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The new term begins tomorrow, and I groaned as I thought about it. I barely enjoyed the holidays, and here I am, already heading back. On the bright side, I'll finally be moving up to Level Two, though Priceless hasn't stopped talking about it. "It's the most important level," she says. "This is where everything counts, especially if I want to become head girl—it'll look so good on my record when I apply to med school!" She never forgets to mention that part.
But for me, school isn't like that. I don't share her excitement. I don't need anyone to remind me that most people don't like me. Maybe it's because I've always been a straight-A student, always ranked at the top, or because I've been the class representative since Level One. I enjoy being the one in charge, keeping things in line, and making sure the noise-makers get written up. Perhaps that's why they resent me, saying it's childish. Or maybe it's just because I keep my distance from everyone except Priceless. To me, it's better to have one friend you trust than many friends who don't really like you.
Priceless has been my friend since day one. I still remember the first time we met. I was busy, as usual, writing down the names of everyone who was disrupting class. Ignoring all the muttering around me, I was focused—until she came up and asked, "Why do you sit alone?" I glanced up, marked her name as number five on my list, hoping she'd leave. She didn't. "You know a lot of people don't like you because of this whole noise-maker list, right?" she asked again. I gave her a pointed look, adding another mark next to her name and even pushing the list toward her to make my point. But she continued, "You're Love, right?"
"Yes! I'm Love. And no, I'm not stopping. And yes, I know you hate me, so leave me alone!" I snapped. But to my surprise, she stayed calm. "I don't hate you, Love," she said. "I like who you are, and I want to be your friend." When I didn't answer, she added, "I really need your help. I was nearly last on my report card last term, and I don't want to fail again. If you could just coach me, I'd be so grateful. Please?"
"Ask Alex," I replied. He's always been second in class, and I know he doesn't like me because of it.
"No," Priceless said firmly. "I want you to teach me. The others won't talk to me because they think I'm not smart, but you've never looked down on me." Realizing she wouldn't back down, I gave in. "Fine. I'm going to the library during study session tonight. Bring your math book, and remember—no talking."
And that was how it all started. Once I began tutoring her, I realized she wasn't as hopeless as she thought. With effort, she could easily make it to the top ten in our class of thirty-eight. And from then on, she became my only real friend.
A knock at the door brought me back to the present. It was my aunt, whom I call Mom, as she's the one who took me in when no one else would. "Mom, is that you?" I called.
"Yes," she answered, entering my room with a warm smile. "School's tomorrow, so here's five thousand naira. If it's not enough, just call me. I'll be traveling again for work." She handed me the cash. Although she's often away, I know it's because of her job, and she does everything she can to make sure I'm taken care of. "Thank you, Mom," I said, knowing it would more than cover my expenses, especially since she'd already stocked up on supplies for the hostel.
Just as she was leaving, she turned back. "Oh, Love, there's this boy—Ifechuckwu—at your school. Very intelligent, I hear he took first place last term. His mother's gone, but his father's quite well-off, and…"
"Mom, why are you telling me all this?" I asked, curiosity creeping in.
"I think you should befriend people like him," she replied, her voice thoughtful. "He's the son of a very dear friend of mine—a respectful, good-hearted boy. Someone who would be a good influence.
My aunt continued praising this so-called Ifechuckwu, going on about what a wonderful boy he was. But the funny thing was, I had been in this school for years—staying in the hostel since day one—and I'd never heard of any Ifechuckwu. Supposedly, he was some self-proclaimed genius, the top student who had somehow managed to tell my aunt he was the best. I wanted to tell her he must be exaggerating, but seeing her so enthusiastic, I decided to let it slide. The truth would come out soon enough.
"Mummy," I interrupted her, trying to keep a smile. "I need to get some rest. School starts tomorrow, so please, enough already."
"Oh, okay, my daughter," she replied, smiling. "I just want the best for you. If you ever need help, go to him. He's in his final year and comes here often for holidays…"
"Mummy!" I interrupted with a laugh.
She grinned, "Okay, okay." She left my room, still chuckling as she closed the door behind her.
I didn't actually want to sleep. Far from it. My mind was buzzing with thoughts—mostly not about school, though maybe a little. My thoughts were tangled up in the memories of my parents. Not this amazing woman who had just walked out of my room, but my real parents, the ones who gave birth to me yet never wanted me.
My story isn't a happy one. My parents are alive and well, but I learned early on that they didn't want me. My mother and father had been high school sweethearts and stayed together through university. But everything changed when my mother got pregnant in her second year. My father made it clear he wasn't ready for a child. My mother, afraid of abortion, paused her education and carried me to term. She gave birth, handed me to her sister, and returned to school.
I tried to reach out to my father when I was five. I found his work address in my aunt's phone and visited him, thinking he'd hug me or show some affection. But no—he scolded me and rebuked my aunt for letting me out of her sight. He visited me once when I was six, only to warn me never to come near him again. He said he was married now.
I tried to visit my mother, too, but she wouldn't even look at me. She told one of her staff to escort me home. For as long as I can remember, I tried everything to earn their love. I was like a loyal dog, starving for affection, longing for the warmth only they could give. My aunt was there through all of it. She was there when my father threatened to send me to an orphanage if I kept visiting him, and she was there when my mother looked me in the eye and called me a mistake.
My aunt always wanted a child, but life didn't grant her one. So, she poured all her love into me. Her husband had passed away years before I was born, but despite the pressure, she never remarried. She is the reason I'm still alive—I've attempted suicide more times than I care to admit.
When I was born, my mother named me Mary. I later learned that "Mary" meant "bitterness." I obeyed them, did everything they asked, but when I reached the end of primary school, I made a decision. I told myself I'd stop caring. If the world hated me, I'd hate it back. I changed my name to "Love," and I took my late uncle's surname, "Ifeanyi." My aunt still calls me Chisom, meaning "God is with me," and my ignorant parents don't even know. They just pay my fees and send money, never really checking in. Because of them, I promised myself I'd never fall in love—not in school, not in university, not anywhere. To me, love is pain. I longed for it and couldn't have it, but carrying the name "Love" was my reminder of what I'd wanted and could never truly have.
One would think my parents would be enemies for life, given how they treated me. But somehow, last year, when I was in Level One, they reunited. Now my father is planning to marry my mother. My aunt tried to keep this news from me, but I overheard it during her August meeting. The first time my mother came to visit me at school was last term, when I was sixteen. She was searching for "Mary," the child she'd abandoned. My math teacher, the only person who knew my story, was there. He's ready to support me, and his sister—a lawyer—is prepared to take up my case. So now, I'm suing my parents. My aunt respects my decision and didn't try to stop me.
But that's not all. I still have other battles to fight at school. I'm dealing with a serious problem: bullying. Specifically, sexual bullying. I wish I could pour out all my feeli
ngs here, but it's difficult. There's this boy… "Senior Sodiq."
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