It was a peaceful Saturday morning. Exams had begun, and Sola's roommate was already out for hers.
The room was quiet — the kind of silence that felt like peace.
Sola sat on her bed in white shorts and a blue T-shirt, surrounded by open books, enjoying the calm.
Then her small phone began to ring — loudly. She hissed under her breath but froze when she saw the caller ID.
Her brother.
The one who hadn't called her in years.
Her chest tightened — nervousness, anxiety, and a flicker of joy mixed together. They used to be close. Now they were almost strangers.
"Hello, sir," she said, her voice hoarse.
"Haffa, how are you doing?" he asked in Yoruba.
"Fine, sir."
"You don't even ask about me, hmm?"
Sola said nothing. Because, honestly, he was right.
He sighed. "Only God knows why you suddenly became like this — so closed off."
Then, almost casually, "Anyway, send your account number. Make I do tansho for you."
Her throat felt tight. She muttered a small "Thank you, sir," before the call ended.
But his words lingered — you suddenly became that closed off.
Her mood sank. She sat quietly, staring at the wall, her mind drifting.
"When I was in primary school, I was a straight-A student. Everyone loved me. Parents wanted their kids to be my friend.
I was always in debates, quizzes, storytelling.
Then what happened?"
Her thoughts slipped further back.
"In JSS1, maybe the praises got to my head. I started chasing perfection. Every mistake made me feel guilty.
Instead of admitting them, I started covering them up — small, stupid lies. I wasn't even good at it."
Her voice broke in her own mind.
"Soon, people's eyes changed. They started looking at me differently — my friends, even my family.
I became the liar. The disappointment."
She closed her eyes tightly, tears pressing behind her lids.
"They could have talked to me… corrected me. I was just a child seeking attention. I was ten.
But they withdrew, silently."
She bit her lip, forcing down the ache.
"The looks of disdain hurt. I wanted to cry sometimes, but I learned to blink the tears away.
I became so used to holding it in that even insults couldn't move me anymore."
Her heart felt heavy, but calm.
"I became cold. Empty. My grades dropped. Teachers noticed. My family asked questions.
But I couldn't answer — I'd already built walls inside me."
Then came her roommate — barging in as usual, without knocking. The door slammed open.
Kemi frowned like someone who'd just smelled something bad. Neither of them greeted the other. Sola sighed; she was used to it.
Sometimes she wondered why Kemi looked at her like a sworn enemy. Even if strangers misunderstand me, she thought, what's her excuse?
Her phone rang again — this time, a familiar voice.
"Sola! Haffa nah," Kolade said.
"I dey. Wassup?" she replied, her tone suddenly light.
Kemi turned, surprised by the cheerful sound of Sola's voice.
"Aren't you coming to the library today?"
"You dey library?"
"Ehn na. Abeg, come joor. I no wan hear story."
"Oya nah," she said, giggling.
She sprang from the bed, grabbed her towel, and hurried to shower.
"Where are you going?" Kemi asked — the first time she had spoken kindly in weeks.
"Well… library," Sola replied, hesitant.
"Okay," Kemi said, almost uninterested.
In the library, Kolade sat at his usual spot, eyes glued to his laptop.
A girl with glasses approached. "Is this seat taken?"
"Yes," he said with a polite smile.
He checked his watch. "What's taking her so long?" he muttered.
Then suddenly—
"Yoo! Wassup!"
Sola's mock-deep voice startled him. She scrunched her face like a cartoon monster.
Kolade burst into laughter. "Haa, what took you so long?"
"Weytin? You wan gimme somtin?" she teased, smiling mischievously.
He rolled his eyes. "Abegii."
They settled down — Kolade back to his laptop, Sola heading for the literature shelf. He watched her quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips.
Her phone beeped. A message.
A bank alert.
Her brother had sent ₦3,000.
A sweet warmth spread through her, mixed with nervousness. Should I call him?
Normally, she wouldn't. But today, she decided — No, I'll change. I'll call. I'll thank him.
She rehearsed quietly, whispering lines under her breath, trying to find the right words. Kolade glanced up, amused, trying not to laugh.
She shot him an angry look. "What?"
He raised his hands. "Nothing o!"
Finally, she took a deep breath and called.
"Hello, sir."
"Have you seen it?" his voice came, sharp and impatient.
"Yes, sir—"
Click. He ended the call.
Her shoulders slumped. Did I do something wrong?
Kolade noticed her expression. "Who was that?"
"My brother," she said quietly.
"Why do you look sad?"
"I don't even know… We used to be so close. But now everything feels strained."
"Hmm. Something must've caused it."
"Yeah," she sighed. "A lot of things. Mostly my fault, though. And I just… miss who I used to be."
Kolade's face softened. "I understand. But I think you're fine just as you are. Being introverted isn't bad."
She nodded slowly. "True… I love peace. I love the quiet. But I miss connection too."
"Then let them understand you," Kolade said simply. "They need to see you for who you are — not who they think you should be."
She smiled faintly. "Hmm. You're right. Maybe it's time to try again."
He nodded. "If you wish."
His words sank deep, lighting something inside her. Maybe I can still fix it. Maybe it's not too late.
A few days later, exams were in full swing. Some days were cheerful, others awkward. Through it all, Kolade became her closest confidant — someone she could talk to without pretending.
That week, Kemi's elder sister, Yewande, came to visit. Sola dreaded it. She started spending longer hours in the library, avoiding the room.
One afternoon, she stayed home — broke and hungry.
The aroma of cooking filled the air, making her throat ache. She tried to hide the sound of her stomach rumbling, but it betrayed her.
Then Yewande appeared.
"Sola, that's your name, right?"
Sola froze. "Yeah."
"I've noticed you don't cook or eat much. Why?"
Her throat went dry. No words came.
"Well," Yewande said gently, "I don't like eating when someone around me hasn't eaten. Join us. There's enough food."
Sola hesitated. Kemi's eyes narrowed — cold and sharp. But hunger overpowered pride.
She nodded. "Yes… thank you."
The meal — amala with spicy soup — tasted heavenly. She tried to eat quietly, aware of Kemi's burning gaze.
Omohh, I better go to school tomorrow before she thinks I'm after her food, she thought, forcing a small smile.
Later, she washed her plate. "Thank you, ma," she said softly, bowing slightly.
Yewande nodded, studying her with quiet curiosity.
Sola sat on the bed again, uneasy but full. If I had listened to my sister and lived alone, maybe things would've been easier, she thought.
Her phone rang — loudly.
"Hello ma," she said quickly.
"Adesola mi, how are you doing?" her mum asked in her warm Yoruba-English voice.
"I'm fine, ma. How is everyone at home?"
"Dáadáa la wà, my dear. Ehn, you need money, abi?"
"Yes, ma…"
"Don't worry, I'll send it right away."
"Thank you, ma."
"You're welcome. How's your exam?"
"It's going well, ma."
"Good. Be easy-going, you hear? And greet your roommate for me."
"Yes, ma."
When the call ended, the room was silent. Both Kemi and her sister stared at her, as if her soft-spoken tone was strange.
Sola smiled awkwardly, turned to the wall, and fiddled with her small phone — waiting for the bank alert.
A few seconds later, the beep came.
₦5,000.
Her lips curved into a small smile.
Not just for the money — but for the tiny reminder that maybe, slowly, the bridge between her and her family wasn't completely broken.
She exhaled softly and whispered, "Maybe… I can still find my way back."