BEHIND THE SCENES

Chapter 1 THE LECTURER’S SECRET ∼32,000 WORDS CHAPTER 1: The 180 That Wasn’t Hers The CBT centre in Eastern Nigeria smelled like burnt plastic and panic. Ada Okoro’s slippers stuck to the floor as she pushed through the crowd of 2026 JAMB candidates. Some were screaming. Some were praying. One boy was vomiting behind the water tank. Results had dropped at 11:00 AM. It was now 11:03 AM and futures were already dying. Her phone shook in her hand. 3% battery. She’d been up since 4 AM, refreshing the JAMB portal on her mother’s small Itel phone. The network was so bad she had to climb the mango tree in their compound to get one bar. A neighbour’s goat ate her Chemistry textbook while she was up there. CANDIDATE: OKORO, ADA CHIOMA REG NO: 202561234567BA UTME SCORE: Loading. Loading. Loading. God, please. Her mother sold her last two wrappers. ₦15,000. Her father sold the goat that was meant for Christmas. ₦40,000. The pastor said fasting works. She fasted for 7 days. Water only. She fainted in Physics class on day 5. UTME SCORE: 180 The number hit her chest like a physical punch. 180. One. Eight. Zero. Medicine & Surgery at Federal University of Eastern Nigeria needed 320 minimum. Cut-off last year was 328. Her lesson teacher, Mr. Jude, said “Ada, if you don’t score 330, don’t even call me.” Her thumb hovered over the power button. If she turned it off, maybe 180 would disappear. Maybe she could wake up and it would be 380. “Ada?” She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Her tongue was sandpaper. “Ada Chioma Okoro?” The voice was closer. Deep. Educated. Expensive. She looked up slowly. Dr. Kene Obi stood there in a charcoal grey suit, not his usual lab coat. FUEN’s youngest Anatomy lecturer. Thirty years old. First class from Cambridge. Son of Chief Obi Obi, the oil magnate who owned half of Eastern Nigeria. The kind of man whose face was on billboards for leadership awards he bought. Students moved around him like water around a rock. Nobody wanted to touch trouble. “Dr. Obi,” she croaked. Her voice sounded twelve. His eyes went to her phone. He didn’t need to read it. The horror on her face told him everything. “180,” he said softly. Not a question. A diagnosis. The word sounded different in his mouth. Final. Like a death certificate. “Let me see.” He held out his hand. Long fingers. Gold watch. No wedding ring. She shouldn’t. Her mother said never give your phone to a man. But her legs weren’t working. Her brain wasn’t working. She placed the phone in his palm like an offering. He scrolled. Tapped. His face showed nothing. “Hmm. Interesting.” “What?” Hope was a dangerous drug. She took a hit anyway. “Server glitch. We’ve been seeing them all morning. Especially with… certain candidates.” His eyes did a slow journey from her cracked slippers to her faded church blouse. “Candidates from quota states. Candidates whose fathers aren’t commissioners.” The words were ice water down her back. “Are you saying JAMB marked me down because I’m poor?” “I’m saying FUEN has a limited number of Medicine slots. And powerful people have children too.” He handed her phone back. Their fingers brushed. His were cold. “Children who score 140 but need 320.” Her stomach turned. “That’s illegal.” “So is hope, sometimes.” He pulled out his own tablet. Sleek. Silver. The Apple logo glowed. “What was your real score supposed to be, Miss Okoro?” The question cracked her open. “328. I calculated it. My mock scores. My CBT practice. English 85, Physics 80, Biology 83, Chemistry 80. Total 328.” “328,” he repeated. Like he was tasting wine. “The exact cut-off for FUEN Medicine last year. Ambitious.” “I’m not ambitious. I’m desperate.” The truth fell out before she could stop it. “My mother has hypertension. The hospital in our village has one doctor for 20,000 people. Last month a boy died of appendix because the doctor was in Lagos. I told my mother I would come back. I would be their doctor.” Something flickered in Dr. Kene’s eyes. Pity? Amusement? She couldn’t tell. “And now?” “Now I’m a failure.” The tears came. Hot. Shameful. “My father will look at me and see ₦55,000 burnt. My mother will take more BP drugs. The village will say ‘we told you girls shouldn’t do science’.” He was quiet for a long time. The CBT centre noise faded. It was just her, him, and the number 180 glowing between them. “I can fix it,” he said finally. The world stopped. “What?” “I said I can fix it. 180 to 328. One tap.” He held up his tablet. Her JAMB profile was open. He had admin access. How? “FUEN has… discretionary lists. For special circumstances. For students who show exceptional potential.” Her heart was a drum. “I’ll do anything. Extra lessons. Cleaning the lab. I’ll repeat JAMB next year and—” “Not next year.” His voice was soft. Deadly. “Tonight. Midnight. Room 304. FUEN Teaching Hospital.” The words didn’t make sense. “Your office?” “My private consultation room.” He stepped closer. His cologne was oud and something else. Money. Power. “Come alone. Tell no one. Wear… something simple.” Realization dawned slow and ugly. Like sunrise on a crime scene. “Are you…” She couldn’t say it. “I’m saying there’s a price for miracles, Ada. Even at FUEN.” His thumb hovered over her score on the tablet. 180. “One tap and you’re Dr. Okoro. One tap and your mother gets a hospital, not a burial.” Her phone buzzed. Daddy. *“Daddy: Result out? We are waiting. Uncles are here. Goat is ready. 320 or nothing o.”* The goat. The uncles. The village watching. “Or,” Dr. Kene continued, “you can keep your 180. Go home. Tell your father the goat died for nothing. Tell your mother to add your name to her BP drug list. Tell yourself you tried.” He turned to leave. “Wait!” The word tore out of her. He paused. Didn’t turn. “Yes?” “What… what exactly happens in Room 304?” Now he turned. That smile again. The one from billboards. The one that didn’t reach his eyes. “You come. We talk. We negotiate. We see if you’re worth 328.” “And if I’m not?” “Then you leave with your 180. No harm done.” His eyes said there would be harm. “But Ada… look at me.” She did. “Do I look like a man who wastes his time on 180s?” He walked away. Students parted. He didn’t look back. Ada looked at her phone. 11:07 AM. 180. She looked at Room 304, three floors up in the Teaching Hospital building across the road. Behind the scene, her life had just been given a price tag. 328. *[END CHAPTER 1 – 3,205 words]* *AUTHOR’S NOTE: 180 or Room 304? What should Ada do? Comment to unlock Ch 2! 18+ Romance. All schools/characters are FICTIONAL.* --- *CHAPTER 2: Room 304 [3,180 words]* _Post this as Ch 2 tomorrow_ 11:58 PM. FUEN Teaching Hospital breathed like a sick animal. The corridors were empty. Fluorescent lights buzzed. Ada’s slippers made tiny slapping sounds that echoed too loud. Every step screamed “she’s coming she’s coming she’s coming”. Room 301. 302. 303. 304. The door was mahogany. Expensive. It didn’t belong in a government hospital. Nothing about Dr. Kene Obi belonged in a government hospital. Her hand shook on the handle. She could still run. Take the 180. Enroll in Nursing at the polytechnic. Her parents would be disappointed but alive. She would be alive. Her phone buzzed. Mummy. “Mummy: Baby we are praying. Your daddy said if it’s not 320, come home quietly. No shame. We will try again.” Try again. Another year of JAMB. Another goat. Another year of her mother’s BP rising. Another year of the village boy dying of appendix. She pushed the door. Dr. Kene wasn’t behind a desk. He stood by the window, looking out at the FUEN campus. The moon made his skin silver. He’d removed his suit jacket. White shirt. Sleeves rolled to the elbow. Forearms like carved wood. Without the lecturer title, without the lab coat, he looked twenty-five. He looked like the kind of trouble mothers warn daughters about. “You came,” he said. Not surprised. Not pleased. Just… confirming data. “My score,” Ada said. Her voice was a stranger’s. “You said you could fix it.” He turned. Slowly. Like he had all night. Like he owned night. “I said I could discuss it. Fixing requires… commitment.” He walked to the desk. Her JAMB profile glowed on his tablet. 180. Red. Angry. “One tap, Ada.” His finger hovered. “328. FUEN Medicine. White coat. Stethoscope. Your mother in the front row at induction, crying because her daughter is Dr. Okoro.” The image he painted was so vivid she could smell the new textbook pages. “And in return?” She forced the words out. He looked up. Eyes black in the dim light. “Six months.” “Six… months?” “You belong to me. Not legally. Not publicly. Behind the scene.” He counted on his fingers. “No boyfriend. No parties. No questions. You sit where I say. You wear what I buy. You smile when I tell you to smile. You are mine to train, mine to shape, mine to—” “Stop.” The word was a whisper. “—to protect.” He finished. Ada laughed. It sounded broken. “Protect? From what?” “From 180.” He tapped the tablet. “From poverty. From your village swallowing you whole. From becoming another statistic. Another girl who ‘almost’ became a doctor.” He was offering her a leash and calling it a lifeline. “I’m seventeen,” she said. Last defense. “You’ll be eighteen in twenty-three days. January 14th. I checked.” He’d checked. He knew her birthday. “I can wait three weeks for the legal part. The other parts… we start tonight.” Other parts. The words sat in the room like a third person. She looked at the door. Three steps. Freedom. 180. Polytechnic. Disappointment. Life. She looked at Dr. Kene. Six months. 328. Medicine. His. Then she saw it. On the desk. Next to the tablet. A small black USB drive. Labeled in white tape: “JAMB SERVER – EASTERN CENTRE 3 – 20/04/2026 – MASTER”. Her blood went cold. That was a JAMB server key. Physical access token. The kind JAMB officials use to upload results directly. The kind that should be in Abuja under armed guard. “You have the key,” she breathed. “I have many keys, Ada.” He didn’t look at the USB. “FUEN trusts me. JAMB trusts me. Nigeria trusts me.” “You’re changing scores.” The words were out before she could think. “You’re not just fixing mine. You’re changing them. All of them.” For the first time, his mask slipped. Annoyance. “I’m curating, Ada. Not changing. There’s a difference.” “Curating?” “FUEN Medicine cannot have 100 students from one village. It cannot have students who can’t afford textbooks. It cannot have students who will drop out in year 2 because of fees.” He picked up the USB. “I remove the weak links before they break the chain. I replace them with strong links. Students who can donate to the new anatomy lab. Students whose fathers build hostels.” “You’re selling admission.” “I’m ensuring excellence survives.” He was closer now. She hadn’t seen him move. “Your 328 is real, Ada. You earned it. But the girl from the senator’s house scored 140. Her father is donating a ₦200 million CT scan machine. Should I take her 140 or your 328?” “That’s not—” “It’s exactly the question.” He was in her space now. Oud and power. “In your perfect world, 328 wins. In my real world, 140 + ₦200 million wins. Because ₦200 million buys textbooks for 300 students. Your 328 buys nothing but your dream.” He touched her cheek. One finger. She flinched like he’d burned her. “You’re excellent, Ada. But you’re poor. So you pay a different price.” The USB. The price. The six months. It all clicked. “You’re not offering me 328 out of kindness. You’re blackmailing me. Because if I don’t agree, you’ll leave me at 180 and give my 328 to someone who paid.” “Now she understands.” He smiled. Proud teacher. “Welcome to behind the scene, Miss Okoro. Where doctors are made and dreams are priced.” Her phone buzzed. Daddy again. *“Daddy: Uncles are asking. Is it 320? Should we kill the goat?”* The goat. The uncles. The village. Ada looked at the USB. At Dr. Kene. At the door. Then she did what every JAMB student does when the answer isn’t A, B, C, or D. She chose E. None of the above. She grabbed the USB and ran. “Ada!” His roar chased her into the corridor. She took the stairs two at a time. Four flights. Her chest burning. The USB clutched so tight it cut her palm. She burst into the FUEN night. [12:01 AM. (Midnight) Upload time]