Chapter 4: The Principal’s Secret

The next day for school, as I wan sit down, I carefully shake my seat. I remember story, whispered threat. I scan chair for anything sharp. Some rusty thumbtacks drop out. E hit ground, catch morning sun. The rust make my skin crawl—one small prick, and wahala fit enter.

For this hill area, health centre far. One wound, e fit turn big matter. The nearest clinic na three hills away. Many don die from small wound wey turn bad. I make mental note: always check seat.

I press lips, waka enter classroom. My step steady, but my mind dey race. Children dey watch me, eyes wide, sense say something dey wrong.

From far, I hear noise everywhere. Laughter, shout, desk dey drag—trouble dey cook. Suddenly, one scream burst. I rush enter. The scream just cut my ear. I drop book, dash inside, heart dey beat.

I see Ngozi for corner, Musa and them dey pour ink for her head. Ink dey drip, hair black, children scatter as I enter. Black ink dey run for her face. She dey shake. Hand cover head, shoulder bend like say she wan disappear.

As I enter, Musa and his people run. Their leg no touch ground. Only echo of wahala remain.

Ngozi wipe tears, rush hug me. Grip tight, tears dey wet my shirt. Ink stain my sleeve.

"Aunty, I see them dey do bad thing, so I wan report, but then..." Her voice break, story dey turn to suit herself.

"Aunty, Ngozi dey lie!" Musa shout. Fist tight, voice dey break. Friends dey behind am, no sure. "Na she thief our exercise books!" He point, voice dey shake.

"I no do am!" Ngozi still dey cry, bring bag, open am. She dey unzip with shaking hand. Children dey crane neck, dey look for proof.

Musa search, search, nothing dey. Just old paper, short pencil. Bag nearly empty. Broken pencil, torn notebook—nothing to point finger. Children dey mutter.

Musa come dey stammer, confidence don run: "E no possible... Na only she dey like thief for class. If exercise book miss, where e wan dey again..." He look others, dem shuffle leg.

As Ngozi see say people dey her side, she cry more. Sobs dey loud, shoulder dey shake. Sympathy dey spread. Musa and others come apologise. Dem mumble sorry, eyes down.

Ngozi still dey hold my arm, bury face for my chest. Her breath hot, tears dey my shirt. I just dey pat her back, wish make she comot.

Because as I dey come, I don already see those exercise books for one dry grass heap. I pass old shed, wind dey turn page. Book dey tear, Musa name dey cover. Book tear scatter, curse full am, writing na Ngozi own. Letter jagged, deep for paper. Words like 'useless', 'go die', 'thief'.

But those words no be small pikin fit write—hatred, wickedness, even killing mind full am. E remind me of those anonymous letter I get last life. Notes dey haunt me—slip under door, pocket. I never guess sender. That time, Ngozi even more careful, change handwriting. She mimic others, switch style, no one fit point finger. She send my family at least ten death threat. Each one promise pain, swear we go regret kindness. Tell us make we low-key or else we go suffer. We laugh first, think na play. How wrong we be.

At first, I think say na play, no take am serious. I no know grave don dey dig. If I call chief’s court, maybe things for no reach like this. Regret dey burn. Chief palace just up, I fit talk. Now, I no go repeat mistake.