TUE -- 8:23 AM -- Willowgrove Secondary School -- Final WAEC Examination Day
The Economics paper lay face-down on Elisha's desk, waiting for the final bell. Around him, forty-seven other students sat in various stages of completion, some still scribbling frantically, others staring at the ceiling with the glazed expression of mental exhaustion.
Three weeks of examinations. Twenty-seven papers across nine subjects. Questions that ranged from straightforward recall to complex analysis that required connecting dots across different fields of knowledge. Each day had been a marathon, each paper a test not just of what he'd learned, but of his ability to perform under pressure.
"Time!" Mrs. Okafor's voice cut through the examination hall. "Pens down, papers closed."
Elisha set down his pen and exhaled slowly. It was finished. Three years of secondary education, six months of intensive preparation, and countless hours of study by candlelight had led to this moment. Whether it was enough remained to be seen.
As he filed out with the other students, he felt oddly detached from their chatter about difficult questions and potential failures. His classmates were already discussing what they'd do during the month-long wait for results—some planned to learn trades, others would help their families with business, a few would begin preparing for JAMB to gain university admission.
Elisha had different preparations in mind.
WED -- 6:15 PM -- Oriade Family Flat
The evening meal was quieter than usual. His mother had prepared rice and stew with actual chunks of meat—a celebration of sorts, or perhaps an acknowledgment that the intensive study period was over and normal eating could resume. Uncle Femi had even contributed a bottle of Maltina, declaring that the occasion deserved something special.
"So," his mother said, serving him an extra portion, "what now? The results won't come for weeks."
Elisha had been rehearsing this conversation for days, but the words still felt heavy in his mouth. "I want to apply to the Nysarian Defence Academy."
The serving spoon stopped mid-motion. Uncle Femi's bottle of Maltina paused halfway to his lips. Even the sounds from the neighboring flats seemed to fade.
"The what?" his mother asked, though her tone suggested she'd heard perfectly well.
"The Defence Academy. In Kaduna. It's where they train officers for—"
"I know what it is." She set down the serving spoon with deliberate care. "What I don't know is why my son wants to throw away his education to become a soldier."
"It's not throwing away anything. The Academy is a university. Four years of study, plus military training. I'd get a degree and a commission—"
"A commission to do what? Stage coups? Intimidate civilians? Take bribes at checkpoints?"
Uncle Femi finally took his sip of Maltina, then shook his head. "Elisha, you're a smart boy. You could study medicine, law, engineering. Why you want to join an institution that has caused nothing but trouble for this country?"
The question he'd expected, and the one he'd struggled most to answer. How could he explain that it was precisely because the military had caused trouble that it needed people who understood its proper role? How could he make them see that change required people willing to work within flawed institutions rather than abandoning them?
"Because someone has to," he said finally.
"Someone has to what?"
"Serve properly. Follow the constitution instead of overthrowing it. Protect people instead of exploiting them. Show that the uniform can mean something good."
His mother stood up from the table, began pacing the small room. "You think you can change the entire military by yourself? You think one good officer can fix decades of corruption and abuse?"
"No. But maybe one good officer can inspire others. Maybe enough good officers can eventually tip the balance."
"And if they don't? If you end up compromised like all the rest? If the system changes you instead of you changing it?"
The question that kept him awake at night. "Then at least I would have tried."
Uncle Femi leaned forward. "Elisha, listen to me. I know men who joined the army with good intentions. Some are dead. Some are in prison. The ones who survived... they're not the same people who enlisted. The military doesn't make heroes. It makes survivors."
"Maybe that's because the right people haven't been joining."
"Or maybe that's because it's impossible to stay clean in a dirty system."
The argument continued for an hour. His mother worried about safety, about the reputation military families carried, about the uncertain career prospects. Uncle Femi questioned his naivety, his understanding of how power actually worked in Nysaria, his assumption that individual integrity could overcome institutional corruption.
Every concern was valid. Every worry was justified. The Nysarian military's history spoke for itself: more coups than successful democratic transitions, more scandals than success stories, more fear than respect among the civilian population.
But Elisha had read that history carefully, and he'd noticed something his critics missed. In every failed coup, in every military government that eventually fell, there had been officers who'd refused to participate. Soldiers who'd chosen principle over promotion, duty over personal gain. They were usually footnotes in the history books, but they existed.
The conversation might have continued all night, but a power cut plunged the flat into darkness. In the sudden quiet that followed NEPA's daily reminder of national dysfunction, his mother's voice came out of the darkness, softer now but no less serious.
"If you're determined to do this, you'll need to pass JAMB first. The Academy requires it for admission."
"I know."
"JAMB isn't like WAEC. It's computer-based, multiple choice, covering material from across all your subjects. And the cutoff scores for military academies are usually higher than regular universities."
"I'll prepare."
A match flared as Uncle Femi lit a candle. In the flickering light, the worry lines on his mother's face seemed deeper.
"The Academy takes what, two hundred students from the entire country each year?"
"About that."
"Out of how many applicants?"
"Thousands."
She was quiet for a long moment. "And you think your WAEC results will be good enough?"
"I think they'll have to be."
Uncle Femi snorted. "Confidence is good, but mathematics is mathematics. Even if you score perfectly in JAMB, you still need to pass the physical fitness tests, the medical examinations, the psychological evaluations, the interviews. And at every stage, they're looking for reasons to eliminate candidates."
"Then I'll make sure they don't find any."
"And if you don't get in? What then?"
The question he'd been avoiding. "Then I'll try again next year. Or I'll find another way to serve."
"Another way like what?"
"I don't know yet. But there has to be some path that leads to making things better instead of just complaining about how bad they are."
Later, after Uncle Femi had retreated to his corner and his mother had gone to bed, Elisha sat by candlelight with a JAMB preparation guide he'd borrowed from a neighbor. The Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board examination was indeed different from WAEC—designed to test not just knowledge but the ability to apply that knowledge quickly under time pressure.
English Language, Mathematics, and two other subjects relevant to his intended course of study. For military academy applicants, that meant Government and one of the sciences. Four subjects, 180 questions, three hours to complete them all.
The mathematics alone was daunting. Not just the arithmetic and algebra he'd mastered for WAEC, but advanced topics like calculus and statistics that Willowgrove Secondary had barely touched. The English section included comprehension passages that required sophisticated analysis, and the Government questions assumed familiarity with constitutional law and international relations that went far beyond his textbook knowledge.
But as he worked through practice questions by candlelight, Elisha felt something he hadn't experienced during WAEC preparation: excitement. Not just the satisfaction of solving problems, but the thrill of moving toward a goal that felt worthy of the effort.
Each correct answer was a step closer to Kaduna. Each concept mastered was a small victory over the odds stacked against boys from Mushin who dared to dream beyond their circumstances.
SAT -- 10:30 AM -- One Week Later
Elisha had established a new routine. Morning runs through the Mushin streets to build the physical fitness that would be tested at the Academy. Afternoons studying JAMB materials at the local library, which had better lighting than home and fewer distractions. Evenings reviewing his notes and working through practice tests.
The library was a revelation. Built during the optimistic years after independence, it had fallen into disrepair like so many public institutions, but the core collection remained. Here he found textbooks on military history, constitutional law, and international relations that weren't available at Willowgrove Secondary.
More importantly, he discovered he wasn't alone. Other students preparing for various entrance examinations had claimed different corners of the reading room. They formed an informal community of the ambitious and the desperate—young people who understood that education was their only escape route from the circumstances of their birth.
Kemi found him there one afternoon, hunched over a particularly challenging set of mathematics problems.
"Still determined to become a soldier?" she asked, settling into the chair across from him.
"Officer. There's a difference."
"Is there? In Nysaria?"
He looked up from his calculations. "That's what I intend to find out."
She studied his face in the afternoon light filtering through the library's dusty windows. "You know, when we were younger, I used to think you were just quiet. Now I realize you were always watching, always thinking. Always planning something bigger than the rest of us could see."
"I'm not planning anything. I'm just trying to find a way to be useful."
"Most people find ways to be useful without joining institutions that have traumatized entire generations of Nysarians."
"Most people also find ways to complain about problems without taking responsibility for solving them."
The words came out sharper than he'd intended, and he saw Kemi flinch slightly. But she didn't back down.
"So you think the solution to military corruption is more military officers?"
"I think the solution to any corruption is more people who refuse to be corrupted."
"And you're sure you won't be?"
The question that haunted every quiet moment. "I'm sure I have to try."
That evening, as Elisha walked home through streets that had become as familiar as his own thoughts, he reflected on the strange mathematics of his situation. To join an institution dedicated to protecting Nysaria, he first had to excel in examinations designed to measure academic potential. To serve a country where most soldiers came from rural areas and poor families, he had to demonstrate the kind of intellectual ability usually associated with urban elites.
The contradiction wasn't lost on him. But perhaps that was exactly what the Nysarian military needed—officers who understood both worlds, who could bridge the gap between those who governed and those who were governed.
Six weeks until JAMB. Months more until he'd know whether his WAEC results were strong enough to support his application. A year, at minimum, before he'd know whether this path was even possible.
But for the first time since he'd begun seriously considering military service, the obstacles felt manageable. Not easy, but conquerable through sustained effort and unwavering focus.
The die was cast. Now it was simply a matter of proving worthy of the choice he'd made.
As he climbed the stairs to his family's flat, Elisha could hear his mother and Uncle Femi discussing something in low voices. He caught fragments: "...stubborn like his father..." and "...pray he knows what he's doing..." and "...at least he's working toward something..."
They were worried, but they were also proud. And perhaps, despite their fears, they were beginning to understand that some dreams were worth pursuing even when the odds were impossibly long.
Especially then.