Chapter 11

Samantha sat alone in her classroom, her chair an island amidst a sea of chatter. Though surrounded by classmates, she felt isolated, as if an invisible barrier separated her from the world. The weight of existence pressed down on her, heavy and suffocating, until it seemed the entire universe rested on her shoulders. Her breath rasped in her ears, drowning out the hum of conversation around her. The voices of her peers echoed distantly, distorted, as though filtered through water. She couldn’t focus. Her eyes darted left and right, scanning the room in quick, jerky movements. Every time the classroom door creaked open, her gaze snapped toward it, only to flit away just as fast, restless and unmoored.

Her chest tightened. She could hear her heartbeat now—thudding, insistent, a drumbeat only she could feel. Sweat beaded on her forehead, her palms clammy against the desk. Then, without warning, the world slipped away.

She was still facing forward, her eyes fixed on the white board at the front of the room. But the board was gone. In its place stretched a massive log, weathered and rough, suspended horizontally between two gnarled trees. Leaves clung to its surface, rustling faintly in an unseen breeze. The air smelled of damp earth and moss—a forest, alive and wild. Trees towered around her, their branches weaving a canopy that filtered dim, green light.

A figure stood atop the log—a woman, fierce and commanding. She was clad in the garb of an African warrior: a leather tunic adorned with intricate beadwork, a spear gripped in one hand. Her stance radiated readiness, as if poised for battle. Behind her loomed another presence, shadowy and indistinct. It wore a hooded black robe that billowed slightly, despite the stillness of the air. The figure stood some distance away, facing left while the warrior faced forward, their positions locked in silent tension. Samantha squinted, straining to make out details, but the scene remained hazy, like a dream teetering on the edge of clarity.

Then, just as abruptly, reality snapped back. The forest vanished, replaced once more by the whiteboard. The classroom buzzed around her—students laughing, talking, their voices reverberating in her skull. She blinked, disoriented. Sweat coated her skin, her heartbeat a relentless echo in her ears. Dizzy, she forced herself to stop scanning the room and fixed her gaze forward, willing her body to calm.

But peace eluded her. Moments later, the trance claimed her again. This time, the vision sharpened. The warrior stood on the same log, but the hooded figure was closer now—too close—its back to Samantha, facing the woman. The warrior’s features came into focus: high cheekbones, a regal bearing, eyes that burned with authority. Samantha’s breath caught. She knew this face, though she couldn’t place it. A name flickered at the edge of her memory, tantalizingly out of reach.

“Samantha,” a voice called, low and resonant. “Samantha. Samantha.” The sound grew louder, insistent, echoing through the forest and into her bones. She jolted awake, the classroom flooding back into focus.

“Samantha!” The voice persisted, sharper now. She turned, startled, to find Cassandra standing beside her desk, her brow furrowed with concern.

“What?!” Samantha snapped, her annoyance spilling over.

“Are you okay?” Cassandra asked, her tone cautious but firm.

“If you’re going to lecture me, just leave,” Samantha muttered, rubbing her temples.

Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “Are you serious? You’re sitting here, sweating and panting like you’re about to pass out—or worse—and you’re telling me to be polite about it?” She gestured around them. “Look, we’re the only ones left in this room. Everyone else is gone. There’s a security camera outside that saw them leave and me come in. If something happens to you, I’m the one who gets blamed. So forgive me for not being all sunshine and rainbows.”

Samantha glared at her, though her vision still swam. “I’m just... stressed.”

“Stress?” Cassandra’s voice rose, incredulous. “Girl, if you’re planning to check out, do it somewhere the camera can see you—not here, where I’ll be the one explaining your corpse. Think, Sammy.”

Samantha’s lips curled into a bitter smirk. “It’d be nice to watch you squirm in jail.”

Cassandra laughed, sharp and humorless. “And you’d be roasting in hell. Hilarious, Sammy. You just earned the Geoffrey Award for self-destruction.”

“Don’t compare me to him,” Samantha shot back, jabbing a finger at Cassandra. “I’m not some burnout wasting away.”

Cassandra fell silent, studying her for a long moment. Then she walked to her own desk, slumping into the seat with a shrug. “At least Geoffrey’s got a destiny,” she said, her voice flat, her expression unreadable.

Samantha’s anger flared, her fists clenching. She glared at Cassandra, who met her gaze with cool defiance.

“Don’t even think about starting something,” Cassandra warned. “Not unless you want to lose your only friend in this psycho ward of a school.”

Samantha froze, her fury warring with exhaustion. She said nothing, her jaw tight.

Cassandra sighed, softening slightly. “Your dad’s launching something, right? I heard about it.”

“Don’t you dare talk about my family,” Samantha growled, her voice low and dangerous.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” Cassandra said quickly, raising her hands in surrender. “I just wanted to know what it was about.”

Samantha stared straight ahead, her mind churning. After a long pause, she glanced at Cassandra, her anger ebbing into something quieter, more uncertain. “I… I’m sorry,” she stammered. “I didn’t mean to snap. I just—I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

Cassandra tilted her head, her expression softening. “How would you? You’re a mess right now.”

“I know,” Samantha admitted, her voice small. “I made a mistake .”

“It’s fine,” Cassandra said gently. “Your mom did the same sixteen years ago.”

Samantha blinked, surprised. “Now you’ve moved to my mom?”

Cassandra smiled faintly. “Enough to know you’re not alone in this.”For the first time that day, Samantha felt a flicker of annoyance. "What did you say?" Samantha asked.

"Well, it's nothing," Cassandra said. She began to laugh within herself. Samantha didn't care. But the visions—the warrior, the shadow, the voice—lingered in her mind, a puzzle she couldn’t yet solve. Something was coming, she could feel it. And whether it was destiny or doom, she wasn’t sure she was ready to face it.

Samantha sat in silence, her gaze drifting to the chipped edge of her desk. Cassandra's words lingered in the air—"Your mom did the same"—a tether to something she couldn't quite grasp. Her mother? Stress didn't explain the visions, the warrior, the shadow. It didn't explain the voice that had called her name, resonant and commanding, as if it knew her better than she knew herself. She rubbed her eyes, willing the fog in her mind to clear, but the forest scene clung to her like damp moss.

You're still sweating," Cassandra said, breaking the quiet. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, watching Samantha with a mix of curiosity and exasperation. "You sure you're not sick or something?"

"I'm fine," Samantha lied, her voice brittle. She wiped her palms on her skirt, the damp fabric sticking to her skin. "Just...tired."

Cassandra snorted. "Tired doesn't make you zone out like you're auditioning for a horror movie. You were staring at the board like it was about to eat you."

Samantha sniffed. "I said I'm fine."

“Right. Well, I’m leaving,” Cassandra said, standing. “If you’re seeing stuff—hallucinations—tell someone. A doctor. Or Tony. He’s good for sad thoughts.” She walked out.

“And you’re leaving,” Samantha muttered.

Cassandra paused at the door. “Yeah, I forgot to add my name to the list of people you can talk to. You’ve got Tony.” She smirked and left.

Samantha sat in silence, gazing at the chipped desk. The visions—the warrior, the shadow, the voice—lingered, a puzzle unsolved. Something was coming—destiny or doom—and she wasn’t ready.

Cassandra stepped out into the late afternoon sun, her sneakers crunching softly against the gravel path. She was headed to her sanctuary—the weathered bench beneath the sprawling iroko tree, its gnarled branches stretching like a protective canopy over her thoughts. It was her place, the one spot where she could sit and let her mind unravel the tangled threads of her pain. She’d been coming here for years, ever since the world she’d known had crumbled beneath her.

As she approached, her steps faltered. The bench wasn’t empty today. Tony and Angel sat there, locked in a hushed, intense conversation. Cassandra lingered at a distance, unnoticed, her dark eyes narrowing as she studied them. Angel’s face was alight with something unspoken—adoration, maybe, or longing. She was head over heels for Tony, though she’d never dare confess it. Tony, oblivious as ever, leaned back with his arms crossed, his expression distant. Relationships didn’t interest him; he’d made that clear more than once. He wasn’t like Samantha, who wore her heart on her sleeve and chased love like it was oxygen.

Cassandra sighed softly. She didn’t want to intrude. Turning on her heel, she redirected her steps toward the school canteen instead. The air there smelled of fried dough and sugar, a faint comfort against the ache in her chest. She slid a few naira notes across the counter to Mrs. Oluchi, the canteen vendor, and walked away with a small bag of donuts. Settling at a corner table, she pulled out her Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra and opened the gallery. Her fingers scrolled past selfies and school snaps until she found what she was looking for—old photos of her mother.

The first image was her favorite: her mom laughing, mid-twirl, her sundress flaring out like a sunflower in bloom. Cassandra’s lips curved into a bittersweet smile. “Mom, you’re amazing,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Your love, your care, your support—it’s everything to me. Thank you for being my rock, my inspiration.” A tear slipped down her cheek, warm against her skin. She brushed it away with the back of her hand, sniffling as she forced a shaky smile. “It’s me, your Cassy.”

Her eyes lingered on the photo, tracing the lines of her mother’s face. “I’m grown now,” she continued, her voice barely above a murmur. “The seven-year-old girl you left behind is a big girl now. You missed my eighth birthday party—the first one you ever missed. I waited for you, you know. But it’s okay. I’m not angry. I just… I just want you to come back. Please. So we can talk.”

The tears came faster now, spilling over despite her efforts to hold them back. She pressed her palms to her eyes, willing herself to stop, but the floodgates had opened. “Your daughter’s a freak now,” she said, her voice breaking. “That’s what they call me—the saddest girl in school. Sometimes I hate myself. Most of the time, I hate Dad. He moved on so fast—married her, that woman I thought would love me like you did. She was kind at first, when she was new to the house. But then she had the twins.”

Cassandra’s breath hitched, her words stumbling over each other. “Faith and Rachel. Faith is quiet but bossy, already learning her mother’s tricks—her cruelty. Rachel’s worse. She struts around like she owns the world, flaunting Dad’s money like it’s hers. Mr. Ezeh, my father…” Her voice cracked, and she buried her face in her hands, sobbing quietly.

From behind the counter, Mrs. Oluchi watched her, her sharp eyes softening with concern. The older woman hesitated, then set down her ladle and crossed the room, her sandals tapping lightly against the tiled floor. She stopped beside Cassandra’s table, her voice gentle but firm. “Kedu ka i mere?” she asked in Igbo. Why are you crying?

Cassandra stiffened, quickly wiping her face with her sleeve. She straightened in her seat, swallowing the lump in her throat. She didn’t answer right away, her gaze flickering to the vendor’s kind, weathered face. “Mrs. Oluchi,” she said finally, her tone steadier than she felt. She almost snapped back with her usual sharpness—Mind your own business—but something stopped her. Respect, maybe, or just exhaustion. “I’m fine,” she said instead, forcing the words out calmly.

Mrs. Oluchi tilted her head, unconvinced. “Is everything alright, my dear?”

Cassandra met her eyes, and for a moment, the weight of her grief pressed against her ribs, begging to spill out. But she held it in, offering a tight nod instead. “Yeah,” she lied. “Everything’s fine.”

Mrs. Oluchi lingered for a moment longer, her gaze piercing yet warm, as if she could see through the brittle shell Cassandra had built around herself. With a soft hum of acknowledgment, she patted Cassandra’s shoulder gently and returned to her counter, leaving the girl alone with her thoughts and her donuts. Cassandra stared at the bag, its contents untouched, the sugary scent now cloying rather than comforting. She shoved her phone back into her pocket, the photo of her mother still burning in her mind like a candle she couldn’t blow out. As she did, her fingers brushed against something else in her bag—a glossy catalog for Moferso, the tech glasses her father had been hyping up for months. She pulled it out, staring at the sleek design on the cover, the bold tagline: “See the World Anew.”

Her lips twisted into a sneer. She was about to crumple it when Tony appeared, his lanky frame sliding into view as he grabbed her wrist gently but firmly. “Whoa, hold up,” he said, his voice calm but insistent. “Don’t trash it yet.”

Cassandra yanked her hand back, but she paused, the catalog still in her grip. “What do you care?” she snapped, her eyes narrowing.

Tony shrugged, leaning against the table. “Just saying, it’s not the catalog’s fault your dad’s obsessed with it. Besides, the launch is tomorrow. You should come.”

She forced a smile, tight and bitter, then deliberately squeezed the catalog into a tight ball in front of him. With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it onto the floor, where it rolled under a chair. “There. Happy?”

Tony glanced at the crumpled paper, then back at her. “Yeah, you know Mrs. Oluchi wouldn’t like that,” he said, his tone dry but not accusing. He bent down, picked it up, and smoothed it out on the table. “Seriously, Cass. Come to the launch. It’s at 10 p.m. Could be fun. Or at least a distraction.”

“I don’t need a distraction,” she shot back, crossing her arms. “And I don’t need you playing friend-of-the-year either.”

“I’m not playing anything,” Tony said, his voice steady. “You’re sitting here like the world’s ending. I’m just trying to—"

“What? Save me?” she interrupted, her voice rising. “You don’t get it, Tony. I don’t want to go watch a bunch of rich people clap for something I’ll never afford. And Samantha—she’s losing it too, you know. She’s been seeing things, freaking out in class. Visions or whatever. She’s a mess, and I’m not in the mood to deal with her drama on top of mine.”

Tony tilted his head, unfazed by her outburst. “Visions? Like what?”

"Some warrior, a shadow, a voice calling her name,” Cassandra said, waving a hand dismissively. “She thinks it’s stress, but it’s weird. I don’t know. Maybe she’s just cracking under her dad’s perfect little empire.”

Tony nodded slowly, processing. “Sounds like she could use a friend too. You’re both stubborn as hell. Maybe that’s why you clash.”

Cassandra glared at him, but the fight drained out of her. She slumped back in her seat, staring at the table. “Whatever. If I go, it’s not because you asked.”

"Fair enough,” Tony said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “But I’ll be there. Find me if you change your mind.”

He walked off, leaving the catalog on the table, slightly wrinkled but intact. Cassandra stared at it, her fingers twitching, but she didn’t touch it again.

Meanwhile, Samantha remained in the empty classroom, her fingers tracing the chipped edge of her desk as if it could anchor her to reality. The visions hadn’t returned, but their echoes pulsed through her—sharp, vivid, and maddeningly incomplete. The warrior’s face haunted her, those fierce eyes boring into her soul, demanding recognition.

And that voice—low,

resonant, calling her name—felt less like a hallucination and more like a summons. She pressed her palms against her temples, willing the fragments to cohere into something she could understand.

The classroom door creaked open, startling her. She flinched, her head snapping up, but it was only Tony, his lanky frame slouching against the doorway. His dark eyes flicked over her, taking in her disheveled state—sweat-streaked hair, trembling hands—with a quiet intensity.

“You look like hell,” he said flatly, stepping inside and letting the door swing shut behind him.

“Thanks,” Samantha muttered, her voice thick with sarcasm. She straightened in her seat, trying to muster some semblance of control. “What do you want?”

“Cassandra said you were losing it.” Tony crossed the room and leaned against a desk a few rows ahead of her, his arms folded. “Figured I’d check before you do something stupid.”

Samantha’s jaw tightened. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Didn’t say you did.” He tilted his head, studying her. “But you’re freaking out over something. What’s going on?”

She hesitated, the words tangling in her throat. Tony wasn’t like Cassandra—he didn’t push or prod, didn’t fill the silence with chatter. He just waited, his steady presence a lifeline she wasn’t sure she wanted to grab. Finally, she exhaled, her voice barely above a whisper. “I keep… seeing things.”

“Like what?” His tone was neutral, no trace of judgment.

“A forest. A warrior on a log. Some… shadow figure in a robe.” She swallowed hard, her hands clenching into fists. “It’s like I’m there, but I’m still here. And there’s a voice—calling me. It knows my name.”

Tony didn’t react immediately. He just watched her, his expression unreadable, until he nodded slowly. “Sounds intense. You think it’s real?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted, frustration bleeding into her words. “It feels real. But it can’t be, right? It’s just… stress, or my brain screwing with me.”

“Maybe,” he said, shrugging. “Or maybe it’s something else. You ever ask your folks about weird stuff like this? Dreams, visions, whatever?”

Samantha’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I?”

“Because parents know things,” he said simply. “Stuff they don’t always tell you unless you ask.”

She thought of Cassandra’s earlier comment—“Your mom did the same sixteen years ago”—and a chill prickled down her spine. Her mother? The idea seemed absurd, yet it gnawed at her, a loose thread begging to be pulled. She shook her head, dismissing it. “They’d think I’m crazy.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time someone thought that about you,” Tony said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. It was the closest he ever got to a joke, and despite herself, Samantha’s mouth twitched in response.

“Shut up,” she muttered, but there was no venom in it.

He pushed off the desk and headed for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. “If it happens again, write it down. Every detail. Might help you figure it out. Or at least keep you from losing your mind completely.”

And then he was gone, leaving Samantha alone once more. She stared at the whiteboard, half-expecting the forest to swallow it again, but the room remained stubbornly ordinary. Write it down. The suggestion lingered, practical and grounding. She fished a crumpled notebook from her bag and flipped it open, her pen hovering over the page. Slowly, she began to scribble—the log, the warrior’s spear, the shadow’s billowing robe—each word tethering the chaos in her mind to something tangible.