I woke up to the sound of two things:
My alarm clock buzzing like it was trying to start a fight…
And my mum shouting from the living room.
"Amaka! Come here! Come and wear your uniform this minute!"
That was for my little sister. Obviously.
I groaned, stretched, and rolled over like I had all the time in the world, which I didn't. But it's hard to get up when the bed is warm and the day is already chaotic.
Sunlight leaked through my window and brushed across my face, making my dark brown eyes flutter open.
My hair—usually just dark brown—looked brighter under the sunbeams peeking through the curtains. My room was huge, spotless, and painted a soft beige with gold details. A big fluffy rug sat in the middle. My closet doors were mirrored, and beside them sat the same pack of pink hairbands that had been betraying me since forever.
I sat up, yawned, and grabbed one. I pulled my hair back and—snap!
The hair packer broke.
I blinked at it. Seriously?
Another one? I grabbed another and tried again, but it slipped from my fingers.
"I'm not a quitter," I muttered to myself, trying again like I was preparing for a battle.
(Yes, I talk to myself. No, it doesn't mean I'm crazy.)
And finally… hair secured. Victory.
I got dressed quickly—our school uniform was fine, just very boring—and walked out into the hallway. I could already hear chaos bouncing off the marble floors.
My little sister, Amaka, was racing around the living room in a bright pink singlet and one sock.
"Come back here and let me zip your dress!" Mum yelled, trying to catch her. My mum, still in her wrapper, had her scarf halfway off her head, a spoon in one hand and Amaka's school bag in the other. She looked like a beautiful hurricane—lip gloss half-on, earrings mismatched, frustration in her eyes. Gorgeous, but completely stressed out.
As soon as she saw me, she tossed the dress my way. "Amarachi, dress your sister. She's running mad."
Before I could protest, Amaka zoomed past me.
"Amaka! Come here now or I'm telling mummy to cancel cartoon time!" I shouted.
That did it. She skidded to a stop, gave me the dirtiest toddler glare she could manage, and marched over like I had ruined her entire life.
Her hair was everywhere. Her face was sticky with leftover cereal. Her socks didn't match.
"Sit. Down." I said, trying to stay calm while she wriggled and made faces.
After a full five-minute wrestling match, Amaka was finally dressed. I stood up, exhausted. Was this what being a parent felt like?
I went to the dining table and had a few hurried bites of toast and scrambled eggs. The chandelier above sparkled as sunlight streamed into the marble-tiled dining area, but I wasn't in the mood to admire anything.
"Where's Daddy?" I asked, finishing my juice.
"He's already gone to work," Mum replied, checking her phone. "We're following the school bus today."
Ugh.
"I hate following the bus," I mumbled.
"Then you should've woken up earlier," she snapped without even looking up.
Just then, the loud, impatient horn of the school bus blared from outside.
I grabbed my bag, snatched Amaka's hand, and stepped out.
Our house—gorgeous and sleek with tall gates, white walls, and trimmed hedges—shined under the Lagos sun. The driver waved lazily from the bus.
The yellow school bus looked tired, as usual. Slightly dusty. Slightly dented. Full of kids shouting like their breakfast had been spiked with sugar.
As soon as we climbed in, I felt it.
Whispers.
Eyes.
That quiet tension that always wrapped around the space whenever I showed up.
I sat down beside the window. Amaka took the seat beside me and immediately started humming like nothing was wrong.
People always whispered.
About me.
Sometimes they said I was weird. Sometimes they said I talked to myself.
Sometimes they just looked away like I was invisible.
It always stung a little.
Okay, maybe more than a little.
And even though I tried to ignore it, sometimes it sat on my chest all morning, heavy and loud, like a secret everyone else already knew about me but I hadn't discovered yet.
When we got to school, I got out of the bus and took a deep breath.
The school building stood tall and sparkling clean—white walls, navy-blue windows, banners of school slogans flapping in the breeze.
"Discipline. Excellence. Honor."
Yeah, right.
I walked slowly through the front gate, keeping my head down.
Then it started.
"Look who's here."
"She's talking to herself again…"
"What's she even wearing?"
The laughter stung more than the words.
My chest tightened, but I said nothing.
Keep walking. Keep breathing. Don't let them see.
Almost at my classroom door, I bent my head down to enter—and WHAM!
My forehead collided with someone.
Hard.
My heart jumped. Oh no.
Please don't let it be a teacher. Or a senior. Or worse—someone who was already looking for an excuse to fight me.
I froze, too scared to look up. My head throbbed, my stomach flipped.
What if they shouted? What if they slapped me? What if the whole hallway turned and stared again?
I didn't need more attention. Not today. Not ever.
But it was too late. I could already feel the eyes turning in our direction.
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End of Chapter One.