CHAPTER 1- POWERPUFF BEGINNINGS
University had a way of stretching time, days felt long, but the years vanished quickly. When I first stepped into campus life, I wasn’t searching for anything profound. I just wanted to survive school, graduate, and move on with my life. But sometimes, when you’re not looking for anything, you stumble on everything.
We were four girls in the beginning.
We didn’t plan it. We simply found each other in the blur of registration lines, lecture halls, and hostel corridors. In those early days of figuring out timetables and dodging 8 a.m. classes, we became inseparable. We called ourselves The Powerpuff Girls, not because we had powers, but because it felt like we did. We had inside jokes, matching outfits, and dreams stitched from the same fabric.
Our bond was tight, tight enough to believe nothing could break it. But we were naive. University doesn’t just test your intellect; it tests your soul.
Things began to change around 200 level.
One of the girls, Efe started struggling academically. Her confidence slowly turned into frustration. The more she failed, the more she withdrew. Yet, she stayed around us, as if pretending to be part of something she was already slipping away from. One afternoon, after results came out, she looked at me and said something that stung, even though she said it with a half-smile.
“It’s like you’re eating my grades.”
I blinked. Laughed awkwardly. But her eyes weren’t joking.
It wasn’t long before she was withdrawn from the department. After that, the tension in our little group deepened. People stopped saying everything they felt. The silences grew longer. Secrets grew heavier.
And eventually, we split.
Not in a dramatic way, but the way people do when reality separates them. The other two girls drifted to one side. I found myself drawing closer to the one person who stayed constant, Sarah.
Sarah wasn’t like the others.
She didn’t need the spotlight. She didn’t chase people’s attention. She had this way of being present without making noise. If you didn’t know her, you might miss her. But if you did, if you saw past her quiet eyes, you’d find someone who carried strength like silk, soft, but unbreakable.
She didn’t talk much about her past. All I knew was that she didn’t have parents. She didn’t wear her pain out loud. You wouldn’t hear her complaining or begging. But in her kindness, you could tell she had suffered and learned how to love deeply because of it.
We became sisters in every sense that mattered.
She started visiting my house. My parents loved her. She could stay for days, and no one would ask questions. She washed her clothes with mine, cooked when she felt like it, and sometimes even prayed for the family like she was born into it. My room became her safe space.
There was one night I remember clearly. We were lying on my bed, the fan humming softly, the room dimly lit by my study lamp. She looked at the ceiling and said:
I don’t think I’ll grow old.
I turned to her, confused. “Why would you say that?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I just don’t feel like I’m meant to.”
I told her to stop talking nonsense, and she laughed. I laughed too. But part of me knew she wasn’t joking.
By the time we reached 300 level, we had seen more than enough stress to mature us. We were now preparing for our professional exams, the kind that could make or break a student’s future. Our schedules were insane, our emotions raw, and our hope tightly wrapped around success.
One day, I realized I had forgotten my departmental receipt at home. Without it, you couldn’t sit for your exams. My heart nearly dropped to the floor.
I panicked, pacing around the hostel like a madwoman. Then I remembered Sarah was home. I called her, explaining everything in a rush.
She didn’t even hesitate. She took the next bus to my place, collected the receipt from my parents, and brought it back. No complaints. No guilt-tripping. Just love, as always.
When she handed it to me outside our lecture hall, I noticed something strange.
Her breath smelled off like rot. Not ordinary bad breath, but something darker. Something medical. Something spiritual.
I didn’t say anything.
Maybe I was afraid. Maybe I didn’t want to worry her. Or maybe, a part of me already knew.
That was the first real sign.
As weeks passed, Sarah began changing.
She started giving more than usual paying for people’s transport fares, buying snacks for classmates she barely knew, and constantly saying things like:
“I don’t want to owe anybody.”
At first, it was funny. We thought she was just being extra. But then the things she said started sounding… final.
One time, she posted on f*******:,
“Lord, why am I sinking so deep?”
I saw it. Read it twice. And scrolled past it like everyone else. I told myself she was just tired. That school stress was getting to her.
But that post haunts me now. I wish I had asked. I wish I had listened.
It wasn’t until the day of our viva exams, the oral defense for our practicals, that the atmosphere around her shifted completely.
She arrived early, looking thinner than usual. Quiet. Smiling, but not present. One of our classmates offered to buy her food. She said she was hungry, but didn’t want to owe anyone.
The seller told her not to worry—that someone would pay for her on Monday.
But she insisted:
“No. I won’t be around on Monday.”
We laughed nervously.
The seller smiled, “Where are you going?”
“I’m travelling,” she said. “And I won’t be coming back.”
That line settled in the air like incense.
We didn’t understand it.
We didn’t take it seriously.
That was our mistake.
And that was the beginning of the end.
