HmmmToHealing

Friday

HMMMTOHEALING — CHAPTER 14: FRIDAY

Friday came too fast.

Healing stood outside Ms. Aisha’s office at 3:15pm. The school was almost empty. Only the cleaners were sweeping, and a few football boys were shouting on the field.

His uniform was neat. He’d ironed it himself last night. For the first time in weeks, he wanted to look presentable.

He knocked twice.

“Come in,” Ms. Aisha’s voice said.

Her office was small. One desk, two chairs, a shelf full of books on counseling and teenagers. A window looked out to the mango tree behind Block A.

Ms. Aisha was in her 40s. Headwrap, glasses, kind eyes. She didn’t look like the teachers who shouted.

“Healing. Sit.” She smiled and pointed to the chair.

He sat. His hands were sweating. The torn letter was folded in his pocket. He hadn’t shown it to anyone since Tuesday.

“I’m glad you came,” she said. “Did you get my note?”

He nodded. He couldn’t speak.

“I know it was private,” she continued. “And I’m sorry your classmates saw it. That shouldn’t have happened.”

Healing looked down. “They called me charity case.”

Ms. Aisha’s face softened. “I’m sorry, Healing. People are cruel when they’re afraid. But we’re not here to talk about them. We’re here to talk about you.”

She opened a folder on her desk. Inside were papers. Application forms.

“There’s a foundation in Accra,” she said. “The Sunrise Youth Program. They help students who are going through hard things at home. School fees, books, counseling. Sometimes even food.”

Healing’s head snapped up. “For me?”

“For students like you,” she said gently. “Yes. Your dad’s drinking… your mom leaving… that’s a lot for a 16-year-old to carry alone.”

His throat tightened. No adult had ever said it out loud like that.

“I don’t want pity,” he said quietly.

“This isn’t pity,” Ms. Aisha said. “It’s support. You’re still coming to school. You’re still passing your exams, even when things are hard. That’s strength. The foundation wants to invest in strength.”

She slid a form across the desk. “I need your dad’s signature. And a copy of your last report card.”

Healing stared at the paper. His dad. Signature.

He hadn’t spoken to his dad properly in months. The man was drunk more days than he was sober.

“My dad… he won’t sign,” Healing said.

“Then we find another way,” Ms. Aisha said. “Your uncle? Your aunt? Any guardian?”

Healing shook his head. “I don’t have anyone.”

Ms. Aisha was quiet for a moment. Then she pushed the form back into the folder. “Okay. We won’t give up today. But I need you to think about it. The deadline is in two weeks.”

Two weeks.

She stood up and opened her drawer. She brought out a small notebook. Plain black cover.

“This is for you,” she said. “Not for school. For you. When things get heavy, write it down. Anger. Sadness. Even small good things. It helps.”

Healing took it. It felt light, but important.

“Thank you, madam,” he whispered.

“You’re welcome, Healing.” She stood. “And listen. What happened on the stairs… it doesn’t define you. You are not your dad’s drinking. You are not your mom leaving. You are Healing. And you matter.”

He walked out of the office with the notebook in his hand and the form in his bag.

Outside, the sun was low. The compound was gold.

Tunde and Joel were by the gate, waiting.

“Healing!” Tunde called. “How was your charity meeting?”

Healing didn’t answer. He kept walking.

“Oooh, he’s quiet now,” Joel laughed. “Madam gave you money?”

Healing stopped. He turned slowly.

For months he’d been silent. For months he’d let them laugh.

Not today.

“I’m not a charity case,” he said. His voice was steady. Not loud. Not shouting. Just steady. “I’m a student. Just like you. The only difference is, someone finally noticed I’m still here.”

The boys went quiet.

Healing kept walking. Out the gate. Into Accra traffic.

He didn’t run. He didn’t hide.

In his bag was a form, a notebook, and a reason to try again.

To be continued......

The sun was hot on his neck, but it didn’t burn. Not anymore. Accra was loud with tro-tros, hawkers, and music from a passing car, but he heard none of it.

For the first time in months, the city felt like it was welcoming him back. He walked past the school gate without looking back. No one called his name. No one threw words.

He just walked. One step. Then another. The form in his bag was crumpled, but his hands were steady. The notebook had blank pages waiting. And the reason to try again? That was the heaviest thing he carried now. And he was ready.

He didn’t look back at the school. He didn’t need to. The laughter was behind him now, stuck in that courtyard like dust. Ahead was Accra, loud and alive. A hawker passed with cold water. A tro-tro driver shouted “Circle! Circle!”

He smiled, just a little. It was small. It was real. And for the first time in a long time, it was his. The form in his bag could change everything. The notebook could hold a new story. And he was going to write it.

To be continued...

He kept walking. Past the gate. Past the stares he couldn’t feel anymore. The sun was warm on his face, and the air smelled like rain and roasted plantain from a nearby street.

Accra was moving, and so was he. No more hiding. No more silence. Chapter 35 starts tomorrow.

He pulled the crumpled form from his bag and smoothed it against his thigh. His name was there. Clear. Unbroken. The school could keep its laughter. He had a future to fill.

And this time, he wouldn’t run.

He took one last look at the school gate. The courtyard was empty now. No voices. No echoes. Just Accra behind him, waiting.

He lifted his head, tucked the form in his bag, and walked into the crowd.

The tro-tro honked. A vendor called out. The city was loud, but it didn’t drown him. Not today. Today, he was louder.

He didn’t look back again. The past stayed at the gate. The future started now, one step at a time, with his name on it.

The crowd moved with him. Accra breathed. And for the first time, he breathed with it.

He walked on. The gate was behind him. Chapter 35 was waiting.

He carried his name, his scars, and his hope forward.

He kept walking through Makola’s rush, the bag heavy on his shoulder but his chest light. People bumped him, shouted prices, hurried past, but none of it cut him now.

For years he had made himself small. At home. In class. At the gate. He had swallowed every insult because fighting back felt like losing. Not today. The crumpled paper in his bag wasn’t just an admission form. It was proof. Proof that he existed outside their laughter.

He passed a boy selling water, a woman frying kelewele, a driver arguing with a conductor. Accra was noisy, messy, alive. And he was part of it. He didn’t have to hide his torn shirt or his quiet voice anymore.

The sun climbed higher. Sweat ran down his neck. But he didn’t stop. Every step away from the school gate was a step toward something he chose. No one could laugh him out of that.

He thought about tomorrow. About a new class. New faces. Maybe someone would stare. Maybe someone would whisper. Let them. He had walked out once. He could do it again.

By the time he reached the tro-tro station, his legs were tired, but his heart wasn’t. He found a seat by the window, pressed his forehead to the glass, and watched the city blur past. The gate was behind him. The past was behind him.

Chapter 35 was waiting. And this time, he would meet it on his feet.