Chapter 2: Reunion for Wahala

I hear say dem wan demolish our old secondary school build new one. Class prefect talk say na only me never gree come back for reunion.

Dem don dey talk this thing for WhatsApp group since two months, but I dey dodge. Even my mama dey ask why I never gree go. "E get as that your school reunion be," she talk one day. I just laugh am off. Na so e be for this country—some memory na better make you lock am.

I know say class prefect dey always carry matter for head, so I no fit talk no again.

For school, everybody know Musa dey carry leader matter like church bell on Sunday—no dey rest. I reason say make I just show face, maybe e go rest.

For the reunion, everybody drink pass their level—Star, Origin, palmwine, even zobo. The air full of fried puff-puff and Star beer—old school gist dey fly like mosquito.

You go think say dem do festival for that school compound. Boys dey drink Star lager, some dey hold Origin bottle like trophy. One guy even mix palmwine and zobo, say na new cocktail. The girls wear jeans, Ankara, some even wear school uniform for fun. We laugh, we dance—Naija reunion dey always turn party.

As I sleep, I see words flash for my eye: “Na only if you talk true, you go survive.”

E be like say the thing dey chase me even for dream. My body dey sweat, but I no fit wake up. The message loud, as if e dey come from my inside.

When I open eye, na cold harmattan breeze wake me.

The kind cold wey dey slap you for face, make you remember say na December. My body just dey shake. I check my phone—no light, battery don die. Even my skin dey get goosebumps.

All my classmates dey scatter for ground, everybody just dey confused.

People dey stand, dey look around as if dem wake for another world. One girl dey shout, “Where my bag?” Another dey hug her chest, dey shake.

“Abi na our old biology lab be this?”

The lab na the same old one wey rat dey run inside. Chemical bottle still dey for shelf, chalk dust full everywhere. Person fit smell old Bunsen burner. One guy look the wall, touch am, say, “This paint never change since 2011.”

“Wetin do us now?”

Everybody dey check themselves, dey pinch arm as if dem go fit wake up from another dream. The air just thick, nobody gree sit for chair.

“Why door no dey open?”

Big guy wey dey always form pass everybody try turn door handle, the thing no move. One slim boy begin knock door, beg, "Oga security, abeg open now!"

Everybody start to dey talk at once, panic just dey everywhere. Some girls hold themselves, dey cry dey shout.

The noise loud reach Oshodi market for Friday evening—everybody dey shout, nobody dey hear anybody. You go hear, "Abeg!" "I no wan die!" and "God punish devil!" The girls wey dey fear pass, their eye don red.

Some people no fit stop to cough.

The smell from the corridor dey choke person. Some dey cough, nose dey run, boys dey use handkerchief cover face.

“Quiet!” One sharp, cold voice blast from loudspeaker.

Everybody freeze, na so fear tie us. For Naija, if person talk for loudspeaker like that, e mean serious matter. One boy even drop bottle wey e dey hold.

Na class prefect Musa.

His voice carry that Sabo accent wey everybody dey fear for school. You go know say na person wey dey control. The sharpness for the tone scatter our mind.

“Hello, my classmates. We don see yesterday night, so I no go waste una time. This building sef—by tomorrow morning e go collapse. Hahaha..."

The laugh dry, no get sugar. E remind me of that time dem chase us for midnight film for Yaba. Everybody just dey look speaker, eye dey wide.

“Musa, wetin you dey find? Free us joor!”

One stubborn guy shout am. Na usual Lagos sharp mouth. The girls wey dey near am dey shush am, but e no send.

“Na good question be that. Make I clap for this person.”

The clap wey follow loud pass generator sound for Area C barrack. The echo reach deep for bone. Some people begin shift leg, dey look door.

Na so clap echo for empty building, the thing cold reach bone.

Somebody for back cough, e sound like cry. Everybody just dey shiver, even the big boys. Some people dey grip chair, as if dem wan break am.

The girls wey dey fear no fit hold body again, their body dey shake, some dey sob: “Wetin class prefect wan do us?”

One babe hug her bestie, their tears dey drop for school floor. Small Seyi dey shake, e voice dey crack as e try to pray quietly.

“No cry, abeg. If una cry, class prefect go feel bad.”

One guy try talk sense, but e own voice dey shake. The tension no let am rest. Another person just dey whisper, "Blood of Jesus."

The voice wey cold before, suddenly soft.

Na the kind tone wey parent go use when dem wan beg you after flogging. You fit feel the pain for the words. But the softness still dey carry threat.

“I just wan know something..."

Somebody for corner clear throat, e sound like frog. The way the room quiet, even pin drop go sound like thunder.

“Who among una, that year... push Amaka until she die?”

The question land for our chest like bag of cement. Some people dey suck teeth, others dey look ceiling as if answer dey there. That Amaka matter, e dey like curse for the class since that time.