📍 Makoko — 7:00 AM
Bayo stared at the notification glowing on his cracked phone screen:
TUITION PAYMENT OVERDUE. ACCOUNT SUSPENSION IN 48 HOURS.
The words hit harder than expected. No more dining hall meals. No more bookstore credits. No more campus transportation.
He tried his emergency credit card.
DECLINED.
The "DECLINED" notification stared back at Bayo, a digital confirmation of his exile. For three days, he'd been a ghost in Computer Village's pawn shops, converting his designer wardrobe, the gold cufflinks, even the limited-edition headphones into emergency cash. The amounts were laughable—the shoes that cost more than a motorcycle fetched barely enough for textbooks. But it was something.
"The tuition..." he started, the words tasting like ash.
David didn't look up from his laptop. "Professor Durojaiye filed an emergency appeal. Cited 'exceptional circumstances.' The board granted a one-semester scholarship extension." He finally met Bayo's eyes. "But it's conditional. Maintain your GPA and 'demonstrate continued positive contribution to campus life.'"
The reprieve was a leash. Bayo nodded, the reality settling deeper. This wasn't just about money anymore; it was about performance. About proving he was worth the exception.
Iya David watched him quietly, the kind of watchfulness born from raising children in a world that never fought fair.
"Education shouldn't be a weapon," she said, placing a bowl of oatmeal in front of him. "In this house, we share everything—food, space, problems."
She reached into a drawer and held out a worn student bus pass.
"David's old pass," she said. "Still has two months."
Bayo's pride fought back. "I can't—"
"You can," she cut in gently. "The river does not refuse the rain because it fell somewhere else."
David hovered nearby, his expression tight with guilt. When his mother brushed past him, he whispered, "I'm sorry, Mama."
She cupped his cheek. "Some fires are worth the smoke, my son. Now eat."
Children's laughter floated in through the thin wooden walls, underscoring the stark truth: wealth wasn't in bank accounts. It was in the hands that caught you when your world collapsed.
As Bayo ate, David quietly transferred course materials to his tablet. "You'll need these," he said. "No more cloud access."
The casual generosity struck deeper than any philosophy.
This—this was what family truly meant.
---
📍 Advanced Algorithms Classroom — 10:30 AM
Professor Durojaiye's "impossible problem" filled the room: a network collapse scenario eerily similar to the Trust Bomb.
Legacy Club students groaned.
River Guard members sat up, recognizing the pattern immediately.
Maka rubbed her quartz bracelet—it was warm again, reacting to the code like a living thing. Between exercises, she whispered to Layo:
"Does your father know why it reacts like this?"
"He said Aunty Alimotu called it a compass for truth," Layo murmured. "It responds when the path is unclear."
"First group to solve this gets extra credit," Durojaiye announced. His eyes found Maka. "The scholarship committee meets tomorrow. Solve this, and I'll have my argument ready."
Maka worked fast—but David saw the key insight first.
"It's not about fixing lies," he whispered. "It's about spreading truth faster than the lies can travel."
Together they built a decentralized reinforcement loop based on Alimotu's principles. The simulation didn't just recover—it became immune.
Durojaiye nodded, impressed. "Sometimes the students teach the master."
But when Maka packed up, he added quietly:
"The Dean is watching. Your parents' sacrifices shouldn't end in expulsion."
The words hit like a punch.
She remembered her father polishing his glasses the morning the scholarship letter came, hope trembling in his hands.
Every risk she took was a risk they carried, too.
---
📍 Campus Amphitheater — 12:00 PM
Layo's "Financial Self-Defense" workshop drew a surprising crowd. When she introduced the Human Firewall—ordinary students detecting early disinformation—David bristled.
"After what happened last time?" he said under his breath.
Layo flinched but kept her ground. "My father's pension was restored, but Phoenix agents watch his house every night. If anyone has reason to build this, it's me."
Amina, the quiet biology student, approached with a detailed map of campus vulnerabilities. "I want to help," she whispered. "But my scholarship depends on Legacy Club funding."
The risk was real.
Yet the willingness was greater.
Then David surprised everyone.
"Layo knows how these people think," he said. "If she says this will work… we listen."
It was small, soft, but powerful.
Layo straightened, shoulders lifting. Confidence returning.
---
📍 Foundation HQ — Global Network — 3:00 PM
The new Trust Bomb detonated flawlessly.
Fake testimonials about vanished savings spread like wildfire.
FeFe traced the campaign back to a Legacy Club affiliate, but the damage was already done.
Then came the video.
Aunty Bisi—crying.
"I pulled out all my money! What have you done to us?"
Maka felt her stomach drop.
Real people.
Real fear.
Real consequences.
The Poison Pill remained useless—92% sync and climbing too slowly to matter.
Bayo tapped analytics, jaw clenched. "They're using the Gillette Maneuver—my father's strategy. Target the vulnerable, isolate them, destroy trust, then offer a 'safe alternative.' They're hitting the people least able to fight back."
His voice broke slightly.
The violence of seeing his father's methods used against Maka's world hit harder than any insult.
---
📍 Omega Wing Dorm — 5:30 PM
"They're going after people like my mother," Maka said, voice raw. "We need something radical."
Layo suggested full transparency. Doubts swirled—but David spoke up:
"She put her family at risk to help us. That's enough trust for me."
Before they could debate, Maka's phone buzzed.
Live footage.
Two well-dressed men entering her parents' shop.
Chioma's message followed:
The river meets the sea. Your choice.
Maka's hand trembled. She saw her mother arranging goods. Her father counting change with pride.
She inhaled sharply.
Then straightened.
"We implement full transaction visibility," she said. "Let the network defend itself with truth."
Amina mobilized non-tech students. Literature majors mapped disinformation patterns. Psychology students profiled attacker behavior. Art students built fast-response graphics.
The Human Firewall took form—chosen family becoming a shield.
---
📍 Campus Server Room — 11:00 PM
The IT Admin found them exactly where expected.
"Become an authorized campus project," he said, "or face expulsion."
Maka's bracelet glowed softly as she navigated the system.
"Why help us now?" she asked.
"I was Alimotu's first student," he said. "I watched them destroy her. I won't watch it happen again."
But his help came with terms.
"No more off-campus operations. Everything through official channels."
Professor Durojaiye arrived moments later.
"The Dean is being pressured. Legacy Club parents want you expelled. Your scholarship is their leverage. Play inside the system or they'll crush you outside it."
---
📍 24-Hour Library Study Room — 1:00 AM
Amina arrived with her entire dorm.
Most had already lost Legacy Club funding.
"We're all in now," she said.
Their majors didn't matter—psych, literature, architecture—they all found roles. The Human Firewall swelled in size and strength.
In a corner, exhausted and dimly lit, Maka and Bayo argued.
"I'm scared, Maka," Bayo whispered. "Last time my father wanted someone gone… it was his own sister."
Maka reached for his trembling hand.
"When I don't lead, people are exploited," she whispered back. "There's no safe choice. Only right ones."
Their exhaustion made everything sharper—fear, love, determination. The stakes were no longer academic.
This was survival.
---
📍 Professor Durojaiye's Office — 3:00 AM
He opened an old file—yellowed photos, newspaper clippings, a lost revolution.
"We tried transparency too," he said. "Exposed the university's financial records. The backlash ended careers."
He met Maka's eyes. "The system will fight back. Are you ready for that?"
The IT Admin added his condition.
Academic rules.
Campus-only operations.
Security collaboration.
Revolution would now coexist with bureaucracy.
As dawn approached, Maka looked at the unlikely alliance forming around her—failed revolutionaries, reformed insiders, scared students, brave friends.
"They wanted to isolate us," she said softly. "Instead, they showed us how many tributaries feed the river."
The Human Firewall wasn't just a defense.
It was evolution.
And the Alliance had no idea what was coming.