Chapter 3: Schoolyard Shadows

In the first few years, I still used to imagine myself as the heroine of those ancient romance stories before I slept.

I’d close my eyes and dream of palace courtyards, of secret gardens and moonlit pavilions. But soon, this tradition-heavy era showed its ugly and wicked face without hiding anything.

When I turned seven, my mother sent me to a girls’ school.

The journey there was long, the morning air sharp with the scent of roasted maize and fried plantain. Going with me was Chief Musa’s ten-year-old daughter.

I loved the handkerchiefs she embroidered the most. I used to beg her for one with hibiscus, then another with bougainvillea.

Her fingers worked the needle with such patience, her laughter soft as morning dew. She treated me like her clingy little sister and always agreed with a smile.

Blushing, she’d tell me not to be naughty, to learn embroidery well, since I’d have to make my own bridal box one day.

Her words always made me giggle, even though I secretly worried about the future she spoke of. I’d poke her soft, brown cheeks, teasing her for being shy.

She’d get so annoyed, she’d throw a wad of old exercise book paper at me.

Her aim was terrible. The paper would bounce off my shoulder, and we’d both burst into giggles, earning a stern look from our teacher. Our teacher would glare over her glasses, tapping her cane on the desk.

Before leaving school, we promised to embroider the hibiscus pattern together the next day.

We clasped pinkies and whispered the promise, as the sun slipped low and the compound bell rang. But after that day, I never saw her again.

I missed her, wanted to ask if she’d finished those two handkerchiefs.

Each morning, I looked for her slim frame in the crowd, my eyes scanning every girl in the school yard. I went to ask the teacher, but the teacher just looked serious and kept quiet.

Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes darting away from mine. I wanted to find her, but since coming here, I realized all I could see was this small patch of sky.

The walls of the compound, high and silent, were like the edges of my whole world. Later, I overheard the aunties and old women gossiping, and finally learnt the truth.

She twisted her ankle getting down from the keke that day—her sandal slipped on the dusty step of the keke—and accidentally fell into the arms of the stable boy nearby. The boy quickly reached out to steady her.

But someone saw them.

That night, word spread like harmattan fire—her hand was gone by morning, and no one dared speak her name.

The news hit like a slap. In my chest, something sharp and cold took root. In the dark corners, the old women whispered that this was how a daughter must learn. I learned that kindness could be twisted, that a simple stumble could change a girl’s life forever.