The house was still asleep when I stepped out into the compound.
The sky hadn't fully woken either—it was dark with a hint of grey, that brief moment before dawn stirs color into it. The concrete under my sneakers was cold. The air smelled like dew and faint palm oil from the kitchen window.
I plugged in my earbuds, tied my hair back, and started with a stretch routine Grandpa taught me—slow, steady, intentional. No rushing. No music louder than my breath.
"Discipline is a habit," he used to say, "not a punishment."
I moved into jumping jacks, then quick footwork, then shadowboxing.
One, two—jab. Pull back. Rotate. Breathe.
There was something about punching the air before the sun rose that made me feel like I could handle anything.
Even Lagos.
Even school.
Even people.
When I finished the last set, I stood still for a moment—sweat on my forehead, chest rising in rhythm with my thoughts.
The compound was still quiet. Peaceful.
Then, a familiar voice rang out faintly from an open window upstairs.
"She's at it again. This girl really thinks she's in a sports academy."
Zainab.
I didn't respond. I just smiled faintly and picked up my towel.
---
Inside, the kitchen was already alive. The cook was preparing a simple breakfast—boiled yam and egg sauce. I grabbed a bottle of water and said nothing.
Mom had left a note on the dining table.
"Working early today. Call if you need anything. Love, Mom."
A smiley face was drawn at the end like she was trying not to be too formal.
The twins were still curled up in their shared room, probably dreaming in cartoon colors.
I showered, slipped into a fresh T-shirt and my usual dark trousers, and sat on the edge of my bed staring at my school bag.
Second week.
New class.
Same uniform.
Same unfamiliar faces.
But I didn't feel nervous.
Just... focused.
---
Zainab knocked once and opened the door before I answered. She was dressed already—hair slicked back in a ponytail, uniform ironed so sharp it looked fresh off a mannequin.
"You walking again or want me to tell the driver?"
"Walking."
She rolled her eyes. "You're weird."
"I know."
She hesitated by the door, then glanced at the punching bag like it was some mysterious artifact.
"You really don't want to hang out after school? My friends—"
"I'm okay."
She shrugged, already used to the wall I kept between us. She left without saying goodbye.
I strapped on my bag, checked my timetable again—Literature first period—and tied my shoelaces tighter.
Then I stood, looked at myself in the mirror.
Not for vanity.
Just confirmation.
I was still me.
And I was still standing.
The day had started quietly. Literature class was halfway through a discussion on A Man of the People, and I was in my seat near the back, listening, not speaking. The teacher didn't bother calling on me anymore. She had already accepted that I wasn't one to raise my hand.
I liked it that way.
Then it happened.
The door opened with a lazy push, and the entire class shifted without being told to.
Even the teacher paused mid-sentence.
A boy stepped in.
Tall. Lean. Brown skin smooth like he'd never worked a hard day in his life. His school shirt wasn't tucked properly, collar flipped like it was a fashion statement. Backpack hung off one shoulder with the kind of confidence that said rules don't apply to me.
"You're late," the teacher said, clearly annoyed.
He grinned. "Traffic, ma."
A few people chuckled. Not disrespectfully. The kind of laugh reserved for celebrities.
"Your name again?"
"Eli."
No surname. Just that.
Eli.
And somehow, everyone knew it already. The girls in front started whispering. Someone behind me sighed like her soul left her body. I didn't turn. I just stared straight at the chalkboard.
He strolled past my row without rushing, took a seat in the middle, and leaned back like it was his throne.
It was obvious this wasn't his first late return. Or his first time owning a room.
---
During break, it became louder. Literally and figuratively.
He was at the court within minutes of the bell. No books in hand. No concern about the lessons he missed. Just a basketball gripped in one palm like it belonged there.
By the time I passed through the hallway to find somewhere quiet, I could already hear the shouting from the court. Girls lined the edge like it was a concert. The science boys tried to challenge him on a few shots, but he barely moved, barely spoke—just played like he was born for it.
I didn't stop to watch.
Basketball was sacred to me. Personal. Something I shared with Grandpa, not a crowd.
So I kept walking.
---
At lunch, Zainab found me again. She sat across from me with her tray and two other girls who were whispering about Eli's smile and his arms. I didn't care.
But then one of them turned to me. "You don't know Eli?"
I shook my head.
Zainab raised her brows. "He's been here since JSS1. Only shows up when he wants. The school lets him slide 'cause of basketball."
"They say he might make nationals this year," one girl added.
"And he's fine as hell," the other chimed in, giggling.
I said nothing. I didn't need to.
People like Eli weren't new to me. I had seen boys like him before—charming, talented, loud without saying much. The world moved out of their way.
And me?
I preferred to move in silence.
---
But I had a feeling our paths would cross again.
Not because I wanted them to.
Because someone like him never stayed in the background for long.
And neither do girls like me—whether I want to or not.