chapter seven

Adaora's pov

The next day, I looked around the assembly grounds, scanning the crowd. No Ebuka.

What is happening?

I sighed and forced myself to focus on the morning prayers and school anthem. The day dragged on, and though I couldn't shake the uneasy feeling in my chest, I pushed it aside. Maybe he was just sick. Maybe he traveled.

Days turned into weeks. Still, no Ebuka.

At first, I felt disappointed. Then I told myself to move on. I threw myself into my studies, trying not to care. If he didn't want to be my friend anymore, fine.

But deep down, something felt wrong.

Where was he?

---

One afternoon, while we were in class, our teacher frowned at the board. She scribbled something, then shook her head.

"This marker isn't writing well," she muttered. Then she looked at me. "Adaora, go to Aunty Bolu, the English teacher, and get another one."

I nodded, stood up, and left the classroom.

The hallway was quiet, the cool air from the AC humming softly as I walked. When I reached the teachers' office, I knocked and entered. The air inside was freezing.

I spotted Aunty Bolu at her desk and walked toward her. But just as I was about to speak, I heard two teachers chatting near the filing cabinets.

I wasn't paying attention until I heard his name.

Ebuka.

I froze, my hand hovering above the desk.

"…he's really sick now," the Art teacher said.

"In the psychiatric hospital," the Home Economics teacher added.

My stomach dropped.

"What?!"

I stayed completely still, my heart pounding in my ears.

"He keeps seeing things," the Art teacher continued. "His mother said he wakes up screaming at night, saying things nobody understands."

I swallowed hard.

"What is happening to my friend?"

The Home Economics teacher sighed. "Such a small boy, what's he doing in a psychiatric hospital? What kind of mental issue is that?"

"His mother started noticing marks on his body," the Art teacher said, lowering her voice. "She thought he was self-harming. But when she asked him, he kept saying something was hurting him. Something only he could see."

My hand flew to my mouth.

Jesus Christ.

A chill ran down my spine. I suddenly felt like the air in the room had thinned.

Ebuka had been fine. He had been normal. He was laughing with me, sitting beside me. Then suddenly, he was screaming, calling me a witch, and now he was…

Seeing things? Hurting himself? Screaming at night?

I felt sick.

I quickly collected the marker from Aunty Bolu, muttered a thank-you, and left.

I needed to breathe.

I walked down the hall, my legs feeling weak. The moment I stepped outside the teachers' office, I leaned against the wall and took a deep breath.

Ebuka is in a psychiatric hospital.

The words kept repeating in my head, like an echo I couldn't escape.

I squeezed my hands into fists. How? Why?

He had been fine. Completely fine. He had laughed with me, teased me, called me his friend. Then, overnight, he had changed—afraid of me, avoiding me, screaming at me to stay away.

And now this?

I forced myself to walk back to class, my hands gripping the marker so tightly my knuckles turned white. When I got to the door, I hesitated before stepping inside.

I felt off. Like my skin was too tight, like something unseen was pressing against me.

I walked straight to my seat and sat down quietly.

"Why did you take so long?" Ifeoma whispered, nudging me.

I didn't answer. I just shook my head.

For the rest of the lesson, I stared at my notes, but the words blurred together. I couldn't concentrate.

---

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

I thought about Ebuka. Was he awake right now? Was he screaming again? Was he crying?

I thought about how he had looked at me that day like I was something to be feared. Like I was something dangerous.

Why?

I turned to my side and closed my eyes. I told myself to sleep.

But as the silence of the night stretched on, a single, chilling thought whispered through my mind.

The next morning, I got ready for school as usual. I told myself to move on, to stop thinking about Ebuka. But the ache in my chest refused to leave.

When I got to school, everything felt the same, but also… different. Empty.

I sat through the first few classes, barely listening. Every time the door opened, my eyes darted to it, hoping. But deep down, I knew Ebuka wasn't coming back.

At break, I sat with my friends, poking at my food without eating.

Adaora, you okay?" Ifeoma asked, nudging me.

I swallowed. "Ebuka… he's in a psychiatric home."

The table went silent.

One of my classmates, Aisha, leaned in. "I heard too. My mum told me last night."

My stomach clenched. So the news was already spreading.

Ifeoma frowned. "What happened to him? I mean, he was fine, right?"

"They say he… can't talk anymore," Aisha whispered, her voice low, like she was afraid of the words. "Like, he just shut down completely."

I breathed in fast, my chest tightening.

I tried to push my food away, but my hands were trembling.

Ebuka can't speak anymore?

What had happened to him? What had broken him like that?

I pressed my hands to my lap, willing them to stop shaking.

Ifeoma was still watching me, her brows furrowed. "Adaora, are you okay?"

I nodded quickly. "I'm fine."

But I wasn't.

I forced myself to go through the rest of the day, pretending to listen in class, nodding when necessary, but my mind was far away.

The final bell rang, and as I packed my books, I heard whispers all around me.

"Did you hear? He was screaming about someone chasing him."

"They said his mum found him with deep scratches all over his arms."

"Some people say it's spiritual."

I clenched my fists. Spiritual?

I pushed past them and left the classroom.

The drive home was quiet. I barely reacted when Chuka tried to change the music volume, and my mum didn't scold us for fighting.

When I got home, I went straight to my room, shutting the door behind me.

I sank onto my bed, staring at the ceiling.

Ebuka… what happened to you?

A sudden chill ran through my body. I pulled my blanket tighter, but the cold wasn't coming from the air.

It was something else.

Something deeper.

I turned to my window, heart pounding.

The curtains barely moved, but for a second—just a second I felt it.

A presence.

Watching me.

I squeezed my eyes shut and whispered, "It's nothing. It's nothing."