It had been weeks since the storm.
The kind that didn't just pass — it lingered.
Long after the noise had died down, its echoes still haunted the halls of AllStars Foundation College.
Seniors doing community service was a disgusting sight 😩
They cleaned the lavatory, scrubbed the dining hall, and even swept the corridors without the help of juniors.
Every punishment period felt like slow humiliation in public view.
Parents had come and gone.
Apologies made. Letters written. Promises whispered.
But the principal's door remained the same — closed 🚪
Test week had already passed.
Those serving suspensions were monitored strictly: phones seized, movements logged, every step under watch.
Even the Alades, with all their influence, had come to plead.
Mr. Alade himself, the man whose handshake could change boardroom fates had stood in front of Principal Lawrence's office like every other parent, waiting.
His wife, Dr. Morenike Alade, had flown in straight from Germany, leaving her hospital empire behind just to clean up her sons' mess.
But the school didn't budge.
AllStars Foundation had a reputation to protect.
No family name, no amount of power, no apology could erase what had already been seen, shared, and whispered across the internet.
Tomi had traveled out of the country the following week, silence swallowing her completely 🌍
Diana and her mother had quietly relocated to another state after the embarrassment; no goodbyes, no explanations. Their lockers had been cleared before Monday morning.
Gift's suspension came with a list of conditions:
Community service.
Mandatory counseling.
And a 3,000-word essay that felt heavier than the punishment itself.
Jayden, MideFlex, AraBaddie, and Big Dave weren't spared either.
Each carried their own mark of consequence, the kind that followed you even when the noise faded.
The halls of ASF were quieter now.
As if exam week was around the corner even though it was still fourteen weeks away 📚
Not peaceful quiet, just… different.
Students walked slower.
Teachers spoke softer.
Even laughter sounded guilty.
But beneath the calm, there was something else: a tension.
A waiting.
Like the story wasn't over yet… just catching its breath 😶🌫️
It was break time.
Inside the dining hall, the air was thick with the smell of disinfectant and leftover rice.
Senior students including prefects, athletes, class reps were scattered around with mops, buckets, and wet rags.
Some were washing plates in the kitchen sink, some wiping long tables till they shone, others scrubbing tiled floors like housemaids.
It was torture.
Real torture 😔
Gift stood near the end of the room, wringing out a wet rag into a blue bucket.
Her once-perfect braids had loosened, and her ASF badge, the one that used to gleam proudly, now hung dull and bent.
Beside her, Lolade, who is back from suspension sighed heavily.
"This is wickedness abeg. Me wey be drama prefect, see me dey wash spoon," ZaraBliss muttered angrily as she spotted her mom walking in with a cane.
"At least you're washing spoons," MideFlex groaned, dragging his mop across the floor. "I'm scrubbing toilets like apprentice plumber."
Gift didn't laugh.
Her hands were tired, her heart heavier.
Her parents had finally given her another chance — one she wasn't sure she deserved.
Across the hall, Big Dave and AraBaddie were at it again with the kitchen matron.
"Ma, for real, I already cleaned that corner!"
"Clean it again!" she barked. "You thought you were celebrities before, now you'll learn humility!"
A few juniors sneaked glances from the corridor, whispering and giggling.
To them, this was free drama.
To Gift, it was a nightmare she couldn't wake up from.
She leaned against the wall, staring out through the tall windows.
The school field shimmered gold under the afternoon sun; the same place where everything had fallen apart.
The same ground where the scandal had been born.
"You okay?" Lolade asked quietly.
Gift forced a smile. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"Tired of mopping or tired of life?" Lolade teased.
Gift didn't reply. Some questions didn't need answers.
The bell clanged suddenly — sharp and cold.
Everyone froze for a second, then scrambled to drop their cleaning tools.
Break was over.
And just like that, the masks went back on — faces blank, uniforms wet, hearts pretending to be fine.
As they walked out, MideFlex muttered under his breath,
"ASF don turn prison."
AraBaddie smirked. "Then we're all inmates."
The others chuckled weakly. No joy in it. Just fatigue.
Their reflections on the glass doors looked older — worn out, wiser, bruised by reality.
Then, from the far corridor, Principal Lawrence's voice echoed through the speakers.
Firm. Controlled.
"Discipline builds legacy."
Gift didn't look back.
She whispered to herself,
"Maybe… but it also breaks people first." 💔
Hours later after the school ended, MideFlex's father's black Mercedes rolled to a stop in front of their mansion.
The Adeniran residence wasn't just a home — it was an empire of comfort, laughter, and controlled chaos.
Built on two acres in one of Lagos' richest estates, the house shimmered under the evening sun — deep emerald walls, grey stone textures, and rose-gold railings that caught the light beautifully.
Water cascaded from the top balcony into a koi pond at the entrance, making soft splashes that felt almost royal.
Inside, life moved like music — loud, unfiltered, and alive.
The boys ruled the upstairs — each room styled like a penthouse suite.
Olamide's space glowed with LED lights and smelled faintly of cologne and sneakers.
Downstairs, the girls' wing smelled like coconut oil and vanilla, with laughter spilling out from behind pastel-colored doors.
And somewhere between, adults held quiet meetings in lounges too elegant to describe.
The central living room was the heart of it all — glass doors open to the courtyard, a purple-lit pool rippling under the sunset, and a chandelier that looked like frozen lightning.
Music, chatter, arguments — everything blended into the sound of life.
Olamide stepped in, sweaty and tired.
Before he could climb the stairs, a tiny voice screamed, "Sport prefect is back home!"
Temi, the three-year-old bundle of chaos, jumped into his arms 😂
"Did you go to school?" MideFlex asked, smiling.
"Yes! My aunty said I should give mummy a peck!" Temi giggled, saliva glistening like gloss.
"Why are you carrying him again?" Peace's voice came from the hallway. His cousin. His rival. His headache.
"Why's everyone home before me?" he asked, dropping Temi down gently.
"Seems like you haven't heard the news," Peace said, her tone unusually flat.
"What news?" He dropped his bag, pulled off his shirt.
"Why do you stink? Gross." She pinched her nose as he followed her toward the kitchen.
"I'm still doing community service, remember?"
"So-called great and mighty sport prefect," she mocked.
"What news are you supposed to know?"
"Ask your mummy, not me," she said, turning on the gas to reheat a pot of jollof spaghetti.
"My mum? Is my own portion in that pot?" he asked.
"I cooked it myself."
"I'm not eating then," he said quickly. "Either it's over-spiced or secretly poisoned."
Peace rolled her eyes. "Suit yourself. I'm not eating alone before."
Then she paused. Looked at him.
"Grandpa is dead."
He froze. The words dropped like a stone.
"Eh? Our Grandpa?"
"Which other Grandpa do we know?"
"Does your brother know?" he asked, voice cracking.
"Of course. He's Grandpa's favorite. He's probably still crying."
"So that's why everyone got home early," he said quietly. "They went to the hospital."
"Now you're using your brain," she said, tasting the spaghetti like nothing happened.
"But… Grandma?" he asked softly.
Peace sighed. "She fainted."
He turned pale. "Fainted?"
"She'll be fine. She always is."
But even she didn't sound convinced.
Their grandparents were weekend visitors — present yet distant.
Out of more than twenty grandchildren, only five truly had their love.
Peace was never one of them.
Olamide grabbed his shirt. "I'm going."
"Don't you dare think of leaving me alone with twenty-seven noisy cousins!" Peace shouted.
"I'm sorry!" he yelled back, running toward the garage.
He dashed to the storage shed where the motorcycles were parked — chrome shining, engines sleeping.
He picked his favorite — the red Yamaha with black flames.
Helmet on. Key turned.
The engine roared to life.
As the gate opened, the air hit his face cold, sharp, electric.
Grandpa was gone.
And Grandma…
He tightened his grip on the handle, eyes dark with worry.
"Please, God… let her be okay," he muttered.
Then he sped into the street, wheels screaming against the concrete.
Because he knew — this was just the beginning of another storm 🌩️