When the loudspeaker died, I knew my problems were about to get louder. My name is Zuwaira. I am twenty-four. I teach twenty-six girls under a leaking roof at the end of Quiet Road, in Wahala Junction, Jalingo. The road is not quiet. The roof is not a roof. Four buckets sat between my girls. We were learning the letter A. "Teacher, it is wet again," Mariam whispered. "Then we will learn a dry one," I said. The girls laughed. I did not have a plan. I had chalk that broke and a loudspeaker that belonged to Chairman Bigsound. The loudspeaker woke before we did. It hung on a pole near my classroom. That morning, it had a new job. Me. "Good people of Wahala Junction!" It screamed. Chairman Bigsound arrived in white agbada that hurt the eyes. Gold watch. Two boys in yellow shirts carrying drinks and small chops. Like it was a wedding. "Our daughter, Teacher Zuwaira, has agreed to support our great vision!" I had agreed to nothing. "She will partner with Mega Mouth Sound and Events Community Outreach!" In Wahala Junction, partnership means marriage. Everybody knew it. "Zuwaira, come and greet your people!" "I am greeting my class." "This is bigger than class." "Nothing is bigger than class." Mama Hauwa touched my arm. She sells akara by the gate. "Smile," she whispered. "Small smile." "If I smile, he will put it on a banner." "He will put it on a banner anyway." Aunty Ngozi came from her shop. "Chairman, not today. The girls are learning." "They will learn better when they have a proper husband supporting their teacher." "I am not looking for a husband. I am looking for a roof." "Why not both?" His gold watch flashed. "I will repair your roof. I will bring computers. I will bring recognition from the LGA. Just say yes." "To what?" "To progress." He said progress the way other people say property. Then the loudspeaker made a strange sound. A crackle. A cough. Then silence. Everybody looked up. It had died. In the middle of his speech about my future wedding hall and my future children, it died. My girls stared at it. Then at me. "Teacher, did you do that?" Mariam whispered. "I wish I had that power." Chairman shook the wire. One boy climbed the pole. Nothing. Quiet Road was finally quiet. I could hear the mango leaves. I could hear chalk. Mr. Peter Ayuba arrived then. Toolbox with more rust than tools, and two nails. "I found them," he said. "Where?" "On the road." "Two matching nails?" "God provides." Mr. Ayuba teaches Primary Two next door. He is poor. He fixes things with his hands. He looked at my roof. He looked at the buckets. He climbed the ladder without asking. Chairman watched him. "Ayuba, this is not your work." "The roof is everyone's work." "You are trying to impress her." "I am trying to stop water from entering her classroom." The girls liked him because he never shouted. He tied the loose zinc with wire. His hands were stained with rust. He came down, sweat on his forehead. "That will hold for one more rain," he said. "Thank you." Chairman looked at him like a man who had been interrupted. "You think small repairs will bring LGA recognition?" he said to me. "My girls can read. That is recognition." "Reading does not bring money." "It brings questions." "Questions are not good for girls." "Questions are why we have schools." His smile stayed, but his eyes left. "You will hear from the LGA. Without me, your school is not eligible for its own future." He left. White agbada disappearing down Quiet Road. Shaya, my nineteen-year-old brother, came with his phone. "Sister, I recorded everything. If you marry him, we will trend." "I will not marry a man to make my school eligible for its own future." "That is a good caption," he grinned. Mama Hauwa brought groundnuts. "That man will not stop." "I know." At sunset, when the girls had gone and the buckets were half full, Ayuba returned. He did not bring nails. He brought a brown envelope. Old. Soft at the corners. "This came to primary school by mistake," he said. "From Jalingo LGA Education Office. Addressed to you." I opened it. One page inside. My hands did not shake until I finished reading it. "Zuwaira?" I looked up at Ayuba. "They said my school is not eligible." He did not ask what I would do. He only opened his small brown notebook and waited for me to speak.