Chapter Four

The test paper landed on my desk with a soft thud.

"Fifteen minutes extra," Mr. Ade announced, adjusting his glasses. "This will count toward your final exams, so I expect your best effort."

A low groan rippled through the classroom. I ignored it and picked up my pen. The first question stared back at me in bold letters:

Solve for x: 3x² - 5x - 2 = 0.

I exhaled and muttered under my breath, "Factorizing or quadratic formula?"

A girl in front of me turned slightly, as if she had heard, but I ignored her. I wrote quickly, my pen gliding across the crisp white answer sheet. The air was thick with quiet concentration—occasional chair squeaks, the tap of fingers against rulers, the steady hum of the ceiling fan overhead.

Outside, the sun burned high in the sky, casting sharp rectangles of light through the tinted windows. The air conditioner whirred softly, keeping the room cool despite the heat outside.

I moved on to the next question, my mind sharp, unbothered.

If y varies directly as x², and y = 18 when x = 3, find y when x = 5.

I read it aloud in a whisper, rolling my pen between my fingers. Direct variation means y = kx². First, find k...

"Five minutes left!" Mr. Ade's voice sliced through the silence.

I barely reacted. My answers were flowing easily, and for the first time in weeks, my mind was completely clear—no thoughts of Miss Chioma, no lingering questions about the woman who had come to our house.

When the bell rang, I capped my pen, feeling satisfied.

As Mr. Ade collected the papers, Emeka leaned toward me. "Omo, wahala don dey. Surprise test just two weeks before final exams?"

I smirked, stuffing my pen into my bag. "It wasn't that bad."

Emeka gave me a side-eye. "You talk like person wey no see number three."

I laughed, shaking my head. "I finished."

"God abeg." He slumped onto his desk. "You go explain after school."

I was still smiling when the bell rang.

---

The evening breeze carried the scent of suya and grilled fish from the nearby estate. From the upstairs balcony, I could see the glow of car headlights weaving through the streets below. Our compound was large, enclosed by high walls and a black gate embossed with golden lions. The garden lights cast soft shadows on the well-trimmed hedges, and the fountain at the center of the driveway gurgled gently.

I sat in the family lounge, the one reserved for private conversations, surrounded by deep brown leather couches and framed family portraits. A glass coffee table stood in the middle, resting on a Persian rug. The air smelled of vanilla-scented candles, the kind Mama liked to light in the evenings.

Mama sat across from me, dressed in a flowing green lace gown, her gold earrings glinting softly under the chandelier. A steaming cup of green tea rested in her palms.

"There are things I need to tell you, Ahamefula," she said, her voice measured, calm. "Things that concern your father."

I leaned back slightly, watching her.

"It's about the woman who came to the house that Sunday."

I sat up straighter. Finally.

She exhaled. "Her name is Ifunanya."

The name meant nothing to me. I waited.

"She was married to your father before me."

I blinked. "Married?"

Mama nodded, lifting her teacup but not drinking from it. "It was a traditional marriage. He paid her bride price, took her to his family, just as custom demands."

I swallowed, the weight of her words settling over me. I had never thought of my father as someone who had a life before us. He was just Papa—strict, busy, respected. Odimegwu Nwokedi. The man who never left things undone.

"She betrayed him," Mama continued. "He came home one evening and found her in bed with another man."

I exhaled, a slow, careful breath.

"The elders were called," she said. "His kinsmen. Her people. He went back to her village and collected his bride price, the way it is done."

"She was divorced," I murmured.

"Yes." Mama traced the rim of her cup with one finger. "But she was already pregnant."

My chest tightened.

"The child is a boy," she said simply. "He is older than Adaora by a year."

The words landed heavily between us.

I blinked, my thoughts shifting. A brother. A half-brother. Not just a child, but a firstborn—someone who should have been sitting at our table, someone Papa had decided to leave behind.

"She wants him to be part of our lives now," I said, my voice quieter.

"She wants many things," Mama replied. "But your father has made his decision. And so have I."

She set her teacup down carefully.

"You must not tell your siblings."

I nodded slowly, even as my thoughts tangled.

Outside, a car engine hummed to a stop in the driveway. The scent of night-blooming jasmine drifted through the open window.

Mama reached over and placed her hand over mine. "You all are your father's children, Ahamefula," she said firmly. "He is, also. But he is not mine."

I nodded again, but the words stayed with me, lingering like the scent of those scented candles. I wondered why Mama didn't tell Nonso instead. Although, she was used to telling me things she wouldn't tell the others.

---

I sat on the balcony long after Mama had left the lounge, watching the streetlights flicker in the distance. The estate was quiet now, the night air thick with the scent of damp earth. Somewhere far off, the sound of a generator rumbled, steady and low.

A brother. A firstborn.

I tried to picture him—tried to imagine his face, his voice, the way he walked. Would he look like Papa? Would he have our sharp cheekbones, the same deep-set eyes that Nonso and I shared? Or did he take after his mother, this woman who was nothing more than a name in my memory until today?

I had always known exactly where I stood in our family. Adaora, the firstborn. Nonso, the first son. Me. Obinna. Kosi, the last. Five of us. No gaps. No missing pieces.

And yet, there was one. One that had always existed, even before Adaora.

The thought unsettled me in a way I couldn't explain.

I heard a door open inside, followed by the shuffle of soft slippers. A moment later, Kosi padded onto the balcony, her wrapper tied high above her waist, her hair in neat cornrows.

"You're not sleeping," she said, her small voice breaking the silence.

"I will," I replied, shifting slightly as she sat beside me.

She was quiet for a moment, her feet swinging slightly off the balcony edge. "You were thinking about something."

I glanced at her. "How do you know?"

She shrugged. "You always do that thing with your jaw when you're thinking too much."

I exhaled, leaning back against the wall. "It's nothing."

Kosi tilted her head but didn't push. Instead, she pulled her wrapper tighter around herself. "Mama and Papa were talking in their room. I couldn't hear everything, but they mentioned a name I didn't know."

I tensed slightly. "What name?"

She frowned. "Ifunanya."

I kept my face blank. "Maybe it's someone from the village."

She stared at me for a moment before sighing. "You're lying."

I let out a small laugh, reaching over to flick her ear. "Go and sleep, small madam."

She swatted my hand away but smiled. "You too."

When she finally got up and disappeared inside, I sat there for a long time, staring out at the stars.

---

The next morning, school felt different.

Not because of the test. Not because of Emeka's usual chatter about football. But because of the name that now sat in my head, refusing to leave.

Ifunanya.

It followed me as I walked through the school gates, clung to me through morning assembly, echoed faintly in the background as Mr. Ade returned our test scripts.

"Aham," Emeka nudged me. "You no even react. See your score."

I glanced down. 88%.

I nodded absently. "Not bad."

Emeka scoffed. "Not bad? Oga, I barely managed 52. You no even smile."

I forced a small smirk and turned back to my script, circling a mistake in one of my calculations.

But the numbers blurred, and all I could see was the empty seat at our dining table. A place that had never been set for him.

A brother with a name I had never known.

I was still flipping through my test script when Zima slid into the seat in front of me, dropping her bag on the desk with a soft thud.

"88%," she read aloud, tilting her head. "Not bad, Mr. Genius."

I smirked. "Don't start."

She grinned, leaning forward, her chin resting on her folded arms. "I'm just saying. You barely even studied. Some of us had to struggle."

I raised an eyebrow. "You? Struggle? You're always among the top in class."

She rolled her eyes. "Doesn't mean it's easy." She reached for my script, flipping through it. "Ah. See neatness. Ahamefula the perfectionist."

I chuckled. "It's just how I write."

She tapped her finger against the margin. "Hmm. Even your rough workings are neat. If I had handwriting like this, I'd frame my test script and hang it in my room."

"You can have this one," I said dryly.

She laughed, shaking her head. "I don't want your 88%. I want 90 or nothing."

I snorted. "Greedy madam."

She shrugged, but there was a lightness in her expression, the kind of comfort that came with old friendship. I had known Zima since childhood—our families had lived in the same estate before hers moved to another part of town. But she had always been there. Zima, the girl who raced me on our bicycles when we were eight. She always knew what to say, and never tried too hard but was always just... there.

"You seem distracted," she said, watching me carefully. "What's up?"

I hesitated for half a second before shaking my head. "Nothing."

Her gaze lingered on my face, studying me the way only someone who had known me for years could. Then she leaned back, stretching her arms. "Okay. But if you ever feel like telling me, I promise I'm a good listener."

I smiled. "I know."

She nodded, returning my test script. "Good. Now, let's go and find Emeka before he starts making excuses for why he has a low score."

She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. I followed, my thoughts still heavy, but lighter in a way I couldn't quite explain.

What I didn't notice—what I wouldn't have noticed—was the way Zima's eyes lingered on me for just a moment too long.