A week had passed since Mum left, but the hollow ache of her absence remained sharp and unforgiving. My friends tried everything to help—jokes, long talks, even bad dance routines—but their efforts only deepened my insecurity. I couldn't shake the irrational fear that they were trying to replace her.
That afternoon, Dad and I were in the courtyard, locked in a casual game of snooker. He was winning. Badly. Each time he sank a ball, he took a deliberate puff of his thick brown cigar, releasing the smoke with a smug grin.
"Mocking me now, are you?" I muttered, squinting at the table as I lined up my shot.
"Not my fault I'm better at this," Dad replied, his grin widening.
I aimed and fired. The white ball clipped the edge of the red one, sending it rolling away from the pocket. I sighed.
"How's work?" I asked, trying to sound casual. "Being a minister for this, uh, fine country must be... fun."
Dad's grin faded, and he exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging. I straightened, suddenly alert.
"There's been another scandal," he said, his tone heavy. "The presidency called this morning. A significant deficit was flagged—money that should've gone to the Revenue Allocation Committee. It's... missing."
I frowned, the seriousness of his words sinking in. "How much?"
"1.2 trillion naira," Dad replied, lining up his next shot.
"Wow," I said, impressed despite myself. "Whoever pulled that off is set for life."
Dad's head snapped up, and he fixed me with a disapproving glare. "Ada. This isn't a joke. That money belongs to the people—people who are struggling to survive." He jabbed his cue at the table, his voice rising. "If I find whoever did this, I swear, I'll make them pay."
"Relax, Daddy," I said, holding up my hands. "I'm not condoning it. Just... stating the facts. Besides, we both know how the system works. If one person didn't do it, someone else would've stepped up."
Dad's eyes softened, but there was still a hint of anger there. He took another puff of his cigar, then muttered, "That's not the point."
I hesitated before asking the question that had been gnawing at me. "Do they think... it's you?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he sank another ball with precise accuracy. Finally, he straightened, brushing ash off his fingers.
"Yes," he said simply.
My stomach twisted. "That's ridiculous," I said quickly. "You'd never—"
"Of course not," Dad snapped, cutting me off. "But accusations don't need proof to ruin a reputation. The petroleum ministry is already under scrutiny, and now I'm the easiest target."
I bit my lip, unsure how to respond. I wanted to reassure him, but I wasn't sure what to say. Finally, I forced a smile. "Tell you what, Daddy. I'll make us dinner tonight. My treat."
Dad's expression went through several stages of alarm, but I pretended not to notice.
"No, honey, that's really not—"
"Relax. It won't be like last time," I said cheerfully, already heading for the kitchen.
Dad groaned behind me. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of."
---
The next day, Aisha and I were waiting outside the principal's office. The passageway was quiet except for our hushed whispers and the faint hum of the air conditioning.
"Mine will have blond hair and green eyes," Aisha said, her voice dreamy. "An assassin by night, a hot doctor by day."
I burst out laughing. "Good luck finding someone that specific. But do you think our parents will let us marry white boys?"
Aisha shot me a look. "Who cares what they think? Just elope."
"Elope?" I scoffed. "You've met my grandmother, right? She'd hunt me down, bundle me into a sack, and drag me home for one of her perfect bloodline lectures."
Aisha folded her arms dramatically. "Then we'll start an organization for rebellious kids. Protests in the streets, posters, chants—'Down with parental oppression!'"
"Sounds illegal," I said, grinning. "We'd probably end up in juvie."
"Exactly! Think of the headlines—'Teen rebels fight for freedom!' We'd be heroes."
Before I could respond, the school intercom crackled to life.
"Ada. Aisha. Please come in."
We exchanged wary glances before stepping into Mrs. Ailatu's office. The headmistress was seated behind her immaculate desk, a polite but tired smile on her face.
"Sit," she said, motioning to the chairs in front of her.
Aisha and I didn't just sit—we flopped into the chairs and propped our feet on her desk in perfect unison.
Mrs. Ailatu raised an eyebrow. "Girls, this is not—"
"Ma'am, you should really take care of that cough," I interrupted sweetly. "Overworking yourself isn't good for your health."
Aisha gasped theatrically. "Ada! Look at her face—she's struggling to speak! Do you think her throat exploded?"
I clapped a hand over my mouth. "Oh no. Poor Mrs. Ailatu. What if everyone thinks we caused it?"
"Stop it," Mrs. Ailatu said sharply, though there was a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Enough games."
She reached for a folder on her desk and pulled out a small camera. My heart sank.
"Let me guess," Aisha said, her tone suddenly serious. "Blackmail?"
Mrs. Ailatu smiled. "Nothing so dramatic. I need volunteers to guide new students this term, and you two are perfect for the job."
"No way," Aisha snapped. "Not happening."
The headmistress's smile widened as she waved the camera. "Shall I send this to the disciplinary committee? I'm sure they'll enjoy the footage of you disrespecting me."
Aisha clenched her fists, and I sighed in defeat.
"Fine," I muttered. "We'll do it."
"Good girls," Mrs. Ailatu said, her smile practically glowing. "Be here at 7:30 sharp tomorrow. Don't be late."
As we left her office, Aisha muttered under her breath, "That damn woman."
I couldn't help but agree.