The last bell of the day rang, releasing the students in a rush of footsteps and chatter. The school compound filled with laughter, noise, and the smell of roasted groundnuts from the roadside hawkers waiting for the crowd. Chiamanda hugged her books to her chest and made her way toward the school gate, her mind still clouded by the earlier events in Mr. White's office. She wanted nothing more than to disappear into the evening, blend into the moving crowd, and escape the way Caesar's grin still lingered in her head.
But fate had other plans.
Just before she could step onto the road, a sharp voice cut through the air like a whip.
"So it's true," Gladys sneered, arms folded across her chest as she blocked Chiamanda's path. Her voice carried, loud enough for the gathering students around the gate to hear. "Our very own class rep is nothing but a cheap prostitute. No wonder you're always lingering around teachers' offices. Like sister, like sister."
The word prostitute landed like a stone in a still pond—whispers rippled through the crowd instantly. A few students gasped, others giggled, and more leaned forward to catch every word of the unfolding drama. Chiamanda froze. Her face burned, her grip on her books tightened, and her ears roared with humiliation.
"Say that again," she whispered, her voice trembling with barely restrained anger.
Gladys took a bold step closer, her chin raised proudly. "Don't pretend you don't know what you are. Everyone saw you leaving Mr. White's office. We all know your sister brings men into your house. E dey for your family doesn't it? The blood of prostitutes—"
The crack echoed before the sentence was finished.
Chiamanda's hand had moved before she thought. The slap resounded, silencing the crowd for a heartbeat. Gladys's cheek turned red instantly, her eyes widening in shock. A collective gasp rose from the students, followed by a low murmur that spread like fire.
Chiamanda's chest rose and fell heavily. She wanted to scream, to claw at the words Gladys had thrown at her, to undo the shame pressing against her ribs. But her instincts screamed louder: Run. Her heart pounded like a drum, and before anyone could react, she turned on her heel and sprinted down the street, her sandals slapping against the ground as fast as a leopard's paws.
Behind her, Gladys touched her burning cheek and slowly straightened, her shock melting into fury. Her eyes narrowed into slits as she spat after Chiamanda's retreating figure.
"I swear, Chiamanda," she put her finger on her tongue, and raised it to the air. "I swear on my life, you go pay, e be like say you no know who you dey mess with."
The students erupted into chaos—some laughing, some shouting, some already rehearsing the tale they would carry home and twist into new shapes. To them, it was just drama, another juicy story to whisper about. But for Gladys, it was a declaration of war.
And for Chiamanda, it was the beginning of a nightmare she never expected.
The evening air was cool, but Chiamanda felt none of it as she raced home. Her lungs burned, her legs ached, and yet she didn't stop until she slammed the front door behind her. She leaned against it, panting, her hand pressed against her racing heart.
The echo of Gladys's words clung to her skin like dirt she couldn't scrub off. Prostitute. Like your sister. Each syllable replayed in her head, gnawing at her pride, stinging her spirit.
She tossed her books carelessly onto the worn sofa and dragged herself into her room, shutting the door firmly. The tears came then, hot and angry, blurring her vision. She hated that Gladys's voice still rang in her ears, hated that the crowd had been there to witness her shame, hated that her own hand had betrayed her and now she was marked as the girl who slapped Gladys at the school gate. The person she called sister wasn't even home to comfort her, ha!, talk about family.
I wish ma and pa were here.
But most of all, she hated the part of her that wasn't angry at Gladys at all.
The part of her that was thinking about him.
Chiamanda lay on her bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every second in Mr. White's office. Caesar's voice was still sharp and smooth in her ears:
"Whoever touched you before will regret it."
The way his tone had shifted—first gentle, almost protective, then laced with danger—made her shiver. She remembered the way he looked at her, eyes glowing faintly in the dim light, as though he was staring not at her face but at her soul.
She pulled her pillow close, hugging it tight as if it could shield her from the memory. But it was no use. His words clung to her like perfume that refused to fade.
"You don't know how long I've waited for this," she whispered, recalling his earlier confession.
Her heart thudded uncomfortably. What did he mean by that? How could a teacher—someone she had just met—say such a thing with that much conviction? The thought both terrified and thrilled her, leaving her mind caught in a dangerous storm.
She turned restlessly on the bed. The window was open, and the night poured in—crickets chirping, dogs barking faintly in the distance, the wind brushing against her curtains. Yet even those familiar sounds felt different tonight, as if the world itself had shifted into something darker, more mysterious.
Every time she closed her eyes, Caesar's face appeared behind her eyelids. His smile, both mischievous and knowing. His voice, low and promising. His presence, filling her chest with both warmth and fear.
Chiamanda groaned, burying her head under her pillow. " Ooooh, which kind rubbish be this? Why can't I stop thinking about him?"
She tried counting sheep. She tried humming a hymn her sister used to sing when they werelittleand innocent, she said their mother used to sing it. She even tried pretending she was back in class, bored with mathematics. But none of it worked. The more she fought his memory, the stronger it became.
It was as if Caesar had planted a seed inside her mind, and now it was growing roots, twisting and turning through her thoughts.
Her body wasn't helping either. Whenever she remembered his closeness, her skin tingled as though his hands were still brushing against her. Whenever she recalled his voice, her chest tightened like she couldn't breathe properly.
Finally, sometime past midnight, she sat up abruptly, her hair falling messily around her face.
"This is madness," she muttered. "He's my teacher. I shouldn't…"
Her words faded as her heart betrayed her, racing faster with the thought of him.
Chiamanda hugged her knees to her chest, rocking slightly like a child. The shame of what Gladys had said returned, mixing with the fear of the rumors that would surely spread tomorrow. And underneath it all, something even scarier lingered—an emotion she didn't have a name for.
It wasn't love. It wasn't hate. It was somewhere in between, sharp and soft at the same time.
Whoever touched you before will regret it.
The promise echoed again, and this time she shivered. Did he mean Gladys? Or someone else? Why had he said it with such conviction, as though he wasn't speaking metaphorically but literally?
The more she thought about it, the less she slept.
By the time dawn crept into her room, painting the walls with pale light, her eyes were heavy but still wide open. She hadn't slept a wink. And yet she dragged herself out of bed, forcing her body into her school uniform, tying her hair back, and heading out for another day that promised to be worse than the last.
The morning sun poured through the dusty classroom windows, but its warmth did little to ease the chill running down Chiamanda's spine. From the very first step into the school compound, she knew something was wrong.
Heads turned. Whispers buzzed in low voices, but not low enough to hide their venom. A group of boys near the gate snickered as she walked past. Two girls leaned close, cupping their mouths as though sharing a deadly secret, their eyes darting straight at her.
Chiamanda's throat tightened. She hugged her books close, refusing to meet their gazes. But their words trailed after her, sharp and mocking.
"Shey na true say na teacher dey knack am?"
"I swear, my guy see her comot for Mr. White office yesterday."
"Na she dey form holy holy. Abeg, hypocrite."
Every sentence cut deeper than the last. She quickened her steps, wishing she could melt into the floor, disappear from sight.
By the time she entered her classroom, the tension hit her like a slap. Silence fell too quickly, followed by the sound of muffled giggles. She forced herself to walk to her seat, eyes on the ground, every muscle in her body stiff.
Gladys sat at her desk, her lips curved into a cruel smile. Her eyes glittered with triumph, the kind that comes from seeing a rival broken. She leaned over to the girl beside her and whispered loud enough for Chiamanda to hear, "Na so prostitute dey disguise. She and her sister no different."
The words burned, and for a moment Chiamanda wanted to whirl around, to slap her again in front of everyone. But she held herself back, fingers trembling on the edge of her desk. Fighting Gladys twice in public would only feed the fire.
Instead, she sat down, her eyes fixed on her notes though the letters blurred. Every rustle of paper, every stifled laugh carried her name. It was as if the whole school had turned against her overnight.
She clenched her fists under the desk. Why me?
The bell rang, breaking the tension for a brief moment. Caesar walked in, tall and composed, his presence immediately drawing all attention. His rolled-up sleeves showed the lean strength of his arms, his black shirt fitting him too perfectly. The chatter ceased almost instantly.
"Good morning, class," he said smoothly, setting his books on the desk.
"Good morning, sir," the students chorused, eager voices filling the room.
But while the others hung on his every word, Chiamanda shrank into herself, scribbling in her notebook though she hardly heard anything he said. She could feel his gaze sweeping the class, lingering briefly on her before moving on.
The lesson dragged on, and when it ended, Caesar leaned casually against his desk. "Class rep, please remain behind."
The words struck like thunder. A chorus of "Ehen!" rose from the students, eyes darting between Caesar and Chiamanda. Some smirked knowingly, others whispered, their imaginations already racing.
Chiamanda's stomach dropped. She packed her books slowly, wishing she could vanish.
When the last student left, she carried the assignment books to his office, her hands trembling with every step. She knocked lightly.
"Come in," Caesar's voice called.
She pushed the door open and stepped inside, placing the books on his desk quickly. "Here, sir. I should be going—"
But before she could turn, he spoke.
"Chiamanda."
Her heart skipped. She froze.
He leaned back in his chair, his eyes sharp behind his glasses. "Why are you avoiding me?"
She blinked, startled. "I'm not, sir. I'm your student, and you're my teacher. That's all." Her voice wavered, betraying her.
Caesar's lips curved into a slow grin. He rose from his chair and circled the desk, his movements smooth, deliberate. "You call that all? After what happened?"
Chiamanda's breath hitched. She backed up a step, shaking her head. "That… that was a mistake. It can't happen again."
He stopped in front of her, close enough that she had to tilt her head up to meet his eyes. The intensity in them made her knees weak. "A mistake?" he echoed, his voice dangerously soft. "Then perhaps we should make more mistakes to cover up the old ones?"
Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her mind screamed at her to leave, yet her body felt rooted to the spot.
"I…" She shook her head, clutching her books tighter. "This isn't right. I can't. I won't."
For a moment, silence. Then his expression shifted. The teasing smile faded, replaced by something colder, sharper. His eyes darkened, and for a brief heartbeat, they glowed—not with light, but with something deeper, like shadows alive within him.
"You were not focused in class today, what's wrong?"
Chiamanda was quiet and Ceaser said again,
"Because of the rumours?" He smiled a little, "ignore them, or just make them real"
Chiamanda felt her heart skip a beat, she raised her eyes to look at Ceaser and quickly brought it down because of the flirtatious look and kept quiet.
Second grew into minutes and Ceaser stood watching her. Suddenly, he stepped back, adjusting his glasses as though nothing had happened. "That will be all. You may go."
Chiamanda hurried out, her legs barely carrying her. Her mind was a storm—fear, confusion, and an unspoken pull she couldn't understand.
One thing was certain: Caesar White was no ordinary teacher.