CHAPTER 1
I Never Expected to See Her Again.
The first time I saw her again, my heart dropped like somebody poured cold water on my body.
I was standing under that old mango tree near the bursary office, sweating like I just played full ninety minutes match without substitution. The sun was not even smiling, and my brain was hot—not just from heat, but from the type of shame that swallows you small small.
My envelope was empty. i Just carried it to fulfill all righteousness.
I hadn’t paid my school fees since the semester started. For three weeks, they’d been calling names of people owing, and my name always made the list. I started avoiding our class reps, avoiding group chats, even avoiding my own sleep.
Funny, right?
I don’t know what I was hoping for by standing there that afternoon. Maybe one miracle alert. Or maybe just to feel close to the office, like maybe the money would enter my spirit by osmosis.
Then someone tapped me.
Soft. Gentle. Like breeze.
I turned. And there she was.
Her face alone carried memories. Strong ones. SS2, second term. Her voice during debates. Her neat braids. The day I sl*pped her.
Yes. I slapped her. In front of everyone.
It was stūpïd, chīldīsh, and wïck*d. I’ve carried that guilt quietly for years.
I used to say if I ever saw her again, I would kneel down and apologize. But now, standing in front of her, I couldn’t even move.
You know, sometimes in life, you’ll just stand there in front of something strange—something heavy—and you’ll suddenly remember who you are. Not just your name, but your whole story.
That day, I remembered mine.
My name is Akponwei John Michael.
And this thing that was happening to me—this moment right here—ehn, it was about to change me in a way I never expected. The way stories you hear about other people start writing themselves inside your own life.
She looked… good. Like someone that made it. Simple gown. Sunglasses in one hand. Gold chain resting lightly on her collarbone.
She smiled. But it wasn’t a wide smile. It was the kind of smile you give to someone you’re not sure deserves your kindness.
"You don’t remember me?" she asked.
Her voice hadn’t changed. It still had that calm, collected way of cutting through noise.
I managed to open my mouth. "Chidinma?"
She nodded. Then stretched out a paper toward me.
"Your receipt," she said.
I blinked. "Sorry?"
"I paid your school fees."
I looked at the paper. My full name. My department. My registration number.
It was real.
She had paid.
I didn’t know what to say. My mouth dried up. My hands started sweating, and I could feel my legs shaking like old NEPA pole.
She didn’t say much after that. She just said, "You can collect your clearance now," then turned and walked away like someone who came to drop food for a beggar and didn’t want to wait for thank you.
I stood there like a fool, clutching the receipt like it was a wedding invitation.
My chest was heavy. Not because of the money. But because of everything I remembered. The slãp. The silence. The way everybody laughed at her that day.
And now, she was the same person that showed up for me when even my own uncle stopped picking my calls.
Why?
Why would she help me? What did she want?
I knew one thing—this was not ordinary.
And I had a feeling that this was only the beginning.
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