When I was five, my family moved to a new area.
We were seven in the house — my mum, dad, two brothers, two sisters, and me. Sometimes our cousins stayed with us too. We were an average family, but comfortable, happy, and content. Most of our neighbours were jealous of how close we were.
I was a smart, cheerful, obedient child — innocent and easy to please. I wasn't mischievous at all. I believed everything adults said, even the obvious lies, because in my mind elders always knew better. My instincts were sharp though, and I said a lot of funny things that made everyone laugh.
Mum loved dressing me up for family events — ribbons, lace socks, shiny shoes. I loved the attention. People always praised me and called me the lovely child. I would hide shyly behind Mum whenever visitors came. Life was good.
But in school… it was the total opposite.
I was in Nursery 1 then — the quiet one, the gentle girl. I never answered questions in class, even when I knew the answers. My teacher thought I was dull until our first-term results came out.
That day I was anxious; even as a child I knew I hadn't done my best. But to my surprise, my teacher praised me. Miss Suliyat — a light-skinned woman in a blue shirt, black skirt, and hijab — even followed me home after school.
Before handing me my report card, she asked a few questions.
"Why don't you talk in class?"
I said nothing.
"Do you talk at home?"
I nodded.
She looked surprised. Then she smiled and said I had done well. I felt my fear melt away.
At home, Mum noticed my silence but didn't say anything yet. She welcomed Miss Suliyat warmly, gave her a seat and a cold drink. From where I sat, I heard Mum telling her that I had been an A-student back in Baby and Preparatory class. When the teacher left, Mum escorted her out, then came back and sat beside me on the small wooden box we used as a stool.
"Adesola," she said gently, "your teacher says you don't speak or ask questions in class. Why?"
"Nothing, ma," I replied in my small voice.
"But you talk at home. I'm sure that's why your result dropped."
I kept quiet — what did I even know then?
Seeing my face, she sighed. "You still did well, okay? In fact, you did absolutely well. But next term, try to talk and ask questions in class, ehn?"
"Yes, ma," I said.
She smiled, handed me a biscuit, and I thanked her happily.
Looking back now, I guess I've always been introverted — maybe not this extreme, but it started early. I just don't know what exactly caused it.
The holiday went by as usual — friends, neighbours, summer lessons, small laughter, no drama.
When we resumed, I still carried my mother's words in my heart: talk more, ask questions, speak up.
I promised myself I'd do better.
On the first day back, I realized how distant I'd been from my classmates. I only knew my seatmate. Everyone else seemed new, though they'd been there all along. While they chatted excitedly, I listened quietly, memorizing their names from their conversations.
When the bell rang for assembly, I smiled to myself; I was ready for a fresh start.
Before the devotion, I went to greet area sister — Aunty Ruka — a tall, beautiful senior who liked me a lot. She was in her final year then, chatting with friends. I stood beside her for a moment, not really understanding their talk but happy to be near her.
Then the bell echoed through the compound. We all filed out for morning devotion — singing, clapping, prayers, the headmistress giving her long speech. Honestly, I barely remember her face; everything felt boring, too serious for a child.
After assembly, I ran back to class, eager to learn. I dropped my bag and smiled at my desk. It was my favourite because it had a small transparent pocket at the back where I kept my money — my biscuit money. I loved that bag; it made me feel special.
I unzipped it to check the little space — but my fifty naira was gone.
Panic rose in my chest. I searched my uniform, the floor, my locker — nothing.
"What are you looking for?" my seatmate asked.
"My fifty naira," I said, my voice small.
We both began to search. Then I started asking everyone in class if they'd seen it. Some laughed; others pushed me playfully from one person to another.
A tall boy — Basit — turned around from the back row. Beside him sat a tiny, quiet girl. "How much?" he asked.
"Fifty naira," I replied.
He stood and helped me search, even asking the girl to stand up so he could check under the desk. She obeyed shyly.
Just as I was about to cry, my seatmate called my name. "Sola, don't worry — I took it. I was only joking!"
I was too relieved to be angry. "Ah ah, you scared me!" I laughed, showing the note to Basit and the others.
"Thank you!" I said proudly. Then I reached out my tiny hand. "What's your name?"
"Basit," he answered with a grin.
I turned to the gentle girl. "And you?"
"Aisha," she said softly.
"Okay!" I smiled, happy to have new friends.
Just then, our class teacher entered — Miss Suliyat again, wearing a white shirt and a bright patterned skirt. She looked at me with an expression that said, Hmm, you've really changed.
Class that day was fun. We learned to introduce ourselves. She kept asking, "Do you understand?" and I kept nodding. I didn't ask questions — not because I was shy, but because I actually understood everything.
After that day, I grew closer to Basit and Aisha. My seatmate's prank left a bad taste, and I became wary of her. Funny how that fifty naira incident became the beginning of a small friendship. That was my biscuit money — my gin-gin biscuit money — and I wasn't going to risk it again.
Life moved smoothly after that. Second-term results came; I was first in class. Mum was so proud she bought me a plastic doll — the one I had begged for earlier. I was just a little girl, living my soft life.
The holidays were the same — playing with friends, showing off my doll, building sand houses, wetting the bed, and getting scolded by Mum. Nothing new, nothing serious.
Sometimes I visited Aisha. Her house was close, and she opened up more whenever it was just us. She'd been introverted since birth, even quieter than me.
Life was peaceful.
Then we resumed again — learning, laughing, and preparing for the end-of-year party. The air smelled of festivity: cultural dances, drama, choreography, decorations everywhere.
But one afternoon, everything changed.
My elder sister, Bola, came to my school. She had never done that before. It was during class hours, and she told me to pack my bag.
I was confused. "Aunty Bola, why am I going home early?"
She sighed. "You're changing school."
The words sank slowly. I felt sad — I would miss my friends — but before I could even process it, we were home, and Mum served me hot amala and delicious soup. I ate and forgot all about the sadness.
Days passed. I stopped going to that school. I played with my siblings, attended home lessons, and helped in Mum's shop.
When the third term ended, I visited my old school for the end-of-year party. Watching my classmates dance and act on stage made tears sting my eyes. I wanted to be part of them so badly.
After the party, I hugged my friends and told them goodbye. Miss Suliyat called me aside, gave me food, and waved cheerfully. "Goodbye!" she said.
I smiled and waved back, trying to hide the ache in my chest.
At home, I finally asked Mum why I had to change schools. She said the old one "wasn't up to standard."
I wanted to argue — to say I loved it there — but I stayed quiet.
The next day, Mum took me to a new school: a beautiful new building, almost finished, fresh paint still smelling in the air. The workers greeted her.
"E ku ise oo," Mum said warmly.
One of them smiled. "Shey na your lastborn be this?"
"Yes oo," Mum replied, laughing.
"What's her name?"
"Adesola."
"Hello, sir," I said shyly, bowing slightly the way she'd taught me.
"This is your new school," Mum said suddenly, reading my thoughts.
I looked at the tall, bright building and felt my sadness fade a little. It was nicer than my old school.
Later, I found out my parents owned it. That didn't change how excited I was — I was just eager to learn.
We started taking lessons there, me and some neighbours' children. Everything was going fine — until one morning.
I was on my way to school with my friends when I felt thirsty. We stopped by a nearby well to fetch water. I held my books in one hand and pulled the rope with the other.
Before I knew it, the fetcher slipped, and my books fell straight into the well.
My head went blank.
"Haa! My mummy will beat me!" I cried, waving my hands helplessly. My friends started shouting advice — all nonsense — but I couldn't think straight.
And just then—
A loud alarm echoed in the library.
Sola jerked awake, blinking rapidly. Her heart pounded as reality settled in.
Sola jerked upright, her mind still tangled between memory and reality.
The familiar beep of the library alarm echoed again, announcing the end of quiet hours.
She sighed deeply, rubbing her eyes. "Hmm… I guess I wasn't always this introverted," she murmured. "So what really happened? How did I get here?"
A voice answered softly beside her. "Well, maybe something must have happened."
She froze. The voice was real — not in her head.
"Kolade?" she gasped, startled.
He laughed quietly. "You thought I was in your head, abi?"
Sola groaned, knocking her forehead playfully. "What the hell — get out of my mind, omoh!"
People turned and stared. Kolade laughed louder, drawing even more attention. Sola's face burned with embarrassment. She covered her face with both hands and banged her head lightly on the table.
Kolade smiled and lowered his voice. "You know, not every introvert is born that way. Some become one because of what they've been through. Either way, being reserved isn't a disease."
His words hung in the air. They hit deep — right where her walls were weakest.
She slowly lifted her head, meeting his eyes. "Hmm. You're right," she said quietly. "Deep down, I know what caused it… I just can't pinpoint it."
Kolade tilted his head, still smiling. "When did I get here, abi? I've been sitting for a while. You looked lost in thought, so I didn't want to disturb."
Sola covered her face again, groaning. "Huhhh, I wasn't daydreaming. I… I…"
Kolade chuckled. "You were figuring yourself out, joor."
There was a pause — soft, calm, comfortable.
Finally, Sola spoke. "Yeah… even if I can't change, I just want to understand why I'm like this."
"It's okay," he said simply. "Take it one step at a time."
He looked down at his phone, scrolling casually, while she sighed and picked up her novel again.
She peeked at him from the corner of her eye. He's really thoughtful… and amazing, she thought, smiling faintly.
Gathering her courage, she asked, "Lade Square, what course are you studying?"
He looked up. "Medicine and Surgery."
"Wow! That's nice. What level?"
"Three hundred. Four more years to go," he said, stretching.
"Omoh, I can't o," she laughed. "You medics are trying. How do you even cope?"
Kolade shrugged. "It's God, really. And I love it. So I'll chase it with everything I have."
"Wow, motivational speaker!" she teased dramatically.
He giggled. "Heehaw, it's nice to see this side of you."
"Awn awn, it's for someone special like you," she said with a mischievous smile.
Kolade removed his glasses, pretending to be shocked. "Say that again."
"Huh? I said what I said, bro," she replied, quickly burying her face in her book.
Kolade wasn't having it. He leaned closer and tugged her collar playfully. "Ehn ehn, come here joor."
She burst out laughing, cheeks glowing pink. Her dimples deepened as she tried to hide her face. For a moment, she looked nothing like the quiet girl everyone thought she was.
The lady behind them turned, shook her head, and muttered, "These two sef."
They laughed even harder.
Then, as they caught their breath, a boy walked up to Kolade — sagging jeans, flashy jewelry, the full "yahoo boy" package. They exchanged greetings in loud slang.
The change in Sola was instant. Her face went blank again, though inside, she was fighting laughter at the boy's ridiculous swagger. Her mind was alive, but her expression gave nothing away.
When he finally left, Kolade snapped his fingers in front of her face. "Sola! Earth to you, bro!"
"Omohh, sorry jare," she said, shaking her head. "These boys are everywhere."
"Yeah — the yoyo niggas," he said, mimicking the guy's hand signs.
They both burst out laughing again, the tension melting completely.
From there, their talk flowed easily — from school stress to the life of introverts, from people's ignorance to Gen Z drama. It felt effortless, free.
It was one of the most comfortable moments she'd had in a long time.
They kept talking — about books, people, dreams, and the kind of peace that's hard to find in a noisy world.
Sola smiled to herself. She hadn't felt this free in a long time.
It was strange — Kolade made silence comfortable and laughter effortless.
After a while, he glanced at her table and smiled. "So, why did you choose Linguistics?"
"Huh?" she looked up. "You won't believe the reason I chose it."
"Try me," he said.
She sighed. "Honestly… I don't even know. It just happened."
Kolade leaned back in his chair. "Well, even if you don't know the reason, there's always a reason you're here."
"I don't understand."
"You being here — studying what you're studying, sitting where you're sitting — it's part of God's plan," he said quietly. "There's purpose in everything."
Sola fell silent, staring at her notebook. His words lingered like soft music.
He didn't push her to respond. He just waited, watching her think.
After a moment, he snapped his fingers lightly to get her attention. "You've probably already found your purpose," he said, pointing at the pile of novels and literature textbooks beside her.
She blinked, then smiled. "Hmm… that's true. I just don't know how studying language will help me in all this."
Kolade shrugged. "No knowledge is wasted. Everything connects somehow. Whatever happens — it's all linked. So honour your own journey. It's yours."
Sola exhaled slowly, the words sinking deep. "Hmm… I just don't feel original," she said softly. "I feel like I have different personalities for different people."
Kolade tilted his head. "As how?"
"Like… I'm extroverted around some people and introverted around others. It feels fake."
He smiled gently. "Adesola, you're not fake. That's still you — all of it. You just mirror what's around you."
"Mirror?"
"Yeah," he said, tapping the table lightly. "Psychologists call it social mirroring — when you unconsciously match people's tone or mood. It only means you're emotionally aware."
Sola blinked, a small laugh escaping. "Hmm, so you're into psychology now, Professor?"
Kolade chuckled. "Maybe a little. But really, it just shows you can understand people quickly. That's not weakness — it's strength."
She smiled again, shaking her head. "Hmm, professor indeed."
He grinned. "You know it."
The library bell rang, snapping them both out of their world.
"Time to go," Kolade said, standing and stretching.
Sola packed her notes slowly, still replaying his words in her mind. He waited beside her, scrolling through his phone casually while she adjusted her bag.
As they stepped out of the library, sunlight spilled across the walkway. The air was warm, alive.
They walked side by side toward the shuttle park. For once, Sola didn't worry about who was watching, or what people thought. She was just… there.
Kolade glanced at her and smiled. "You know," he said, "you've unfolded more than you think."
She looked at him, surprised. "Unfolded?"
He nodded. "Yeah. Sometimes, it just takes the right person to remind you you're allowed to."
Sola chuckled softly, the sound light and genuine. "Thank you, Kolade."
He shrugged playfully. "Anytime, Professor of Silence."
She rolled her eyes, laughing as they climbed into the shuttle together — two people, different yet similar, sitting side by side in a world that finally felt a little less loud.