First Impressions and Footsteps

Kensington Metropolitan University carried the scent of ambition layered beneath fresh paint, new books, and overpriced coffee. As Amara Collins stepped through the towering glass doors of the student union building, a gust of crisp autumn air brushed past her, making her clutch her backpack tighter against her chest. Her heart beat a little faster, not out of fear, but anticipation. The kind of quickened pulse that came with walking into the unknown.

She paused for a moment inside the atrium, drinking in the buzz of campus life. Students hurried past with lanyards, coffee cups, tote bags, and the wide-eyed wonder of first years. There were laughter-filled reunions between old friends and awkward attempts at small talk from those hoping to make new ones.

Banners for student societies draped the walls, the debate club, the Afro-Caribbean society, the photography group, and the feminist collective. It was a kaleidoscope of energy, accents, and ambition.

Amara took a deep breath.

This is real. This is mine.

Orientation unfolded like a whirlwind. There were awkward icebreakers where people recited fun facts about themselves, introductions to campus life from impossibly peppy student reps, and more handouts than she could carry. She smiled when expected, took notes when necessary, and tried not to feel completely overwhelmed.

But it wasn't until her British-African Diasporic History lecture that the world around her began to feel a little more grounded.

The seminar room was smaller than she'd expected, with tiered wooden seating and warm lighting that made the room feel older than the rest of campus. The professor, a Nigerian-British academic named Dr. Akintola, spoke with the kind of commanding eloquence that silenced a room without raising his voice.

''History, he began, “is not merely a record of the past. It is a political weapon. The question is: who is holding it?”

Amara leaned forward, her pen poised. She loved history, not just the dates and facts, but the way it revealed people. Their fears, hopes, lies, and triumphs. Her father often told stories from the Biafran War, and her mother kept old magazines from the '70s filled with articles on Nigerian independence and African liberation movements.

Halfway through the lecture, as Dr. Akintola opened a discussion on colonial resistance movements in West Africa, a hand shot up from the third row. Amara's eyes followed it, and she saw him.

Tall. Confident. Clean-cut in a crisp white Oxford shirt and navy chinos. His fade was sharp, his posture relaxed yet engaged. He spoke with quiet certainty, his voice smooth with a faint East London lilt.

He asked a question that made even Dr. Akintola pause thoughtfully.

“In Achebe's Arrow of God, the chief priest Ezeulu becomes a symbol of both resistance and tragedy. Couldn't that duality reflect the broader struggle of colonial subjects, being both proud resisters and reluctant tools in an imperial structure?”

Heads turned. Dr. Akintola nodded. “A strong observation. What's your name?”

“Darren Okafor,” he replied.

Amara scribbled his name down in the corner of her notebook, barely registering it before realizing what she was doing. Her stomach flipped. She glanced at him again, wondering what it was his confidence, his intellect, or the Achebe reference that made her pay attention.

After the lecture, as students filed out into the cool afternoon air, she found herself trailing behind him without even meaning to. Her curiosity had overtaken her steps.

She spotted him again in the campus cafe, tucked into a corner booth with a book in one hand and a paper cup in the other. Of course, she thought with a smirk. Achebe and coffee—the man's really committing to the aesthetic.

With a burst of boldness she hadn't planned, she walked over.

“You quoting Achebe now?” she asked, standing casually beside his table.

He looked up, surprised, then smiled slowly. “Only when it matters.”

Amara tilted her head. “Does colonial resistance matter that much to you?”

“It should matter to all of us,” he said, closing the book -The Wretched of the Earth by Frantz Fanon, no less. “But to answer you properly, yes. It's not just history. It's legacy. It's who we become because of what was done before us.”

She was taken aback and impressed, even. “I'm Amara. Amara Collins.”

“Darren Okafor,” he replied, extending his hand.

They shook, his grip firm, hers warm.

“Nice to meet you, Amara Collins,” he said, his smile widening. “Care to grab some coffee that doesn't taste like floorboards?”

She laughed, a full, unguarded laugh that made his eyebrows lift in amusement.

“I thought this was the good stuff,” she replied, eyeing the logo on his cup.

He shrugged. “Only by Kensington standards. I know a place a few blocks down that grinds its beans. No pretentious foam art. Just good coffee.”

''Are you trying to impress me with ethical caffeine?”

Only mildly, he teased. “But mostly, I'm just trying to get out of here before another first year asks me to join their cryptocurrency club.”

She grinned. Fair enough.

They walked out of the cafe together, the wind tugging gently at Amara's jacket as the two of them crossed the green courtyard and melted into the hum of student life. Somewhere in her chest, she felt a slow shift, like the hinges of something new beginning to turn.