Chapter 2: Jollof Promises and Hidden Rivalry

The afternoon the WAEC exam ended, Mummy took time off work to come and pick my sister and me.

There was something about that day—the heat, the dust in the air, and the relief that sat heavy on everybody's shoulders. School gate was full of parents shouting children's names, keke horns blaring, hawkers selling pure water and gala.

"Mummy, the sun dey too hot outside o."

It sounded like a complaint, but when my sister said it, it just came out cute and playful.

She pressed her palm to her forehead and did small drama, like a Nollywood actress. Mummy just smiled, her eyes softening as she reached over to tuck a stray braid behind Ifeoma's ear.

Mummy smiled. "No wahala, I go carry una go chop better food—maybe amala and ewedu, or that sweet jollof for Mama Nkechi place."

She patted her bag, proud she could treat us to something nice. Even the tension of the exams could not stop Mummy's gentle way—her words were always a promise of comfort.

"Thank you, Mummy!" My sister shouted, full of life as always, and quickly jumped into the front seat. As I saw that, I just quietly entered the back.

Ifeoma was always the one to run ahead and claim the front. I never fought her for it. I sat quietly at the back, clutching my bag on my lap, breathing in the scent of hot leather and Mummy's mild perfume.

The AC for the car dey on. I just dey look outside the window, seeing plenty students wey look like say dem just drop heavy load for ground.

I watch hawkers waka with chilled La Casera and pure water, their voices mixing with the keke horns.

Some boys were tossing their school shoes in the air, others hugging like they've just been rescued from flood. The girls in my class huddled together, already talking about holiday plans and JAMB. Their laughter floated into the car, but I felt far away from it all.

I've always been the quiet type, not like my sister wey dey lively and always dey shine.

Sometimes, I wondered if my quietness made people think I had nothing to say. But I did. It just stayed inside, swirling like breeze before a rain.

Mummy and my sister dey gist for front.

"How your exam go?"

I could hear the hope in Mummy's voice—the kind of hope mothers pour into every child, praying for good results and better life.

"Definitely above three hundred," my sister answered, her voice full of joy.

She was grinning, her confidence shining like new paint on a wall. Even the car seemed to brighten with her words.

"That's wonderful, darling." Then Mummy turned to me. "Amaka, how about you? You go fit enter university, abi?"

She glanced back, searching my eyes for assurance. I felt the weight of her expectations, gentle but persistent.

My sister looked back at me. I squeezed the cloth of my trousers and replied calmly, "Mm."

I didn't want to sound unsure, but my answer was small, almost hidden. The fabric under my fingers felt rough, something to hold onto when my voice felt too soft.

My sister, Ifeoma, dey do science. She fine, sabi play piano and talking drum, and her result always dey top three for her set.

Me, I no sabi drum, my fingers dey always miss key for piano. But Ifeoma? She fit play anything, even make broom sound sweet.

Teachers always called her "role model," and during end-of-term parties, she would play 'Lift Every Voice' on the piano while elders nodded in pride. Sometimes, I wished I could shine like that, just for one day.

All these things just make her the star for school—teachers and students dey talk about her steady.

They said her smile could light up a whole classroom. I always thought it was true.

People wey dey proud no dey look down on others.

Even with all her shining, Ifeoma still made sure to share her meatpie with me at break, and helped me with difficult English questions. Her pride never meant stepping on anyone's head.

So she always think say I still be that Amaka of year one, the one wey dey barely pass one hundred and go cry anyhow.

She probably remembered me as the girl who used to hide under the bed after failing maths, wiping tears with my old wrapper.

She no know how I take hustle for these last two years.

All those nights when NEPA cut light and the compound generator was too loud, I would read under torchlight, scribbling notes, pushing myself past sleep.

Mummy sighed. "As long as you enter university, e good. You dey do arts—just try for school, later write federal recruitment test."

She rubbed her forehead as she spoke, her mind already jumping ahead to job interviews and civil service letters. I could tell she was praying for a future with less struggle for us.

My sister quickly changed the topic. "Mummy, where we dey go chop?"

Food always had a way of bringing us together—of shifting the mood from heavy to light. Even Mummy smiled wider.

"The usual place," Mummy replied, looking at the traffic light. "Just in time, your Aunty Bisi dey there too. When una dey fill university form, you fit ask her for advice. No be her son dey UniJos?"

Her voice grew playful, eyes glancing at me through the rearview mirror. She enjoyed matchmaking us with good examples.

My heart skipped one beat.

A sudden tightness gripped my chest, my thoughts tumbling—Seyi. Even the mention of UniJos made my pulse quicken.

Outside, the sunset bright no be small, like person pour palm oil for sky.

The orange and red streaked across the clouds, making the whole world look like a pot of ofe akwu. I watched the colours melt and thought of all the things I couldn't say.

I heard my sister ask softly, "So... Seyi go dey there too?"

Her voice dropped lower, as if she didn't want Mummy to hear too well, but I caught the hope in it.

"Him dey on holiday," Mummy answered as she start the car. She sighed, "That boy don turn fine young man."

Her words hung in the air, and I felt my cheeks flush. In that moment, I wished I could disappear—like the sun melting into dusk.

Maybe, just maybe, this time my story go different. But who go believe me?