Nightengale Academy sat tucked between a gentle hillside and a row of flame trees standing like royal guards beneath the cloudless Abuja sky. A private school for the children of ambassadors, CEOs, and oil magnates, it was less a school and more an academic sanctuary designed for the crème de la crème.
The gates were impressive, made of dark wrought iron embossed with the school's crest, a book and a soaring eagle, and beneath it, the motto: 'Where Voices Soar.' A wide, gentle avenue stretched from the gates to the main building, lined with tall trees and bright, colourful flowers. Along the way, small solar lanterns glowed softly, even in daylight, lighting up a smooth stone path that curved gently through beautiful gardens. The gardens featured neatly planted vegetable beds with fresh herbs, vibrant kale, and other healthy greens. Nearby, colourful flower beds bloomed with hibiscus, bougainvillea, and marigolds, filling the air with sweet scents and creating a peaceful, inspiring walk for every student.
The buildings shone in warm, soft earth colours. Made from local laterite stone with bamboo details, they stayed cool naturally. Carefully tended green ivy and lavender plants climbed the walls, adding fresh beauty while helping to clean the air. The ivy was trimmed and healthy, giving the school a calm, green touch that felt both modern and welcoming. Every classroom had glass skylights, which are windows built into the roof that let in plenty of sunlight. Inside, smooth teak floors softened footsteps and noise. Quiet air purifiers worked in the background, making the whole place feel fresh and peaceful.
Inside the administrative wing, the Principal's office glowed with splendour. High ceilings cradled a chandelier made from recycled crystal and brass. The walls were lined with custom bookshelves inlaid with intricate carvings, each shelf housing titles that ranged from Chinua Achebe to Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, and a few signed first editions of Wole Soyinka.
Sunlight filtered through handwoven curtains crafted by the women of the Unguwan Dosa Nasarallahi Cooperative in Kaduna, spreading warm golden patterns across the plush velvet rug on the floor. Potted peace lilies and fiddle-leaf figs lined the corners, and a slow trickle of water fell from a small indoor fountain near the window, adding to the calm.
Mrs Adeyemi sat behind a curved ebony desk, dressed in a rich, flowing Ankara gown in deep emerald and gold. Her hair was wrapped in a matching head tie, elegant and regal. Her aura, like her office, was poised yet powerful, commanding respect without ever raising her voice.
A tablet rested beside her custom fountain pen, and on her left stood a frame with a group photo from last year's Cultural Day, where students from fifteen nationalities wore their traditional attire. It was her pride and joy.
The call with Dr Obinna had ended moments ago, but she glanced at the screen once more, a soft sigh escaping her lips. She had met many fathers. Few were like him—brilliant, present, but quietly wounded.
His daughter, Erimma, had been sitting quietly by the window, her small figure framed by the soft light filtering through the glass. The little girl was drawing on a piece of paper, her tongue poking out slightly in concentration as she sketched with quick, sure strokes.
Mrs Adeyemi walked over, crouching down to Erimma's level. 'Erimma,' she said gently, her voice calm but filled with warmth.
The girl looked up from her drawing, her big eyes wide with curiosity. 'Yes, Mrs Adeyemi?' she asked, her voice soft but filled with the eagerness of a five-year-old who loved to know everything.
'Your family will make sure you celebrate Family Day like everyone else,' Mrs Adeyemi said, her words reassuring, though there was a slight uncertainty in her tone. She gave Erimma a smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes, as she knew the reality of the situation.
Obinna and Vanessa were already divorced. And from what she'd seen, Vanessa was more of a fashion show woman than the motherly type.
Silently, she prayed for a miracle—something, anything—that would put a real smile on this little girl's face.
Erimma's small brow furrowed for a moment, the pencil in her hand pausing mid-stroke. 'But… will Mummy come?' she asked, her voice filled with innocent hope.
Mrs Adeyemi hesitated for just a second before answering, her heart tugging at the thought of Erimma's simple question. 'I'm sure she will try her best, dear,' she said softly, though the doubt in her voice was barely noticeable.
Erimma nodded solemnly, as if processing the idea with the seriousness only a child could muster. She looked back at her drawing, her thoughts momentarily lost in the world she was creating with her crayons.
Mrs Adeyemi stood up, her heart heavy for the little girl, knowing that Family Day was supposed to be a celebration for every child. Yet for Erimma, it felt like it might be just another reminder of what was missing.
'Let's finish that drawing, Erimma. You're so talented,' Mrs Adeyemi said brightly, trying to bring back the joy to the moment.
Erimma smiled and nodded, returning her attention to the page, while Mrs Adeyemi watched over her, wondering what the future would hold for this sweet, smart little girl caught in the midst of her parents' struggles.
She repeated softly, more to herself than to the child, 'Your family will make sure you celebrate Family Day like everyone else,' though she doubted it would happen. She knew that, as a medical doctor, Obinna was always busy with work, yet he had always tried to be there for his daughter, no matter how few minutes he could spare. But Vanessa showed little interest in Erimma, their daughter. Now that Vanessa had divorced him, Mrs Adeyemi doubted whether Vanessa would agree to come for Family Day.
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