The day of the quarterfinals dawned. The air hung heavy with a thick, buzzing tension. It felt like a desperate escape from confinement. Or perhaps the frantic final moments of a grueling exam cram. The Mfantsipim team convened in the hushed sanctuary of the library. Coach Ansah was present, a figure of strained focus. His mission was twofold: to impart the mysteries of organic chemistry and to systematically consume digestive biscuits. Each word he uttered was punctuated by a spray of biscuit crumbs, a testament to his vigorous lecture style.
"We are going to need a miracle," Yaw murmured, his gaze fixed on the coach's crumb-filled pronouncements.
Ebo, the eternal optimist, a flicker of an idea ignited in his mind. "What if I just print the formulas onto my arms?" he proposed, a hopeful note in his voice.
Kwaku turned to him, skepticism etched on his face. "Is that even possible?" he questioned.
"Theoretically," Ebo replied, already rolling up his sleeves, revealing pale skin. "My power hasn't really printed much. Just small, insignificant things."
A sudden, violent cough erupted from Coach Ansah, sending a fresh shower of biscuit fragments into the air. "NO," he sputtered, his voice hoarse. "Last year, a student from Presec attempted this very strategy. He managed to print the entire Wingdings font onto his arm. The judges were utterly bewildered."
Desperation, it seemed, had a way of unlocking the most peculiar of human actions. Just five minutes before their scheduled match, Ebo retreated into the solitude of a bathroom stall. He closed his eyes, his focus narrowing to an intense, almost painful point. He concentrated with a force he hadn't tapped into before.
"Print the periodic table," he willed, his thoughts a relentless mantra. "Print the periodic table." He repeated the command, over and over.
Then, a piercing wail ripped through the quiet building. The fire alarm. It was a false alarm, a chaotic byproduct of Kofi's well-intentioned but ill-fated attempt to "repair" a vending machine. He had employed the formidable strength of his plastic chair, a tactic that proved less than effective.
Startled by the sudden alarm, Ebo flinched. His power flickered, momentarily unstable. When he emerged from the stall, a strange sheen coated his forehead. Freshly printed text glowed there.
NSMQ 2025 ANSWER KEY. PROPERTY OF GHANA EDUCATION SERVICE. DO NOT LEAK.
Yaw stared, his mouth agape in sheer disbelief. "You are an absolute legend," he breathed, the words filled with awe.
Kwaku's eyes widened, his very soul seeming to detach from his body. "How is that even remotely possible?" he exclaimed, his voice a mixture of shock and wonder.
The walk to the auditorium felt like an eternity, the longest walk of Ebo's young life. Students pointed and whispered. Teachers exchanged gasps. A prefect from Wesley Girls, ever vigilant for juicy gossip, snapped a picture with her phone. "This is definitely going on GossipGhana," she murmured, her voice barely audible.
Ama intercepted them backstage, her sharp eyes immediately drawn to the illuminated text on Ebo's forehead. "Oh. Oh no," she said, a dawning realization spreading across her face. She snapped her fingers decisively.
Ebo's lips moved, an involuntary confession spilling out. "I stole it from the headmaster's office!" he announced, his voice eerily detached.
The moderator, a man whose weariness was palpable, clearly longed for an earlier retirement. He cast a tired glance at Ebo, then let out a long, drawn-out sigh. "Disqualified," he declared, his voice devoid of emotion.
As the Mfantsipim team was escorted away from the auditorium, Kwaku noticed the St. Augustine's team erupting in celebration. Their captain offered a knowing wink, a parting shot that echoed across the corridor. "Better luck next year," he called out with a grin.
Back on the bus, the mood was somber. Ebo furiously scrubbed his forehead with a generous application of strong hand sanitizer. Coach Ansah sat in his seat, rocking back and forth, muttering about the benefits of early retirement.
Suddenly, Kwaku's phone buzzed. An unfamiliar number. A text message appeared on the screen: ur team is trash. The sender was listed simply as Kwaku's Calculator.
Yaw glanced at the illuminated screen. "You should probably block that number," he suggested, a hint of concern in his voice.
"It knows my mom's wifi password," Kwaku replied, his tone laced with a deep, profound sadness.
In the distance, a lone chicken let out a crow. It sounded, to their ears, remarkably like laughter.