"Professor Syntax is coming!" cried Benneth, rushing in through the side door like someone delivering wartime dispatches. The boys inside Form 2B burst into excitement, some grabbing their notes, others hastily fixing the collars of their uniforms. Even Emeka, who never rushed for any master, adjusted his seat.
The figure approaching from across the open corridor was unmistakable—Mr. Sanders, known throughout the school as Professor Syntax, a title earned from his fierce obsession with grammar and rhythm in poetry. He always wore the same ensemble: a crisp sky-blue shirt, tucked into white khaki shorts, complemented by long brown socks that clung dutifully to his thin calves. The real mystery was that he wore this outfit every day. Rumour had it he had over a dozen exact replicas of it, each one stitched with identical precision.
Except for the hole.
There was a small, barely noticeable tear on the left side of his shirt—just beneath the pocket. One observant boy had pointed it out, and it had since become a classroom legend. Every day, new students checked. Same shirt. Same hole. Surely it had to be intentional—an eccentric Englishman's idea of a ventilation point in the tropical heat. Or maybe… maybe he just didn't care.
He strode with confidence, his short steps rhythmic, right elbow cocked high, neck stiff as though he carried the invisible burdens of Oxford. Some of the boys had even mimicked his walk during night prep, parading around in the hostel like miniature professors, until the House Prefect threatened to report them for mockery.
"Morning, boys," came his clipped baritone as he walked in.
"Good morning, sir!"
Mr. Sanders arranged his prized collection of books on the table with the care of a jeweller laying out diamonds: the Greek New Testament, the Latin Vulgate, the Authorized King James Version, and, quite stunningly, the Hebrew Pentateuch. Each class began with a short journey through the ancient tongues—his attempt, he claimed, to liberate the Holy Scripture from the "crimes of translation." The students, while they hardly understood a word of Greek or Latin, watched in awe as he glided from one language to another with the confidence of a conjurer.
Before opening his text, he lifted his head.
"Let's refresh the rules," he said, glancing sternly at the back row. "Nnenna?"
Nnenna stood. "Sir, Rule One: Don't all speak at once."
"Correct. And you, Chinedu?"
"Questions fall into three categories: (a) those the master and the Archbishop of Canterbury can answer, (b) those only the Archbishop can answer, and (c) those neither the master nor the Archbishop can answer."
Mr. Sanders beamed.
"We're in excellent shape."
Ugochukwu sat at the edge of his desk, not fully listening. He was waiting for a break in the flow of the lesson—his question burning in his mind like hot embers under ash. It had nagged him since the Sunday service. The lesson that morning had come from Mark's Gospel—chapter five, verses one through thirteen—the account of Jesus casting demons into a herd of swine.
He had read the passage again, twice, in bed that night. Each time, a peculiar sense of familiarity had crawled over him. It wasn't about the religious story itself, but the eerie echo it seemed to hold with tales from home—whispers of men who possessed animals, of spirits transferred, of leopards sent on errands not their own.
He couldn't hold it in anymore.
"Sir," he said, rising without waiting.
Mr. Sanders frowned. "You forget the rule on question time?"
"Sorry, sir. But it's urgent. Please."
There was a short pause. Then a nod.
"Proceed."
Ugochukwu steadied his voice.
"Sir, is it… is it possible for a person's spirit to enter an animal? Like, to control the animal temporarily?"
Sanders arched an eyebrow.
"You mean, like in the case of the man possessed in Mark Five?"
"Yes, sir. But… not by demons. I mean, a living human… sending their spirit into, say, a leopard."
The classroom stirred. A low wave of murmurs swept through the rows like dry grass catching fire.
"Ah, witches and wizards!" Karibo shouted gleefully.
"I didn't say that!" Ugochukwu snapped, but Karibo had already taken over.
"Sir, in my place, witches have eyes on the soles of their feet. You can't see them—unless you throw sand on them. And girls in my cousin's boarding school wear headscarves to bed, or else—boom!—witches come to play football with their heads."
Laughter erupted.
"Enough of your bedtime horror films," Mr. Sanders said sharply, though his lips twitched in amusement. "Let's return to Ugochukwu's question."
He paused and turned the pages of the Greek New Testament in front of him. His finger stopped at a verse.
"In Mark's account, the demons—called Legion—were allowed to enter a herd of pigs. Jesus did not send them there. He permitted them. The Greek verb used is 'ἐπέτρεψεν'—he allowed. There's no indication that human souls can jump in and out of animals at will."
He closed the book slowly.
"That said, your question touches more on metaphysics than theology. Culturally, I understand such beliefs exist. But academically, no scientific or theological text I know supports it."
"But sir," Ugochukwu persisted, "what if it's not the spirit exactly… maybe a projection? Like an extension of a person's will?"
"You're asking if someone can telepathically control an animal?"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Sanders sighed, leaning back.
"Gentlemen, that takes us to a different realm altogether—one closer to psychology than Scripture. The human mind is powerful. Hypnosis, suggestion, and emotional projection are real. But whether someone in Ndikelionwu can command a leopard to ruin another man's farm, like a military drone, is… highly unlikely."
He gave Ugochukwu a long look.
"Why do you ask?"
Ugochukwu hesitated. "Just something I heard... at home."
Mr. Sanders nodded slowly.
"You're a bright lad. Be careful what you believe."
The bell rang for break. Books slammed shut. Boys spilled into the corridor, still talking about witches, demons, and the infamous leopard of Ugochukwu's village.
As he walked out quietly, Emeka jogged up beside him.
"You wanted to know about spirits entering animals?"
Ugochukwu looked over, surprised. "Why?"
"My cousin said their neighbour once caught a chicken speaking in human voice."
Ugochukwu burst out laughing. The tension of the morning finally released. He didn't know if Mr. Sanders had answered his question or merely polished it with logic and dismissals. But he knew one thing: the questions still remained.
Somewhere between Scripture, dreams, and the rustle of leaves under a moonlit forest, the mystery lingered.