Chapter 1: Last Goat for Market

The night before the school’s demolition, all 49 of us, dem just lock us for top floor classroom, like say na we be the last goat for market.

The air for inside that classroom heavy like wahala wey dey wait for person—smell of old chalk and sweat just dey hang for nose. Nobody sabi how we waka enter this kind gbege, but the old walls dey vibrate as if the building sef dey reason our fate. Harmattan breeze from broken window dey blow cold, making everybody huddle close together like chicken wey no get mama—our breath dey show for air like small smoke. The moon for outside dey cast one dull light for the cracked blackboard, and the ceiling fan just dey hang, no dey move, like say e too dey fear the night. Inside all this confusion, some people dey whisper prayer, some dey press their phone like say network fit save them.

Class prefect Musa stand up, e eye scan everybody—knuckles white for desk as e grip am, face strong like person wey dey plan war. He demand, “Make una talk true—who among us that year push Amaka until she die?”

His voice no just loud, e carry the kind weight wey only person wey know deep secret fit put for words. Everybody just look am, some with eye wey dey beg, others dey bone face. The boy stand like person wey dey do roll call, but this one na for spirit matter. Even the stubborn ones, their chest dey rise like person wey chop pepper for dream.

"If you sabi who do am, go stand for window. If you no know, go stand for door."

As Musa talk am finish, e be like say time stop. Some girls begin shift for their seat, dey look each other, mouth dey open but words no come out. The boys wey dey form hard guy suddenly dey press back for wall. Nobody wan carry last. Musa eye sharp as torchlight, e dey look everybody.

Some people shift for chair, dey squeeze hand, dey look their friend for eye—nobody wan be scapegoat. Some people dey fear, some just waka go pick their side sharp sharp.

As people dey choose side, some dey waka as if ground dey bite their leg. One guy for the back nearly trip, the others dey mumble, “God abeg, na who carry us come here?” Even the unserious boys wey always dey laugh for class, their face don change. Nobody dey trust anybody, everybody dey suspect their own shadow.

Twenty-one people waka go stand for the classroom door.

Na so you go know say fear no get friend. For Naija, when wahala land, even best friend fit turn stranger. The door side full pass, maybe dem reason say door go open pass window if wahala burst. One girl dey cry as she stand for door, another dey squeeze her rosary, whispering prayers for inside her breath.

Na so class prefect voice come through, e sound like e dey far: “Una fit commot for classroom now.”

The voice resemble harmattan breeze wey dey blow from Ijebu side—dry, no pity inside. The echo wey the loudspeaker bring sef, na fear e dey add for our mind. Some people begin pack their bag as if dem go really fit commot.

Me, I stand for window, my mind just scatter, fear dey rush me like wave. I no sabi if I go see tomorrow morning.

As I stand near the broken louvers, the cold just dey slap my face. My heart dey pound, and the beating loud for my ear. I remember how for Lagos, if wahala catch you, you no dey ever know who go run first—this one na big wahala.

I remember wetin I see for my dream last night: “Na only if you talk true, you fit survive.”

As the words repeat for my mind, I dey sweat for armpit even as cold dey worry me. I dey remember my mama voice wey dey always tell me, "Ngozi, make truth dey your mouth even if pepper dey your eye." But the kind fear wey hold me now pass all those market stories.

Abi na so dream and real life dey always opposite?

For Naija, we dey always say, if dream sweet, pray well; if e bitter, carry leg comot for bad place. My mind dey do like pepper soup on fire.

Next thing, we just hear scream from outside classroom, people dey shout like say dem dey die.

Na scream wey get power. As we hear am, even the stubborn boys dey shiver. I look window, I see shadow dey fly past corridor, I no fit see who dey shout. Some girls begin pray louder, one even kneel down, beg Baba God to save her.

Then white smoke full everywhere for the corridor, the smell of blood just choke everywhere.

The smoke na real ogbonge one, thick like ogi. As e enter our nose, everybody begin cough, eyes dey red. That kin blood smell—abeg, na only for abattoir dem dey get am. My leg weak, my mouth bitter. For Naija, if you see blood smell like that, just know say wahala don pass your power.