The Arrival

It was just past nine when the first bus turned into the gates of Fatima Girls.

Painted in clean white and navy, the letters shimmered on the side:

ST. PETER'S HIGH SCHOOL-INTEGRITY & HONOR.

Girls rushed to the balconies and windows, giggling behind curtains, the air thick with perfume, sunlight, and tension.

Minutes later, the second bus followed. Bold red letters against cream paint:

ST. ANDREW'S BOYS-DISCIPLINE THROUGH FAITH.

The buses parked side by side, and for a moment, the school seemed to hold it's breath.

Then the gate opened. 

The welcoming team-Joy, Lorna, Kate-stepped forward in their best uniforms, sashes across their chests, smiles perfectly rehearsed. They bowed slightly, led the boys down the tiled path toward the chapel.

Inside, the air was quite and golden.

The chapel had been polished to near-perfection-flowers at the alter, waxed benches, sunlight streaming in through the stained glass windows. It smelled of lemon polish, candle smoke, and something older-something sacred.

The guests were seated in two side rooms: St. Peter's on the right.

Fatima girls on the left.

St. Andrew's filled the benches behind them.

Fatima's choir sat poised near the alter, hands folded, white veils brushing their shoulders.

Teachers lined the pews along the side walls, heads bowed.

And at the center of it all- Father Joseph, robed in white and gold, his hands gently folded over the Gospel book.

Jennifer moved quietly among the shadows, in a soft beige dress beneath her sath. Today, she was not the Lady of Fatima on parade.

Today, she was a servant of grace-tasked to assist in the chapel.

She lit the side candles.

Passed the incense holder to the deacon.

And when Father Joseph stepped up to speak, her eyes met his for just a moment-steady, respectful.

His voice echoed through the chapel like morning light:

"You are not here to impress, but to express the values that live within you. Let this be a meeting of minds, of souls-not just uniforms and smiles."

And Jennifer, holding the silver water bowl for the blessing, felt it then-not pride.

But something quieter.

Belonging.

The chapel had stilled again, sunlight slanting across the polished floor, dancing off the silver cross.

It was time for the Second Reading.

Three girls stepped forward in slow, practiced motion-robes light, heads slightly bowed. In the center: Maria.

Jennifer watched from the side aisle, standing just behind Father Joseph's seat, holding the bowl of holy water.

The first girl stepped to the mic and read:

"A reading from the First Letter of Saint Paul to the Corinthians..."

The second girl responded, and the soft call-and-response moved through the chapel like breath.

Then it was time.

The choir stood.

The familiar opening chords of the 

Responsorial Psalm began.

Maria stepped up to sing.

Her hands shook slightly, but her chin stayed high.

She opened her mouth-

And the note came out wrong.

Too high.

Then dropped flat.

The girls in the choir glanced at one another.

Maria tried again-forcing it-her pitch slipping, her rhythm off.

From the pews, some students blinked. One boy from St. Peter's titled his head.

Mercy, seated in the front row, leaned forward as if it will the tune back into place.

It didn't come.

Maria's voice trembled. She reached for the next line- but it vanished.

The pause stretched too long.

Whispers started.

Then-

From the side of the altar, Jennifer stepped forward.

No announcement. No apology.

Just a breath-quiet and steady.

She came to stand beside Maria.

Close enough to be felt.

Not to shame her.

To catch what was falling.

Jennifer touched the mic gently, looked once at Father Joseph, who gave the smallest of nods.

Then, clear and true, her voice rose-

"The Lord is my shepherd...I shall not want...

The choir picked up instantly, their voices recovering under hers.

Maria stood frozen, eyes down, hands clutching the hymnal.

Jennifer finished the refrain.

Then stepped back, just as calmly.

No pride. No smirk.

Only stillness.

The reading continued.

The chapel doors opened wide, and the girls of Fatima stepped out into the warm Monday sun.

Their veils shimmered like lace halos in the light, shoes tapping against the polished path as they moved toward the event spaces.

Jennifer walked just behind Father Joseph, hands folded neatly in front, her breath still wrapped in the incense of the morning.

Then-

A voice called out. Low. Smooth.

"Excuse me..."

She turned.

 A tall boy in a perfectly ironed navy uniform stood by the chapel steps, hands in his pockets, a soft smile on his lips. His blazer clung to broad shoulders, tie striped in gold. His skin glowed under the light, hair neatly trimmed, and eyes-warm brown, holding something curious.

"My name's Kevin," he said. "I'm from St. Andrew."

Jennifer blinked.

He tilted his head slightly.

"You were the one who stepped in and sang...during the second reading , right?"

She hesitated, then nodded.

"That was...beautiful," Kevin said, voice quiet but sure. "You sang like it mattered."

Behind him, a few other boys from St. Andrew chuckled and gave quick nods, standing just a few steps back. The tallest one nudged Kevin with his elbow and whispered something. Kevin ignored it.

Jennifer offered a small smile.

"Thank you. It wasn't planned."

"All the better," Kevin replied . "Sometimes the best things aren't."

From the left, Angela and Cynthia approached, falling into place beside her like instinct.

Their eyes scanned Kevin-quick, protective, curious.

Jennifer looked at them, then back at Kevin.

"It was nice to meet you."

"You too," he said. "I'll be around."

They passed each other, drifting into separate streams-Kevin with his boys, Jennifer with her girls.

As they walked toward the courtyard, Cynthia leaned in eyebrows raised.

"Okay... okay, who was that?"

Jennifer looked straight ahead, trying not to smile.

"Kevin . He said he's from St. Andrew."

Angela clicked her tongue.

"That's Kevin Muriuki? The school president? The one they keep talking about in debate forum?"

Cynthia gasped.

"Girl , they say he scores straight A's without sweating."

Jennifer said nothing, but the pink on her cheeks said enough.

They reached the stone path lined with flower beds and trimmed hedges. Ahead , girls were setting up the garden show-color-coded signs, baskets of herbs , miniature sculptures made from seeds and leaves.

Angela clapped her hands.

"Let's go. Time to represent Fatima with soil under our nails and grace in our walk."

The girls moved forward , skirts brushing the wind, sunlight following them like a spotlight.

The garden smelled of basil, mint, and fresh soil.

At the far side, a neat row of raised beds displayed sweet potatoes, Sukuma wiki, and spinach, each one labeled in soft handwriting. Behind the table, Angela stood with Cynthia, both in matching aprons with Fatima Agriculture Club stitched over the chest.

Their display included a 3D chart showing soil layers, a leaf compost project, and a handmade water irrigation model made with transparent bottles.

A group of boys from St. Peter's and St. Andrew's stopped in front, hands in their pockets, eyes skimming the charts.

Angela smiled.

"Here, we're explaining three things: Optimal soil for root crops, water retention strategies using drip systems, and the comparison of traditional fertilizer versus organic compost."

Cynthia pointed to a layer container filled with different types of soil.

"For example-loamy soil holds water but also drains just enough to prevent root rot. That's what we use for these kale beds."

One of the boys leaned forward. Tall, dark fade, a bit smug-his name tag read "Brian N."

"Loamy soil, huh?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "But won't that dry out too fast during high evaporation months? Like August?"

Cynthia smiled, unbothered.

"Not if you mulch it right. We use crushed maize husks over the top layer. Keeps the moisture in."

Brian blinked.

A few of his friends chuckled.

Angela grinned.

"Try her again. She bites harder the second time."

Brian gave a half-smile, clearly impressed but pretending not be.

"Noted."

Just then, Jennifer walked up behind them with a small clipboard in hand.

Angela spotted her and waved her over.

"Come join us! Let's make Fatima look like we're farming for the Pope himself."

Jennifer laughed lightly but stayed near the edge.

But she noticed it-

The way Brian's eyes followed Cynthia a little too long.

The way Cynthia, for all her sass, blushed just a little.

And somewhere in the crowd, Maria stood still, watching the interaction with a quiet, unreadable face.

The room had changed.

Gone were the herbs and garden charts. Here, the air smelled of dry circuit boards, light oil, and faint electricity.

In the center of the Physics Club booth stood a tall black display board, diagrams pinned neatly in rows. Wires snaked between glass jars and small copper coils. A printed heading above the display read: "Renewable Energy: Magnetic Wind Conversion Model."

Jennifer stepped forward, her posture calm, voice even.

"This is a low- cost wind turbine prototype-built using magnets, copper coils, and salvaged fan blades. It's designed to generate and store direct current from wind energy. We tested it using a modified voltmeter... and it powered LED lighting for approximately three hours."

A few students leaned in, nodding.

"We're still working on voltage regulation, and some efficiency issues at lower wind speeds. But if scaled property, this model could be installed in rural areas, especially in off-grid households."

She glanced at the device-simple, delicate, alive.

"We're not claiming it's finished. We're saying it's a start. A small way to merge physics with real-world needs."

Jennifer folded her hands behind her back.

Just then, a voice rose from the right side of the crowd.

"What's your maximum voltage output per rotation in a low-wind environment-say below 5 meters per second?"

It was Kevin.

Standing tall, arms crossed casually, his expression unreadable but clearly testing her.

The room quieted slightly. Some girls from Form 3 turned toward Jennifer, waiting.

She didn't blink.

"0.9 volts on average, unregulated. But we're working on boosting the flux destiny using neodymium magnets in our next version. That should help even out the dips in low wind."

Kevin held her gaze for a second-then smiled.

"Solid answers."

He was the first to clap.

Others followed-boys from St. Andrew's and St. Peter's.

Then some Fatima girls.

Then even a few teachers.

A warm, rolling applause filled the space.

Jennifer looked down for a second, her cheeks flushing.

In the back, Miss Emily stood with folded arms, one brow slightly raised. Not smiling-but watching.

Carefully.

Proudly.