At first, Emeka had found it difficult to interpret the unexpected nods of approval occasionally thrown his way by Benneth, nicknamed "Iron", a prefect with a reputation for harsh discipline and military rigidity. Most juniors trembled when he approached, and his footsteps alone had the power to scatter boys like startled lizards. So when Iron began to acknowledge Emeka with short grunts that seemed almost… friendly, Emeka had been more puzzled than flattered.
Such moments were rare and always laced with tension. Iron never smiled twice in a week. Presumably, he didn't want anyone mistaking his bony face for something warm. Yet, on a muggy Saturday afternoon, Emeka's world tilted unexpectedly.
He had just changed out of his white Saturday morning inspection uniform into the usual brown khakis and was weighing a decision: rush to the library and complete the literature assignment given by Mr. Ebube—fondly called "Computer"—or sneak in a table tennis match first in the Senior Lobby. Just then, Iron appeared.
"Hey you!" the prefect barked. "Didn't you see this bag in my hand?"
Emeka flinched. "No, please," he lied.
"Take it to my cubicle. Now."
"Yes, please."
He carried the nearly empty bag to the prefects' quarters, waiting politely by the door as Iron unlocked it. Emeka had hoped to drop the bag and vanish before Iron found a new reason to punish him. But fate had other ideas.
"Come in," came Iron's voice, softer than expected. There was something almost human in the tone.
Hesitating, Emeka stepped into the room. He had only entered a prefect's room once before—during first term, on a dare. Since then, the rooms had been like sacred tombs. Now here he was again, this time uninvited and very unsure.
"Sit," Iron said.
"No, please. I'm in a hur—"
"In a what?" Iron cut in, smirking.
"I'm sorry, please."
Iron chuckled. Then, without warning, he slung an arm around Emeka's shoulder. "You must really miss the States, don't you?"
"I sure do," Emeka replied, voice tight with discomfort.
"Always wondered what brought someone from such a civilized country to this dusty jungle."
"It was my father's idea. You know how parents are."
Iron wasn't listening. He was now stroking Emeka's arm. "Nice skin. Your fingers are something else. Long and neat. Like a girl's. I've always admired your legs too—strong but soft. Not too straight, not bent either. Just... perfect."
"Please stop," Emeka said, his voice barely rising above a whisper.
But Iron pulled him closer. His grip was firm, almost desperate. His breath grew heavier, face flushed.
"No, please!" Emeka struggled, heart racing. His skin crawled, sweat dripping from his back as panic overtook him.
"I said no!" Emeka twisted hard, yanking free from Iron's grip. He staggered backward toward the door.
He was about to yell something—anything—but the sight before him stopped him. Iron's face had crumbled. The once-fearsome prefect now looked more like a wounded animal than a predator. The desperation in his eyes, the way he reached out mutely—it was pitiful.
"Please," Iron said, almost pleading, "don't tell anyone. I swear, if you keep quiet, no one will touch you in this school. I'll protect you. You'll never get punished again."
Emeka didn't answer. He stared at him one last time—confused, violated, and furious—and then ran. Full speed. Past the Flame-of-the-Forest. Past the prefects' quarters. Past the noisy dormitory. His thoughts spun faster than his legs.
He didn't know where to go. But he knew where not to stay.