The first thing Amina noticed when she stepped out of the car was how different the air felt in Lagos. It was thick with noise, buses honking, people shouting, and the hum of a city that never truly rested. It wasn't like Oyo. Oyo was wide roads and familiar faces, loud but in a way that was comforting. Lagos was sharp. Fast. Unforgiving.
She stood quietly beside her father's best friend, Mr. Badmus, clutching the faded green duffel bag that had belonged to her mother. She wouldn't let it go, not for anything. It still smelled faintly of her—lemongrass and soap. Her palms were sweaty, not from the heat, but from the weight of everything pressing down on her chest.
The house towered above her. Two stories, painted a bright yellow with a maroon roof. A tall metal gate had groaned open just minutes ago, and now she was here. No longer in Oyo. No longer with her parents. Just... here.
"Amina," Mr. Badmus said, placing a hand on her shoulder. His voice was gentle, like it always had been. "You'll be safe here. Try to feel at home."
She nodded, too afraid to speak. Her throat burned with unshed tears. She had cried so much after the accident, she thought the tears had dried up. But they hadn't. They were simply waiting.
Inside, the house smelled of polish and plantain. She caught sight of the woman first, Mrs. Badmus. She was tall, with skin the color of roasted groundnut and eyes that did not smile. Her arms were folded across her chest as she stared at Amina like the girl had brought bad news.
"Good evening, Ma," Amina said, bowing slightly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Mrs. Badmus didn't reply. She turned and walked away, heels clicking across the tiles.
That was her welcome.
Derin came next, walking down the stairs with the slow gait of someone who had been interrupted. She was beautiful, no doubt. Long braids that bounced behind her, lips that always had gloss, and eyes that missed nothing. She gave Amina a long look, then forced a smile.
"Amina, right?"
"Yes."
"I'm Derin. I'm in SS1. What class are you?"
"SS1 too. Commercial."
"Hmm," Derin replied, her smile falling away as quickly as it had come. "You'll find things different here."
That was not a welcome either.
Amina nodded again and followed the housemaid up the stairs to the guest room she'd be staying in. The room was nice. Too nice. She wasn't used to sleeping alone in a room with a big bed and air conditioning. She would have preferred to share a mat with Abiola again.
Ah, Abiola.
Her twin. Her mirror. Her safe space.
They had clung to each other after the funeral, whispering promises that they would always be together. But life didn't care. Uncle Akinyemi had taken Abiola in with open arms, while she had come here. She knew it was arranged with the best intentions, but it still felt like abandonment.
They will only each other in school or during holidays now. She knows the people he lived with now will treat him like a son.
We'll be okay, Amins," that was Abiola words when they wanted to leave for Lagos but she didn't believe it. Not really.
The next morning, her new life began properly.
She was introduced at school during assembly. The principal, a small, rotund woman with a heavy Igbo accent, asked her to come forward.
"This is Amina Olayiwola. She's joining us from Oyo State. Make her feel welcome."
The applause was light, barely a few claps before silence returned.
Afterward, Amina walked to her new class—SS1 Commercial—and tried to disappear into the corner seat by the window. She didn't want attention. She just wanted to learn, pass, and go home... wherever that would be.
But Derin made that difficult.
From the start, it was clear she didn't like that Amina could speak English fluently.
"You know, for someone from Oyo, your English isn't bad," she said loudly during break, making a few of her friends giggle.
Amina gave her a small smile and said nothing.
Derin leaned closer. "Don't think because my dad took you in, you're special. You're not. He does that for a lot of people."
Amina nodded. She had no intention of fighting anyone. Not with her heart this tired.
It didn't help that Derin's older brother, Kunle, was also a teacher in the school. He taught Economics and was well-respected. Tall, quiet, and with eyes that looked like they saw through everything.
He'd been Amina's childhood crush, though she'd never admitted it to anyone not even Abiola.
When they were young, he used to carry her on his back and buy her sweet. But now, things had changed.
The first time she saw him in class, she smiled shyly and greeted him, "Good afternoon, sir."
He had barely glanced at her.
"Sit down."
No smile. No recognition.
He even didn't scold them when someone mocked her accent during debate practice.
The coldness burned more than if he'd yelled.
The only peace she got that day was during the moment she sat with Abiola under the mango tree beside the school block.
"How are they treating you?" he'd ask.
"I'm fine," she lied, brushing her uniform clean.
"You're not," he said once, tilting her face up. "I know you."
She wanted to fall into his arms, cry, scream that she hated it here but she didn't. She just smiled and said, "We'll be okay, abi?"
He nodded, his eyes dimming. "We'll be okay."
Back at Mr. Akinyemi's house, Abiola had his own room. His uncle and aunt called him "Son," and his little cousins adored him. He read them bedtime stories and helped with homework. It wasn't like home, but it was soft. Safe.
He worried about Amina. Even when he had a full plate, he thought of her. His twin. His other half.
Meanwhile, at the Badmus residence, things only got colder.
Mrs. Badmus came home that evening, saw Amina in the living room watching TV, and immediately frowned.
"Don't you have something to read?" she snapped. "Or do they not study in Oyo?"
Amina quickly turned off the TV. "Sorry, Ma."
"Don't 'sorry' me. I don't want my children picking up lazy habits."
That night, Amina couldn't sleep.
She wrote in her journal:
Dear Mummy,
I miss you. I miss Daddy too. Abiola is okay, I think. But I'm not. I try to smile, but my heart is always heavy. Mrs. Badmus doesn't like me. Derin hates me. Tunde ignores me. Sometimes I want to scream. But I won't. I'll keep being quiet. Because if I break down, who will help me back up?
Love, Amina.
Weeks passed. She grew quieter. She avoided attention. Teachers liked her because she was brilliant, but that only added to Derin's resentment.
---
She got used to pretending.
Pretending the stares didn't burn through her. Pretending Derin's whispered insults didn't echo louder than the teachers' voices. Pretending that Mr. Badmus' kind smile made up for the silences in the house. Pretending she didn't notice how Mrs. Badmus wiped the chair she sat on after she left.
Tunde no, Mr. Tunde now—was the hardest to ignore.
There were moments she caught him looking at her. Not with malice like Derin, but something else. Something unreadable. She didn't know what she wanted from him anymore. Maybe warmth. Maybe a "How was your day?" Maybe… the version of him she used to know.
But he never gave her any of those.
One afternoon, after school, she was helping the housemaid shell beans in the kitchen. The radio buzzed with a Yoruba news broadcast, the smell of egusi soup simmering on the stove curling into the air.
Derin walked in, tossed her schoolbag on the counter, and scoffed. "You're really settling in, aren't you?"
Amina didn't look up. She focused on the beans, splitting the skin just right. One clean pop, two halves.
"I'm just helping," she murmured.
"Don't act like you're some saint. You're trying to show off. Make my dad love you more."
"I'm not "
"He already abandoned me for you. You're just like your mother."
Amina's fingers froze.
She didn't reply.
Later that night, she cried quietly into her pillow, stuffing it deep into her face so no one would hear. The ache of missing her parents, the silence of her twin's absence, the strange coldness of a house that smiled on the outside but froze her from the inside it all wrapped itself around her chest like a knot.
The only place she felt close to home was at the back of the library, behind the geography shelf. That little corner became her escape. She would take a book any book and pretend she was somewhere else. Sometimes, Abiola would come find her there, and they'd talk in whispers until the librarian glared at them.
One such afternoon, he brought her puff-puff in a serviette.
"They made it at home," he said, smiling. "Aunty Bisi taught me."
She took a bite and almost cried. Not because it was perfect. But because someone had thought of her.
He was her only anchor. They talked about classes, their childhood, how Yetunde called every other day now that she was preparing for WAEC.
"She misses us," Amina said softly.
"I know," Abiola replied, leaning his head back against the shelf. "We're all just... in pieces."
She turned her head to the side. "Do you think it'll ever feel whole again?"
Abiola didn't answer right away.
"I think we have to build something new," he finally said. "Not like before, but maybe... just enough to survive."
The next day, they had a class debate in English. The topic was "Technology has done more harm than good."
Amina had prepared. She had written her points neatly, practiced them the night before in the mirror, even added a joke she thought might land.
When it was her turn to speak, she stood in front of the class, clutching her note.
Then she heard it.
Someone coughed dramatically. "Let's hear what Oyo girl has to say!"
Laughter. Soft at first, then louder. A ripple across the room.
She froze.
Her throat closed.
Derin smiled from her seat. Tunde stood at the back of the class, supervising, arms crossed.
He didn't say anything.
Not even a glare to stop them.
Amina's lips parted, but nothing came out.
The teacher had to gently tell her to sit.
She sat.
Burning.
Humiliated.
That evening, Abiola didn't come for lunch. She waited under the mango tree for almost twenty minutes before going back inside.
The ache returned.
So did the journaling.
Dear Daddy,
I don't like this place. I know I should be grateful. People say I'm lucky. But I don't feel lucky. I feel invisible. Or worse—unwanted. Is it wrong to miss you even though you're gone? Sometimes I still dream that you're coming back to take me home. That I'll wake up and you'll be outside, holding puff-puff in a brown bag. Please come back. Or send someone who can see me. Please.
The next morning, Tunde stopped her after class.
He stood in the corridor, hands in his pockets, face unreadable.
"You didn't finish your presentation," he said.
She looked down. "I forgot the rest, sir."
"Your hand was shaking."
Amina looked up then, startled. "You noticed?"
"I always notice."
There was a pause.
Then he looked away. "Try again next time."
And just like that, he was gone.
That night, she wrote again.
> Dear Mummy,
Today, he saw me. I don't know what that means. But it felt like I wasn't alone. Just for a second.
Still, everything wasn't okay.
Mrs. Badmus continued her silent war. Derin got more creative with her insults. The girls in class avoided her except when they wanted help with assignments. She didn't care. She had her books, her corner in the library, and Abiola.
That was until Abiola told her he might join a school club that met during break.
"I might not always make it to the mango tree," he said apologetically. "But we'll find time, I promise."
Amina smiled.
And then she went to the library that day and sat alone.
The silence wasn't comforting anymore.
It was crushing.
A few days later, something new happened.
During break, a buzz swept through the school.
"A new boy is coming," someone whispered.
"From Abuja, I heard."
"Rich family."
"His father owns petrol stations. And hotels."
Amina didn't care much.
New boys came and went. She had mastered the art of not expecting anything.