The city had not yet found its voice.
A pale grey dawn stretched across the roofs of Ajibade Street, gentle and cool in the brief hour before the sun remembered its cruelty. For once, the air moved—thin, forgiving wind slipping through half-open windows and fluttering curtains that smelled faintly of detergent and dust.
Victry woke to the clatter of a distant metal bucket and the crowing of a rooster that lived somewhere behind the compound. A neighbor's radio muttered gospel music, the singer's voice thin through static. She lay still for a moment, eyes closed, listening to the sounds of life collecting themselves: the squeak of a child's shoes in the corridor, the soft scrape of someone sweeping sand into a neat little hill.
When she finally sat up, her bones protested softly. The small room glowed with the milky light of early morning. On the table sat her handbag, a neat stack of graded books, and a chipped mug half-filled with cold tea from the night before. The air smelled faintly of chalk and kerosene. It wasn't much of a home, but it was hers.
She rose, showered, and dressed quickly, tying a scarf over her braids. In the small mirror nailed beside the window, her reflection looked half-awake and determined. She dabbed a little powder across her nose—"Look neat even when no one is looking," her mother's voice echoed from memory—and pinned back one stray braid.
For a heartbeat she studied herself, the mild exhaustion around her eyes, the steady patience there too. You'll manage, she told her reflection, and smiled.
She lit the kerosene stove in the corner. The blue flame coughed, then steadied. Water boiled in a dented kettle while she sliced yesterday's bread and spread it thinly with butter already soft from the humidity. She ate standing up, watching dawn gather outside her window. The street was still half-asleep—only a few vendors arranging trays of oranges and the old tailor next door testing his sewing machine with a stuttering rrr-rrr-rrr.
"Morning, Teacher Victry!" called Mama Sade from across the yard, dragging a bucket to the tap.
"Morning, ma!" Victry replied, smiling.
"You going early today o?"
"Trying to beat the sun," she said, and both women laughed, knowing the sun always won.
She watered the small potted plant on her windowsill—a stubborn aloe Marie had given her months ago—and locked the door behind her. The key scraped in the stiff lock, its click echoing faintly down the corridor.
---
Outside, Ajibade Street was waking fast. The air filled with the music of Lagos: the hiss of frying akara, the clang of pot lids, and the rhythmic call of a hawker—"Agege bread! Fresh bread o!" She stepped carefully around a puddle left by the night's brief drizzle and joined the slow flow of people moving toward the main road.
Okada horns trilled like impatient birds. She waved one down and climbed on, balancing her bag on her lap. The driver wore a red bandanna and smelled of petrol.
"Madam teacher, this sun go show itself today o," he said.
"It always does," she replied, adjusting her scarf.
They wove between buses, market stalls, and early commuters. The wind slapped at her scarf and carried the smell of roasted corn, exhaust, and the salt edge of the lagoon. A billboard for a mobile-phone company flashed STAY CONNECTED in peeling red paint; below it, a street preacher shouted blessings through a megaphone while a bus conductor bellowed, "CMS! CMS straight!" Children in uniforms hurried along the sidewalks, laughing and chasing one another toward school gates.
By the time the motorcycle slowed at the corner of Everlight Street, the city was fully alive, the sun already asserting itself. Victry paid the driver, thanked him, and stepped off into the dusty glow.
---
Everlight Academy stood ahead, its pale-yellow walls glowing under the strengthening light. The guard, old Mr Bala, dozed on his stool again, cap tilted over his face. Victry smiled as she signed the staff register and tapped the wooden table lightly beside him.
"Morning, Mr Bala. Don't let the sun catch you sleeping."
He opened one eye. "The sun will find me whether I run or not, madam teacher."
She laughed and walked on. Two cleaners swept the courtyard, raising small whirlwinds of red dust. From a nearby classroom came the scrape of desks being dragged into order. Ife, the art teacher, appeared carrying two cartons of chalk.
"Morning, Victry. Half these sticks are already broken."
"Maybe they're practicing honesty," Victry said. "They can't hide their weaknesses."
Ife snorted. "Honesty won't keep them from breaking again."
Victry grinned and continued toward the staffroom.
---
Near the corridor, the headmaster's deep voice boomed.
"Ms Victry! You'll take the morning reading at assembly. Theme—honesty. Five minutes!"
She blinked, then smiled. "Honesty at seven-thirty? That's bravery, sir."
Mr Adewale chuckled, waving the microphone like a baton. "You're a teacher—you must be brave."
---
Victry took the microphone, the plastic warm under her fingertips, and stepped out to the central courtyard where the pupils were assembling. They lined up by class, crisp white shirts and navy-blue skirts or trousers bright against the red dust of the school ground.
The air buzzed with low chatter until Mr Adewale's whistle shrieked. Silence fell, thick and expectant. Victry faced the sea of faces and felt a familiar calm settle in her chest. This was her favorite moment—before heat and noise claimed the day—when everything felt possible.
"Good morning, pupils!" she called. "Today's reading is about honesty."
Her voice, gentle in the classroom, carried clearly through the small loudspeaker. She read a short passage about telling the truth even when it was difficult, her tone even and kind, emphasizing certain words as though polishing them.
When she finished, she lowered the microphone. "That's our thought for today," she said. "Be truthful, even in small things—it's how we build trust."
Mr Adewale stepped forward, voice booming. "Stand still!"
Rows stiffened. A small boy grasped the flag-rope.
As the anthem was sang, she joined quietly, her voice blending with theirs. The morning sun climbed above the roofline, casting gold over the courtyard. Flags snapped. For a moment everything felt perfectly aligned—children, teachers, light, and dust in the same bright rhythm.
"Pledge!"
Victry watched as the green-and-white flag rose slowly, fluttering in the fragile morning breeze. The pupils began to recite, their young voices weaving together in bright, uneven harmony—some shouting, some whispering, all sincere.
I pledge to Nigeria, my country,
To be faithful, loyal and honest...
The smell of shoe polish and dust hung in the air. A smaller girl yawned halfway through the lines; another stumbled on "to serve Nigeria with all my strength." Victry smiled, pride softening the fatigue in her bones.
When the final "Amen" faded, Mr Adewale clapped once. "To your classes!"
The pupils broke ranks in a rustle of laughter and movement, shadows stretching long across the red earth. Victry handed back the microphone, the warmth of it lingering in her palm.
She walked toward her classroom through the swirling dust, listening to chairs scrape and voices find their morning rhythm. The first lesson of the day waited—language, laughter, and, inevitably, more rulers.
And as always, at that small beginning of every day, Victry felt the quiet, abiding certainty that she was exactly where she was meant to be.