CHAPTER ONE
Dr. Jane trotted around the podium, her voice booming through the auditorium's speakers. She was a plump woman, one who complained daily about the walk from her office to the lecture hall but would unknowingly pace the equivalent of a short race during class.
She relished these lectures. Maybe it was the joy of intellectual debate, but I had a feeling it was more about wielding her approval like a royal decree, her smirk lingering each time she challenged someone's worldview. Standing at 5'3", she had the presence of a general ready to tear apart armies of youthful idealism. Today, she wore a pale purple blouse and a knee-length skirt that highlighted her round frame.
"Today I got up from bed, just like every other day, and do you know what I heard on that accursed radio?" she asked, her tone almost theatrical.
'Yes, we do,' I thought, stifling an eye roll. Anyone who'd sat in her class more than once knew what she'd say next. It was practically scripted.
"Beware, the kingdom of God is at hand," she mocked, imitating the radio announcer's dire tone. She couldn't mask the disgust in her voice. I thought for a moment, 'If you hate it so much, why bother listening to the radio?'
"Like I haven't heard enough of that nonsense," she continued, waving off her invisible frustration. "Anyway, let's move on."
The topic today was "The Effects of Religion on the Common Man." As Dr. Jane droned on, her voice wove through the room like smoke, lingering with each word, each mocking tone.
"Religion has had two distinct effects on the two types of people in this world," she declared, her hands gesturing grandly. "For the powerful, it's a tool—a compelling means of control. For the common man, it's nothing more than a shackle."
She paused, scanning the faces in the room as if searching for one mind willing to challenge her. "I look at all of you," she said, her voice almost tender now, "and I see yet another generation bound by an ancient fear—a primordial fear, if you will. The same fear that drove our ancestors to worship the sun, the moon, the sea… What are gods but our escape from the unknown?"
The way she said it, with that calculated touch of drama, made me cringe. She always talked like she had unlocked the universe's mysteries. But I didn't buy it. I believed there were forces beyond human understanding—things we couldn't touch, couldn't even perceive fully. Partly because of my upbringing, but also because I'd glimpsed something… something I still couldn't explain.
"One of the most powerful shackles religion imposes," Dr. Jane continued, "is this so-called 'Armageddon.' Almost every belief system has its own brand of the end. For Christianity, for Islam, the ultimate judgment means the good are rewarded, and the evil suffer."
Her words settled over the class like a weighted blanket, but the tension was broken by a soft chuckle from Cynthia. I glanced over to see her, along with John, hunched over her phone screen, laughing quietly.
"Guys, seriously?" Precious whispered, her voice tinged with annoyance as she turned toward them.
"P, don't get so worked up," John replied, barely looking up.
Cynthia rolled her eyes dramatically. "Yeah, life isn't meant to be taken so seriously. Relax a little, or you'll wrinkle."
I could see Precious's eye twitch, but she just let out a huff and turned back toward the lecture. Despite her usual deadpan expression, Precious was our anchor. She balanced out Cynthia's sarcasm, John's carefreeness, and, I suppose, my role as the peacemaker.
"Guys," I muttered, trying to keep a straight face, "take it down a notch."
"YES SIR!" they both whispered back, just loud enough to earn a few stares.
Precious's glare softened. "We're going to get singled out if you keep this up."
I sighed, knowing she was right. "Alright, that's enough," I said firmly, but with a grin.
But of course, Dr. Jane noticed. "Mr. Okonkwo, do you have something to add to today's discussion?" Her voice, louder than necessary, sliced through our laughter.
The room quieted instantly, all eyes locking onto me. Heart pounding, I stood up, every word I'd planned to say dissolving in my mind. I stuttered, searching for an answer, as Dr. Jane's gaze cut into me like a laser.
"I… uh… I'm sorry, ma'am. It was my fault," John stood up, his hand raised.
"Me too!" chimed Cynthia and Precious, joining us in solidarity.
The three of us stood there, united in our defiance. An odd sense of pride swelled in my chest. Moments like this reminded me that as long as we stuck together, anything was possible.
Dr. Jane huffed, waving us off. "Hooligans, the lot of you! Report to my office at 8 a.m. tomorrow. I don't have time for this." She returned to her lecture, and we settled back into our seats, sharing stifled laughter. Cynthia raised her phone with a smirk, gesturing toward the screen.
A message pinged in our group chat: "Damn you all," Precious had typed.
"Calm down, Ms. Goody Goody," Cynthia replied.
"Asshole!" Precious shot back, her frustration laced with affection.
In the middle of our banter, my phone buzzed with a message from Mom.
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"Could you help me pick up your sister, honey? Your dad and I might not be able to," read my mom's text. Some days were like this—when they'd both be so busy with work that I'd have to take over, especially when it came to picking up Grace.
I typed quickly into the group chat amid the banter still streaming between the others. "Just got a message from my mom. I need to pick up my sister."
"Oh, you mean Grace? She's such a cutie," Cynthia replied almost immediately.
John jumped in. "The one you always ditch us for, even though she's always mad at you?"
I rolled my eyes in real life and on-screen. "Yes, the one. And her 'anger' is just teenage hormones. Relax."
Then I added, "Anyway, anyone got ideas? I need a way out of here."
"You could sit through the whole class…but who am I kidding?" Precious typed. "Cynthia, do your thing."
"Why me? I'm just an innocent girl who loves and respects her elders. You all have the wrong chick." She pouted at us, but we all stared back at her, silently daring her to keep up the act. She grinned, leaning toward me.
"Remember, I'm only doing this for my biggest fan," she whispered with a wink, referencing Grace. She fiddled with her phone, pulling up her contact list.
After a moment, I watched her go through a sequence of dramatic eye rolls, probably trying to convince that wild-eyed first-year with a hopeless crush on her. After what felt like the longest negotiation ever, she smirked, and her thumbs danced over the screen.
"Watch and learn." She raised her hand with an exaggeratedly innocent look.
"Erm…excuse me, Dr. Jane!" Cynthia's voice took on a syrupy quality that immediately put me on edge. If I'd been worried about causing a scene, I shouldn't have let Cynthia get involved.
I met her back in junior secondary school, when we'd both been put in what our American principal had introduced as "detention"—no more cane, just time spent under watch. My crime? Punching a rich kid for mocking my family's financial status. He got off, and I didn't. There in detention, I noticed Cynthia at the back of the room, sitting like she was at home, legs crossed with all the confidence in the world. Not long into the punishment session, she set off a chain of chaos by calling the police about a "robbery in progress." The real surprise, though, was that they ended up arresting the teacher for a stash of coke. That was the day I learned she had an unholy knack for mischief.
Thinking back on that, I felt a shiver of dread as I waited for her next move.
"Yes, Ms. Cynthia. Right?" Dr. Jane glanced at her through those thin glasses.
"Yes, ma'am," Cynthia said, her expression as pure as a saint's. "You were saying that humans need something to believe in—that abandoning religion entirely would make us lose our place in the world.
Isn't that a little drastic?"
Every one of us gawked. First of all, I was stunned that she'd even been listening. Second, I had no idea what she was playing at.
Dr. Jane seemed intrigued, beginning to explain. I didn't catch a word of it, though, because suddenly the fire alarm blared. I barely had time to think before everyone jumped up, heading for the exits.
"If this was your plan, why the whole act?" Precious hissed.
"To keep you all on your toes!" Cynthia laughed, giving her a wink. Then she turned to me. "Paul, get going. And make sure to tell my biggest fan I say hi!" She blew a playful kiss.
I waved goodbye, rushing toward my scooter to go pick up Grace.
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The journey to God's Love Secondary School was a long one—roughly 30 minutes by road—and the fact that I was on a scooter didn't help. Still, the traffic wasn't too bad, thank God.
With the wind rushing through my hair, I felt a deep sense of peace. The tranquility of the howling breeze was surreal. I could've stayed on the road, in this moment, forever.
As I drove, the city buzzed around me: a child crying while a woman—probably her mother—dragged her down the road, a senior citizen arguing with a shop owner, a school bus moving in the opposite direction, cars heading home from work. Dozens of people caught in their own lives, all weaving together into a living canvas against the backdrop of the setting sun. For a moment, the beauty of life—its bustling, growing, ever-changing energy—felt almost sacred.
Around a corner, I spotted a church. It was common to see a couple of "churches" on every street, though some barely looked the part. This one looked run-down, just like the preacher in front of it. He was one of those luckless evangelists, pacing up and down the cracked pavement while waving a worn Bible in his hand.
"Are your village people after your destiny? Don't let them defeat you! You are a winner! Come join the home of winners—you deserve change!" His voice cut across the road, so loud I could hear him over my engine. He seemed desperate, just as unkempt as the building behind him.
I figured it was people like him—along with the constant crowd of miracle-seekers desperate for a fix—that drove Dr. Jane's hatred for religion. But for me, seeing people use faith to exploit the hunger-stricken masses was what I couldn't stand. I hadn't exactly been an "Exemplary Christian" recently, but even I had limits. Clicking my tongue in frustration, I pushed forward.
Right now, all that mattered was getting to my sister. I glanced at the time: a minute past three. 'Ms. Florence will probably give me an earful,' I thought, bracing myself for Grace's teacher's scolding. Normally, it would be weird to have a thing for a teacher, but Ms. Florence was only a year younger than me, so maybe it wasn't so strange…at least, that's what I told myself. Anyway, seeing her was a small bonus, alongside Grace's fuming face at my being late.
"Almost there," I muttered to myself as the school gate came into view beyond the bend.
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God's Love Secondary School, as its name suggested, was a missionary school. It loomed large on the hill like a cathedral of academia, imposing and resolute. The gates, adorned with intricate metalwork now dulled by time, had the aura of a relic from the past. Outsiders might feel small beneath their shadow, but for the students who passed through them daily, they symbolized pride, prestige, and tradition. I knew this feeling all too well—this was my alma mater.
It was the oldest and most prestigious secondary school in the country, a haven for the privileged elite or the relentlessly brilliant. Grace and I belonged to the latter. Our admission wasn't paved by wealth but by relentless effort and intellect.
"I.D, sir?" The guard's voice interrupted my thoughts as I parked my scooter near the gate. His stern expression matched his rigid posture, but his eyes betrayed a tiredness I couldn't quite place.
"Sir?" His voice climbed, tinged with impatience, and I snapped out of my daze.
"Yes, sorry!" I fumbled with the buckle of my side bag, rummaging through the mess for my identification card. The silence stretched awkwardly, and I could feel his frustration rising as I muttered apologies. Finally, I retrieved the card and handed it over with a sigh of relief.
The guard glanced at it, then at me, before muttering something in his dialect. I couldn't catch the words, but the tone sounded like a prayer—or a curse. He tapped at the screen of an old iPad, checking student family records before nodding stiffly and gesturing toward the smaller pedestrian gate.
The scooter would stay outside. For now, so would my peace of mind.
The walk from the gate to the classrooms was as vast as I remembered, an expanse that felt more fitting for a university than a secondary school. The 3:00 PM bell echoed across the grounds like a tolling warning, its sound lingering long after it faded. Moments later, the school came alive as students flooded the pathways, a tide of youthful energy breaking against the quiet stillness.
I scanned the faces, searching for Grace among the dispersing clusters. She wasn't with the group of stereotypical "popular girls" giggling and whispering behind my back—though their sly glances made me uncomfortable. Nor was she among the quieter students moving in neat lines toward the gate.
"Hello, sir. Are you looking for someone?" A soft but confident voice drew my attention.
Turning, I saw a girl standing far too close for comfort. She had the look of someone who was used to getting what she wanted, a kind of haughty poise that set her apart. I couldn't figure out how she'd managed to approach me unnoticed, but there she was, her gaze steady and calculating.
"Who might you be?" I asked, stepping back slightly.
"I'm Janet Obasi," she said, a name she delivered like it should have meant something to me. "And you?"
"Paul. Paul Okonkwo." My tone was clipped. "Do you know Grace Okonkwo? SS1?"
For a brief moment, her expression faltered. Surprise, anger, and something else flickered across her face before she quickly masked it with a tight-lipped smile. The tension in her gaze told me everything I needed to know—there was bad blood between her and Grace.
"Her classroom is that way," she said, pointing toward the building, her voice a little too polite. Then, without another word, she retreated, her shoulders stiff and her pace quick.
I stared after her for a moment before turning toward the direction she'd indicated. The sunlight, which had seemed so warm and inviting earlier, was now waning, casting long shadows across the grounds. The cheerful chatter of students faded with each step I took, replaced by a gnawing unease.
This was the same school I had once loved, but something about it felt... different. The walls seemed taller, the corridors darker, and the air heavier. As I approached Grace's classroom, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was walking toward something far more significant than a routine pickup.
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At least the interior seemed different. It was more colorful, almost nauseatingly so. The once-gray walls were now painted sky blue, with health awareness posters plastered everywhere. Alongside countless other changes, the school appeared to be trying too hard to keep up with the times, aiming for a bright, welcoming aura.
Sounds of sweet melody floated down the hallway as I moved deeper inside. The tune—played on a violin—was haunting. It carried a sadness so profound it felt like mourning, the notes gradually swelling into something more frantic, almost desperate.
Then, the world around me shifted. A sharp, splitting pain shot through my head, so intense it felt like my very soul was being torn apart. My vision blurred as fear clawed at my chest. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. My feet were planted firmly, as if rooted to the ground.
Suddenly, I wasn't seeing through my own eyes anymore. I was crying—or rather, she was crying. Through her tear-streaked vision, I saw the vague silhouette of a man, his face blurred, shrouded in darkness. And then everything went black.
...
"Does he usually blank out like that?"
"Yes, Ms. Peters," Grace's voice answered.
My eyes fluttered open, the bright light of the infirmary blinding me momentarily. Groaning, I moved to sit up, but a gentle voice halted me.
"Stay down, Paul."
I turned toward the voice and froze. There she was—beauty personified. Her gaze, filled with concern, disarmed me entirely. Every movement of hers radiated grace, and her voice carried a softness that made it difficult to focus on anything else.
"Are you okay?" Florence Peters asked again, her eyes searching mine.
I stared, unable to form words. She had completely thrown me off.
"Of all the places to have one of your episodes, it had to be in my school!" Grace's familiar, exasperated tone snapped me back to reality.
"You're welcome for coming to pick you up," I said with a smirk, trying to regain some footing.
She rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might stick. Before she could retaliate, I struck again.
"Oh, by the way, I met one of your friends on the way here. What was her name again? Ah yes—Janet Obasi."
Her face twisted into a mix of annoyance and disbelief. "Friend? Janet? That—" Grace paused, glancing at her teacher with an innocent smile before finishing, "—is impossible. We don't get along at all."
I laughed. "She was so nice, though. Makes me wonder who you've been learning your rudeness from."
"Yeah, well, I learned from the best: my big brother," she shot back, waving her hands theatrically. "And for the record, I'll never be friends with that bit—" She caught herself mid-sentence, throwing Florence another sweet, angelic grin.
Florence smiled, shaking her head. Grace took that as her cue to launch into a detailed rant about Janet's flaws, somehow keeping her words polite while radiating fury.
I cut in before the tirade could go on any longer. "Uh, Ms. Peters, thank you for helping me back there," I said, feeling a bit awkward.
"You're welcome," she replied, her tone warm. "But are you sure you're okay now?"
"I'm fine, really. Thank you again," I said, pulling myself up despite her earlier warning. "I wish we'd kept in touch after you graduated."
"Same here," she admitted with a soft smile, and for a moment, silence filled the room.
"Shouldn't we be leaving?" Grace chimed in, thankfully breaking the tension.
"Yes, we should," I said quickly, coughing to mask my awkwardness. I started toward the door, with Grace following close behind.
"Bye, Ms. Peters!" Grace called out cheerfully.
"Goodbye, Grace," she replied with a smile.
Then she turned to me, her expression shifting. For a split second, her gaze was solemn, almost pleading. The shift was so subtle, yet it sent a chill down my spine.
As we left the infirmary, the building, and the school itself, that look lingered in my mind. Her solemn expression. Her unspoken message.