Night fell like a blanket pulled too quick—cooler air, the kind that made the sweat of the day feel foolish. They all took up one long table that could have swallowed the reception hall twice over — a ridiculous, proud piece of furniture that made a few of the students mutter about why the dining room had been built like a small airport terminal. Someone joked it was to keep the noise contained; someone else said it was to make the teachers feel less claustrophobic. The joke stuck and bounced around the long space like a warm plate.
Seats were a map of alliances and small hierarchies. Desmond picked a place where he could be seen but not trapped, phone at the ready; Benjamin folded himself into a chair a little apart from that orbit, trying for dignity and failing spectacularly when the suya hit. Lian and Feyi sat closer to each other than the layout strictly demanded — shoulders inclined together as if they shared a private conversation even when they weren't speaking. Mendel sat with one leg half under his chair, half-turned, the geometry of his body broadcasting impatience. He watched the room the way someone watches a score they hope will tilt in their favor.
The food arrived in waves: steaming trays set down like small offerings, lids whisked away with theatrical speed. Jollof puffed and shone; egusi glistened and sent up an oily perfume; peppered goat steamed in sulky clouds; bowls of chopped salad and plain rice clustered like islands. A platter of suya hissed as it settled, fat bead-sparkling along the edges. Conversation gathered around it like children around a bonfire.
The foreign exchange students clustered at one end, hands hovering over unfamiliar spices. A lanky boy with a polite smile tried the pepper soup and immediately regretted his bravery; his face contorted in comic disbelief and someone across the table who could not speak his language began an elaborate pantomime of condolence. Laughter rolled through the hall, generous and forgiving—an atmosphere that made the place feel less like a mess-hall and more like an unofficial theatre.
Desmond, naturally, was already editing the evening's highlight reel in his head. He sat at an angle that let him film Benjamin without seeming obvious, and every now and then he'd flick his phone up to capture a slow-burn reaction. Feyi, in full mischief mode, volunteered to be Benjamin's official recovery team: yogurt, bread, more water than the bottle could legally hold. Lian watched with a smile that warmed Benjamin more than the water could cool him.
At the other end of the social axis, Mendel's eyes had found the boy who had spent the last ten minutes talking to Lian — a rude, easy laugh, hands doing the exaggerated motions of someone used to an audience. Mendel didn't like the way he leaned in; Mendel didn't like the way the boy's voice softened when Lian laughed. Where Mendel should have been amused or aloof, his face tightened. The old, practiced flirtations Mendel had learned for cameras and parties didn't translate into the small, private geometry of someone talking to the girl he kept a space for.
He watched the duo with a small, contained bitterness. It was the expression of someone who'd built a life of noise — flashy shoes, louder stories, borrowed confidence — and suddenly recognized that quiet gestures could be the currency he had squandered. Whenever the boy's hand brushed Lian's arm in passing, Mendel's fingers tightened around his cutlery. He didn't move to confront; confrontation would be obvious and Mendel didn't want obvious. Instead he let his dissatisfaction fold into small ticks: a throat cleared, an eyebrow raised at nothing, a laugh that sounded too forced.
Benjamin, seconds after his suya assault, was halfway between theatrics and repentance. He grinned with one side of his face while apologizing profusely to the exchange student in the ruined white tee. The student, being impressively theatrical himself, waved it off with a grand bow and said something about bravery that made half the table erupt again. Desmond caught the bow on slow-mo, layered it over a swelling, melodramatic soundtrack and showed it to anyone who leaned close enough. Lian laughed at the clip and shook her head in delighted disbelief.
Feyi, not to be outdone, launched into a running commentary on "pepper etiquette," demonstrating with exaggerated gestures how to eat like a local: small bites, water not first, bread to rescue when necessary. He punctuated each rule with a ridiculous mnemonic, which had the unintended effect of teaching half the students while entertaining the other half. By the time the trays were cleared, someone had declared Feyi an honorary cultural ambassador, an honor he accepted with mock solemnity.
Mendel's displeasure didn't go absent. He made a show of pushing his chair back and reaching for a napkin, but his eyes kept returning to Lian and the boy. At one point he caught the boy's gaze and held it for a beat too long; the boy smiled, untroubled. Mendel's face closed like a book.
Near the head of the table, small conversations braided into larger ones: a muttered debate about who would get to be first in the dorm showers; a plan to sneak to the lake at dawn; quiet confessions about who snored the loudest during the hostel tours. The dining hall's hum smoothed over the sharper edges of Mendel's annoyance.
Lights-out edged nearer, and the adult supervisors began to circulate with the kindly tyranny of chaperones. Plates were scraped, last cups topped up, and phones were pocketed with the resigned acceptance of people who knew sleep would come anyway. As they stood to leave, Desmond played the best clip of Benjamin's pepper epic for the nearest circle. Laughter, gentle and accepting, followed them as they filed out.
Mendel lingered a second, drawing breath as if to go after a thought, then folded his chair in with a practiced motion and left without looking back. Benjamin walked away with Lian and Feyi at his side, the seemingly new exchange student offering one last theatrical bow. The dining hall emptied into the night smelling of spice and something like reconciliation—an ordinary, messy human warmth that promised a dozen small fights and a probably equal number of apologies before the trip was done.