By the time the bus eased through the iron-wrought gates of Obodoma Eco-Resort, the sky had deepened into a mellow orange. The sunlight filtered through swaying palms, casting fluid shadows across the paved driveway. The resort sprawled like a modern Eden in the heart of southern Nigeria — elegant bungalows with red brick walls, tiled roofs that glinted under the sun, and manicured lawns that looked almost too perfect to be real. A faint scent of lemongrass and the distant murmur of a waterfall floated through the air.
As the students stepped out one by one, they stretched their limbs, cracked joints, and breathed deeply like soldiers returning from a long journey. The tension from the incident on the expressway was still there, lingering in the stiffness of their backs, but the sight of the pristine resort began to melt it away.
The athletic department's students, especially, recovered the fastest. Nedu — all swagger and loud energy — was already pacing around the bus, narrating the Mercedes crash like a TikTok drama.
"Guy, I swear to God — the way that car spun ehn, it was like Furious 7 meets Blood Sisters. That guy must've skipped basic physics because—"
Someone else interrupted with a laugh, "Omo, the man flew like Vin Diesel but forget say he no get airbag for real life!"
Laughter erupted. Fists bumped. Someone even started to replay a voice note of the chaos, capturing the screeching brakes and the shrill yells.
At that moment, Ben, their class governor, stepped down from the bus. Always sharply dressed, he adjusted his checkered sash like he was on a mission. His glasses glinted in the sunlight, his lips already pursed into disapproval.
"Can you people literally shut the fu—"
"Ah ah, Benjamin Dare-Desouza."
He froze mid-rant. His eyes found Taro, grinning like the devil with a secret.
"Remember the bet," Taro said coolly.
A beat passed. Ben's shoulders sagged slightly. His mouth clamped shut like someone had zipped it closed. He adjusted his tie, gave one final glare, and walked off toward the reception like a disappointed father.
A wave of chuckles spread through the crowd, light and harmless.
Then, as if on cue, Dr. Maren emerged.
The students parted instinctively.
She was impossible to miss — tall, broad-shouldered, curvaceous in the way statues are carved in reverence, not appeal. Her blouse hugged her frame like it had been designed with only her in mind. Every movement she made exuded composure and quiet strength. Even the teachers straightened up.
She stepped forward, arms folded across her chest, her expression unreadable.
"All of you," she began, voice calm but with the kind of power that made even the wind hush, "listen carefully."
The students fell quiet instantly.
"You are guests here. Whatever prestige your school name carries does not give you license to misbehave. This is not Lagos. This is not your father's compound. There are rules here, and I expect you to obey them."
Her eyes scanned the crowd like a general on the eve of battle.
"There are families vacationing here. Foreigners. Diplomats. If you embarrass yourselves, you embarrass all of us."
She allowed the silence to sit for a moment.
"If you need to use the toilet during the day," she continued, "especially when outside your rooms, seek consent from your assigned teacher. No wandering off. No playing smart. No forming James Bond."
A few giggles escaped, mostly from the girls.
Her tone deepened.
"And comport yourselves," she said, her gaze zeroing in on a group of boys loitering too close to the girls. "Really, really comport yourselves. You are not just here for your pleasure. You are ambassadors. Do not disgrace your parents. Or this school."
The words fell like pebbles into a still lake. No one dared break the silence.
"And boys," she added, casually, but not without weight, "keep your hormones in check."
That sparked a ripple of muffled laughter — from students and one or two teachers alike.
She turned then, offering a nod to the teaching staff. Her hips swayed with effortless confidence as she strode toward the administration block of the resort.
As soon as she was out of earshot, someone whispered behind their palm, "That woman's muscles could probably bench-press the bus."
Another muttered, "She looks like she does deadlifts with bad students."
And just like that, the atmosphere cracked open. The tension dissolved, laughter returning like it had just been waiting for the right moment.
Overhead, birds called out across the resort, their shrill cries bouncing through the trees. The breeze picked up slightly, carrying the scent of pine and distant grilled food. It was paradise, or something close enough.
"Everybody take your luggage!"
"Don't wander off!"
"Who carry my box abeg?"
Bags thudded onto the pavement. Wheels rattled. Someone nearly fell trying to pull a suitcase from the overhead rack. The air from the bus smelled like dust, fuel, and sweat that had overstayed its welcome.
Benjamin stepped down last, tugging his medium-sized suitcase behind him. His shoulders were stiff, his shirt clinging slightly to his back. He rolled his neck once, scanning the compound without really seeing it.
Then he saw Claire.
She stood a few meters away, half-turned toward her friends, adjusting the strap of her backpack like it had shifted during the ride. Her suitcase—smaller than most—rested upright beside her. She looked tired, but not the sloppy kind. The composed kind. Like someone who still held herself together even when exhausted.
Benjamin slowed without meaning to.
Now or never, he told himself.
If he waited, the moment would disappear into room allocations and groupings and noise.
He dragged his suitcase closer, the wheels betraying him with a loud rattle.
"Hey—um… Claire?"
She turned, eyes narrowing slightly in recognition mode, then softening. "Yeah?"
"I'm Benjamin," he said quickly. "From English. I sit near the window. Back row."
She smiled faintly. "Oh. Yeah, I know you. You always write like… aggressively."
He blinked. Then laughed. "Fair."
That broke something open between them.
"How was the ride?" he asked.
She exhaled. "Long. Whoever thought six hours was reasonable is evil."
"Facts," he said. "My legs forgot they belonged to me."
She shifted her weight, stretching one calf subtly. "Same. I kept standing up and sitting down like a mad person."
Benjamin grinned. "I noticed."
She laughed—short, surprised. "Wow. So you were judging me."
"Only a little," he said. "For survival reasons."
They stood there for a moment, noise swirling around them. Teachers shouting names. Students calling out to friends. The hum of arrival settling into something real.
Benjamin felt the moment slipping again.
"So," he said, rubbing his palm against his jeans, "I wanted to say—I liked what you said during that debate last term. About leadership."
She tilted her head. "Which part?"
"All of it, honestly. But especially when you said leaders aren't born—they're cornered."
Her eyebrows lifted. "You remember that?"
"Yeah," he said. "It made sense. Like… pressure reveals people."
She studied him for a second, then smiled more openly. "That's exactly what I meant."
Encouraged, Benjamin pushed on. "I was thinking maybe—if you're cool with it—we could talk more during the trip. Like, not just class stuff. Maybe I could get your number?"
She adjusted her backpack strap again, considering.
Then—
"Omooo."
The word floated in from behind them, lazy and amused.
Benjamin didn't turn immediately, but he felt it—the shift. Like a shadow moving over sunlight.
Nedu rolled his suitcase past them and stopped just a bit too close, grinning like he'd stumbled into something entertaining. Two other athletic boys followed, parking themselves casually, their bags forming a loose, unspoken perimeter.
"See fine setup," one of them said, chuckling. "Everybody don dey find who to gist with sharp sharp."
Claire glanced sideways, already sensing it. "Hey, Nedu."
"Claireee," Nedu replied, dragging her name. "You no even rest. You strong sha."
One of the boys laughed. "No be small thing. After that journey? Me I for lie down first."
Benjamin cleared his throat. "She was just—"
Nedu finally looked at him. Not hostile. Curious. Like someone inspecting a phone they didn't recognize.
"Ohh," he said slowly. "My bad. You be…?"
"Benjamin," he replied. "I was talking to her."
"Ahhh." Nedu nodded exaggeratedly. "Okay okay. Love to see it."
Another boy leaned on his suitcase, eyes flicking between Benjamin and Claire. "Guy dey move confident o."
The tone was light. Too light.
One of them nudged Benjamin's suitcase slightly with his foot while adjusting his stance. It rolled an inch away. Nothing obvious. Nothing you could accuse.
Claire noticed. Her jaw tightened. "I was about to answer him."
"Sure sure," Nedu said easily. "No pressure. We dey here."
He stepped just a little closer—not touching, but close enough that Claire instinctively shifted back. Her friends were still nearby, but the angle was wrong now. The bodies, the luggage, the laughter—it all formed a soft blockade.
"Trips like this eh," one boy said, smiling, "na where people dey show true color."
Another chimed in, half-laughing, "Especially first day. Everybody dey test waters."
Benjamin swallowed. "Can you guys give us a second?"
There was a beat.
Then laughter—quiet, controlled.
"Relax na," Nedu said. "Why you dey tense like say we dey interrogate you?"
"Guy, no be by force," another added. "Calm down. No pressure."
The words said nothing.
The tone said everything.
Claire took a breath. "I don't like this."
Nedu raised his hands slightly. "Nobody do anything."
"Yet," one of the boys muttered, amused.
Then—
"Benjamin."
The voice cut through cleanly.
Chiji stood a few steps away, one hand on his luggage handle, expression composed. He looked like he'd been there the whole time.
"They're calling for room lists."
His eyes flicked briefly to Claire. "You too."
No accusation. No drama. Just an opening.
Nedu sighed theatrically. "Ah. Serious people."
Chiji smiled politely. "We try."
One of the boys stepped back first. Then another. The space loosened.
Claire exhaled, the tension leaving her shoulders. She looked at Benjamin. "I'm sorry."
"It's fine," he said, even though it wasn't.
As they moved away, Nedu leaned close enough to murmur, playful but sharp:
"Just dey read room next time, boss."
Benjamin didn't respond.
Behind them, laughter resumed like nothing had happened.
---
The changing-room door opened with a muted click.
Dr. Maren stepped out.
For half a second, nothing happened—like the space itself needed time to adjust.
The tracksuit was regulation grey, zipped high, stamped with the school crest like it was meant to humble whoever wore it. On anyone else, it would've done exactly that. On her, it failed quietly. The fabric followed the language of her body without permission—shoulders squared, waist held firm, hips unapologetically present. Strength lived in her frame, not loud or aggressive, but disciplined, earned. The kind of physique that suggested early mornings, consistency, and self-respect rather than vanity.
Her arms—slightly muscular—moved with economy as she adjusted the zipper, forearms firm, wrists relaxed. Nothing exaggerated. Nothing careless.
Her braids were gathered into a messy bun high at the back of her head, strands escaping just enough to soften the severity of the suit. It was the only concession to disorder she allowed herself. Everything else was precise.
When she lifted her head, her eyes did the real damage.
Sharp. Cat-like. Assessing without rushing. Not warm, not cold—measured. The kind of gaze that didn't scan so much as claim a room by acknowledging it.
The small reception hall was already too cramped for eighty-four students, but now it felt smaller. Air thickened. Conversations faltered mid-word. Luggage wheels stopped rattling. Even the athletes—usually incapable of stillness, paused, caught in that rare moment where bravado hasn't yet found its footing.
Her sheer presence froze them.
Male and female students alike stared, some openly, others through peripheral glances they thought were subtle. Girls noticed the confidence first—the way she stood like her body was an extension of her authority, not something she negotiated with. Boys clocked the danger instinctively, before admiration could even organize itself. This was not someone to play with. This was not someone to test casually.
Dr. Maren didn't acknowledge a single stare.
She walked.
Each step was unhurried, trainers quiet against the tiled floor, hips steady, spine straight. No sway. No rush. She moved like time adjusted around her schedule, not the other way round.
She climbed the short steps to the raised platform at the front of the hall and turned to face them.
Eighty-four students fell completely silent.
She stood there, arms relaxed at her sides now, tracksuit doing absolutely nothing to conceal the fact that she was a fully formed, mature woman who had grown into herself and stayed there. Not youth. Not softness. Something sharper. Something finished.
Her gaze swept the room once.
Not lingering. Not searching. Counting.
At the side of the platform, Will stood with his cue cards, mouth slightly open before he realized it. His eyes had stayed a second too long—long enough for his brain to stall, long enough for duty to slip its grip.
The silence stretched.
Then—
"Head boy!"
The shout came from the back, loud and amused, the spell cracking like thin glass.
"Head boy abeg, announce nah!"
Laughter rippled through the hall; nervous, grateful, a release valve.
Will jolted as if shocked, straightening instantly. Color rushed to his face. He swallowed, squared his shoulders, and stepped forward, professionalism snapping back into place.
"Yes—uh—good evening everyone," he began, voice steadying.
From the platform, Dr. Maren folded her arms loosely.
A faint smile touched her lips, not indulgent, not mocking. Knowing.
She had seen it all. After all, it wasn't her first rodeo.
She then tapped the tablet once.
The soft ping that followed wasn't loud, but it carried. Enough to remind the room that she was still there—even if half of them were pretending otherwise.
"Alright," she said, voice calm, even. Not raised. It didn't need to be. "We're taking the register."
A few groans surfaced immediately, low and theatrical.
She didn't react.
"Answer when your name is called. If you're here, say 'present.' If you're not, I'll assume you've decided to test your luck."
That earned a ripple of nervous laughter.
She began.
Names rolled out in a steady rhythm—clear diction, no hurry. Each response chipped away at the noise, but never fully defeated it. The reception hall was too cramped, too warm, too full of bodies and restless energy.
At the back, a cluster of athletic boys had already checked out.
Two of them shared an iPhone 7, one earbud each, heads bent together. Faint bass leaked out—tinny drill beats fighting the room. They nodded along, murmuring commentary between tracks.
"Bro this one hard fr."
"On God."
"Skip am."
They didn't look up. They didn't care if their names were called or not. Someone else would answer. Someone always did.
Nearby, a group of girls leaned into each other, whispering about rooms, outfits, who might end up bunking with who. Laughter bubbled up, then died, then resurfaced again—mindless, circular, soothing.
Dr. Maren's voice continued, unbroken.
"—Musa Ibrahim."
"Present."
"—Hannah Okeke."
"Here."
"—Benjamin Adebayo."
"Present," Benjamin answered quickly, shoulders straightening like he was being graded.
Across the hall, Nila shifted her weight, scanning faces. Rows of heads. Bags at people's feet. Familiar silhouettes. Her eyes searched instinctively.
Timi.
She didn't see him yet.
Her gaze moved again, slower this time.
That was when Mendel spotted him.
Timi stood near the middle, half-obscured by luggage, body angled slightly away from the platform. He looked… absent. Like he wasn't fully in the room.
Mendel's mouth curled.
Perfect.
He adjusted the strap of his bag and started forward, slipping sideways between people, navigating the packed hall with practiced ease. A muttered "sorry" here. A light tap on a shoulder there. He moved like he belonged everywhere.
This wasn't random.
This was intent.
Dr. Maren kept calling names.
"—Claire Montgomery."
"Present."
"—Nedu Okafor."
Someone answered for him. He didn't bother correcting it.
Mendel closed the distance.
Meanwhile, Timi's attention had drifted completely.
The air conditioner mounted high on the wall above the platform hummed steadily, fighting a losing battle against eighty-four bodies. He watched the vent flap open and close, open and close, the rhythm oddly hypnotic.
Cold air spilled out in weak bursts.
If you stare long enough, he thought vaguely, you can almost feel it reach you.
The noise of the hall dulled. Voices blurred into background static. For a moment, he wasn't here—wasn't on a school trip, wasn't surrounded by people. Just him and the AC, locked in a quiet, pointless standoff.
"—Timi Adeyemi."
No response.
Dr. Maren's eyes lifted slightly from the tablet.
"Timi Adeyemi," she repeated, sharper now.
Still nothing.
Nila's head snapped in his direction. There you are.
She opened her mouth to call him—
And that was when Mendel arrived.
He leaned in just enough for Timi to feel the presence before he fully registered it.
"Bro," Mendel said softly, almost friendly, "you dey zone out like say you no dey this planet."
Timi blinked.
The room rushed back all at once.
Heat. Noise. People.
Mendel's face was right there—too close. Smiling. Waiting.
And somewhere above them, the air conditioner kept humming, uncaring, as Dr. Maren marked something down on her tablet.