Chinedu never intended to use his gift. It would mark him as strange, even feared, when all he wanted was to paint. He found solace in landscapes; that was why he travelled a lot, capturing the rolling hills of Nsukka, the golden glow of Makoko’s sunset, or the bustle of Balogun Market. Still life was safe, a woven basket of mangoes, a weathered kettle on a coal stove. But portraits? Those were dangerous.
Then he saw Halima.
She was every artist’s dream, a walking symphony of movement and light. Her rich, umber skin gleamed under Lagos’s humid sun, her features bold, like the strokes of a master’s brush. The arch of her brow, the defiant tilt of her chin, the softness of her lips she was a study in contrasts. Chinedu knew he shouldn’t, but he had to capture her. Even if it meant exposing his secret.
Their first meeting was brief. The tinkling bell of a Surulere café door, a gust of wind sweeping dust at her heels. She ordered Jollof at the counter, exchanged pleasantries with the barista, then caught Chinedu staring. Her smirk lingered as she left.
He returned daily, sketching her in fragments the way she folded her arms in thought, how her laughter crinkled the corners of her eyes. But when he finally drew them, the delicate shading complete, something happened. The charcoal irises flickered. He slammed the sketchbook shut. This had happened before, and he vowed never to let it happen again.
Then one day, she approached him.
“You’re an artist,” she stated, not asked. Her voice was smooth, like aged palm wine.
He nodded, his pulse unsteady.
“Do you teach?”
He should have said no. Should have avoided the risk. But instead, he said, “I do.”
Each week, they met in his Yaba studio. Together, they painted the rippling waters of the water fountain at the entrance, the vibrant danfo buses weaving through traffic, and the orange-robed monks of Osogbo’s Sacred Grove. He showed her how to capture movement, how to let color speak. But he never let her paint eyes. Never.
Until the day she asked for help.
She handed him her sketchbook, frustration in her frown. “I can’t get these eyes to shine.”
Chinedu hesitated. He should refuse. Yet, he took the pencil, looked at her, and traced the familiar shape. His heart pounded as he filled in the irises, the delicate flecks of color. When he finished, he hesitated before turning the book around.
Halima gasped. She looked at the drawing, then at him. Her lips parted in wonder.
“It’s…”
His throat tightened. He braced himself for fear and rejection.
“Incredible,” she whispered.
She reached out, tilting his chin towards her, her fingers lingering on his cheek. In that moment, as her real eyes gleamed just like the ones on paper, Chinedu knew some magic was worth the risk.
From that day on, he was able to break out of his shell. He told Halima the way he felt about her, and he painted without fear. His portraits spoke of life, of truth, of the beauty and of love that only he could see. And as his art touched more lives, Chinedu realized his gift was never meant to be hidden it was meant to be shared.
