Morning sunlight slanted through the glass windows of Riverside University, casting long golden lines across the pavement as the school slowly came alive again. But this morning wasn't normal. There was a feverish excitement in the air — the kind that didn't come from gossip or sports or celebrity drama.
It came from words.
Every hallway Johnson passed hummed with discussions about characters, plot twists, genres, and ideas. Students who barely read novels were suddenly analyzing story structures like experts. Writers who used to hide their notebooks now flaunted them like trophies.
The writing contest had turned the whole school into a stage.
Johnson made his way to the Library Annex, clutching his backpack and trying not to look intimidated by the energy vibrating around him. Normally, the Annex was a quiet escape — a place only serious students visited. But today, the closer he got, the louder it became.
The sound hit him before he even entered.
Typing. Debating. Laughing. Arguing.
Pages flipping. Pens scratching. Laptops clicking.
When he stepped inside, he almost stopped breathing.
The place looked like a battlefield of creativity — the War Room of Words.
Every table was taken. Every seat occupied. Writers everywhere.
Jola was typing with a vengeance, her fingers flying so fast they were a blur.
Ella sat cross-legged on a chair, reading a poetry book with noise-canceling earphones.
Praise and Promise were leaning over the same laptop, arguing so loudly that nearby students glared at them.
Timileyin had taken over an entire table with markers, diagrams, and sticky notes.
Gift and Faith were brainstorming together, finishing each other's sentences.
Chidi was dramatically hitting his dead laptop, shouting, "Why now? WHY TODAY? Devil is a liar!"
Emmanuel had turned into a walking lecture, explaining story arcs to random people passing by.
Isaac was hunched over a notebook like a medieval monk, writing on paper.
Mary and Martha, the inseparable twins, were whisper-writing like synchronized machines.
And Daniel… well, Daniel was staring at a blank document that only had a title: The Man Who Forgot His Title.
It was chaotic, noisy, overwhelming — but beautiful.
This was art.
This was war.
This was passion.
And somehow, in the middle of it all, sat Raphael.
Relaxed. Calm. Confident.
Like the noise around him belonged to him.
He was leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, watching the room like he was observing his kingdom. Tania sat beside him, glasses perched on her nose as she read Raphael's draft with a seriousness that could scare a ghost.
Raphael spotted Johnson immediately.
"Ah! The man that wants to pretend he's not dangerous," he said with a grin.
Johnson dropped his bag and sank into the seat opposite them. "Why is everyone writing like the world is ending today?"
Tania smirked without looking up. "Because it is."
Before Johnson could react, Raphael added, "You know how these things go. Everyone wants to look busy, look smart, look like they have everything under control."
He leaned forward with a playful squint.
"But the real question is—have you started?"
Johnson looked down at the blank page of his notebook. "Not yet."
Tania lifted her eyes, expression unreadable. "Maybe that's why people underestimate you. You hide your writing too much. Who will believe in a talent they never see?"
Johnson didn't argue. Tania was blunt, but she wasn't wrong.
He opened his notebook again, stared at the empty space… and felt his chest tighten.
Why did the page feel so loud when it was empty?
Before he could write a single word, a sudden hush fell over the room — the kind of hush that meant someone important had arrived.
Johnson turned and saw Professor Nwagu, head of Literature Department, standing at the entrance with a clipboard and a stern expression.
The hush deepened as he stepped inside.
He cleared his throat. "Good morning, writers."
A wave of tension rolled across the room.
"I'm here to inform you about the official timeline for the first phase of the Riverside University Writing Contest."
People straightened in their chairs. Laptops froze mid-typing.
"The judges will begin preliminary reviews by Friday."
He paused, letting the shock spread.
"That means your full first draft must be submitted before 5 p.m. Friday."
Someone gasped.
Praise whispered, "But today is Tuesday. Tuesday!"
Promise replied, "Omo, we are finished."
Even Raphael's eyebrows shot up. Tania's lips parted in surprise.
A first draft in three days? For over 100 students? That was madness.
Professor Nwagu wasn't done.
"And another update," he said, adjusting his glasses. "The judging panel now includes three student representatives who will help screen submissions."
The room exploded.
Student judges?w
Writers judging writers?
Bias. Favoritism. Politics. Clout. Popularity.
Everyone knew what that meant.
People immediately began whispering names:
"Maybe they'll pick Ella—she's neutral."
"Chidi? God forbid!"
"Daniel? He can't even judge his own title."
"What if they pick someone from the popular circle?"
"If they pick a writer's friend, forget fairness."
Raphael muttered, "This is going to be messy."
Tania's eyes narrowed. "This school likes wahala."
Johnson felt something heavy settle inside him.
Bias was the one thing he feared most.
Being underrated was one thing…
But being judged by people who already didn't believe in you?
That was worse.
Professor Nwagu closed his clipboard. "Good luck. You will need it."
When he left, the room erupted again — louder, more frantic, more desperate. People rushed to their laptops, suddenly aware of the ticking clock.
Raphael turned slowly to Johnson.
"You ready for this?"
Johnson stared at his blank page again. He really wasn't.
But then he remembered something his mother used to say:
'The world won't wait for you to feel confident. Write anyway.'
He lifted his pen.
Took a deep breath.
And whispered:
"I'm ready."
Outside, someone shouted:
"May the best writer win!"
Inside his mind, Johnson whispered back:
"Let the most unseen writer finally be seen."