It happened on a Tuesday.
The hallway was unusually quiet after lunch, with most students still dragging their feet back to class or lingering at the tuck shop. I was walking alone, as usual—head down, hands in my pockets, tracing the lines on the floor with my eyes.
Then I heard it.
"Ayoola?"
I turned slowly. The voice wasn't familiar, but the way it said my name—like it already knew me—made me pause.
He stood by the staircase, tall, confident, wearing the school uniform like it was tailored for him. Broad shoulders. Clean haircut. Eyes that had no business being that intense on a Tuesday.
Christopher Adefila.
I recognized him immediately, though I hadn't seen him in nearly two years. The son of the area commander in my former neighborhood. Now the Commissioner of Police in Lagos.
He'd grown taller. His voice deeper. His presence louder.
"You remember me?" he asked, walking closer, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.
I didn't answer—not because I didn't remember, but because I remembered too well.
And just like that, the memory uncurled from the back of my mind, uninvited but sharp:
---
FLASHBACK – Two Years Ago
Her name was Tochi.
We weren't friends—not really. But she was the only girl in school I ever said more than five words to. She liked to talk, and I didn't mind listening. We sat next to each other during prep, and sometimes she borrowed my eraser without asking.
She talked about Christopher a lot.
Her "secret" crush. Her dream boy. "The finest boy in school," as she called him. Always mentioning how polite he was, how he liked girls that were "classy," whatever that meant.
I never said much in return. Just nodded occasionally and went back to my books.
One afternoon, he walked past us during break and nodded at me. Just me.
Tochi stopped talking.
From then, it started—those lingering looks from him. The way he'd always find a reason to greet me in the corridor. How he once helped me pick up my books after a junior bumped into me.
I didn't think anything of it. Not seriously.
Until the day Tochi didn't sit beside me in prep.
She sent me a note instead.
Her handwriting was tight, angry:
"I thought we were friends. But I guess people were right—you don't really care about anyone but yourself. You're just like they say. Cold. Unbothered. Always pretending not to notice when boys look at you. He liked me first. But you let him like you."
I folded the note quietly and never replied.
We stopped talking after that.
She moved her seat, and when people whispered about me in class, she didn't defend me.
She didn't have to. I didn't need her to.
But it stung anyway.
---
BACK TO PRESENT
Now, here he was again. Christopher.
Standing in front of me like no time had passed.
"You're still quiet," he said, still smiling like he remembered everything, too. "That hasn't changed."
I looked at him, the light catching the prefect badge on his chest.
"You've changed," I said, voice even. "New title. New city."
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I didn't expect to see you here. My dad just transferred to Lagos a few months ago. Commissioner now."
Of course.
The universe had no chill.
"You came alone?" he asked, glancing around.
I didn't answer that.
He nodded slowly, like he understood. Or at least, like he was used to my silence by now.
"It's good to see you again," he added, stepping back. "Maybe we'll talk later."
I watched him disappear around the corner, his footsteps light, his presence still somehow echoing after he was gone.
Tochi's words flickered in my mind again, but I pushed them aside.
This wasn't about her. Not anymore.
It wasn't even about Christopher.
It was just another echo from a past I didn't ask to follow me here.
Perfect—let's layer the next scene with both Ayoola's emotional afterglow from seeing Christopher and the disruptive liveliness of her current home. This contrast between her quiet, observing nature and the energetic household helps reveal more of her personality, how she processes emotions, and how she's adapting (or refusing to) in Lagos.
---
Chapter Title: "New Faces, Old Echoes"
The moment Christopher disappeared around the corner, his presence lingered like perfume in an elevator—subtle but hard to ignore. I walked back to class, his voice still threading its way through my thoughts. He hadn't changed much. Still steady-eyed, still calm. Still asking questions with the same smile.
And he remembered me.
Of course, he did.
But that didn't mean anything, not now. Or maybe not yet.
By the time school ended, the building was already pulsing with that familiar late-afternoon buzz—doors slamming, students yelling half-goodbyes, tired laughter echoing off the hallway walls. I slipped through it all like a shadow, undisturbed and unnoticed for once.
---
The house was louder than usual when I got home.
Not loud in the chaotic, angry way—but the comfortable noise of a family that doesn't believe in silence. The kind of noise that had always been foreign to me.
The twins were running around barefoot, laughing and chasing each other with a balloon they'd drawn a face on. The girl twin—Amira—called it "Princess Bobo." The boy, Malik, insisted it was "King Poopyhead." A battle had begun, apparently.
I moved past them, nearly bumping into Zainab, who had curlers in her hair and a brush in her hand. She wore a silk robe and looked like she was about to shoot a commercial.
"Ayoola," she said, breathless. "Please help me hold this straightener—it's plugged in, and I can't get the back part of my hair."
I blinked at her. "Why?"
"Because I have a dinner with my mom's stylist's daughter's cousin's boyfriend—long story. But he's cute."
"That's not a reason," I said, but I took the straightener anyway and held it up carefully while she leaned over the mirror.
"How was school?" she asked as she twisted a curl. "Anyone give you trouble?"
"No."
"Any cute boys?"
That question came too quickly. Too sharply. I hesitated for a split second before answering.
"Just boys," I said flatly, setting the straightener down.
Zainab squinted at me in the mirror. "You're so hard to read, it's scary sometimes."
I didn't respond. She didn't push.
---
By the time dinner rolled around, the house was still wide awake. The aroma of spicy ogbono soup filled the air, and the twins were yelling about who got to pick the cartoon after dinner. Mom wasn't back from her shoot, but the cook had made sure everything was on the table like clockwork.
I sat in my usual spot near the window, where I could still see the sky dimming.
Zainab sat across from me, still in her glam robe.
The twins were beside her, alternating between eating and kicking each other under the table.
Mom's husband—Mr. Bello—was away on a business trip, but it didn't make the table any less full. Just slightly quieter.
As I pushed a piece of meat around in my plate, I wondered what Christopher was doing. If he remembered Tochi's fallout. If he thought about me the same way I'd thought about him that day by the staircase.
I hated how thoughts like that crept in. I had better things to do. Like focus on not becoming a misplaced prop in someone else's perfect life.
---
Later that night, I was in my room—finally alone—when there was a knock on my door.
It opened halfway, and Mom stepped in.
She looked tired, makeup smudged, her face lit only by the hallway glow.
"Hey," she said, closing the door gently. "Can I sit?"
I nodded and moved aside on the edge of my bed.
She sat, adjusting her shawl. For a while, she didn't say anything. Just looked around the room—at the black curtains, the dark walls, the punching bag still standing like a guard in the corner.
"Your grandfather would've loved how you've made this space yours," she said.
I didn't reply.
She took a breath, then turned toward me.
"I want to talk to you about the restaurant."
I looked up.
"It's yours, Ayoola. I know you're still settling in, and school is a lot right now, but I wanted you to start thinking about it. The staff have been managing things with the lawyer, but once you're ready, it's going to need your presence. Your eye. Your decision."
I rubbed my fingers together silently.
"You mean you won't be managing it?"
"I can't. I'm always on set. Your grandfather left it to you for a reason. He believed in you."
Of course he did.
He always had.
She placed a small key and a branded tag in my palm.
"This is the office key. You can visit anytime. The manager knows about you already. I'll drive you this weekend, if you're ready."
I closed my fingers around the key.
"Okay," I said.
One word. Enough.
She smiled faintly and stood. "Goodnight, Ayoola."
"Night."
She left. I listened to her footsteps fade into the rest of the house—the laughter, the lights, the constant thrum of a life I hadn't asked for.
Then I looked at the key in my hand.
A restaurant.
My inheritance.
My next opponent?
Maybe.
---
The week flowed by with an unusual calmness, almost like the universe had decided to grant me a moment of quiet. Every now and then, I'd bump into Christopher—usually in the hallway or near the basketball court—where he'd flash that familiar, confident smile and attempt to spark a conversation. But I rarely gave him more than a nod, sometimes not even that. It wasn't out of rudeness; I just didn't trust easy words from boys who knew their charm worked like magic on everyone else.