Ugochukwu stirred in his sleep. A faint sound teased at his ears, barely distinct yet oddly familiar. It returned—sharper now, edged with authority.
"Ugochukwu!"
"Sir," he mumbled groggily, blinking through the darkness to identify the voice. It was unmistakably his father's—Mazi Agbu.
Startled fully awake, he realized he had been lying on the bare clay floor. He and Emeka had planned to share the narrow wooden bed that his father had purchased for him during the first term holidays. Built from mahogany planks and propped on blocky legs, it stood proudly in the corner of the room—more than a piece of furniture, it was Mazi Agbu's way of marking his son's progress. From bamboo mat to wooden bed, and, if all went well, onward someday to a spring-loaded iron bedframe. That was the dream.
But Emeka, sleeping like a displaced prince, had somehow sprawled across the full width of the bed during the night, forcing Ugochukwu onto the floor. He rubbed his arm, sore from the hard surface, then stepped out into the courtyard, guided only by instinct and the flicker of his father's oil lantern.
"Sit down," Mazi Agbu said, pointing to the long wooden bench under the thatch of the obi.
Ugochukwu sat, still dazed.
"Amara must have told you she came home two days ago?" Mazi Agbu's tone was probing, neutral but expectant.
Ugochukwu blinked. "She's home?"
"You didn't know?" His father tilted his head slightly, as if trying to detect deception. "Hmm... Let the wind carry that aside for now."
It was said too casually. Mazi Agbu had noticed his son's spark of excitement and had drawn his own conclusions. The boy's face had betrayed a little too much. So, there was something between them after all—though perhaps nothing calculated.
"Tell me again," he said, folding his hands across his wrapper. "Why exactly did you return from school now, and with that half-caste boy in tow?"
Ugochukwu hesitated, carefully constructing the lines of a tale that wouldn't fracture under questioning.
"We're here so that Emeka can live an Igbo life... to learn our ways," he said, echoing the line they had rehearsed with Wale.
"And that's why you abandoned your studies... for two whole Sundays?"
"Papa, we didn't abandon anything. The school gave us permission. They want him to experience our culture. He's been struggling to fit in. You see, his mother is white American, and he grew up abroad. The school felt he'd benefit from spending time in a village."
Mazi Agbu narrowed his eyes. "But didn't you tell me earlier it was a mid-term break?"
Ugochukwu swallowed. "Yes... I said that so Emeka wouldn't feel embarrassed. He... he broke some rules. Nothing serious. But instead of punishing him harshly, the school thought a short cultural immersion would be better. Since I'm his only real friend, they asked me to bring him here."
The silence that followed was heavy.
"Hmm," said Mazi Agbu finally. "So you're going back in two weeks?"
"Yes, Papa. Just a short time."
"Tell your half-caste friend we'll help him as best we can. But he must accept us as we are. We won't twist ourselves to suit foreign ways."
Ugochukwu nodded gratefully. "Thank you, sir."
As he made his way back into the room, his mind burned with excitement. Amara was home. Could it be coincidence? He doubted it. But the thought that she might be only a few compounds away lifted his mood like the morning sun.
He wished it had been his mother, not his father, who had woken him. She would have chatted a while. Maybe even spilled some gossip about Amara's return. With his father, everything was solemn—like a town crier announcing a funeral.
He sat briefly on the edge of the bed. Emeka shifted, freeing just enough space. Ugochukwu eased himself onto the bed's edge, letting the moonlight from the window trace silver lines across the dusty room.
He thought of sending Amara a note—just something short. Adaobi could deliver it. Or he might find a reason to visit her family's compound by mid-morning. She had to know he was here. That mattered most.
Emeka turned again in his sleep, muttering something in his half-American dream language. Ugochukwu smiled. Taking him to Ndikelionwu had been unthinkable just two days ago. How could he risk such embarrassment?
But Wale had persuaded him otherwise.
"Listen," Wale had said the night after the announcement of their suspension, "this isn't the end. You've been dealt a blow, yes—but you'll recover. Even the boy who's now School Captain was once suspended. What matters is how you rise."
And then Wale had offered provisions—bread money, tins of milk, a packet of sugar, even his last can of Ovaltine.
"You'll need these to play host," he'd said. "Take Emeka with you. He'll learn more in your village than he ever would sitting in isolation."
As if coordinated, Mr. Meniru—the VPGC himself—had turned up that morning before they departed.
He had called them aside privately, just before they left.
"You two are not bad boys," he said. "But you've made a mistake. We believe in giving second chances. Especially to boys who show promise."
He looked at Emeka then, and his expression softened.
"You were raised differently," he said. "But we're not trying to strip you of who you are. We just want you rooted. Strong trees grow only when they hold to the earth."
He gave them both transport money and a final piece of advice: "Respect your culture. But don't be ashamed of your past."
When Emeka had agreed to follow Ugochukwu home, he had done so with unexpected enthusiasm.
"I've always wanted to see the real Igbo life," he said, his eyes gleaming with boyish curiosity. "Back in America, everything they told us about African villages sounded like jungle tales. This is my chance to see the truth."
And truthfully, Emeka had handled the first night well—much better than expected.
Ugochukwu had delayed their arrival, wandering the markets of Onitsha longer than necessary so that darkness would mask the rural contrast. It worked. Emeka had been more amused than shocked.
He found the smoky kitchen fascinating. The palm husk burner delighted him. He tried—and failed—to pronounce the local name for it: mgbivuadu. The women laughed. Not mockingly, but with warmth. Even the compound children found his accent enchanting.
Now, lying awake, Ugochukwu was grateful. Maybe this trip wouldn't be a disaster after all. Maybe, just maybe, it could change both of them in ways neither expected.
His final thought before sleep returned was of Amara. Her eyes, that playful smirk, the way her handwriting curved on the edges of her letters...
Tomorrow, he would find her. Somehow.