AKANNI (POV)
It was the beginning of Junior Secondary School One, two years before SS2. I was thirteen then—smaller than I am now, but already carrying the same quiet vigilance.
The assembly ground was alive with movement and sound, each student claiming space, testing limits, searching for companions. Some clung to their mothers, crying softly, while others shouted names across the crowd, forming alliances before the first bell had even rung. A few, polished and confident, stood apart. Their sandals gleamed, uniforms were immaculate, and hair was neatly plaited or cut with careful designs. Their parents' wealth announced itself before their words. Drivers waited outside the gate, engines idling silently.
I stood alone, observing, measuring, calculating.
That morning, my mother had walked me to the gate. She could not come inside; errands and laundry waited for her. She pressed two fifty-naira notes into my hand—one for emergencies, one for transport if it rained. Her hands were rough, smelling faintly of detergent and labor.
"Akanni, remember who you are," she said. "Do not let anyone intimidate you."
I nodded. She touched my cheek quickly, a fleeting warmth, and turned back toward the market.
Assembly stretched on endlessly. The principal spoke of discipline, excellence, and responsibility. The vice principal for academics reminded us of the school's past WAEC performance, the results that had disappointed the teachers. The vice principal for administration warned that any student caught fighting would face suspension. Few believed him; in practice, punishment depended entirely on whose father could raise the loudest complaint at the PTA.
After assembly, we checked the class lists outside the staff room. Students surged forward, elbows brushing, voices overlapping. I waited until the crowd thinned.
Classes were divided from A to H. The system was simple, if unfair: those whose parents paid fees early received smaller classes, better teachers, and more attention. Wealth dictated influence; influence dictated space. Those who paid last, or had no money, were placed in crowded, neglected classes at the back or near the doors, where teachers sometimes forgot their names until a mistake forced recognition.
I found myself in Class C. Not the best, not the worst. My mother had saved every kobo she could—washing clothes, collecting laundry, mending garments—to ensure I was placed here. Enough to avoid the chaos and neglect of the lowest sections, but still far from privilege.
The classroom was long and rectangular, with broken louvre windows and rows of wooden desks scarred by knives and pen marks. A ceiling fan spun slowly, creaking as if exhausted by its own existence. Boys outnumbered girls, already sizing each other up—who spoke loudest, who was strongest, who might challenge authority.
I chose a desk near the window at the back—not for the view, but for the vantage point. From there, I could observe everything without revealing myself.
Mrs. Okeke, our English teacher, arrived late. Young, perhaps twenty-five, her Ankara skirt simple, her long cane rarely used. She called the register, stumbling over some of the Yoruba names. When she reached mine, she paused.
"A-kan-ni… Bami-dale?"
I raised my hand. "Present, ma."
Her eyes lingered a moment longer than the others. Perhaps she noticed something unusual. Perhaps she did not.
The first week revealed the unspoken rules: the rich occupied the front rows. Teachers smiled at them, praised neat notes, and overlooked empty pages. Poor students sat at the back, often forgotten until their mistakes demanded attention.
If a wealthy student forgot his textbook, the teacher excused him. If a poor student forgot, he was corrected publicly. If a fight involved children of influence, the less powerful bore the punishment, while the privileged escaped unscathed.
I learned quickly. Keep your head down. Speak only when spoken to. Do your work. Avoid trouble you cannot finish.
Yet trouble found me regardless.
It started with Segun, a boy with an oversized head and an even larger ego. His father owned three shops in Oja-Oba market. During Mathematics, he chewed gum aggressively, blowing bubbles that popped loudly, distracting everyone. The teacher ignored him; I focused on my notes.
After class, he blocked my path.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" he demanded.
I said nothing. I simply looked.
"Are you deaf? I'm talking to you!"
I stepped aside. He shoved me.
I turned slowly, deliberately. The courtyard was filling with students heading home; some paused to watch. Segun laughed, forming a loose circle with his friends.
I did not speak. I placed my bag on the ground and rolled up my sleeves.
He swung first, wild and reckless. I shifted just enough; his fist missed. One sharp elbow into his stomach, and he collapsed, gasping.
His friends tried to intervene. One felt the sting of my palm across his ear. Another froze, staring at Segun struggling on the ground.
Teachers arrived late. As usual.
Mrs. Okeke stepped through the crowd, her eyes flicking between Segun coughing in the dirt and me, standing still, composed.
"What happened here?" she asked.
Voices rose simultaneously:
"He started it."
"Akanni attacked him for no reason."
I said nothing.
Mrs. Okeke turned to Segun. "Is that true?"
He avoided her gaze. Pride had been broken before words were spoken.
The vice principal arrived briefly, muttered about "boys being boys," and left. No suspensions. Only warnings.
After that, Segun and his friends avoided me. Other boys nodded in the corridors—some with respect, others with caution. Rich students observed me carefully. Poor students moved closer, as if proximity offered safety.
I did not want followers. I did not want attention. I wanted only to pass through school untouched. But school never allowed that.
Later that term, class captain elections arrived. Five names were shortlisted: Demi, Segun, Odunayo, a quiet, brilliant girl—and me. I did not campaign. I did not ask for votes or smile. My teacher recommended me for my academic performance.
They asked questions:
"Will you report misconduct?"
"Yes."
"Will you handle class funds honestly?"
"Yes."
"Can you control the class in a teacher's absence?"
"Yes."
Their eyes lingered on my worn sandals and patched uniform. I ignored it.
Two days later, results were announced. Class Captain: Demi. Assistant: Segun.
I was not surprised.
Mrs. Okeke found me under the almond tree after school.
"Akanni, you should have won."
I shrugged. "It does not matter, ma."
"It does. You are responsible. You are capable."
"I have other priorities," I said.
She sighed. "Do not let this place harden you."
I almost laughed. "I have more important things than titles," I said, and walked away after she waved me off.
Teachers whispered as I passed. "What is wrong with that boy?"
"He feels cheated," one replied.
They misunderstood. I was not offended. I was not hurt. I simply did not care.
That evening, I walked home past Mama Kamo's shop. A small television blared news of politicians stealing millions, collapsed school buildings, unfulfilled promises of free education. I did not pause.
I kept walking, watching the streetlights flicker against the night, listening to distant voices settling into evening quiet. I felt nothing for the corruption or whispers. Only one truth mattered: the world would not pause for anyone.
I had already hardened. And school had only just begun.