Mandy's First Day

"I get you don't want to miss your first day, but you're not in the right state to be in class," Emmanuel says, his words finally sinking in.

But I'm still reluctant to miss anything. "Bu—" I start to protest, but he interrupts me. "I won't change your mind, if you want to go, then fine," he says with a shrug.

I can't help but smile at his understanding. "Thanks for getting it," I respond, feeling a bit relieved.

"It's fine," he responds. "So, what made you choose that course if I may ask?"

I take a deep breath, knowing I'm about to launch into a long speech - a habit of mine when anyone asks about my passion for journalism.

"Well," I begin, "I've always loved traveling the world, researching, and investigating. And then, of course, there's the thrill of returning with feedback and sharing it with others through reporting on TV."

I pause, my eyes lighting up with excitement. "It brings me this strange sense of joy, even though many people warn me that being a journalist is risky."

I shrug. "But someone has to do it, right? If everyone runs away from the challenge, who will tell the stories that need to be told?"

I appreciate how attentively he's listening, nodding along with interest, which makes me feel surprisingly at ease with him.

We continue chatting, sharing our aspirations and the reasons behind them, until the car pulls up in front of a large two-story building.

A board at the top reads "Faculty of Social Sciences" in bold letters.

I gaze up at it with a mix of excitement and nervousness, feeling a sense of accomplishment at finally arriving at my faculty building.

But my enthusiasm is short-lived, as I notice the eerie silence surrounding the building. Where is everyone? I wonder, frowning in confusion.

The silence is uncomfortable, and I can't help but feel a shiver run down my spine.

Just then, Kelly's voice breaks the silence, "Come on, Mandy, I also have to get to class."

I slip on my backpack, wincing slightly as the strap rubs against my sore elbow. "Oh okay," I reply, pushing open the door and stepping out.

I turn to close it behind me, but just as I'm about to shut it, Emmanuel catches my attention with a friendly wave and a kind "Good luck."

I smile, feeling a sense of gratitude towards him, and nod in appreciation before closing the door.

Then, I step back and glance at the front seat, where Kendrick is resting his head against the headrest, his throat bobbing up and down as he swallows.

As I continue to gaze at Kendrick, I notice that his eyes are fixed on the rearview mirror, his gaze intense.

I follow his line of sight and realize that he's staring at me, his expression unreadable.

I feel a shiver run down my spine as our eyes meet, and I quickly look away, unsure of what to make of the moment.

But then Kelly exclaims,"Goodbye, Mandy!"

I bend down to see her waving enthusiastically, a bright smile spreading across her face.

I smile back and return Kelly's wave, feeling a warmth towards her despite her occasional annoying habits. She can be kind and caring when it counts, and I appreciate that about her.

As Kelly taps Kendrick's shoulder, he starts the engine and speeds away, leaving me to wonder why he's been so quiet lately.

He isn't usually reserved, and I can't help but sense that something is bothering him.

The thought creeps in: could it be something relating to me?

I'm left standing there, bewildered and confused, wondering what's gotten into him.

His behavior has been a rollercoaster - first, he claimed he didn't like me, then he showed a caring side, and now he's acting calm yet creepy.

I watch as the car disappears into the distance, my hand slowly dropping to my side.

Once it's out of sight, I take a deep breath, and a weight of nervousness settles in my chest, like a heavy fog that refuses to lift.

I grasp the dangling straps of my bag, fix my gaze on the cemented ground, and slowly begin walking towards the entrance of the building.

I climb the short stairs leading to the open entrance, the sound of my footsteps echoing off the walls.

As I reach the top, I continue walking towards the black door ahead, feeling my anxiety spike with each step.

Suddenly, I hear the sound of a male voice echoing in the room, his words reverberating off the walls as he addresses a group of people who seem utterly captivated by his lecture.

His confident tone and articulate speech leave no doubt that he's the professor, and I can't help but wonder how he and the rest of the students will react when they see me - especially in my current disheveled state.

Will they be surprised, confused, or even concerned?

I hesitate for a moment, bracing myself for the outcome, before slowly turning the handle and pushing the door open.

But then the room falls silent, and I step inside, becoming the center of attention.

All eyes are on me, including the lecturer's, who raises an eyebrow in surprise.

I feel a lump form in my throat, and I gulp it down, trying to compose myself.

Then I step aside, letting the door swing shut behind me, and the soft click of the latch echoes through the quiet room.

My eyes scan the room, absorbing its grandeur. The spaciousness is a stark contrast to the typical secondary school classroom, with tiered chairs that rise like stairs to the back of the room.

Most of the seats are occupied, a sea of expectant faces turned towards me, except for the front row, which stands out for its eerie vacancy.

My gaze finally settles on the lecturer, who now stands with his arms folded behind him, his raised eyebrow still fixed intently on me, as if daring me to explain my late arrival.

I release my grip on my bag straps and start fidgeting with my fingers, unsure of what to say or do. The lecturer's piercing gaze makes me feel like an insect under a microscope, scrutinized and trapped.

I begin hearing murmurs and whispers from the students seated around me, but I resist the urge to look around, keeping my eyes fixed on the lecturer as if mesmerized.

His intense stare is uncomfortable, and I can't help but wonder why he's focusing so much attention on me.

I feel my face growing hot with discomfort, and I wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole. I regret not skipping class today; this is absolute torture!

"Young woman," the lecturer says suddenly, his voice thick and heavy with a fluent English intonation that commands attention. "Why are you arriving so late?"

I part my lips to respond, but they tremble as I stutter, "Uhm...I-I got lost on my way here. I couldn't find the faculty building."

The murmurs in the room grow louder, swelling into a gentle laughter that somehow breaks my spirit.

I feel my face flush with embarrassment, my eyes darting around the room in search of an escape.

"Is that supposed to be an excuse?" he asks.

"Uhm, I'm sorr—"

"Sorry for yourself," he interrupts.

I remain silent, feeling a deep sense of shame and sadness flood in. This isn't how I wanted my first day to go.

I thought I'd make a good impression, not be ridiculed in front of my peers.

"And most of all, do you think I'd allow you to present yourself in this condition?" he asks, but I still can't find my voice, as I'm unsure of how to react or what to say.

I feel like I'm shrinking under his gaze, my confidence evaporating with each passing moment.

I've never felt this embarrassed before. His face may not show it, but his tone conveys a hint of anger.

Then, he gestures towards the other students, "They are all new students like you, and they managed to arrive early and in good condition, unlike you."

I cast my gaze to the floor, feeling utterly heartbroken. If only Chisom had shown up...

"Well, I'm only going to permit you to join my class today because you're a new student."

His words lift my gaze, and I glance up at him, feeling a slight sense of relief.

"However, this should not repeat itself. I mean, the school afforded you a two-day grace period to familiarize yourself with the campus. What were you doing during that time?"

"Uhm..." I stutter, struggling to respond, but he interrupts me.

"Find a seat already!"

He turns to the board, and I slowly make my way to an empty seat at the front, my eyes fixed on the floor to avoid the gazes I can feel upon me.

As I sit, I quickly remove my backpack and take out my notebook and pen, trying to appear focused.

The lecturer launches into an explanation of a concept that utterly bewilders me.

I frown, feeling lost and struggling to keep up. I wonder if I had arrived earlier, I would have had a better grasp of what he's saying.

As the moments pass, I struggle to keep up, but I manage to scribble down some notes, and I glean that the topic is "Introduction to Journalism" - or at least, I think that's what it is.

The class drags on, and I'm likely the most bewildered student in the room.

Just when I think I've had enough, the lecturer bids us farewell and assigns a task: to research successful journalists in Nigeria.

But I'm worried - my phone is in a terrible state, and I have no idea how I'll complete the assignment.

As the lecturer exits the class, his gaze lingers on me, his eyes narrowing slightly as he shoots me a suspicious glance.

I know exactly why - my disheveled appearance has raised his eyebrows, and I can sense his unspoken questions.

The moment he's out the door, the room erupts into a cacophony of murmurs, a chorus of hushed conversations that seem to swirl around me like a vortex.

I push my worries aside and begin reviewing the notes I jotted down, trying to make sense of them. However, I struggle to understand most of it.

My handwriting is usually legible, but this time it's a mess due to my frantic attempts to keep up with the lecturer's rapid-fire words.

Furthermore, my notes are incomplete and lacking in detail, a consequence of arriving late to class.

I sigh, closing my book in resignation, realizing this is a lesson for me to explore the campus and familiarize myself with the buildings.

Just then, a gentle voice beside me says, "Hey."

I turn my head to see a girl with glasses, the glint of her lenses making her eyes sparkle like hidden treasures.

Her lip gloss catches my attention, and I notice the radiant shine of her coffee-brown skin, which is beautifully complemented by her braids that have fallen around her shoulders like a cascading waterfall.

"Uhm, hi," I manage to respond, still feeling a bit dazed.

"I'm Niella," she says with a gentle smile. "I just wanted to check if you're okay?"

Check if I'm okay? "Oh, I'm okay. Why do you ask?"

"Well, you're bleeding from your elbow."

My eyes widen in surprise, and I repeat, "Elbow?" as if I need confirmation.

She nods sympathetically, and I instinctively glance down at my elbow, only to exhale a frustrated sigh as I'm reminded of the beatings I endured at the hands of those girls.

I had almost forgotten about the injury until now.

I glance up at Niella, offering a brief, appreciative smile. "Thanks," I say, my voice a little softer now, and she nods in response.

I shift my gaze back to my injured elbow, fixating on the blood that's covering it, and surprisingly, I don't feel any pain.

I continue to examine my elbow, unsure of what to do about it, and then I check the other elbow to see that it also has blood on it. Today is definitely my worst day.

But then Niella says something that draws my gaze back to her. "I can lend you my notes only if you promise to return them tomorrow."

My eyes widen briefly at her offer, and I feel a sense of gratitude surge through me. I could almost give her a hug, but I know I shouldn't just yet.

Instead, I settle for a heartfelt "Thank you" and a smile, hoping to convey my appreciation. "I promise to return them tomorrow."

Niella smiles and hands me her notebook, which I eagerly accept and tuck safely into my bag.

"Thanks," I repeat once more, and she smiles again

"You're welcome," she says warmly.

I resume examining my elbows, staring at each one in confusion as I'm unsure of how to get rid of the blood.

I consider using the handkerchief Emmanuel gave me, but that doesn't feel right. I didn't even bring a handkerchief of my own - another oversight on my part.

This is another lesson for me to learn today, and I make a mental note to jot them down once I get to my room. Maybe I can even add "always carry a handkerchief" to my growing list of reminders.

Lost in my thoughts and examining my elbows, I'm suddenly aware of a presence beside me.

I glance up, and my eyes widen in shock as I see Kendrick towering over me.

My mind reels with questions - what is he doing here? When and how did he even find me? I gaze up at him in utter surprise, my thoughts racing in confusion.

He suddenly takes the vacant seat next to me, and I notice him holding a white nylon bag. What could be in there?

He drops the bag on the table with a soft thud, then turns to face me, his gaze intense and unreadable.

I feel a shiver run down my spine as he fixes me with an unblinking stare.

"Uhm, what are you doing here?" I whisper, my voice barely audible, but somehow managing to cut through the murmur of voices surrounding us.

He shifts his gaze away from me, his eyes dropping to the nylon bag as he pulls it onto his lap.

His hands move to open it, but my attention remains fixed on his face, waiting for a response.

Suddenly, he looks up, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my heart skip a beat. "You think I'd just leave you alone?" he asks, his words sending a flutter through my chest.

I swallow hard, gulping down the lump that forms in my throat, before managing to stammer, "W-what do you mean?"

Then, he sets the bag back on the table, but my gaze remains fixed on his face, even as he looks back at me with a hint of concern.

"I can't leave you in this condition," he says, his voice filled with empathy.

He gently takes my arm, his grasp gentle, and I glance down to see that he's holding a cotton ball.

My eyes snap back up to his, my brow raised in surprise. "Why are you helping me?" I ask, but he remains silent, his expression unreadable.

Instead, he redirects his attention to my arm, gently rotating it to examine my elbow.

He delicately dabs the cotton ball against my skin, and I'm surprised to feel no discomfort.

But my focus soon shifts from the injury to Kendrick's face, transfixed by the care and attention he devotes to treating my wound.

His eyelashes flutter slowly as he works, and I find myself captivated by his flawless skin, perfectly chiseled jawline, and gentle touch.

I can understand why Kelly is drawn to him, and why he might reciprocate her interest - she's beautiful, confident, and vibrant, everything I'm not.

A pang pierces my heart as I recall his words - I don't measure up to Kelly. I'm thin, naive, dull, and boring.

The sting of his disinterest feels like a fresh wound. It's as if I've been stabbed in the heart.

I know he has every right to choose who he likes, but I can't help but wonder why he's being so kind to me. Is it pity? Sympathy? Or something else entirely? The uncertainty gnaws at me, making me question my own worth.

Our eyes lock suddenly, and I gaze intensely into those brown pupils, as if trying to decipher his true motives.

But then he breaks eye contact, and I feel a sudden weight in my arms.

I look down to realize that he has already released my arm, and I notice that my elbows are now neatly bandaged.

I flex my arms, testing the bandages, and they feel snug and secure. With the bandages in place, I won't have to worry about bleeding.

But then I watch as he pulls out a plastic container with a black plate and a white lid, and a plastic spoon rests on top.

He opens the lid, revealing a savory dish - rice and tomato stew, accompanied by a neatly arranged salad and a fried fish tail.

The aroma wafts up, tantalizing my taste buds and making my mouth water in anticipation.

However, my excitement is short-lived, as he brings a spoonful of rice to my mouth, his expression inscrutable.

His brows are straight, and his eyes seem to hold a secret that I can't quite decipher.

"Eat up," he says, but I furrow my brow, my confusion and skepticism evident on my face.

"Why are you helping me?" I ask again.

"You have to eat," he responds, his tone gentle.

"I don't want to eat it," I reply, crossing my arms in defiance.

"You seemed perfectly comfortable when Emmanuel was talking to you, even though you'd just met. So why is it different with me?" he asks, his eyes suddenly clouding over with a deep hurt that only adds to my confusion.

But then, he forces a smirk, as if trying to mask the pain I saw flicker in his eyes.

"Open up," he says, his voice soft but insistent.

But I turn my head away, my jaw set in resistance. "I won't," I say.

"You have to," he insists.

I turn back to him, and his smirk has vanished, replaced by the same haunting hurt I saw in his eyes earlier.

But I stand my ground, repeating, "I don't want to."

He regards me in silence, his eyes fixed on mine, as he slowly withdraws the spoon from my reach.

Then, he closes the plate, his gaze lingering on me for a moment, as if searching for something.

Finally, he rises to his feet. "I'm going now. You should eat when you're hungry," he says.

Then he turns and walks away, leaving me to watch his every step, perplexed by the contradictions he embodies - kindness and fear, hurt and reserve. I just can't seem to grasp what's troubling him.

I glance back at the plate of rice, my mind racing with questions.

Is it safe to eat?

Did he drug it?

But why would he go through so much trouble to help me if he wanted to harm me?

My stomach growls with hunger, and my eyes fix on the plate.

Maybe I should just take a small bite...?