I come from a part of Nigeria where a lot of value is placed on

Host: The evening was thick with heat, the kind that clings to the skin and fills every breath with the smell of dust and faint woodsmoke. A small restaurant sat tucked between two cracked buildings on the outskirts of Lagos. Its single ceiling fan turned lazily, stirring the air just enough to keep the mosquitoes uncertain.

Outside, the sky burned orange over the city — a bruised, fading sunset casting long shadows on walls painted with the ghosts of a hundred conversations.

Inside, Jack sat at a weathered table, a half-empty bottle of malt in front of him. His grey eyes moved slowly, watching, reading the room like a man trained to find the unspoken. Jeeny entered quietly, her long black hair damp with humidity, her steps soft against the cracked tiles. She carried a small bag and that familiar expression — half curiosity, half concern.

Jeeny: sitting down “You look like you’ve been thinking too loud.”

Jack: without looking up “In a place like this, it’s better to think quietly. The walls here — they listen.”

Host: The fan creaked once, then groaned back to life. Somewhere outside, a child laughed — a short, bright sound that vanished into the traffic’s hum.

Jeeny: “I read something by Ayobami Adebayo earlier. She said, ‘I come from a part of Nigeria where a lot of value is placed on implicit communication. The well-brought-up child is the one who can pick up nonverbal cues from adults and interpret them correctly.’”

Jack: leaning back “Sounds like home, doesn’t it? Not mine, maybe — but humanity’s. We all grow up learning to read silence before words.”

Jeeny: “Yes, but her point isn’t just about silence. It’s about culture — about how meaning hides between gestures, glances, the tone of a sigh. You don’t need to speak to be understood. You just need to listen differently.”

Jack: scoffing softly “You say that like it’s a virtue. I think it’s dangerous. Implicit communication is just another way to breed fear — a world where everyone’s guessing what everyone else means. That’s not connection. That’s surveillance.”

Host: A slow wind moved through the doorway, rustling the plastic curtain that hung like faded beads. Jeeny’s eyes flicked toward Jack, her brow furrowed, her voice soft but steady.

Jeeny: “You’re mistaking subtlety for secrecy. There’s a difference. Where I grew up, my mother could tell me I’d done wrong without saying a word. Just one look — and I’d know. That wasn’t fear, Jack. That was understanding.”

Jack: “Understanding built on hierarchy, maybe. You read adults because they hold power. You guess their moods because your comfort depends on it. It’s not empathy; it’s survival.”

Jeeny: “Survival can be its own kind of wisdom. You think modern people are better because they say everything out loud? Because they demand clarity? Look at social media — all this speaking, yet nobody’s truly heard. Maybe the quieter world was kinder.”

Host: The streetlights outside flickered to life, one by one, painting the restaurant’s walls in strips of dim light and shadow. The waiter passed by, setting down a plate of jollof rice, the steam rising like a thin prayer between them.

Jack: picking up a fork “Kindness is overrated when it keeps you from truth. I’d rather someone tell me they’re angry than smile and mean the opposite. Directness saves time. It saves pain.”

Jeeny: watching him closely “But it also kills mystery, Jack. Not everything has to be dissected to be real. Sometimes restraint is love. Sometimes silence is respect.”

Jack: “Or avoidance.”

Jeeny: “Or grace.”

Host: The fan above them shuddered again, scattering a few drops of condensation onto the table. Jeeny brushed one off absently, her fingers trembling with an emotion she didn’t voice.

Jack: lowering his voice “So you think it’s good — teaching children to read what’s not said?”

Jeeny: “I think it teaches them empathy. In Nigeria, in Japan, in so many places — the art of observation is the foundation of community. You notice before you speak. You feel before you react. That’s not repression; it’s harmony.”

Jack: “Harmony at what cost? You suppress children until they stop speaking. You teach them to anticipate others, but not themselves. Isn’t that how generations lose their voice?”

Jeeny: her tone rising “No, Jack — that’s how they learn humility. The world isn’t built on individual voices shouting over one another. It’s built on those who can listen — really listen — even when nothing is said.”

Host: The light from a nearby car swept briefly through the room, casting moving shadows over their faces. Jack’s jaw clenched; Jeeny’s eyes glistened, reflecting the faint light like twin mirrors of quiet conviction.

Jack: “I grew up in a house where silence meant danger. If my father stopped talking, you knew something was wrong. Words — even angry ones — were better than that stillness. I guess I never learned how to find peace in quiet.”

Jeeny: softly “Then maybe that’s why this quote unsettles you. Because you see silence as absence, but for some of us — it’s presence. A whole conversation without a single word.”

Host: The tension in the room seemed to shift, not dissolve but deepen, like a note held in a long breath. The hum of the fan became a rhythm; the clatter of plates from the backroom turned into a kind of unintentional music.

Jack: “So what happens when someone misreads the cues? When a child guesses wrong, or an adult hides too well?”

Jeeny: “Then there’s pain. Misunderstanding is inevitable — spoken or not. But at least in silence, we learn to look beyond ourselves. To sense what words can’t name.”

Jack: “That sounds poetic. But I think people hide behind that poetry. ‘You should’ve known what I meant.’ ‘You should’ve read my eyes.’ That’s not communication. That’s cowardice dressed as culture.”

Jeeny: firmly “And yet, Jack, the most powerful apologies I’ve ever seen were wordless — a hand placed on a shoulder, a shared tear, a sigh at the right moment. Tell me those don’t speak.”

Host: Jack’s hand paused halfway to his glass. His eyes met hers — grey and brown locking like two languages finally trying to translate each other.

Jack: quietly “Maybe it depends on who’s listening.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Meaning isn’t born in the mouth; it’s born in the space between.”

Host: Outside, a motorbike sped past, leaving a thin trail of dust that drifted through the open doorway. The smell of diesel and earth mixed with the sweetness of fried plantain.

Jack: “You know… maybe Adebayo’s right. Maybe the ‘well brought up’ child isn’t the quiet one — maybe it’s the one who knows how to see.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “To see, to feel, to wait. To sense when a parent’s sigh means worry instead of anger, or when silence means love instead of indifference. That’s an education you can’t buy.”

Host: A moment of stillness settled over them — deep, almost sacred. The noise of the street faded, replaced by the subtle symphony of life inside the small restaurant: the fan’s rotation, the distant clink of cutlery, the faint beat of someone’s heart beneath the conversation.

Jack: softly, almost to himself “Maybe the rest of the world talks too much.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the rest of the world forgot how to listen.”

Host: The light dimmed as the power flickered — the old city’s reminder of impermanence. In the half-darkness, their faces glowed faintly from the streetlight outside, golden, tired, and human.

Jack reached across the table, tapping his fingers once — a small, quiet rhythm. Jeeny understood it immediately. She smiled.

No words were needed.

Host: Outside, the night deepened, and the city continued to breathe — through gestures, glances, and unspoken promises.

And somewhere, in the heavy air, the untranslatable language of humanity whispered on — a silence that said everything.