnuts. And this tree.”

I grinned. “You’ll like me soon.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t deny it.

The Month We Fell

By March, we were in love.

We never officially said it. We just... knew.

She started saving me seats in staff meetings. I started buying her favourite yoghurt from the corner store near Garrison. She shared her childhood fears, I shared my family struggles. Her dad had died when she was fifteen. Her mum, a nurse, raised her and her younger brother alone.

“I’ve seen my mum fight poverty with her bare hands,” Boma said once. “I don’t want to suffer

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