Chapter One

Miss Chioma smelled of sandalwood and something else I could not name. It was the first thing I noticed about her, even before the way she wrote her name on the blackboard in smooth, slanted strokes. She had not introduced herself as "Corper Chioma" like the other National Youth Service teachers did. Just "Miss Chioma." There was something light about the way she spoke, like she did not need our approval but was willing to earn our attention. I sat straighter in my chair.

"What is literature?" she asked that first day, standing with her arms crossed, wearing fitted jeans and a plain blouse. No frilly patterns like Miss Dupe, the Economics teacher. No stiff posture like Mr. Ade, who taught Chemistry as though he were building the Third Mainland Bridge with his words. Miss Chioma moved freely, her fingers tracing invisible lines in the air as she spoke.

Emeka nudged me then. "Aham, wetin be this? She dey form like say she sabi too much."

I ignored him. I had already written down what she said, her exact words, as though I would need to remember them later.

"Literature is the story of people," she continued. "Not just their history, not just what they do, but how they feel. How they see the world. Literature is the inside of people's heads."

I had never heard it described like that before. I had always liked books, but in a quiet, methodical way. I read to understand, to pass exams, to retreat into the predictable. But as Miss Chioma spoke, I felt something shift. I wanted to ask her something—anything—to make her say more. But I remained silent.

After that day, I paid attention in a way that felt different. I noticed how she never repeated the same pair of earrings. How she sometimes bit the cap of her marker before writing on the board. How her voice softened when she read poetry aloud.

One evening, as I lay on the couch reading, Kosi sat beside me, swinging her legs. My little sister, sharp-eyed and too observant for her age, always had a way of noticing things I thought were mine alone.

"Why are you smiling like that?" she asked, tilting her head at me.

I blinked. "What?"

"You were smiling to yourself just now," she said, still watching me. "What were you thinking about?"

I shook my head quickly, flipping a page in my book. "Nothing."

She studied me for a moment longer, then shrugged and went back to threading her beads. But I could still feel her glancing at me from time to time, like she was trying to solve a puzzle I hadn't even realized I was putting together.

At school the next day, the Harmattan air clung to the corridors, dry and stubborn. I wiped my sweaty palms on my trousers as I walked past the notice board, where students crowded to check something I wasn't interested in. Emeka caught up with me, grinning.

"Aham, you dey go library again? You wan turn book yourself?" He laughed, nudging me playfully.

I smiled, but it was absent. I was already thinking about English class, about what Miss Chioma might say today, about whether she would read another poem, the way she had last week, her voice folding over each word delicately.

"Na you sabi," I muttered to Emeka. He laughed again, then let me be, turning instead to some other boys discussing football.

I walked into the classroom, slipping into my seat before Miss Chioma arrived. When she did, I straightened instinctively, heart steady but alert, like a river that had just learned how to flow in a new direction.

She began the lesson by writing a single word on the board: "Longing."

I felt something deep in my chest shift. She turned around, dusted her hands, and looked at us expectantly.

"Who can define this?" she asked.

My throat felt tight. I wanted to speak, to give an answer that would make her look at me longer, but my voice felt locked behind my ribs. I traced the edge of my notebook, waiting.

Zainab, the girl who always had an answer, raised her hand. "Longing is when you really want something but you can't have it."

Miss Chioma nodded. "Yes, very good. But it is also more than that. It is the ache of absence. The stretching of time. The way a song can remind you of something, or someone, that you miss."

I swallowed. Did she know? Could she tell? My pen trembled slightly in my hand as I wrote down her words, pressing them deep into the paper as if that would make them stay with me forever.

After class, I lingered, packing my books more slowly than usual. Miss Chioma was at her desk, flipping through papers. The other students filtered out, laughing, chatting, knocking against chairs as they left.

She looked up just as I picked up my bag. "Ahamefula," she said, and my name sounded different in her mouth, stretched, careful. "You seem like someone who enjoys literature beyond just passing exams."

I nodded quickly. "Yes, ma."

She smiled, leaning back in her chair. "What books do you read outside of school?"

I hesitated, suddenly embarrassed. "Mostly the ones on the syllabus, ma. But I like Achebe, and—" I paused. I wanted to say something that would impress her, something that would make her remember me. "I like poetry."

Her eyes lit up. "Poetry? That's wonderful. Do you write?"

I shook my head, though it wasn't entirely true. I sometimes wrote lines in the margins of my notebooks, never full poems, just scattered thoughts I never showed anyone.

"You should try," she said. "Writing is just another way of reading the world. If you ever want to share something you've written, I'd be happy to read it."

I nodded, unable to speak. My hands felt clammy as I clutched my books tighter. She returned to her papers, and I walked out, but my feet felt lighter, my chest warm.

I would write something. Not just for myself this time, but for her.

That night, long after Kosi had fallen asleep, I sat by the window, the pages of my notebook open before me. I wrote about longing. About waiting. About the scent of sandalwood in a crowded classroom. And about a voice that made the air around me feel different, as though something important was about to happen.

---

The next morning, the house smelled of fried plantains and something rich—eggs, maybe, or the stew Mama had cooked the night before. I heard the clatter of plates in the kitchen, the hum of a radio playing an old highlife song. Kosi sat cross-legged on the floor, peeling an orange, her fingers sticky with juice.

Papa was in the living room, speaking in low tones into his phone, his laptop open in front of him. He barely looked up as I passed, nodding once in acknowledgment before turning back to his conversation about shipments and bank transactions. He was always busy, even on Saturdays.

Nonso sat at the dining table, tapping on his phone with one hand and eating akara with the other. Adaora lounged on the couch, flipping through a fashion magazine, occasionally looking up to give unsolicited commentary on the clothes.

"That shade of blue would look good on you, Aham," she said without glancing up. I ignored her and reached for the kettle to pour myself a cup of tea.

"You should go out more," she added, this time looking at me, her lips curved in that half-smile she always wore when she thought she was being wise. "You can't keep burying yourself in books."

I took a sip of tea and stared out the window. The sun was already bright, cutting golden slants across the tiled floor. Outside, a hawker's voice rang out, listing fruits for sale. I wondered, for a brief moment, what Miss Chioma was doing right now. If she had eaten breakfast. If she also liked akara on Saturday mornings.

Kosi, still peeling her orange, watched me from the corner of her eye, her head tilted slightly, like she was trying to read my thoughts.

"Aham," Papa's voice cut through the quiet. He was still on the phone, but now he was motioning towards me. "Go and get my other charger from my study. I think this one is faulty."

I nodded and set my cup down, walking towards the hallway. As I stepped into Papa's study, the scent of polished wood and old books filled the air. I found the charger on the desk, next to a stack of papers with neat, deliberate handwriting on them. Something about the ink strokes reminded me of the way Miss Chioma wrote on the blackboard.

I picked up the charger and left the room, the scent of sandalwood still lingering in my thoughts.

I shook the thoughts away when I got back to where Papa was seated. I handed over the charger to him. I would've said, "Here it is, sir", but he seemed too busy with his calls.

I walked back to where I was at the table before I was called, and picked up my tea cup again. It was when I looked at the fried eggs on my plate that I realized something—or rather, someone—was missing.

"Where's Mama?" I asked, setting my cup of tea down.

"She went to the market with Aunty Bianca," Adaora replied, admiring her nails this time.

A loud thud sounded from the hallway, followed by a frustrated groan. I turned to see Obinna, my immediate younger brother, repositioning his tripod. He was trying to balance his phone, lips pursed as he reviewed a recording of himself dancing.

"You should do something useful for once, Obinna," Adaora teased without looking up.

"Content creation is useful," Obinna shot back. "You people will see when I blow."

Nonso chuckled but kept scrolling. Kosi, watching Obinna with mild interest, suddenly giggled. "Aham should join you. Maybe you'll get more likes."

I rolled my eyes. "Not happening."

Obinna grinned. "Your loss, big bro." He pressed record again and launched into another exaggerated dance move, his socks sliding against the tile floor.

I sighed, shaking my head, but I couldn't help the small smile tugging at my lips. The house was alive in a way that felt familiar, comforting. Yet, in the back of my mind, I was already counting the hours until Monday morning—until I could sit in Miss Chioma's class again.