Chapter 6: The Diary

Ifunanya Okonkwo gritted her teeth as she stared at the blackboard.

"You're ignoring me."

The words sat there, mocking her.

She refused to let them get to her.

With harsh, deliberate strokes, she grabbed the duster and scrubbed at the message. The chalk smeared and crumbled, the dust rising in faint clouds.

She pressed harder.

Hard enough that the board squeaked under the force of her movements.

Hard enough that her arm ached from the effort.

When the board was finally clean, she threw the duster onto the desk.

"This nonsense ends today."

Adjusting her scarf, she stepped out of her quarters, into the daylight.

There were no ghosts.

No whispers.

No messages on blackboards.

Just Saint Raphael's, her students, and the life she had chosen.

---

The teachers' lounge was already filled with conversation when Ify entered.

The room had a comfortable disorder—books stacked in corners, a steaming pot of tea on the wooden table, and the soft hum of familiarity in the air.

"Miss Okonkwo!" Mrs. Ibe called out, waving her over. "You came early today."

Ify smiled, setting her books on the table. "I'm trying to make up for all the times I disappeared after class."

"Good," said Mr. Bello, stirring his tea. "We were starting to think you didn't like us."

Ify chuckled. "I like you all just fine. I just—" She hesitated, then forced a smile. "Needed time to settle in."

"Ah, settling in," Mr. Martins, the SS3 English teacher, sighed dramatically. "That was me ten years ago. Came here thinking I'd stay for a year or two. Look at me now—part of the furniture!"

The teachers laughed.

Ify poured herself some tea and sat. The conversation flowed easily—talk of lessons, students, and Saint Raphael's itself.

"Did you hear about the inspection next term?" Mrs. Uduak, the social studies teacher, groaned.

"I heard," Mrs. Ibe said, rolling her eyes. "They'll come, poke around, and then leave. Same thing every time."

"They'll complain about funding," Mr. Bello added. "Yet nothing will change."

Mr. Martins turned to Ify. "How are your SS2 students coping with Things Fall Apart?"

Ify sighed. "It's a battle. Some love it, but others think Achebe's English is a punishment."

Mr. Martins laughed. "That sounds like my SS3 students with She Stoops to Conquer. They can't understand why Marlow is terrified of talking to a woman of his own class but suddenly becomes confident when he thinks she's a barmaid."

Mrs. Ibe chuckled. "To be fair, it's a ridiculous plot."

Mr. Martins shook his head. "The only thing more dramatic than the books we teach… are the students themselves."

More laughter.

The lightheartedness settled Ify, grounding her in the normalcy of it all.

For a moment, it was easy to believe that this was just another morning.

That everything was fine.

---

Ify stood at the front of SS2A, tapping her book against her palm.

"So," she said, glancing around, "who can tell me what the egwugwu represent in Things Fall Apart?"

Silence.

A few students shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

Ify sighed. "I know at least one of you read it."

More silence.

Then—a hand shot up.

It was Aisha, one of the brightest students in her class.

"They represent the ancestral spirits of the clan," Aisha said confidently.

"Good." Ify nodded. "And why are they important?"

Aisha opened her mouth, but before she could answer, a voice muttered from the back.

"They wear masks and shake their bodies like juju men."

A ripple of giggles spread through the room.

Ify arched an eyebrow. "Who said that?"

The class went silent.

Then, Chuka, the class clown, grinned. "It was Chiamaka, Miss."

"Liar!" Chiamaka shot back.

The students laughed, and Ify couldn't help but smile.

"Alright, alright," she said. "Since you all find the egwugwu so funny, let's see if you remember what happened when one of them was unmasked."

Chuka froze.

"Uhm… Err…"

Ify waited, arms crossed.

The class snickered.

Aisha whispered, "It was considered a crime against the gods."

Chuka sat up straight. "Yes! That's what I was about to say!"

Ify shook her head. "Next time, read before class, Chuka."

"Yes, Miss," he muttered, as the class giggled again.

Ify turned back to the board, writing Egwugwu = ancestral spirits in clear chalk strokes.

She loved moments like this—when her students were engaged, debating, and actually thinking about literature.

For a brief time, she forgot about whispers in the night and messages on blackboards.

For a brief time, everything was normal.

But normalcy never lasted long at Saint Raphael's.

---

By the time Ify finished grading papers and returned to her quarters, she was exhausted.

She swung the door open—

And froze.

Her breath caught in her throat.

Her room—her private space, the one thing she had control over—

Was completely destroyed.

The mattress was half off the bedframe, sheets tangled and thrown to the floor.

Her books—**once neatly arranged—**were now scattered everywhere, some with bent covers, others lying open like someone had searched through them.

Her wardrobe doors stood wide open, dresses and blouses hanging at odd angles.

Her drawers were pulled out, their contents spilling onto the floor.

Then—her eyes landed on the one thing untouched.

A small, dusty book.

Placed neatly on the center of her bed.

And written on the front, in faint, nearly erased letters—

Titilayo Bassey.

Miss Titi.

Ify's breath hitched.

And then, she snapped.

"ENOUGH!"

The air shifted.

Then—

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

Her blackboard—clean that morning—

Was no longer empty.

"I just want you to help me, so I can rest."

Her fingers trembled.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

And before she could stop herself, she whispered—

"How?"

The blackboard erased itself.

Then—new words appeared.

"It's in my diary."

Ify turned slowly, her gaze landing on the diary resting on her bed.

She wasn't sure how long she stood there.

But one thing was certain.

She couldn't ignore this anymore.