The morning of their first official National Science and Maths Quiz trial arrived with all the subtlety of a fire alarm piercing the pre-dawn quiet. Kwaku, already a nervous wreck, had spent the entire night wrestling with a surreal dreamscape. Probability equations, rendered in the offensively cheerful Comic Sans font, had taunted him relentlessly. Now, he stood bleary-eyed in the cavernous school auditorium, the air thick with the familiar, slightly depressing scent of old sweat and the ghosts of past crushed dreams. This was it. The moment of truth.
Across the vast expanse of the auditorium, a different scene unfolded. Ama and her formidable Wesley Girls squad exuded an aura of polished perfection. Their uniforms were crisply pressed, their intricate braids flawless, and their expressions radiated a quiet, almost terrifying confidence. It was the look of individuals who knew, with absolute certainty, that they could dismantle your entire academic existence with the mere snap of their fingers. They were the apex predators of academic competitions.
Coach Ansah, his brow furrowed with the weight of impending doom, fussed with Kwaku's crooked tie. "Remember, Kwaku," he muttered, his voice a low rumble. "If they manage to trigger an emotional breakdown, just roll with it. The judges are strictly deducting points for any public sobbing. Keep it together, son." It was hardly the pep talk Kwaku had hoped for. He wanted to protest this bizarre strategy, to argue that faking emotional stability under duress was hardly conducive to winning, but the moderator's voice boomed, already calling teams to the stage. There was no time for debate.
The first round commenced, and it unfolded with the predictable, yet devastating, efficiency Kwaku had feared. The moderator, a man clearly unimpressed by anything less than utter chaos, posed the first question. "Question 1: Solve for x in the equation—" Before the moderator could even finish reading the complex algebraic expression, a sharp, decisive "BUZZ!" cut through the tension. It was Ama's teammate, her voice ringing with unerring accuracy. "x equals 3.14," she declared. "Correct," the moderator conceded, though a faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped him. He clearly craved more drama, more human frailty.
Then it was Mfantsipim's turn. The pressure intensified. "Question 2: What is the chemical symbol for—" Kwaku, adrenaline surging, slammed his hand down on the buzzer. He knew this one. "Gold is Au!" he blurted out. A flicker of annoyance crossed Ama's face, quickly replaced by a predatory smirk. Then, she did it. A deliberate, calculated snap of her fingers echoed in the hushed auditorium.
Suddenly, Kwaku was blindsided. A tidal wave of emotion, so intense it blurred his vision, washed over him. It was as if Ama had unlocked a hidden vault within his mind. Memories, long buried, flooded his brain in a disorienting rush: failing his very first math test, the heartbreaking image of his childhood goldfish floating belly-up in its bowl, the mortifying incident where he tripped spectacularly in front of his entire primary school class, all while sporting a pair of garish dinosaur pajamas. The onslaught was relentless.
"Au... Au..." Kwaku's voice cracked, a pathetic, reedy sound. He could feel the eyes of the audience, the judges, his teammates, boring into him. "Also sometimes my mom calls me 'honey' and I pretend it's annoying but I actually love it—" A collective gasp swept through the auditorium, followed by a wave of sympathetic "awws." The judges exchanged bewildered glances, their stern expressions softening. "Points," the moderator sighed, his voice heavy with resignation, "awarded to Wesley Girls for emotional disruption." It was a new low.
By the time round three rolled around, Kwaku was a complete wreck. Every correct answer Mfantsipim managed to pull off was immediately and ruthlessly undermined by Ama's insidious emotional warfare. Yaw, usually stoic, buzzed in with a correct answer. "The capital of France is Paris!" he declared, his voice firm. Ama snapped her fingers. Instantly, Yaw dissolved into tears, his body wracked with sobs. "MY PARENTS ARE GETTING DIVORCED!" he wailed, confessing his deepest sorrow to the entire school. Ebo, trying to salvage their spirits, answered a biology question correctly. "Photosynthesis occurs in chloroplasts!" he announced. Snap. "I STILL WET THE BED SOMETIMES!" Ebo declared, his voice booming, his shame broadcast to every corner of the auditorium.
Kwaku, in a desperate, last-ditch effort, attempted to harness his own supposed "probability powers" to twist the odds in their favor. "Ninety percent chance the next question is about... shoes!" he declared, hoping to somehow influence the moderator's choice. The moderator, with a practiced air of disdain, cleared his throat. "Question 7: Calculate the velocity of..." Before he could finish, a rogue shoe, inexplicably, plummeted from the ceiling and struck Kwaku squarely on the head. The Wesley Girls squad didn't even bother to suppress their triumphant laughter. It was utter humiliation.
When the trial finally limped to a close, Mfantsipim had secured a score that hovered slightly above "embarrassing" but remained a significant distance from "respectable." Kwaku slumped in his chair, utterly drained, his emotional reserves completely depleted. Ama, ever the victor, sauntered over, a smug, satisfied expression plastered across her face. "You held up better than I expected," she commented, her tone dripping with condescension. "Most boys cry by round two." Kwaku glared, his remaining defiance fueling a surge of anger. "Do you ever get tired of being the worst?" he spat out. Ama paused, a thoughtful, yet utterly unrepentant look on her face. "Nope," she replied simply. She then patted his shoulder condescendingly. "See you at regionals, Probability Boy. Bring extra tissues." As she walked away, leaving a trail of victory and Kwaku's shattered ego, his trusty calculator, as if by its own volition, morphed into a small, dejected-looking frog. Kwaku, in his profound state of emotional exhaustion, didn't even flinch. He simply accepted it.