"H-how did you do that?"
The sharp question, laden with a rich Ghanaian accent, sliced through the heavy silence like a knife through silk. "How did you stop him from attacking you... and instead make him obey you?"
Gozie, still rattled by the surreal moment, turned sharply toward the voice. A middle-aged man strode forward with long, confident steps. His brow furrowed in concern, but a keen intelligence gleamed behind his dark, probing eyes. The stranger radiated authority—not the kind bred from power, but rather one honed by wisdom and years of thoughtful leadership. His presence commanded attention without demanding it.
"I-I..." Gozie's voice faltered, his throat suddenly parched. His thoughts scrambled like frightened birds in a storm, wings beating against the confines of his skull. What could he possibly say that wouldn't sound completely insane? The reality of what had just happened crashed over him in waves.
I gave him No-Power? he pondered, feeling heat rise to his cheeks.
It sounded ridiculous, even to him—the stuff of children's fantasies or madmen's ravings. Yet, that was exactly what had happened. The words had emerged from somewhere deep and instinctive—like a reflex rooted in something older than language itself, a primordial knowledge he couldn't explain. He swallowed hard, his pulse hammering in his ears, and in a moment of nervous deflection, blurted out:
"Weren't you supposed to cage him up or… put him in chains or something?"
That sounded more grounded. More rational.
It was a classic diversion. A pivot from the inexplicable toward the mundane. But the truth loomed behind his eyes, unrelenting. This wasn't the first time something like this had happened. That incident three months ago—he had chalked it up as a dream. A wild, horrifying dream. But now, staring at the Great Dane who just moments ago had lunged to kill but now sat obediently like a tamed guardian, a chilling thought occurred to him:
What if it hadn't been a dream? What if it was real all along?
"You are new," the man remarked, his voice softening though retaining its edge. "Your accent—Nigerian, yes?"
"Yes," Gozie replied, silently struggling to calm his racing heart. The encounter with the great dane had left him shaken, his palms still clammy with sweat.
"Good. Then, of course, you wouldn't have known." The man's eyes studied Gozie with a mixture of curiosity and mild sympathy, as if assessing whether he was worth the explanation.
"Known what?" Gozie straightened his shoulders, trying to regain his composure despite the lingering fear that pulsed through his veins.
"That Napoleon takes his daily one-hour stroll around this time," the stranger explained, gesturing toward the great dane obidiently seated on the ground as though he was the incapable of harming anyone. "Only today, the gatemen forgot to lock the gate." His tone darkened slightly, disapproval threading through his words as he shook his head. A flash of genuine concern crossed his weathered face.
"I didn't see any gateman," Gozie replied with a frown, his mind racing to process this new information. The compound suddenly seemed more dangerous than he had initially thought.
The man's eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. "That's strange. I apologize for the oversight. I'll personally look into why they abandoned their post." Then, turning toward the massive black dog, he called out sharply, "Napoleon, back to your house!"
Without protest, the Great Dane stood tall and began trotting back toward the manor, majestic and disciplined like a military general.
"Wonderful dog, Napoleon," Gozie murmured under his breath, watching him go.
The man turned his gaze back to him, studying him closely. "Are you sure he didn't harm you?"
"Luckily, no bites," Gozie assured, flexing his hands for good measure. "Just some wrestling."
"Thank God," the man sighed, placing a hand briefly over his heart. "You handled that far better than most would've. I've seen grown men faint at his growl."
Then he straightened, extending a hand. "I'm Kurio Kwame, the Vice Chancellor of Legon."
Gozie's brain stalled for a second. The Vice Chancellor? Already?
"I'm… Gozie Chinọ-Nso," he said, unsure whether to reach for a handshake. His hand had just been licked by a dog the size of a young lion. Out of reflex, he started to raise it—then turned it into a fist midway, awkwardly.
Kwame chuckled at the gesture, eyes twinkling. "Napoleon is a healthy dog. I insist on a proper handshake." He reached out and gently unfolded Gozie's fist into a firm, respectful clasp.
The handshake was warm. Grounding. And surprisingly reassuring.
"Your father and I were childhood friends," Kwame said with fond nostalgia. "We were practically brothers. So much mischief, so many adventures. Come—let's go inside. I have stories to tell you that your father would've sworn me to secrecy over."
But before Gozie could even crack a smile, his eyes suddenly widened. His heart dropped. "Oh, shit!"
Kwame raised an amused brow. "What now?"
"The letter!" Gozie said in alarm.
"What letter?"
Gozie's eyes darted wildly across the manicured lawn until—there. Half-crumpled and dirt-smeared, the white envelope lay just where he had dropped it during the commotion.
Soon afterwards, inside the Vice Chancellor's Manor, Gozie stood transfixed in a sitting room that defied all his previous experiences. The air hung heavy with an intoxicating blend of aged wood, supple vintage leather, and delicate floral incense that tickled his nostrils.
Towering bookshelves lined the walls, their shelves bowing slightly under the weight of ancient tomes bound in materials he couldn't identify. Between these literary sentinels hung framed accolades from prestigious universities and institutes across the globe, each document telling a silent story of scholarly achievement.
Gozie ran his fingers along the spine of a nearby book, feeling both intimidated and inspired by the intellectual wealth surrounding him. The room seemed to breathe with accumulated knowledge, making him acutely aware of his own humble beginnings and the extraordinary journey that had brought him to this sanctum of learning.
Above them, a golden chandelier shimmered like a constellation caught indoors, casting dappled light across the deep green Persian rug that blanketed the polished mahogany floor.
But it was the art that truly held his gaze.
One piece in particular—a black-and-white oil painting—commanded attention. It depicted a celestial war: angels with burning wings clashing mid-air with shadowed demon figures, halos shattered and swords flaming. Beside it hung a peculiar circular insignia—a stylized letter A, crowned by a golden nimbus, its left leg curling into a serpent's tail.
Classic, Gozie thought. The fusion of divine and demonic. Whoever lives here knows more than just textbooks, he silently mused.
Across the room, Kwame reclined in a grand leather armchair, examining the letter with quiet intensity. His brow shifted expressively as he read—lifting slightly here, furrowing there—revealing glimpses of his internal reactions. The afternoon light cast shadows across his distinguished face, highlighting decades of academic contemplation.
Every now and then, he glanced up at Gozie, as though attempting to reconcile the young man's presence with the revelations contained in those pages. His eyes, keen and analytical behind wire-rimmed glasses, seemed to measure the boy against some invisible standard.
Finally, he exhaled deeply, folding the letter with practiced precision and resting it on his lap. The silence between them stretched, filled with unspoken questions.
"Interesting," he remarked simply, his rich voice breaking the tension.
Gozie snapped out of his trance, his shoulders straightening. "What's interesting, Prof?" he asked, unable to mask the eagerness in his voice.
Kwame held the letter up delicately between two fingers, studying it once more before meeting Gozie's gaze. "This," he replied, a hint of something—concern? fascination?—coloring his typically measured tone.
Intrigued, Gozie stepped forward, his heart quickening as he leaned in and scanned the text. But the moment he attempted to decipher the words, confusion clouded his features, his anticipation dissolving into bewilderment.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the cryptic markings. The symbols appeared strangely familiar, triggering an unsettling sense of déjà-vu—yet they remained completely indecipherable, like fragments of a forgotten dream.
"I don't understand a single word of this," he admitted, frustration evident in his voice.
"Of course you wouldn't," Kwame said with a knowing nod, his weathered face softening slightly. "Not yet."
"What language is it?" Gozie ran his finger across the ancient markings, feeling an inexplicable connection to them despite his confusion.
Kwame leaned forward, his eyes twinkling now with a deeper intrigue, the lines around them crinkling as if he held some delightful secret.
"Believe it or not," he whispered, his voice taking on a reverent quality, "it's one of the oldest tongues known to man."
Gozie blinked, his heartbeat quickening. "I still don't get it," he confessed, trying to reconcile the familiar yet alien symbols before him.
"It's called Nsibidi," Kwame explained, his tone rich with pride. "Arguably the oldest writing system on Earth. Predates even the Mesopotamian Cuneiform by millennia." He paused dramatically, watching Gozie's reaction. "Some say it dates back four to five million years."
Gozie gawked, his mind reeling as he struggled to process this revelation. The implications sent a shiver down his spine. "That doesn't make sense," he stammered, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered over the ancient text. "You mean... my father could read this? Write this?"
Kwame nodded solemnly. "Your father was no ordinary man," he said, his voice rich with reverence. "A brilliant archaeologist. A seeker of buried truths. A treasure to this institution. Life may have tossed him about like a ship on stormy seas, but he carried light within him—a flame that never dimmed, even in his darkest hours."
The room went quiet, the silence heavy with unspoken memories.
Gozie's throat tightened, and he blinked rapidly against the sudden moisture in his eyes. The admiration in Kwame's voice was genuine, unmistakable—a testament to a friendship he had known little about. His fingers traced the worn edge of his father's journal, feeling suddenly connected to a man who had always seemed just beyond his reach.
"As a tribute to our old friendship and to the brilliance your father carried," Kwame continued, leaning forward with his elbows on the desk, his weathered hands clasped together, "I will personally be your patron while you study here. You'll have nothing to worry about—academically or otherwise." His eyes, kind yet penetrating, held Gozie's gaze with a promise that extended beyond mere words.
Gozie swallowed hard, a tempest of conflicting emotions churning beneath his exhausted exterior. His fingers trembled slightly as he clutched the envelope, the weight of its contents far heavier than paper should be.
"My chauffeur, Raph, will collect your belongings from the hostel," Kwame announced, rising from his chair with graceful authority. "You'll be assigned quarters here instead." He paused, studying Gozie's face with eyes that missed nothing. "For now—give me the letter," he added, extending his hand with a gesture that was somehow both warm and commanding.
Wordlessly, Gozie surrendered the white envelope, watching as it disappeared into Kwame's steady grasp. The simple action felt monumental, as if he were handing over not just a letter but a piece of himself.
And deep within him, a quiet yet seismic shift occurred. The certainties he had carried for years began to rearrange themselves like puzzle pieces finding new positions.
As the paper left his fingers, so did a part of his old world—the familiar discomforts, the predictable struggles, the identity he had carefully constructed around his limitations.
And without knowing how or why, without being able to articulate the profound transformation beginning within him, Gozie sensed with absolute clarity that nothing would ever be the same again. The realization both terrified and exhilarated him, like standing at the edge of an abyss that might contain either salvation or destruction.