The notice board was still damp from the rain.
Zara stood at the back of the crowd, clutching her ID card so hard the edges cut into her palm. Everyone else was pushing forward, shouting, laughing, crying. The ones who passed.
She didn't need to push.
Her name wasn't on the list.
Not in the top 100. Not in the top 500. Not even in the "supplementary"section at the bottom that nobody wanted to read.
"Zara Okoro", someone said behind her."Did you see it?" She turned.It was Mrs.Bello, her old math teacher. The same woman who'd told the whole class last year,"If Zara doesn't get first place, none of you will".
Mrs.Bello's face fell when she saw Zara's eyes.
"Oh", she said:"Im sorry, dear."
Sorry didn't pay the rent. Sorry didn't stop her uncle from saying,"Maybe school wasn't for you,"at dinner. Sorry didn't fill the silence when her little brother stopped asking her to check his homework.
That night,Zara took the only job offered to her: night clerk at Musa's General Store.
The pay was bad. The hours were worse. But it was something.
Three weeks later, at 9:47PM , a boy in a torn school uniform slid a tattered math book across the counter.
"Madam", he whispered,"can you explain question 4?"
Zara stared at the problem. Quadratic equations. The same thing that had cost her the exam.
She looked at the boy.At the hope in his eyes.
And for the first time since seeing that list, she felt something other than shame.