It was afternoon, and Daddy and I were playing snooker in the courtyard. Of course, he was winning. Every time he made a shot, he'd puff out smoke from his thick brown cigar like he was some kind of big shot, grinning like he was the king of the world.
"Are you making fun of me, Daddy?" I asked, squinting at the table like I was really thinking hard, but let's be real-I didn't want to look like I was losing that badly.
"Not my fault I'm just better at this," he said, his grin spreading even wider.
I took my shot, and the white ball barely brushed the red one before it rolled off into oblivion. I groaned. So typical.
"How's work?" I asked, acting casual. "Being a big minister and all must be... exhausting."
These were one of the few things that made me curious. Honestly, it wouldn't be totally ridiculous to call Storm's like us one of the Global Powers, but my dad was a special kind of Storm.
While other Storms would be playing cards with the Presidents of First World Countries and dining with the monarchy of England, he just had to become the Minister to some backward place in Africa. I would be lying if I say that I wasn't embarrassed at his choice to pass the time, but even his reason is more ridiculous.
I mean, which man does this because he feels it's fun. Politics is the embodiment of boring, and the word 'lame' won't be doing the politics in Africa any justice.
I really want to dissect his brain sometimes.
Daddy's grin faded a little, and he puffed his cigar slower, like he was thinking about something. His shoulders slumped, and I could tell this was about to get all "serious."
"There's been another scandal," he said, his voice getting darker. "The presidency called this morning. There's a huge deficit-money that should've gone to the Revenue Allocation Committee. It's... missing."
I blinked. "How much?"
"About a billion dollars," he said, lining up his shot with that super intense focus he gets when he's being all important.
I raised an eyebrow. "Lucky whoever got that money. I wish that kind of free money would just fall into my lap too."
Daddy shot me a look, but I wasn't scared. "Ada. This isn't a joke. That money was supposed to go to the people-the ones who are struggling. If I find the person who did this..." He jabbed his cue at the table, his voice all serious. "I'll make them pay."
I rolled my eyes. "Relax, Daddy. I'm not laughing. I just think it's impressive, that's all. You know how it goes. If one person didn't do it, someone else would've. That's how messed up the politics in this hellhole kinda is."
His expression softened a tiny bit, but it wasn't like I was bothered. He took another puff of his cigar, then muttered, "That's not the point."
I bit my lip, pretending to care. "Do they think it's you?"
He didn't answer right away. He sank another ball-perfect shot, of course-before he straightened up, brushing the ash off his fingers.
"Yes," he said, his voice quiet but heavy.
I stared at him like he was kidding. "That's just stupid," I said, rolling my eyes. "You'd never-"
"Of course not," Daddy snapped, cutting me off. "But people don't need proof to ruin a reputation. The ministry's already under the microscope, and I'm the easiest target."
I laughed, like it was all just a game. "Seriously, Daddy? They know better than to mess with us. You know how powerful you are. Nobody's dumb enough to believe that. You're not some random guy-you're... well, you."
I could tell he wasn't convinced, but I didn't care. I forced a smile. "How about I make us dinner tonight, Daddy? My treat."
He looked at me like I just told him I was going to build a spaceship. "No, honey, that's really not-"
"Relax, Daddy. It'll be fine. It won't be like last time," I said, already bouncing toward the kitchen like nothing was wrong.
He groaned behind me. "That's exactly what I'm afraid of."
---
The next day, Aisha and I were standing outside the principal's office, just waiting for something interesting to happen. The hallway was as dead as usual, except for our whispers and the irritating buzz of the air conditioner.
"Mine's going to have blond hair and green eyes," Aisha said, grinning like she was in some fantasy movie. "An assassin by night, a doctor by day."
I snorted. "Good luck with that. You think we're gonna find some guy that specific? Do you honestly think our parents will let us marry some white boy?"
Aisha gave me this look like I was an idiot. "Who cares what they think? We'll just dip and elope."
"Elope?" I laughed in her face. "Have you met my grandmother? She'd hunt me down like a dog, throw me in a sack, and drag me back for one of her endless lectures about bloodlines."
Aisha folded her arms, putting on the most serious face she could muster. "Then we'll start a rebellion. We'll march in the streets with posters and scream 'Down with parental oppression!'"
"That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen," I said, grinning. "We'd end up in juvie so fast."
"Exactly! Just imagine the headlines-'Teen rebels fight for freedom!' We'd be famous."
Before I could throw in another sarcastic comment, the intercom crackled to life.
"Ada. Aisha. Please come in."
We exchanged a quick look-like, yeah, we were totally not worried-and then strutted into Mrs. Ailatu's office. She was sitting behind her desk, trying to look all professional, but she looked like she was about to pass out from exhaustion.
"Sit," she said, motioning to the chairs.
We both sat down, then—like synchronized swimmers of chaos—we propped our feet up on her table in perfect unison. Honestly, if someone had walked in at that moment, they'd have thought we'd rehearsed this for a school play titled "How to Annoy Your Principal in 10 Seconds." But hey, what can I say? My bestie and I are professionally unhinged.
"Ahem," Mrs. Ailatu coughed—more like growled—her glare so sharp it could've sliced through steel. But did we budge? Of course not. We were deep in a no-blink championship and frankly, she was losing.
"Ma, you really should check that cough," I said sweetly, blinking like an innocent deer. "You probably overworked yourself again. It sounds... contagious."
I could feel the steam coming off her, like a pressure cooker ready to blow, and for some reason that made me feel giddy. Like, hee-hee, let's poke the dragon some more. I was riding the high of academic self-destruction and loving every second.
"Ada," Aisha whispered, eyes wide in theatrical horror. "Do you see that? Her face is tightening like she wants to say something but can't. I think… I think Mrs. Ailatu's throat has exploded."
"It's not possible," I gasped, clutching my imaginary pearls. "She literally just announced something on the speakers. There's no way she went dumb-dumb that fast."
"Poor woman," Aisha sniffled. "To lose her voice in the prime of her scolding years. And while we were here... the guilt is overwhelming."
"Do you think they'll blame us?" I asked, quivering. "She can't talk—what if they say we gagged her and tortured her and made her scream too much and—"
We looked at each other, fully caught in the hysteria we created, and screamed, "We could go to juve!"
That was the cue. Time to vanish like badly-behaved smoke.
We bolted for the door.
"Emergency lockdown mode initiated," the computerized voice blared around the room.
But did we care? No. We jiggled, yanked, twisted, and karate-kicked that poor door like two sugar-high toddlers locked out of the candy jar. By the time we gave up, breathless and mildly traumatized, we turned around...
Mrs. Ailatu was sipping coffee.
She just stood there. Calm. Peaceful. Amused.
Not one. Not two. Three steaming mugs sat on her desk. And I was genuinely trying to figure out if we'd been yanking that door long enough for her to brew a whole coffee trilogy.
"Come on now," she said gently, handing us each a cup like we weren't just halfway through a mental breakdown. "We have a lot to talk about."
"Mrs. Ailatu," I stammered. "You can talk!"
"Thank goodness," Aisha sighed, cradling her cup like a survivor. "Now that's sorted, we can go, right?"
Mrs. Ailatu ignored her and slid a file across her desk. Nestled under the pages was a camera. My soul left my body and hovered near the ceiling.
"What do you want," Aisha asked, calm on the outside, but her fists were clenched like she was preparing to uppercut destiny.
Mrs. Ailatu turned to the glass wall, basking in the view like a Bond villain. "A fair exchange. No student has volunteered as tour guide this term, and new students respond better to other students than... well, me."
"You want us to babysit freshies?" Aisha said, scandalized. "Absolutely not. Never. In fact, cancel me from this school entirely—"
"Shh," Mrs. Ailatu said, holding the camera like a holy relic. That shut Aisha up real fast.
"If I pass this to the disciplinary committee, you'll both be suspended for disrespect," she smiled sweetly, sipping from her mug like this was afternoon tea and not blackmail o'clock.
"I will tell my daddy," I pouted with full-on toddler energy.
She raised an eyebrow. "You really think your dad outranks my tea and evidence combo?"
Silence fell. Aisha and I exchanged that look. The one that said:
We could bury her. Right here. In this office. Nobody would know.
But also, we knew we'd already lost.
"I'll take your silence as a yes!" she chirped, far too pleased with herself. "Your little 'adventure' starts tomorrow at 7:30am sharp and ends next Wednesday. Don't be late, or the deal's off."
"Why us? What if your evil blackmail plan had failed?" I whined.
"Oh please," she scoffed. "One teacher mentioned your names and I didn't even hesitate. You two have a reputation. The kind that screams, 'yes, let's give them responsibility and see what burns.'"
She pressed something on her desk, and with a faint beep, the lockdown lifted.
"You both may leave," she said. "I want to laugh in peace."
Aisha and I shuffled out slowly, heads bowed like war veterans, until I heard Aisha mutter under her breath—
"That damn bitch."