The days folded into one another like a well-worn wrapper, predictable in their sadness, heavy in their silence. Every morning was the same—wake up before dawn, shower quickly so she wouldn't clash with anyone in the bathroom, dress quietly in the corner of her room, and tiptoe downstairs for breakfast that didn't include her.
No one said anything about it. No one offered to wait.
The dining table seated six, but only five plates ever appeared. Amina learned to eat later in school with Abiola, under their mango tree if time allowed. Sometimes she didn't eat at all. It was easier that way.
Mrs. Badmus rarely spoke to her unless it was to correct or criticize.
"You folded the bedsheets like a market woman," she said one Saturday morning, watching Amina redo the guest room bed.
"Sorry, Ma," Amina whispered.
Derin only laughed from the doorway. "You should teach her, Mummy. Maybe they didn't use bedsheets in Oyo."
They both chuckled. Amina didn't. She couldn't. Her laughter had shriveled into something small and distant.
She kept her head down and worked harder.
School was no better, but it wasn't worse, which, in her life now, was a form of comfort.
She clung to that—the steady rhythm of learning. Her teachers praised her essays, her arithmetic answers were always correct, and during their first business studies test, she scored the highest. The teacher, Mr. Bello, even read her answer aloud in class.
"Amina Olayiwola. Brilliant. See how she explained the concept of market segmentation with real-life examples. You people should learn from her."
A few students clapped. Derin didn't. She shot Amina a look that could pierce a mirror.
Still, Amina felt something she hadn't in weeks—pride.
That evening, when she told Abiola about it, he grinned so wide, she thought the whole world might split open.
"That's my twin! Market segmentation queen," he teased.
She laughed—a real laugh, bright and quick—and he looked stunned.
"There it is," he said softly.
"What?"
"Your smile. I've missed it."
She looked away, heat climbing her cheeks. "It won't last."
"It will," he said firmly. "One day, you'll smile like that every day again. You'll see."
---
The first time Amina heard Idris's name was a week later.
She was in class, sketching shoe designs in the back of her notebook. She didn't know why she did it—maybe because her mother used to make sandals in their little shop back in Oyo. Or maybe because it was the only thing that made her heart feel light again.
Her pencil moved quietly until a burst of chatter rippled through the room.
"Idris is back!"
"Ah! I saw his car. That Benz again!"
"Did you see his watch last time? Ehn ehn!"
"Wait, he's in SS2, right?"
Amina looked up as the girls clustered by the window, peering into the school compound like bees to sugar.
Derin was among them, hair neatly tied in a wine-coloured scarf. She wasn't squealing, but her smirk said enough.
"Is he that fine?" someone asked.
Derin shrugged. "You'll see."
Amina returned to her sketch, uninterested. She didn't care about boys. Her world was still aching from the weight of everything she'd lost. What did a boy with a Benz have to do with her survival?
But curiosity, that soft intruder, crept in anyway.
---
Idris came into view during assembly two days later.
He walked beside the principal, flanked by two prefects. He had a lazy kind of stride, like he wasn't in a hurry to be anywhere. He wore the SS2 uniform with the kind of confidence you couldn't teach—long-sleeved shirt, sleeves slightly rolled, tie loosened like a prince in exile.
His skin was the color of burnt honey, his jawline clean and sharp, his eyes hidden behind tinted glasses.
He removed them when the principal introduced him.
"Welcome back, Idris," the principal said. "I'm sure the school missed you."
A few students chuckled. Idris didn't smile. He only nodded.
And then—he glanced around. His eyes swept the assembly crowd like he was reading names off a list. Then, for a brief second, they landed on Amina.
Her breath caught. Something in his gaze held her in place. Not flirtatious. Not mocking. Just... curious.
And then it was gone.
He turned away and walked to the SS2 line like nothing happened.
Still, her fingers trembled for the next few minutes.
---
"I hear he lives in Ikoyi," one girl whispered during break. "His father owns, like, four oil companies."
"He's always traveling," another added. "This time, it was Dubai. Before that, Cape Town."
Amina listened without meaning to.
"He doesn't talk much, though," Derin said, dropping her bag on the table. "But he's smart. Very smart."
Someone turned to Amina. "You and Idris have the same Yoruba teacher now, abi?"
Amina blinked. "I don't know."
"You do," Derin said smoothly. "You both have it on Wednesdays and Fridays, 10:40."
Amina nodded. "Oh. Okay."
She didn't know what else to say.
---
The first time they officially met, it was raining.
Yoruba class had ended, and the corridor outside the classroom was packed with students waiting for the rain to die down. Amina stood in a corner, hugging her books, watching the storm turn the compound into a silver blur.
That was when Idris walked past her, then stopped.
"You're the Oyo girl, right?" he asked.
His voice was smooth. Calm.
She turned slowly. "Yes."
He looked at her for a moment, head tilted slightly. "You speak well."
She blinked. "Thank you."
"You draw," he added.
Her eyes widened. "How—?"
He pointed at the notebook peeking from her stack. One corner had her unfinished design sticking out.
"Oh."
He didn't smile, but his eyes softened. "They're good."
Before she could answer, he was gone—vanishing into the crowd like mist.
She stood still, her heart thumping like it had somewhere to be.
---
Days passed. She didn't see much of him, but when she did, he always nodded in acknowledgment. Just once. No words. No lingering.
And yet, Derin noticed.
"Why is he greeting you?" she asked one afternoon, arms crossed.
"He just says hi," Amina replied quietly.
"Since when?"
"I don't know."
Derin's eyes narrowed. "Don't get carried away. Just because someone talks to you doesn't mean you matter."
Amina didn't reply.
---
At home, things remained the same. Colder, if anything.
Mrs. Badmus began locking her bedroom door, as though Amina might sneak in and steal something. The housemaid was the only one who smiled at her now.
But Amina had found a small joy—a hidden one.
She began staying back after school in the art room. With permission from the vice principal, she helped the art teacher organize supplies, clean paint trays, and sharpen pencils. In return, he gave her sketchbooks and let her use spare colored pencils.
She designed shoes, bags, dresses—each page a dream stitched with survival. Her mother would have been proud.
Abiola noticed the change.
"You're glowing," he said one afternoon.
"I'm not."
"You are. Something happened?"
"No."
"Is it that boy? Idris?"
She looked up sharply. "No."
Abiola smiled. "Okay. But if he makes you sad, I'll beat him."
She laughed, resting her head on his shoulder. "You'll always protect me, won't you?"
"Till the end."
---
Friday arrived with a buzz in the air.
The school was preparing for Cultural Day. Each class was to present a display—food, music, fashion. Amina was put in charge of designing the class banner, thanks to her art teacher's recommendation.
She stayed back late that day, painting bold strokes of green and white across thick fabric. Her hands were stained. Her scarf had flecks of red paint. She was lost in her work when someone entered the room.
Idris.
He walked in like he'd been there before, leaned on the doorframe, and watched her.
"Still drawing?" he asked.
She jumped, nearly splattering paint on the wall. "You scared me."
"Sorry."
She wiped her hands and stepped back. "I'm just finishing the banner."
"It's nice."
She looked at him carefully. "Why are you always quiet?"
He shrugged. "I don't like noise."
"You're different from the others."
t
He glanced around the room, then back at her. "So are you."
They stood in silence for a beat too long.
"You want to see my designs?" she asked suddenly, surprising herself.
He nodded.
She pulled out her sketchpad and handed it to him. He flipped through slowly, pausing every few pages.
"These are really good," he said. "Like... you could actually sell these."
She blinked. "You think so?"
"I know so."
He handed it back. "You should keep drawing."
Then he walked out.
Amina stood there for a long time, fingers clutching her sketchpad like it was life itself.
---
That night, her journal entry was different.
Dear Mummy,
Today someone told me I was good at something. And I believed him. I don't know what it means, or if it means anything at all... but for the first time in weeks, I didn't feel invisible.
Love, Amina.