the Chronicles of Lagos Science Academy

The heat hit me before the terminal doors even opened. Not the polite, "turn up the The heat hit me before the terminal doors even opened. Not the polite, "turn up the AC" heat I grew up with in London. This was Lagos heat. Heavy. Sticky. The kind that made my button-down shirt cling to my back in 3 seconds flat. "Jaden! Jaden Adeyemi!" I turned. Mum was already crying. Same mum who told me "be strong" on FaceTime last night. She pulled me into a hug that smelled like shea butter and home cooking. For a second, I forgot I was 18 and "too old" for airport tears. "You're thinner," she said, pulling back to scan me. "Did they feed you in that place?" "Mum, I lived there for ten years," I said, British accent slipping out before I could stop it. A woman behind us muttered, "Oyinbo boy don come." Great. Day 1 and I already had a nickname. The drive from MMIA to Ikeja was chaos I'd forgotten. Horns, danfos swerving, hawkers at traffic lights. Mum kept pointing: "That's where I bought your first shoes. That's your secondary school." I nodded. But my phone buzzed. *Dad*: Flight back to London booked. 16th Dec, post-WAEC. Don't get comfortable. I locked my screen. Mum didn't need to see that. --- Lagos Science Academy looked nothing like my old school in Croydon. No red brick. No uniform blazers. Just white buildings, aircon units, and students who looked like they were born with iPads in their hands. Principal Mrs. Bello shook my hand. "We're glad to have you, Mr. Adeyemi. Final term of SS3. You'll have a lot to catch up on." "I learn fast," I said. "We'll see," she smiled. "Your form teacher, Mr. Tunde, will take you to Chemistry Lab 2. That's where the smart ones fight for first position." Chemistry Lab 2 smelled like ethanol and ambition. Twenty students in lab coats. All eyes turned when I walked in. And then I saw her. She was at the front bench, adjusting a burette like it had offended her. Lab coat buttoned to the top. No makeup. No phone out. Just focus. Mr. Tunde clapped. "Class, this is Jaden Adeyemi. Transfer from London. He'll be with us for WAEC." Silence. Then whispers. "London?" "Accent o." Mr. Tunde gestured to the only empty seat. Right next to her. "Miss Okoye," he said. "You'll show Jaden the ropes. Titration practical starts now. You two are partners." She didn't look up. Just slid a second lab coat across the bench. "Amara Okoye," she said, voice flat. "Don't touch anything until I say so." I took the coat. "Jaden," I said. "And I'm not here to break your beakers." She finally looked at me. Dark eyes, sharp. The kind that calculated everything before she spoke. "We'll see," she said. Same thing the principal said. Mr. Tunde dropped the instruction sheet between us. "50cm³ of 0.1M HCl. Titrate against NaOH. Most accurate result wins bragging rights. Begin." Amara was already measuring acid before I opened my notebook. I watched her hands. Steady. No wasted movement. She was good. Annoyingly good. I reached for the pipette. Our fingers brushed. She pulled back like I'd burned her. "Don't. I'll do the measuring. You record." "Or," I said, keeping my voice level, "we both measure. Double-check each other. That's how they do it at A-levels." Her pen stopped. "This isn't A-levels. This is Nigeria. And I don't lose to new students." The rest of the class was already arguing over color changes. But at our bench, it was just silence. Her watching the burette. Me watching her. First drop of phenolphthalein hit the flask. Pink appeared, then vanished. "Too fast," I said. "Too slow and we'll be here till closing," she shot back. We worked like that for 20 minutes. Two geniuses. One bench. Zero patience for each other. When Mr. Tunde called time, Amara wrote her result on the board: *24.95cm³* I wrote mine: *24.95cm³* The class went quiet. Mr. Tunde frowned at both numbers. "Identical. To two decimal places." He looked at us, then at the class. "Interesting. You two will redo the experiment after class. Together. And if I see one more attitude, both of you have detention in this lab till 6pm." Amara's jaw tightened. She turned to me, eyes flashing. "This is your fault," she whispered. "Pretty sure you were the one rushing," I whispered back. She picked up her notebook. "Fine. But when I beat you in the retest, you're buying suya for a month." I leaned back, British smirk kicking in before I could stop it. "Deal. But when I win, you admit London taught me something." She didn't answer. Just walked out, lab coat flaring behind her. Mr. Tunde sighed. "6pm, Lab 2. Don't be late. Both of you." And just like that, my first day in Nigeria ended with detention. With her. "Jaden! Jaden Adeyemi!" I turned. Mum was already crying. Same mum who told me "be strong" on FaceTime last night. She pulled me into a hug that smelled like shea butter and home cooking. For a second, I forgot I was 18 and "too old" for airport tears. "You're thinner," she said, pulling back to scan me. "Did they feed you in that place?" "Mum, I lived there for ten years," I said, British accent slipping out before I could stop it. A woman behind us muttered, "Oyinbo boy don come." Great. Day 1 and I already had a nickname. The drive from MMIA to Ikeja was chaos I'd forgotten. Horns, danfos swerving, hawkers at traffic lights. Mum kept pointing: "That's where I bought your first shoes. That's your secondary school." I nodded. But my phone buzzed. *Dad*: Flight back to London booked. 16th Dec, post-WAEC. Don't get comfortable. I locked my screen. Mum didn't need to see that. --- Lagos Science Academy looked nothing like my old school in Croydon. No red brick. No uniform blazers. Just white buildings, aircon units, and students who looked like they were born with iPads in their hands. Principal Mrs. Bello shook my hand. "We're glad to have you, Mr. Adeyemi. Final term of SS3. You'll have a lot to catch up on." "I learn fast," I said. "We'll see," she smiled. "Your form teacher, Mr. Tunde, will take you to Chemistry Lab 2. That's where the smart ones fight for first position." Chemistry Lab 2 smelled like ethanol and ambition. Twenty students in lab coats. All eyes turned when I walked in. And then I saw her. She was at the front bench, adjusting a burette like it had offended her. Lab coat buttoned to the top. No makeup. No phone out. Just focus. Mr. Tunde clapped. "Class, this is Jaden Adeyemi. Transfer from London. He'll be with us for WAEC." Silence. Then whispers. "London?" "Accent o." Mr. Tunde gestured to the only empty seat. Right next to her. "Miss Okoye," he said. "You'll show Jaden the ropes. Titration practical starts now. You two are partners." She didn't look up. Just slid a second lab coat across the bench. "Amara Okoye," she said, voice flat. "Don't touch anything until I say so." I took the coat. "Jaden," I said. "And I'm not here to break your beakers." She finally looked at me. Dark eyes, sharp. The kind that calculated everything before she spoke. "We'll see," she said. Same thing the principal said. Mr. Tunde dropped the instruction sheet between us. "50cm³ of 0.1M HCl. Titrate against NaOH. Most accurate result wins bragging rights. Begin." Amara was already measuring acid before I opened my notebook. I watched her hands. Steady. No wasted movement. She was good. Annoyingly good. I reached for the pipette. Our fingers brushed. She pulled back like I'd burned her. "Don't. I'll do the measuring. You record." "Or," I said, keeping my voice level, "we both measure. Double-check each other. That's how they do it at A-levels." Her pen stopped. "This isn't A-levels. This is Nigeria. And I don't lose to new students." The rest of the class was already arguing over color changes. But at our bench, it was just silence. Her watching the burette. Me watching her. First drop of phenolphthalein hit the flask. Pink appeared, then vanished. "Too fast," I said. "Too slow and we'll be here till closing," she shot back. We worked like that for 20 minutes. Two geniuses. One bench. Zero patience for each other. When Mr. Tunde called time, Amara wrote her result on the board: *24.95cm³* I wrote mine: *24.95cm³* The class went quiet. Mr. Tunde frowned at both numbers. "Identical. To two decimal places." He looked at us, then at the class. "Interesting. You two will redo the experiment after class. Together. And if I see one more attitude, both of you have detention in this lab till 6pm." Amara's jaw tightened. She turned to me, eyes flashing. "This is your fault," she whispered. "Pretty sure you were the one rushing," I whispered back. She picked up her notebook. "Fine. But when I beat you in the retest, you're buying suya for a month." I leaned back, British smirk kicking in before I could stop it. "Deal. But when I win, you admit London taught me something." She didn't answer. Just walked out, lab coat flaring behind her. Mr. Tunde sighed. "6pm, Lab 2. Don't be late. Both of you." And just like that, my first day in Nigeria ended with detention. With her.