The alarm screamed like a banshee.
A groggy voice muffled under the blanket groaned,
"Oh God, just five more minutes..."
His hand slapped at the snooze button like it owed him money. Victory.
Silence.
Bliss.
Until it hit him like a lightning bolt to the soul.
"SHIT! MY LESSON TEACHER!"
He shot upright like he was summoned from the underworld.
He sprinted into the bathroom, yanked open the drawer—
Empty toothpaste box.
"What the f—"
He squeezed the tube like it was his last hope. One tiny blob oozed out... then shot off the brush like a missile, straight onto his only clean shirt.
"Ahhhhhh... What the fuckkkk!!" He screamed in annoyance.
He wiped it frantically, now smelling minty fresh… but only in that one weird spot.
He turned on the shower, stepped in...
COLD. FRIGGIN'. WATER.
His soul briefly left his body.
"Why is the heater OFF?! WHO TOUCHED IT?!"
He hopped in and out of the stream like it was acid, slapping water on himself with the grace of a confused penguin.
Freshly soaked, he reached for his towel—
Gone. Nowhere. Vanished.
After a quick, dripping manhunt, he found it: still damp from yesterday.
He made peace with fate and wrapped himself in it like a disappointed burrito.
He flung open the wardrobe—chaos.
Where. Are. His. Pants.
A pile of unfolded laundry looked back at him with smug energy. He grabbed a pair of trousers, only to realize they were his mom's yoga pants.
Panic time.
Eventually, he found his joggers under the bed… tangled around a missing sock and a crushed juice box.
He sprinted to the kitchen, grabbed bread, and threw it in the toaster—
Smoke. Why is there smoke?!
He forgot he'd left a slice in there yesterday. It now looked like charcoal.
He opened the toaster. The burnt toast jumped out and smacked him in the nose.
No time. He grabbed a banana. It was mushy. Still grabbed it.
Running back to his room, he tried to throw on socks while hopping on one foot—
Slipped.
Landed flat on his back.
The banana squished in his hand.
"This day is cursed."
Right as he got up, hair wild, toothpaste shirt, one sock on backwards—
KNOCK KNOCK.
His eyes widened like he'd seen a ghost.
He stumbled to the door and opened it just a crack—
His lesson teacher stood there. Punctual. Immaculate. Staring.
He tried to smile.
"Morning, ma'am…"
She raised an eyebrow, took in the disaster before her, and just said:
"Rough morning?"
He gave a defeated nod.
"You have no idea."
The woman looked at him with a gentle smile and said,
"Can I come in?"
He blinked, still holding onto the last strands of sanity from his morning catastrophe, then stepped aside awkwardly.
"Yeah... sure, uh, come in…"
She stepped through the door, calm and graceful like a swan walking into a warzone.
That's when he noticed the figure casually standing behind her.
"Wait... Sir Onyema?"
His eyes squinted like the old man owed him money and was pretending not to.
Onyema raised an eyebrow.
"Won't you also let me in?"
The boy let out a dismissive snort.
"Do what you want, old man."
He flopped onto the couch dramatically while his teacher sat across from him with her usual elegance. Onyema just shook his head and settled down right beside her like this was the most normal Tuesday ever.
He gave them both a skeptical side-eye.
"Well, you're free to join me in my class, old man."
His teacher smiled softly, then said something that made him freeze mid-sass:
"I'm not here to teach you today."
He blinked.
"What?"
She'd been his homeschool teacher since he could remember—his whole academic life in one person. That was the woman. His Day 1, his constant, his "why does this assignment feel like punishment?" coach.
Then Onyema chimed in like this was a business meeting:
"You'll be attending a real school this time. You can't spend your final year being homeschooled—"
The boy gave him a glare like he'd just been told he was being drafted into war.
"—besides, you need to interact with others. You've always been indoors, hiding from people. That stops now."
The words echoed around the room like an explosion in a vacuum.
His gaze slowly shifted to his teacher again, searching her face for a "he's just joking" kind of smirk.
But she got up instead.
She walked toward him and gently patted his head like she used to when he nailed a hard math problem or just needed comfort. Her voice softened with nostalgia.
"It's been an honor to be your teacher for fifteen whole years. When I first saw you, you were one little annoying twerp—"
"Come on, Teach," he muttered, trying to blink away the emotion.
She chuckled.
"And now look at you… You've grown so much."
"Be a good boy for me and don't cause any trouble".
Her eyes shimmered. His throat tightened.
He nodded, then whispered in a hoarse voice,
"I will teach…"
Because this wasn't just a goodbye to a teacher—it was a goodbye to the only real mother figure he'd ever known. He never knew his biological parents. She had been it. The warmth. The push. The "eat first, cry later" kind of person.
Onyema watched the whole thing, arms folded, then cleared his throat dramatically to cut the emotional tension like a machete.
"Ahem. We better get going now."
The boy blinked, and then—
"WHAT THE FUCK?! I CAN'T GO OUT LOOKING LIKE THIS!"
His hair was still giving "I lost a fight with an electric socket," his shirt had toothpaste stains, he had one sock on, and the faint scent of burnt toast clung to him like regret.
Onyema didn't even flinch.
"You'll survive. School starts in an hour."
The boy's soul left his body for the second time that morning.
[00:00:01] Shirt—He yanked open his wardrobe with the energy of a man avoiding social embarrassment.
Grabbed a black hoodie with a silver rune design on the chest—clean, sharp, fire.
Pulled it on. Slightly wrinkled? So what. Confidence would iron it out.
[00:00:10] Pants—Found his favorite pair of slim-fit cargo joggers. One leg inside. Hopped across the room into the other leg like a chaotic gazelle.
[00:00:17] Hair—He looked in the mirror. His tapered fro was a warzone.
Spritzed it with water. Applied leave-in. Finger fluffed like a stylist with a grudge.
Finished with a gold-tipped hair pick for that tall, rich, and unbothered effect.
[00:00:35] Accessories—Chain? On. Studs? On. Energy? Immortal.
[00:00:42] Shoes—Black sneakers with gold accents. The click of confidence.
[00:00:53] Check—Mirror. Pose. Smirk. "Sexy beast unlocked."
He slammed the door open again and strutted into the living room like a model on a mission. There they were—his teacher and Onyema waiting like parental final bosses.
But then he noticed something weird—Onyema walking to a different car.
Obasi squinted.
"Uhhh… aren't you taking me to school?"
Onyema didn't even turn around. Just tossed back,
"Me? No. I've got a mountain of paperwork to suffocate under. She's taking you instead."
Obasi snorted.
"Well, I never needed you to take me anyway, old man."
Onyema just laughed, that annoying old-guy laugh full of secrets, and drove off like a smug villain exiting stage left.
Obasi turned to his teacher.
"So, Teach… I'm in your care."
She didn't say a word. Just raised her hand—bike keys glinting in the sunlight like destiny.
They both grinned.
Seconds later… VROOM.
The wind was their soundtrack as they cut through the streets like two legends on a mission, Obasi clinging to her waist like, "Please don't crash, please don't crash—wait this is kinda fun."
At the School:
Paperwork? Signed. Stamped. Handled.
A staff member led Obasi down the hall like he was being escorted into the lion's den, until finally, the classroom door opened.
All eyes turned.
Obasi stepped in.
The room hushed.
His blue eyes shimmered under the fluorescent lights. His tapered fro was perfection. His entire aura screamed: Main Character has entered the chat.
The class teacher smiled.
"Please introduce yourself."
Obasi smirked ever so slightly, then with cool, calm confidence, said:
"Obasi Light. Nice to meet you."
Girls whispered.
Dudes sized him up.
One kid dropped his pen.
Yeah. First day? Crushed.