Scar beneath the smile

The sounds of running water, clattering buckets, and girls’ voices shouting over one another filled the air. “It’s too early...” I murmured sleepily, tossing to the other side of my bunk. I pulled my pillow over my ears, desperate to block out the noise. But it was no use—the hostel was alive and loud already. My bunkmate, a hyperactive JSS1 student, kept climbing up and down the bunk, shaking the bed each time and annoying the life out of me. “Angel, wake up! It’s already 6:30! You’ll be late for class!” she shouted at her friend across the room. “6:30?!” I yelled, suddenly wide awake. My eyes flew open in panic as I sat up straight. A few girls paused what they were doing and stared at me, confused by my outburst. Being a girls' hostel, you never knew what you'd wake up to. Angel, still fast asleep, was—as usual—completely naked under her blanket. Amara, who had an obsession with her body, confidently walked around in nothing but underwear. Cynthia, elegant as always, had a white towel wrapped neatly around her chest. She loved those towels so much, she used only white ones. Honestly, with her perfect skin and body, it somehow looked like it belonged in an advert. All around the room, younger JSS1 to JSS3 students rushed around, towels barely holding onto their tiny bodies. They looked like they were wearing fabrics that were too grown for them. Except my bunkmate—she was different. For some reason, she always put her school uniform back on before coming out of the bathroom, even though she was just a cute, tiny 12-year-old. It was funny to watch, but at that moment, her constant bouncing up and down the bunk was driving me crazy. “Sorry...” I said softly, almost innocently, my voice light and apologetic. I reached for my glasses on the locker beside me, gently picked them up, and slid them onto my face. The world came into focus. Everything—the noise, the movement, the chaos—seemed a little clearer. They slowly returned to their routines: some brushing their teeth, others rushing to the bathrooms, a few already ironing their uniforms. The usual hostel chaos. At the gates of St. Jude’s Catholic School, right in front of the first girls’ hostel, stood a petite 17-year-old girl with bright, curious eyes, short bouncy curls, and round-shaped glasses that always felt a little too big for her face—awkward, even. Standing at 5'2", her smile used to light up the world. But that smile had disappeared nine years ago. Since then, I had been trying—piece by piece—to rediscover myself. To become the girl I always dreamed of, free from the shadows of my past. That girl… was me. Daaja Raynold Martyrs. And this—finding strength, reclaiming joy, choosing growth—was what I did. “Let’s goooo!!” a group of girls shouted as they burst out of the hostel gate, laughing wildly as they ran. They didn’t even notice me standing there. Before I could react, they brushed past, knocking me off balance. With my wobbly legs and worn-out sneakers, I stumbled, landing hard on the dusty ground. My glasses slipped down my nose, and my hair tumbled into my face, sticking to the sweat on my skin. “What a way to start the day,” Virginia sneered. I looked from her sandals up to her skirt. And then… that voice. “Daaja,” she called, calm and warm, like always. Mary. Virginia had been my best friend since childhood—my ride or die, the one person who had never lied to me, never judged me, never left. Her father was a king in her village, and her family was wealthy enough to send her to any elite school she wanted. But when she found out what I had been through, she chose to stay—even choosing to join secondary school here just to stay close. And now, here we were—still together, entering our final year. Seeing her familiar face brought me back to life. I smiled, wide and real—one of those rare ones—and felt strength return to my legs. I stood up quickly, brushing the dust from my uniform as she walked over to me. We had a lot to catch up on. Virginia and I hadn’t seen each other for the past two weeks—she had been away for her father’s yearly festival back in the village. Being a day student, she lived at home, and I just knew she’d come back with a backpack full of snacks. The moment we started talking, I couldn’t stop smiling. We talked and laughed, walking toward the classroom block, her voice animated as she told me stories about the traditions, masquerades, music, and the wild drama that unfolded during the festival. I learned more about her roots in those few minutes than I had in years. And then—I saw them. The Gengs. Everyone in St. Jude’s knew them. They were the Mighty 6—a group of students who were the most popular, stylish, and influential in school. They walked together like celebrities, and the whole atmosphere changed when they entered a space. Lethe assistant lead of the pack was Michael—the undeniable coolest guy in school. His parents were managers of one of the biggest banks in the country, and he was famous for his drumming—the way his arms moved on those drums made girls stop mid-step just to watch him rehearse. Always with the top three buttons of his shirt undone, revealing just enough of his chest to drive half the school mad, Michael had that look that screamed “college heartbreaker in the making. Just imagining what he’d look like once he entered university was enough to make your heart skip a beat. But of course, there was Chidera—his girlfriend. Or, as she preferred to be known on social media: “Dera 💋.” And in school Adaeze, always wondered why she had that much names , She was the sass queen of St. Jude’s, with her daily hashtags: #HotterThanYou, #MichaelIsMine, #Don’tTouchWhatYouCan’tAfford. A walking influencer, even in her school uniform. As they strolled past, everyone—even Virginia —paused. And I? I just hoped I’d stay invisible. And then there was Riko. He was shorter than the rest—maybe around 5’7”—but that only added to his mystery. No one really knew what his parents did, but we all knew one thing: he had money, like he was just so annoyingly rich Riko had this quiet, artistic aura. The day he surprised his girlfriend, Clara , with a hand-drawn portrait of her on her birthday, the whole class literally melted. Girls were crying. Boys were clapping. Clara was seen as one of the luckiest girl cause, riko and she had met in the school dinning hall, she was the dinning hall prefect, her family weren’t as flamboyant as his , but the love he showered on her, was a strict example of true love maybe cause he wasn’t as loud or flashy, just talented, gentle, and effortlessly cool like the others. But still, not the one who made my stomach do flips. That was saved for one person only—Alaric Walterson. I mean, what a surname, right? I’d had a crush on Alaric since I was 14, and it had never gone away. He wasn’t just handsome—he was breathtaking. With that strong jawline, broad shoulders, and the way his school shirts clung tightly to his muscles, like they were sewn on. His top buttons were always undone, revealing the silver necklace that sat perfectly on his chest. He had thick eyebrows, a killer haircut, and a neck like a runway model. And let’s not even talk about the way he walked—like the whole world could fall apart and he wouldn’t flinch. Alaric stood at 6’5”, and his vibe was pure nonchalance. Single. Untouched. Unbothered. Which gave girls like me just a little hope. He rarely spoke, but his eyes did the talking—deep, unreadable eyes that made you feel like he was looking through you. He didn’t seem to care about anyone… and maybe that’s what made him so hard to forget. According to my very thorough “research,” after secretly going through his file in sister Agnes office, Alaric’s parents were the wealthiest of them all. His mother ran two private hospitals in Nigeria, while his father was a top doctor in the States. Alaric had lived most of his life abroad—until, for some mysterious reason, he returned to Nigeria and joined our school. And don’t get me started on his accent. Every time he spoke, it was like my heart got a small electric shock—a soft tinger in my chest that reminded me I was still a girl, not some invisible grandma floating through school halls. As Virginia and I walked past the group, my eyes locked with his. Just like always. No words. No smiles. No contact. Just that unspoken moment that had been happening since junior school. I don’t even know if it meant anything to him. Maybe I was just another random girl to him—someone his eyes accidentally landed on sometimes. But to me, it felt like everything it nevertheless, I had to face my own problems, that were pressing on me, Alaric was wealthy and could get any girl at his foot step but I ,I was just a poor girl who had never left the four walls of this school, growing up… with all the weird nicknames. “Harry Potter’s cousin”—thanks to my round glasses. “Sister Mary.” Or the worst of them all: “The priest’s hidden daughter.” Just because I was always around the church. It was funny to them, but to me, it cut deep—even though, to be fair, I couldn’t entirely blame them. I had never been outside the four walls of St. Jude’s Catholic School. Not once. Holiday or not. While other students packed their bags, excited for mid-term breaks or long vacations, I just stayed back… again. I knew every sister by name. Every kitchen worker. Every church cleaner. I belonged more to the school than any student ever had. I had never experienced what it felt like to hear my name called on visiting day. Never had the joy of waiting by the school gate with my bag packed, excited for a hug, a car ride, or a few days at home. Home. That word felt foreign sometimes. I had never had a real provision box. No cute snacks. No jars of peanut butter. No big tin of Milo with matching milk and sugar. It took guts not to beg, especially when I saw the other girls with their colorful biscuits, creamy sweets, and new things. The only privilege I had? I could eat in the kitchen when I was hungry. But let’s be honest—that didn’t compare to those shiny, fancy snacks. It got so bad that once, I sat in class and whispered to myself, “One day, when I have money, I’ll buy the biggest container of Milo. And I’ll sit with it alone and lick it all till my tongue hurts.” It was a silly dream. But it was mine. And that’s why I knew I wasn’t the kind of girl Alaric would ever look at. Not me. Not Daaja Raynold. He needed someone like Lara. I looked up and saw her walking with her circle of friends. She was petite like me, but that was where the comparison ended. She was stunning. Light-skinned. Her edges always laid, her Vanclief bangles very visible in her hands, her braided weave sleek and perfect—and I could only imagine how beautiful she’d look in a real wig. She wore her confidence like perfume. And just watching her, I understood—she was the kind of girl people wanted to be around. And me? Well, I was the girl people talked about quietly. The girl with the glasses, the plain uniform, the always-there-but-never-seen presence. I wasn’t like them. And on some days, like today… that truth hurt more than I wanted to admit Not him again, Daaja…” Virginia groaned, already rolling her eyes. “I know, let’s just go to class,” I said, smiling as we strolled toward the block.