A Little Normalcy
Dr. Jane trotted around the podium, her voice booming through the auditorium's speakers. She was a plump woman, one who would complain daily of the walk from her office to the lecture hall but would unknowingly pace the equivalent of a short race during class.
She relished these lectures. Maybe it was the joy of intellectual debate, but Paul had a feeling it was more about wielding her approval like a royal decree, her smirk lingering each time she challenged someone's worldview. Standing at 5'3", with the ego of a fully blown balloon and a frown that would make anyone feel guilty of even crimes they didn't know about, she had power — the presence of a general ready to tear apart armies of youthful idealism. Today, she wore a pale purple blouse and a knee-length skirt that highlighted her round frame.
"Today I got up from bed, just like every other day, and do you know what I heard on that accursed radio?" she asked, her movements almost theatrical.
Yes, we do, Paul thought, stifling an eye roll. Anyone who had sat in her class more than once already knew what she'd say next. It almost felt scripted.
"Beware, the kingdom of God is at hand," she mocked, imitating the radio announcer's dire tone. She couldn't mask the disgust in her voice. Paul thought for a moment: if you hate it so much, why bother listening to the radio?
"Like I haven't heard enough of that nonsense," she continued, waving off her invisible frustration. "Anyway, let's move on."
The topic today was "The Effects of Religion on the Common Man." As Dr. Jane droned on, her voice wove through the room like smoke, lingering with each word. "Religion has had two distinct effects on the two types of people in the world," she declared, her hands gesturing grandly. "For the powerful, it has been a tool — a compelling means of control. For the common man, it has been nothing more than a shackle."
She paused, scanning the faces in the room as if searching for one mind willing to challenge her. "I look at all of you," she said, her voice almost tender now, "and I see yet another generation bound by ancient fear — a primordial fear, if you will. The same fear that drove our ancestors to worship the sun, the moon, the sea. What are gods but our attempt at understanding the unknown?"
The way Dr. Jane talked, with that calculated touch of drama, made Paul cringe. She had always spoken as though she had personally unlocked the mysteries of the universe. She had a lot of students trapped by her charisma, but he didn't buy whatever she was selling. Paul knew that there were forces beyond human understanding — things that couldn't be touched, seen, nor even fully perceived by the normal human senses.
"One of the most powerful shackles religion imposes," Dr. Jane continued, "is the so-called 'Armageddon.' Almost every belief system has its own brand of an all-ending event. For the two most popular religions in Nigeria, the ultimate judgment means the 'good' are rewarded and the 'evil' suffer. A device meant to keep people stuck in the narrow-mindedness of good and evil."
Her words settled over the class like a weighted blanket, but the tension was broken by a soft chuckle from one of Paul's best friends and seatmates, Cynthia. Cynthia had the face of a model and the attitude and body of one to match. Her parents were rich — own-multiple-houses-across-the-country rich — and as the only child of an almost absent millionaire, she was every bit rebellious.
Paul glanced over to see her, along with John, hunched over her phone screen, laughing quietly. Considering the way they had been at each other's throats during their first year on campus and how they were all over each other now, Paul felt like he was experiencing a Nollywood drama in real life. Looking at the once stoic and serious John grinning like a fool in the middle of class made his skin crawl a little. Change is inevitable, he supposed.
"Guys, seriously?" Precious whispered, her voice tinged with annoyance as she turned toward them, her thumb instinctively pushing up her glasses as she glared.
"P, don't get so worked up," John replied, barely looking up.
Cynthia rolled her eyes dramatically. "Yeah, life isn't meant to be taken so seriously. Relax a little, or you'll wrinkle."
Precious's eye twitched. Oh, they've done it, Paul thought, smiling empathetically. Precious was one of the nicest people he knew, and even then anyone with a functioning brain would think twice before messing with her. Back in their second year, she had singlehandedly brought down countless fools and even beaten the life out of a notorious cultist because he looked her way twice — though she had hidden her identity at the time. Paul didn't think she'd go that far on her friends, but Precious had her ways. As such, he put on again the coat of the peacemaker.
"Guys," he whispered, trying to keep a straight face, "take it down a notch."
"YES SIR!" they both whispered back, just loud enough to earn a few stares.
Precious's glare softened. "We're going to get singled out if you two keep this up." Luckily, they listened and put the phone down.
Paul sighed. "At least, she didn't noti—"
"Mr. Okonkwo, do you have something to add to today's discussion?" Dr. Jane's voice boomed across the room. Why do these things always happen to me?
All eyes locked on Paul in an instant. Heart pounding, he stood up, every word he had planned to say dissolving from his mind. He stuttered, searching for an answer as Dr. Jane's gaze cut into him like an eagle eyeing its prey.
"I… uh… I'm sorry, ma'am. It was my fault," John said, standing up with his hand raised. "Me too!" chimed Cynthia and Precious, joining him in solidarity.
The four of them stood there, united. An odd sense of pride swelled between them and infected everyone around them. Moments like this reminded Paul that as long as they stuck together, anything was possible.
Dr. Jane huffed, waving them off. "Hooligans, the lot of you! Report to my office at 8 a.m. tomorrow. I don't have time for this." She returned to her lecture, and the hooligans settled back into their seats, sharing stifled laughter. Cynthia raised her phone with a smirk, gesturing toward the screen.
A message pinged in their group chat: "Damn you all," Precious had typed.
"Calm down, Ms. Goody Goody," Cynthia replied.
"Asshole!" Precious shot back, her frustration laced with affection.
In the middle of their banter, Paul's phone buzzed with a message from his mom: "Could you help us pick up your sister, honey? Your dad and I might not be able to today." Some days were like this — when both his parents would be so caught up with work that he'd have to take over, especially when it came to picking up Grace.
He typed quickly in the group chat. "Just got a message from my mom. I need to pick up my sister."
"Oh, you mean Grace? She's such a cutie," Cynthia replied almost immediately.
Precious jumped in. "The one that calls you a model?"
"Exactly," Cynthia responded with a satisfied grin.
Paul rolled his eyes — in real life and on-screen. "You guys talk like I have more than one sister." He looked away from his phone and back at the still-vibrating Dr. Jane. This class isn't ending anytime soon. "Anyway, anyone got ideas? I need a way out of here."
"Cynthia, do your thing," Precious whispered.
"Why me? I'm just an innocent girl who loves and respects her elders. You all have the wrong chick." She pouted, but no one was having any of it. Silently, they stared her down, daring her to keep up the act. She grinned, leaning toward Paul.
"Remember, I'm only doing this for my biggest fan," she whispered with a wink, referencing Grace. She fiddled with her phone, pulling up her contact list.
After a moment, they watched her go through a sequence of dramatic eye rolls — she was working on some poor first-year with a hopeless crush on her, Paul realised, pressing him into service. Of course. After what felt like the longest negotiation ever, she smirked, her thumbs dancing over the screen.
"Watch and learn." She raised her hand with an exaggeratedly innocent look.
"Erm… excuse me, Dr. Jane!" Cynthia's voice took on a syrupy quality that immediately put Paul on edge.
If he had been worried about causing a scene, he shouldn't have let Cynthia get involved. They had first met back in junior secondary school, during a punishment their American principal had introduced called "detention." Paul's crime? Punching a bully. The bully got off, but he didn't. There in detention, he noticed Cynthia at the back of the room, sitting like she was at home, legs crossed, radiating confidence. Not long into the session, she set off a chain of chaos by calling the police about a "robbery in progress." The real surprise was that they ended up arresting the teacher for having a stash of coke in his bottom drawer. That was the day Paul learned she had an unholy knack for mischief.
Thinking back on that, Paul felt a shiver as he waited for her next move.
"Yes, Ms. Cynthia. Right?" Dr. Jane glanced at her through her thin glasses.
"Yes, ma'am," Cynthia said, her expression as pure as a saint's. "You were saying that humans need something to believe in — that abandoning religion entirely would leave us without a place in the world. Isn't that a little too extreme?"
Everyone in the class gawked at her. Paul was genuinely stunned she had even been listening. What is she playing at?
Dr. Jane seemed intrigued and tackled the question head-on. Paul didn't pay much attention to it — because suddenly the fire alarm blared. So that's her plan. He barely had time to finish that thought before everyone jumped up, heading for the exits.
"If this was your plan, why the whole act?" Precious hissed.
"To keep you all on your toes!" Cynthia laughed, giving her a wink. Then she turned to Paul. "I think you should hurry. And make sure to tell my biggest fan I said hi!" She blew a playful kiss.
Paul waved goodbye, rushing toward his scooter to go pick up Grace.
The journey to God's Love Secondary School was a long one — roughly thirty minutes by road. The breeze caressing his face brought his mind to a state of peace. The tranquility of the howling wind felt so surreal that sometimes Paul wished he could stay on the road, in that moment, forever.
The further he went, the more the city buzzed around him: a child crying while a woman dragged her down the road, a senior citizen arguing with a shop owner, children singing nursery rhymes on a school bus moving in the opposite direction, cars heading home from work. Dozens of people caught in their own lives, all woven together into a living canvas against the backdrop of the setting sun. In these moments, the beauty of life — its bustling, growing, ever-changing energy — felt almost sacred.
Around a corner, Paul spotted a church. It was common to see a couple of "churches" on every street, though some barely looked the part. This one was run-down, just like the preacher in front of it — one of those luckless evangelists, pacing up and down the cracked pavement waving a worn-out bible.
"Are your village people after your destiny? Don't let them defeat you! You are a winner! Come join the home of winners — you deserve change!" His voice cut across the road, loud enough to carry over the wind and the engine. He seemed desperate, just as unkempt as the building behind him.
Paul figured it was people like him — along with the constant crowd of miracle-seekers desperate for a quick fix — that drove Dr. Jane's hatred for religion. Personally, what he couldn't stand was seeing faith used to exploit the hunger-stricken masses. Paul wasn't exactly an exemplary Christian, but even he had limits. Clicking his tongue in frustration, he pushed forward.
He glanced at the time on his wristwatch: a minute past five. Ms. Florence will probably give me an earful, he thought, bracing himself for Grace's teacher's scolding. Normally, it would be strange to have feelings for a teacher, but Florence Peters had graduated at twenty — a year younger than him, a minor prodigy by any measure — so perhaps it wasn't so strange. At least, that was what Paul told himself. Seeing her was a small bonus for coming here.
"Almost there," he muttered as the school gate came into view beyond the bend.
God's Love Secondary School loomed large on the hill like a cathedral of academia, imposing and resolute. The gates, adorned with intricate metalwork now dulled by time, had the aura of a relic from the past. Outsiders would have felt small beneath their shadow, but for the students who passed through them daily, they symbolized pride, prestige, and tradition. Paul knew this feeling all too well — this was his alma mater, one of the oldest and most prestigious secondary schools in the country, a haven for the privileged elite or the relentlessly brilliant.
"I.D, sir?" The guard's voice interrupted his thoughts as Paul parked his scooter near the gate. The old man's stern expression matched his rigid posture, but his eyes betrayed a quiet kindness.
"Sir?" His voice climbed with impatience, snapping Paul back to attention.
"Yes, sorry!" Paul fumbled with his side bag, rummaging through the mess for his identification card. Finally, relief washed over him as he pulled it free. The guard glanced at it, then at Paul, muttered something in his dialect, tapped at the screen of an old iPad to check student family records, then nodded stiffly and gestured toward the smaller pedestrian gate.
The scooter would stay outside.
The walk from the gate to the classrooms was as vast as Paul remembered — an expanse that felt more fitting for a university than a secondary school. Students still wandered the grounds even though classes had ended an hour ago. He scanned the faces, searching for Grace.
"Hello, sir. Are you looking for someone?" A soft but confident voice drew his attention.
Turning, he saw a girl standing far too close for comfort. She had the look of someone accustomed to getting whatever she wanted — a haughty poise that set her apart. He couldn't figure out how she had managed to approach him unnoticed.
"Who might you be?" he asked, stepping back slightly.
"I'm Janet Obasi," she said, delivering the name like it should have meant something. "And you?"
"Paul. Paul Okonkwo." His tone was clipped. "Do you know Grace Okonkwo? SS1?"
For a brief moment, her expression faltered. Surprise, anger, and something else flickered across her face before she quickly masked it with a tight-lipped smile. The tension in her gaze told him everything he needed to know — there was bad blood between her and Grace.
"She's in her classroom," Janet said, pointing toward the building, her voice a little too polite. Then, without another word, she retreated, shoulders stiff, pace quick.
Paul stared after her for a moment before turning in the direction she had indicated. The sunlight, which had seemed so warm and inviting earlier, was now waning, casting long shadows across the grounds.
The interior of the building was more colorful than he remembered — almost nauseatingly so. The once-gray walls were now painted sky blue, health awareness posters plastered everywhere. The school appeared to be trying hard to keep up with the times, aiming for a bright, welcoming aura.
Then he heard it — a violin, somewhere deeper in the building. The tune was haunting, carrying a sadness so profound it felt like mourning, the notes gradually swelling into something more frantic, almost desperate. Paul slowed his steps without meaning to, caught by it.
And then the world shifted.
A sharp, splitting pain shot through his head, so intense it felt like his very soul was being torn apart. His vision blurred as fear clawed at his chest. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. His feet were planted firmly, as if rooted to the ground.
He was no longer seeing through his own eyes. A girl was crying — through her tear-streaked vision, he saw the vague silhouette of a man, his face blurred and shrouded in darkness. And then everything went black.
* * *
"Does he usually blank out like that?"
"Yes, Ms. Peters," Grace's voice answered.
Paul's eyes fluttered open, the bright light of the infirmary blinding him momentarily. Groaning, he moved to sit up — but a gentle voice stopped him.
"Stay down, Paul."
He turned toward the voice and froze.
She was younger than most teachers he had known — she had graduated at twenty, everyone knew that, the kind of quiet achievement people mentioned in the same breath as her name. But knowing it and seeing her were different things. Her gaze, filled with concern, was enough to make him forget entirely what he had been about to say.
"Are you okay?" Florence Peters asked, her eyes searching his.
Paul opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
"Of all the places to have one of your episodes, it had to be in my school!" Grace's familiar, exasperated tone cut through the fog.
"You're welcome for coming to pick you up," he said with a smirk, finding his footing.
She rolled her eyes so hard he thought they might fall out. Before she could retaliate, he struck again.
"Oh, by the way, I met one of your friends on the way here. What was her name again? Ah yes — Janet Obasi."
Her face twisted into a mix of annoyance and disbelief. "Friend? Janet? That—" Grace paused, glancing at her teacher with an innocent smile before finishing, "—is impossible. We don't get along at all."
"She was so nice, though. Makes me wonder who you've been learning your rudeness from."
"Yeah, well, I learned from the best: my big brother," she shot back, waving her hands theatrically. "And for the record, I'll never be friends with that bit—" She caught herself mid-sentence, throwing Florence another sweet, angelic grin.
Florence smiled and shook her head. Grace took that as her cue to launch into a detailed rant about Janet's flaws, somehow keeping her words polite while radiating fury.
Paul cut in before the tirade could go on any longer. "Ms. Peters, thank you for helping me back there."
"You're welcome," she replied, her tone warm. "But are you sure you're okay now?"
"I'm fine, really." He pulled himself up despite her earlier warning. "I wish we'd kept in touch after you graduated."
"Same here," she admitted with a soft smile, and for a moment, silence filled the room.
"Shouldn't we be leaving?" Grace chimed in, breaking the tension.
"Yes, we should." Paul coughed, starting toward the door with Grace close behind.
"Bye, Ms. Peters!" Grace called out cheerfully.
"Goodbye, Grace," she replied.
Then she turned to Paul. Something shifted in her expression — subtle, almost imperceptible, but unmistakable. Her eyes held a solemnity that had nothing to do with the infirmary or his episode, a look that seemed to reach past the moment entirely. Then it was gone, replaced by a composed smile.
Paul carried that look with him as they left the infirmary, the building, and the school itself. He couldn't explain it. He wasn't sure he wanted to.