Chapter Six

The school felt different. Not in a loud, obvious way—there were still students shouting in the corridors, still the hum of teachers marking scripts, still the scent of freshly mowed grass floating in through the windows. But there was an end-of-term stillness, the kind that came when people knew change was near.

I moved through the hallway, barely listening as Emeka talked beside me. The excitement from Inter-House Sports had faded, replaced by the quiet realization that this was it. SS2 was over. In a few weeks, we would return as SS3 students, preparing for the biggest exams of our lives.

I stopped at the door of my classroom, adjusting my bag on my shoulder.

"You sure say you no wan follow us?" Emeka asked, raising a brow. "We dey plan one last outing before everybody travel for holiday."

I shook my head. "Not today. I still have to see someone."

Emeka gave me a knowing look. "Miss Chioma?"

I ignored him.

He chuckled, slapping my shoulder lightly. "Make she no go catch you dey blush anyhow."

I muttered a half-hearted insult, and he laughed, disappearing down the hall.

I exhaled and made my way toward the English Department.

---

She was at her desk, a red pen in hand, flipping through a stack of papers. Her hair was pulled into a loose bun, strands falling around her face. She looked up the moment I entered.

"Ahamefula," she said, as if she had been expecting me.

My heart did that stupid thing where it stumbled over itself.

"I—uh, good afternoon, ma."

"Good afternoon," she said, sitting back in her chair. "Come in."

I stepped inside, the familiar scent of sandalwood and paper wrapping around me.

She gestured to the seat in front of her desk. "You wanted to see me?"

I nodded, suddenly unsure why I was here. To thank her? To hear her say my name again? To make this last longer than it needed to be?

"I just..." I cleared my throat. "I wanted to say thank you. For everything. For making English... different."

Her lips curled into a small smile. "Different?"

"Yes," I said quickly. "I mean, I always liked literature, but you made it feel—" I hesitated, searching for the right word. "Alive."

She watched me for a moment, then leaned forward, resting her chin on her clasped hands.

"You have a gift with words, Ahamefula. You don't just read—you see things. Feel them."

I swallowed, my palms suddenly clammy.

She continued, her voice thoughtful. "Have you ever considered writing? Not just essays for school, but your own thoughts, your own stories?"

I blinked. "I—sometimes. But I don't think I'm good at it."

"You should try," she said simply. "You might surprise yourself."

I nodded, my throat too tight to say anything else.

She reached for her pen again, then hesitated. "You'll do well in SS3, Aham. You're a brilliant student."

I let out a small breath. "Thank you, ma."

She smiled. "And congratulations again on your race. You were incredible."

I didn't know what to do with my hands. I wanted to hold on to the moment, make it stretch until time forgot how to move forward.

Instead, I nodded one last time and stood.

"I'll see you next term, ma."

She tilted her head, amusement flickering in her eyes. "Yes, you will."

I turned before I could embarrass myself, stepping into the hallway.

I had won a race, but somehow, standing there, feeling the warmth of her last words settle over me, it felt like the real victory had been something else entirely.

---

That evening, I heard voices coming from Papa's study.

I was passing through the hallway, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water, when I caught Mama's tone—low, tense.

"You can't ignore this forever, Obinna," she was saying. "She came back. You know what that means."

Papa's voice followed, measured but firm. "I will handle it."

A pause.

"How?" Mama's voice was quieter now. "He's your son."

I stopped.

Everything in my body stilled.

I was suddenly too aware of my own breathing, the weight of my feet planted against the cool tiles.

I didn't need to hear more. I knew who they were talking about.

For weeks, Ifunanya had been a shadow lingering at the edge of my thoughts. I had pushed it aside—buried it beneath school, races, distractions.

But a shadow does not disappear just because you refuse to turn toward it.

I stepped back, careful not to make a sound, and turned toward the stairs.

I had thought today would be my last memory of SS2—the race, the cup, Miss Chioma's words.

But as I climbed the staircase, a different thought settled into my bones.

The past was not done with us yet.

---

My room was a world of its own, tucked away at the far end of the hallway, away from the noise of the house. The walls were painted a shade of deep blue, not because I chose it but because Mama thought it suited me. A large shelf stood against one side, stacked with books, some borrowed, some mine. Some read too many times, their spines tired and creased.

My bed was pushed against the window, where the evening breeze drifted in, carrying the distant hum of generators and the occasional scent of frying plantain from the kitchen. My study table sat in the corner, neat except for the pile of notebooks and scattered pens.

I pulled out the chair and sat, tapping my fingers against the wooden surface. My mind was still full of her.

The way she had smiled when she said my name. The way she had leaned forward slightly, as though my words had mattered. As though I had mattered.

I reached for a notebook.

The first line came before I could overthink it:

"She walks in light, unaware of the sun she carries."

I stared at it for a while, tilting my head. Was it too much? Too obvious?

I tapped my pen against the page.

Then, slowly, carefully, I wrote the next line.

"She speaks, and the world folds into quiet, listening."

I exhaled, leaning back in my chair.

Something inside me was unraveling, spilling onto the page.

But I didn't rush. Some things deserved to be written slowly.

I placed my pen down, letting the half-formed poem rest, like something alive, waiting.

Outside, the night deepened. The sound of Kosi's laughter echoed faintly from the sitting room. A car passed by on the street below, its headlights flashing briefly through my curtains.

I picked up the pen again, hovering over the page.

Then, just as suddenly, I closed the notebook.

Not tonight.

Some words were meant to stay unfinished—for now.