Chapter 1: Day 443

My name na Ifedike.

As I talk am, my name heavy for mouth, like the kind name wey elders dey give pikin for shrine after big sacrifice. The meaning sef dey remind me every time: "Courage is power." But for this matter, na only courage no go save person.

This na the 443rd day wey I dey repeat my final year for secondary school.

If you see as I count am, e be like say dem dey mark am for back of my mind with red biro—each day, each loop, e dey my memory sharp like yesterday. E don even reach the point wey my calendar for wall no mean anything again, because time don turn upside-down for my life.

I look the almost-finish monthly exam paper wey dey my desk, breathe out one heavy sigh, then throw my pen ontop am. The sound wey the pen make loud well, even the teacher for front jump small.

I look my hand as I fling the pen, knuckles white from how I hold am. The sound ring for the quiet class like one old bell for village square—everybody eye shift come my side. My body just dey hot, and that kind wahala wey dey make person wan scream dey my chest.

"Ifedike, wetin happen?" the teacher ask, dey look my side.

The teacher—Mr. Ajayi, with him big glasses and that Yoruba patience—shift im head small, like say im dey try see inside my mind.

"I just forget one question suddenly. E pain me—just small remain," I answer, sigh for nothing.

As I talk am, some people for class just hiss, others laugh low. You know as our people dey do—any small thing, dem dey quick talk say you dey form genius or you dey do shakara. But me, I just dey vex for my own wahala.

Then, as the teacher dey look me like say I don craze, I pause. My hand dey shake small. For my mind, I dey beg make I no do am, but the wahala strong. My chest tight like say snake coil inside. Still, I bring out one blade, use am from my right eye push go inside my brain.

Na small blade, the type wey boys dey use tear eraser or cut fine line for school desk. As I press am, the cold metal shock my skin, sharp pain flash, but before anybody fit stand up, everywhere scatter. For a split second, as blood wan show, my world blur.

As everybody for class begin shout, na so I waka go back to one week before.

Their voices sound like thunder for rainy season, chairs dey fall, some people dey cry my name, but before the wahala settle, my body don waka comot from there. Darkness swallow me, then I land for the place wey all this matter dey always start.