The term stretched long and hot. Primary 6 smelled like chalk dust and sweat-soaked uniforms. The ceiling fans spun slow, barely moving the air. Outside, okadas coughed past the gate. Inside, we waited for the bell.
I had friends now.
Not borrowed ones.
Real ones.
Emeka, who always had extra groundnut in his pocket and shared without asking.
Chukwudi, loud and fast, the one who could kick a ball over the fence in one try.
Ifeanyi, quieter, but he listened when I talked.
And Cory.
Cory was different.
He didn't push.
He just stayed.
Sat next to me during lessons without saying why.
Laughed at my jokes even when they landed soft.
People called him my best friend.
I never said it out loud.
I didn't like attaching words like that.
Words like "best" felt heavy.
Like if I said it, something might break when it left.
But he was there.
Every break.
Every assembly.
Every time the teacher asked who would carry the register, he looked at me first.
School became fun.
Not the quiet kind I used to know.
The loud kind.
We ran during break, chased each other under the mango tree, bought boli from Mama Ngozi at the gate.
I told stories—timed them right, paused where my brother would pause, dropped the punch like he did.
They laughed.
Not big room-filling laughs.
But real.
Shoulder bumps.
"Mandela, you dey mad o."
Teachers noticed too.
Mrs. Okeke, our class teacher, started calling on me more.
"Mandela, explain this one."
I answered clean.
Clear voice.
No stumbling.
She smiled.
"See this boy. Sharp. Always neat. Shirt tucked, shoes polished."
The class clapped sometimes.
Small claps.
But they felt big.
I was popular now.
Easy to talk to.
Smart.
Clean.
The boy who changed.
From the quiet last-born to the one everyone turned to.
But there were moments when it didn't feel right.
I was popular, sure. I was funny, smart, clean. But... I didn't know who I was anymore.
I wasn't sure if people liked me because of the stories I told, the way I made them laugh, or if they just liked having someone around who was always neat, always on time.
It felt like there was something I was supposed to be. Something I was supposed to feel. But I didn't get it.
I tried to shake it off. Told myself I was fine. But there was still that weight in my chest.
Gloria still passed by sometimes.
Her school was farther—JSS3 at Community Secondary, two streets over, past the market.
But our compound(house)was the same.
Same gate.
Same well.
Same evening shadows stretching across the yard.
She told me one afternoon, sitting on the low wall near the borehole.
Legs swinging.
Uniform skirt hiked a little.
"I'm changing schools next term."
Her voice was light.
But her eyes stayed on the ground.
"SS1. My parents say the other one is better. Closer to home too."
Closer to home.
Meaning closer to our compound.
Meaning same school as me when I start JSS1.
My chest did something strange.
Not tight.
Not heavy.
Warm.
Like air rushing in after holding breath too long.
"Just the two of us," she said, smiling small.
I smiled back.
Borrowed smile.
Easy one.
But it felt real.
Paradise.
That's what it sounded like.
But there were days when the circle felt tight.
When we sat under the tree at break, talking, laughing, passing stories.
I opened my mouth and the words came out right.
Timed.
Funny.
They laughed.
I laughed.
But after, when the bell rang and we walked back to class, something settled in my chest.
Heavy.
Not pain.
Just weight.
Like my body was carrying two people.
The one talking.
The one watching.
I didn't know why.
I thought maybe it was the heat.
Or too much running.
Or not enough water.
One afternoon, Mrs. Okeke stayed back after lessons.
The class emptied.
Chairs scraped.
Voices faded down the corridor.
She called me.
"Mandela."
I stood at her table.
Hands behind back.
She looked at me long.
Not angry.
Curious.
Kind.
"Why do you always stay in class during break?"
Her voice soft.
"Sometimes sleeping on the desk. Sometimes reading.
The others are outside playing.
You stay here.
Why?"
I opened my mouth.
Nothing came.
I looked at the floor.
Her question was simple, but something inside me twisted. I didn't know the answer.
I stayed in class because it felt easier, but also because it didn't feel like I was pretending to be someone else. But could I explain that? Could I tell her that I didn't know what I was doing?
The question sat there. Heavy.
So I shrugged.
"I don't know, ma."
And I didn't.
I didn't know why being alone made me feel safer. More like myself. But I couldn't say that. I didn't even know how to start.
She waited.
I waited.
Then she sighed.
Small.
"Okay. Go."
I walked out fast.
Didn't look back.
On the way home, the question followed me.
Why did I feel safe alone?
Reading.
Imagining.
No one watching.
No one waiting for timing.
No one to impress.
Whole.
That's the word.
When alone,
I felt... something. Not quiet, not peaceful. But something that felt like it fit. I didn't get it. It didn't make sense. I'd feel at ease, but also unsure. Not lonely. But not truly connected either. A piece of me was there, and another part wasn't. And I couldn't figure out what it meant. So I pushed it down, ignored it. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was just a thought that didn't matter, Just a thought.
School was fun now.
Friends.
Gloria's smile.
Everything working.
Common entrance came.
We wrote it.
Passed.
Celebrated small.
My mother cooked jollof.
My brother slapped my back.
"Good boy."
Then JSS1.
New uniform.
New gate.
New everything.
The first day, I walked in excited.
Sun hot.
Compound buzzing.
New faces.
New noise.
I saw her.
Gloria.
SS1 block.
Different direction.
But same school.
She saw me too.
Waved.
Smiled.
Big.
Real.
Just the two of us.
In the same place.
No brother shining brighter.
No friends pulling attention.
Paradise.
But that day before the move(before entering jss)—
The day everything cracked open.
I woke excited.
Drank tea.
Milk heavy.
Didn't know my stomach didn't like it.
Never had much dairy before.
Walked to school fast.
Friends waiting at gate.
Cory grinning.
"Today na fire!"
First period.
Fine.
Second.
Discomfort started.
Stomach twisting.
Low.
Purging kind.
I lay head on desk.
Raised it—nausea hit hard.
Lowered it.
Raised again.
Vomit rose.
I stood.
Ran.
Teachers shouting.
"What is it? Mandela!"
No answer.
Down the stairs.
Halfway—vomit came.
Plantain.
Bread.
Everything from morning.
Then white liquid.
Nothing left.
Legs gave.
I fell.
Not stairs.
Bench at landing.
Poo(feaces/shit)came.
Hot.
Unstoppable.
I lay there.
In it.
Teachers gathered.
Voices high.
"Call his people!"
"Don't touch him!"
"Janitor!"
I looked up.
Friends standing.
Cory closest.
Eyes wide.
Not laughing.
Not running.
Just looking.
I couldn't stop.
More came.
Mom arrived fast.
Panic in her face.
Tears.
"Mandela!"
Janitor carried me to backyard.
Near restrooms.
Washed me.
Naked.
Cold water.
Soap.
I tried not to look.
But Cory came.
To pee, they said.
Or to see.
Janitor asked him.
"You come see your friend?"
Cory nodded small.
Didn't speak.
Mom brought clothes.
Old ones.
Torn shorts.
Abandoned ones I no longer wore.
Teachers asked why.
She had no answer.
She dressed me.
Walked me out.
Neighbor's car waiting.
Drove to hospital.
There—treated.
Drip.
Saline.
Hours.
When I woke, I felt clean.
Flushed.
Free.
Like everything bad washed out.
But then memory came.
The stairs.
The poo.
The naked.
Cory looking.
Friends looking.
Embarrassing.
Depressing.
I stared at the ceiling.
A lot of things rushed through my mind. The embarrassment. The confusion. The way Cory and the others had looked at me—like I was different.
And that promise.
It wasn't just about being stronger. It wasn't just about being cleaner or perfect. It was about not feeling like this again. Not feeling weak.
The thought of that moment, lying there on the ground, exposed—it stuck with me. It stayed.
I promised myself: Never again.
I didn't understand it all, but I knew I didn't want to be that person.
So I buried it. Locked it up.
And I told myself I'd never be the quiet boy again. Not in school, not in life. I wouldn't let anyone see that again.
When we got home, I was okay.
No sickness.
Nothing.
But the promise stayed.
Deeper than before.
I would be stronger.
Cleaner.
Timed.
Perfect.
So no one would ever see that again.