December 23, 2029 | 8:47 AM
University of Nigeria, Nsukka Campus
The heat was killing.
Chika Offor wiped sweat from his forehead as he walked through the crowd of students heading to their nine o'clock lectures and their different agendas, some heading towards the stadium, some streaming, not that it matters to him. The December sun was already brutal, and it wasn't even nine yet. Around him, students rushed between buildings, their voices mixing together in Igbo, English, and pidgin, the usual UNN morning chaos.
His glasses slid down his nose again. Chika pushed them back up with one finger, already feeling the sweat building on his skin. At five-foot-eight and skinny enough to look nineteen instead of twenty-two, he'd learned to slip through crowds without bumping into anyone. His light skin showed the heat more than his darker classmates, and his fresh buzz cut did nothing to protect his head from the sun.
His clothes were clean at least, knock-off shirt ironed carefully, worn chinos that had seen better days, scuffed leather shoes that he'd polished that morning anyway. Looking put together took effort he could barely afford, but looking messy drew attention. And attention was the last thing Chika wanted.
Better to blend in. Just another philosophy student nobody really noticed.
"Chika! Wait na!" (Wait!)
He turned to see Afoma pushing through the crowd like she owned the space. Which, knowing her, she probably thought she did.
Afoma Nwosu was five-four in her flat shoes, fair-skinned and beautiful in that effortless way that made Chika uncomfortable to look at directly. But she never traded on her looks. Instead, she moved with the focused energy of someone who'd spent four years being the best in every class. Her small frame somehow demanded attention through pure competence alone.
When her dark eyes fixed on him, Chika's first thought was: What did I do wrong?
His second thought: Why does she want to talk to me?
His third thought: I should probably say something before this gets awkward.
"Good morning," he said, stopping to let her catch up. His brain was already spiraling. Did I miss something important? Is she going to call me out for something?
"Morning." Afoma fell into step beside him, her bag looking as organized as the rest of her life probably was. "You missed Professor Okafor's lecture last Wednesday. I have notes if you need them."
The offer sounded kind, but Chika heard the message underneath: I was there. I took notes. You weren't.
His face got hotter, and it wasn't just the sun. "Thank you. That's... that's very kind."
"I had to help my younger brother with something. Family issue."
The lie came easily. Truth was, he'd been too anxious to leave his room that day. Too worried about people noticing he was gone. The irony, being too worried about missing class to actually go to class, wasn't lost on him. But knowing anxiety was irrational didn't make it stop.
"No problem." Afoma pulled out a notebook without missing a step. "I made copies. You can keep them."
She handed him several pages of perfect notes, complete with highlights and margin notes that probably made sense to her genius brain. Chika took them with another quiet "thank you," already knowing he'd study them obsessively later.
"The final exam is next week," Afoma said, her tone casual. "Professor Okafor said it'll focus on post-colonial ethics. My essay covered most of the themes, but your argument about moral relativism was interesting. Different from mine."
There it was. The compliment wrapped around a reminder that her essay had scored higher. Three points higher, to be exact. Not that Chika was counting. Except he absolutely was counting, and the number burned in his mind like a brand.
She's being nice, he told himself. Stop reading malice into everything.
But he couldn't tell the difference between kindness and pity, so he defaulted to what he always did: assume the worst and apologize.
"Your analysis was much better," he said, that self-deprecating tone creeping into his voice. "I overcomplicate things. Your clarity is... I should try to be more like that."
"You're not giving yourself enough credit." Afoma glanced at him, concern or disagreement, he couldn't tell. "Different approaches have different strengths. Anyway, good luck studying. See you in class."
She split off toward a different building, leaving Chika standing in the middle of the path with her notes in his hand and that familiar feeling of having failed at basic human interaction.
Too formal. Too self-deprecating. Too obviously anxious.
She probably thought he was pathetic.
The lecture hall loomed ahead, its concrete bulk promising air conditioning that barely worked but at least offered shade. Chika climbed the outside stairs, his mind already jumping to the next worry. Would he find a good seat? Would Professor Okafor call on him? Would he stumble over his words if he had to speak?
Room 301 was on the third floor. The hallways smelled like old concrete, cheap cleaner, and the sweat of thousands of students who'd passed through over the years. The lights flickered like they might give up any second, UNN's electrical system running on prayers and expired maintenance contracts.
Chika entered at eight fifty-three. Early enough to choose his seat but not so early he'd be alone and forced into awkward small talk.
The room could hold hundred students on a good day. Rows of old desks with attached plastic chairs that had probably been uncomfortable when they were new and definitely hadn't improved with age. Windows lined one wall, covered in years of dust, filtering the morning light into a hazy glow.
He picked a seat in the fourth row, three seats from the aisle. Close enough to see the board, far enough back to avoid Professor Okafor's direct attention. The desk had graffiti carved into it, love declarations and complaints from students long gone. Chika traced one particularly deep carving with his finger while he waited.
Students trickled in as nine o'clock approached. Familiar faces from four years of philosophy classes, forming their friend groups and making plans that would never include him. Not because they disliked him. They just... didn't think about him at all.
At eight fifty-eight, Professor Okafor walked in.
Short, dark-skinned, white hair giving him that distinguished look despite his height. Forty years of teaching showed in the way he moved to the front, confident, measured, like someone who knew his subject could change lives if students would just pay attention.
"Good morning," Professor Okafor said, his voice carrying that formal precision of someone who'd studied abroad. "Today we'll continue discussing moral frameworks in post-colonial contexts. Specifically, how traditional ethical systems interact with imposed Western philosophical structures."
Chika opened his notebook, pen ready. Philosophy was the one place his brain quieted down. If life felt chaotic and overwhelming, at least he could study theories about why that might be.
Professor Okafor launched into his lecture, switching between English and occasional Igbo phrases to prove his points about cultural frameworks. Students settled into note-taking, some actually engaged, others just writing words without really thinking.
Chika found his mind drifting despite his best efforts.
Paul and Abuchi were probably together right now, waiting at their usual spot. The three of them had formed this weird brotherhood four years ago through pure accident, alphabetically assigned seats at matriculation and somehow it had lasted.
Paul Okoye, six-foot-two and built like he could break someone in half without trying, was their anchor. Steady, stoic, the kind of guy who made you feel safe just by existing. Maduabuchi Nwosu Abuchi was the opposite. Always joking, always laughing, balancing out Paul's seriousness and Chika's anxiety.
They'd saved him, probably without knowing it. When his own brain tried to crush him, their presence reminded him that connection was possible. Even for someone as messed up as he felt.
This semester had been hard. Really hard. But they'd shown up every Friday at Mama Ngozi's food is ready, ordering three plates even when Chika couldn't force himself to come.
He should buy them real Christmas gifts this year. Not the cheap token stuff he usually got. Something that showed he actually appreciated them.
But what if I pick the wrong thing? What if they feel obligated to get me something back? What if it's too much or not enough?
"Mr. Offor, your thoughts on this matter?"
Chika's head snapped up, panic flooding his chest. He'd completely zoned out. Professor Okafor was looking at him with patient expectation, and fifty-one other students had turned to stare.
His mouth opened. Nothing came out as beads of sweat starts rolling down to his chin. What question ?, when ?, how?
"The question of whether traditional communal ethics can coexist with individualistic Western frameworks," Professor Okafor repeated, gentler this time. "You wrote about this tension in your last essay. I'm curious if you've thought about it more."
Relief hit him like cold water, oh thank the Creator.He knew this. He could talk about this without embarrassing himself.
Chika cleared his throat. "I think... I think the tension is unavoidable but not necessarily destructive. Traditional communal ethics emphasize collective good, interconnected responsibility. Western individualistic frameworks prioritize personal autonomy and individual rights. The conflict happens when we treat them as mutually exclusive instead of potentially complementary, different systems addressing different aspects of human social existence."
"Interesting," Professor Okafor said. "Elaborate. How do they complement rather than contradict?"
The room's attention pressed on him like physical weight, but focusing on ideas instead of himself helped. He explained how communal ethics provided social cohesion while individualistic ethics protected against tyranny of the majority. Human societies needed both. The post-colonial challenge was building systems that honored both inheritances without arbitrarily privileging one.
Professor Okafor nodded, asking questions that pushed his thinking further. By the time discussion moved to another student, Chika felt exhausted but oddly proud.
He hadn't humiliated himself. He'd actually contributed something meaningful.
Maybe he wasn't completely useless after all.
The lecture continued for another forty minutes. Chika took notes with mechanical precision, his earlier anxiety fading into the comfortable rhythm of academic work. This was where he felt safest, in the world of ideas where messy emotions could be analyzed from a safe distance instead of felt directly.
At eleven forty-three, Professor Okafor wrapped up with a reminder about the exam. Students started packing with controlled urgency, ready to rush out.
Chika gathered his notebook and Afoma's notes, sliding them into his worn backpack. Paul and Abuchi would be waiting at their usual spot. The thought brought real warmth to his chest. Whatever else was broken in his life, at least he had them.
He stood, joining the flow toward the door. The hallway would be packed, the stairs worse, but eventually he'd get outside and find his friends. They'd talk about nothing important and everything important, and for a few minutes he'd feel like maybe he belonged somewhere.
"Mr. Offor, a moment please."
Chika's stomach dropped. What did I do wrong?
He turned back while other students filed past without caring. Professor Okafor stood by the lectern, expression unreadable.
"Yes, Professor?"
The older man looked at him with something between concern and contemplation. "Your thinking continues to develop impressively. I wanted to make sure you're planning graduate studies. Your approach shows analytical depth that deserves further development."
The compliment hit Chika like a slap, unexpected and disorienting. "I've been considering it," he said carefully, not mentioning the anxiety or the money concerns. "Thank you."
"Consider it more seriously," Professor Okafor said. "You have potential you don't recognize in yourself. Sometimes we're blind to our own capabilities." He paused, then added something that felt random: "Remember, Mr. Offor, moral courage often matters more than intellectual understanding. The world needs thinkers, but it also needs people willing to act on their convictions."
The words felt heavy with meaning Chika couldn't grasp, but before he could respond, Professor Okafor had already turned away. Dismissal was clear.
Chika mumbled another thank you and fled. The hallway was still crowded. He let the flow carry him to the stairwell, his mind churning over the weird interaction but coming up with nothing.
Paul and Abuchi would be waiting. They'd probably tease him for being late. They'd make plans for their final Friday dinner before Christmas break.
Everything would be normal and comfortable and safe.
He emerged from the Philosophy building into blazing late-morning sun at eleven forty-four.
Campus stretched around him in familiar chaos, thousands of students living ordinary lives under extraordinary heat. Vendors called out prices for pure water and roasted plantain. Groups of friends laughed. Couples walked hand in hand.
Chika thought of Judy. Judy Anya, his girlfriend of almost two years, would be finishing her shift at the Medical Center canteen soon. He should visit her, walk her back, listen to her talk about her music with that passion that made her eyes light up. She made him feel like maybe he was worth loving.
He checked his watch. Eleven forty-four and thirty seconds.
Paul and Abuchi were probably getting impatient. He walked faster, navigating familiar paths with four years' practice.
The world continued in normal patterns. Students rushing. Professors walking with dignity. The sun beating down relentlessly.
Everything exactly as it had been yesterday and would be tomorrow, endless ordinary days building toward ordinary futures.
Chika had no way of knowing that in fifteen seconds, his phone would show an error message. That in thirty seconds, his watch would stop. That in exactly one minute, at precisely eleven forty-five and zero seconds, the sky would go dark and the world he knew would end forever.
He walked toward his friends through the ordinary morning, carrying his anxieties and gratitude and small plans for Christmas gifts, completely unaware he'd never have another normal day.
The clock on his phone showed eleven forty-four and forty-five seconds.