The Margin of Error

TITRATION

Chapter Four: Titration

Mr. Balogun didn't care about the board of governors or who paid their

fees in pounds. He threw three packets of copper sulfate onto the main

laboratory table and clapped his hands.

"Mid-term practicals," he said, squinting through his thick glasses.

"Quantitative analysis. I am pairing you by the register, so don't

start bringing your complaints to my desk. Privilege, you're with

Mary."

Kane let out a short, sharp whistle from the back, but Mr. Balogun

pointed a finger at him until he stopped. Mary didn't say anything, but

she picked up her beaker and walked to the corner station without

waiting for Privilege.

They couldn't work at Mary's house because her father's partners were

using the dining room for a budget meeting, and Crown's chalet was

locked up for his sister's wedding prep. They ended up at the small

local bukka near the Yaba bus stop where Privilege's mother rented a

corner space.

When Mary's silver Mercedes pulled up against the broken curb, the

engine idling loudly against the noise of the traffic, she looked

completely out of place in her tailored school trousers. She got out

anyway, her shoes clicking against the damp pavement as she stepped

under the rusty zinc roof. The air inside smelled of smoke, parboiled

rice, and dried pepper.

"The generator is loud," she said, sitting on the low wooden bench in

the small back storage room.

"It's the only one that works," Privilege said, setting the titration

stand between them. "Let's do the initial reading."

For two hours, they didn't talk about the w******p group or the

corridor. Mary's records were clean and precise, but Privilege had a way

of estimating the endpoint of the reaction before the color fully

changed—a trick he'd learned from an old chemistry teacher who used to

work with old, degraded indicators.

"How did you know it would turn at twenty-point-two?" she asked, her

pen hovering over the log sheet.

"Telex College," he said, watching the blue liquid drip slowly into

the flask. "Our burettes had cracks at the top. If you didn't watch

the meniscus with your eyes wide, the whole solution would turn dark

purple and you'd have to buy another bottle of acid with your own

money."

Mary looked at the cracked plastic of his pen, then down at her own

clean notebook. "I didn't tell Jemima about your father, Privilege. I

told Sarah because she asked why you didn't come for the weekend

session. I didn't know she would talk to them."

Privilege didn't look up from the flask. "It doesn't matter. Let's

just finish the calculations so the graph will balance."

Chapter Five: The Junction

They didn't finish by seven. The local transformer down the street blew

with a loud bang around six-thirty, and they had to wait twenty minutes

while Privilege's cousin struggled with an old small generator in the

yard until it kicked into life, filling the small back room with exhaust

smoke and a loud rattle. By the time Mary's driver called her for the

third time, both of them were tired, their uniforms smelling faintly of

fried onions.

Privilege walked her down to the junction. The street wasn't empty; a

woman was turning akara over a massive pot of hot oil by the corner, and

a yellow bus was idling near the bus stop, its conductor shouting for

passengers going toward Oshodi.

The three boys stepped out from the side of a closed iron container.

Kane was leading, wearing a large designer hoodie despite the evening

heat, his face wet with sweat. Spike followed behind him, looking

slightly uncertain, alongside another boy from the local car wash down

the street who was holding a heavy wooden plank.

"Look at the study group," Kane said, his voice cracking slightly on

the first word before he straightened up. He took two steps forward, his

clean sneakers hitting a patch of wet mud. "I told you before,

mainland. The school rules don't work down here."

Privilege didn't do a boxing pose. His chest went tight instantly, his

heart beating hard against his ribs. He was smart, but he was small, and

he could feel the cold evening air starting to trigger his asthma.

"Kane, what is this nonsense?" Mary said, stepping in front of

Privilege. She didn't sound like she needed saving; she just sounded

deeply disgusted. "Your driver is literally two poles away. Are you

mad?"

"Move, Mary," Kane said, his face turning dark under the streetlamp.

He nudged Spike. "Hold the guy. Let's see if he can talk biology when

his mouth is broken."

Spike didn't throw a proper punch. He just lunged forward blindly to

grab Privilege's collar. Privilege tried to step back, but his heel

caught on an exposed piece of granite on the road. He stumbled, and both

he and Spike went down into the dirt together in a clumsy tangle of

legs.

They rolled into the gutter edge. Privilege felt a sharp pain as his

elbow scraped against the stones, and Spike managed to land a heavy,

uncoordinated fist right into his lower ribs. The breath left

Privilege's chest in an ugly, rattling groan.

Out of pure panic, Privilege just swung his arm upward from the ground,

his knuckles hitting Spike's nose with a wet, heavy c***k. Spike let

out a sharp yell, instantly letting go of Privilege's shirt to clutch

his face as dark blood started leaking through his fingers. "God! My

nose is broken!" Spike cried, rolling away into the dust.

The car wash boy looked at Spike bleeding on the floor, then looked at

Privilege, who was scrambling back up to his feet, gasping for breath

and looking completely desperate but ready to throw another wild hand.

The boy spat on the road and dropped the plank. "Oga Kane, you didn't

tell me the boy would fight back o. I am not doing again." He turned

around and walked back toward the akara seller.

Privilege stood under the dim yellow light, his uniform shirt torn at

the seam, covered in gray dust and smelling of palm oil smoke. His lip

was split and bleeding, and his side hurt so badly he had to lean

against a wall. He looked at Kane.

Kane didn't move. His hands remained frozen in his hoodie pockets, his

face turning pale under the streetlamp. The whole plan had fallen apart

in less than two minutes.

"Go home," Privilege whispered, his voice shaking from the lack of air

in his lungs. "Just... leave this place."

Kane didn't say anything. He bent down, helped Spike up by his arm, and

hurriedly walked back toward the main road where his car was waiting,

avoiding the eyes of the neighborhood boys who had gathered to watch.

Mary didn't look at him with romance. She looked at his torn uniform

and rubbed her forehead. "You are a complete fool," she said, her

voice trembling slightly as she pulled a packet of wet wipes from her

bag and threw them at him. "Your mother is going to use cane on you for

ruining this shirt."

Chapter Six: The Perfect Score

The Chemistry scores were pinned to the corkboard on Friday morning.

Privilege & Mary: 100%.

Spike sat at the far end of the B-row during home room, a thick piece of

white surgical plaster stuck across the bridge of his nose. Kane kept

his head down, scrolling through his phone with his desk pushed back

against the lockers. Nobody said anything about the marks, but the usual

hallway comments about Yaba had stopped.

At lunchtime, Crown dragged two small wooden benches together near the

sports pavilion, waving a warm bottle of Fanta.

"The engineers are back," Crown said as Privilege sat down, his face

still showing a dark smudge of purple near the jawline. "The grade

curve is officially ruined for the term."

Mary came out of the administrative block five minutes before the final

bell, an white A4 envelope in her hand. She walked over to the pavilion,

stopping near the edge of the grass.

"The ministry sent the list for the state award," she said, looking at

Privilege. She didn't sound angry, but her voice had that quiet, steady

tone again. "They changed the format because the scores were tied."

Privilege pulled his phone out. The notification from the Ministry of

Secondary Education was already open on his screen: Live televised

academic debate. Mastercollege SS1 Division.

Mary adjusted her leather bag on her shoulder, looking down at the red

seal on her own paper. "My dad already hired a coach from the

university for the preparation," she said, her voice level. "He said

if I lose to a public school student on national TV, he's changing my

enrollment to a boarding school in Kent before next term."

Privilege stood up, slinging his worn canvas bag over his good shoulder.

His ribs still cached when he took a deep breath, but he looked her in

the eye anyway.

"Tell him to start looking at the flight tickets then," Privilege

said.

Mary didn't smile, but she didn't turn away either. She gave him a

short, sharp nod, turned on her heel, and walked toward the gates where

her driver was already waiting.