EMPTY CHAIR
1089 Words
Chapter Nine: Empty Chair
The rain on Tuesday didn't fall; it just hung over the lagoon like a
wet towel, turning the Mastercollege soccer pitch into a gray swamp.
Because of the weather, sports period was canceled, leaving the SS1
class marooned in the biology lab with two hours of unassigned time.
The room smelled of formaldehyde and damp ceiling boards.
Crown was sitting on a low stool by the back sink, using a rusty razor
blade to scrape the yellow paint off a plastic ruler. He hadn't
mentioned the Ondo palm estate since Saturday.
"My sister sent her old notes from her A-Levels," Crown said, not
looking up from the ruler. His speech was flat, lacking his usual
rhythmic bounce. "She said the debate judges from the ministry always
ask about the economic application of polymer synthesis. Petrol stuff.
Crude."
Privilege adjusted his wet socks against the metal rung of his stool.
"You still have the sheets?"
"They're in my locker," Crown muttered. He clicked his tongue,
dropping the razor blade onto the porcelain basin with a sharp ping.
"But what's the point? If I give them to you, Mary's coach will just
find something from a British curriculum site that sounds bigger. Those
people don't use local textbooks."
Across the lab, Mary was sitting alone by the window, her tablet propped
against a stack of specimen jars. She wasn't typing. She was just
watching the water track down the outside of the glass, her chin resting
in her palm.
Kane wasn't in the room at all. His desk near the skeleton model was
empty, his leather bag thrown carelessly underneath the bench, one strap
trailing in a puddle of leaked distilled water.
"He's in the sickbay," Sarah whispered, leaning over from the front
desk to join them. She didn't look at Privilege; her eyes were on
Crown. "Spike's mother came to the administrative office this morning.
She was shouting so loud you could hear it from the staff room. She
wants Kane suspended for the junction thing."
"Spike's a fool," Crown said shortly. "He followed him there."
"But Kane's dad didn't even pick up the principal's call," Sarah
added, her voice dropping lower as she glanced toward the teacher's
empty desk. "They said his driver just brought a letter from their
company office. Kane has been sitting in the clinic since 8 AM. He
won't talk to the nurse."
Privilege didn't offer a comment. He reached into his canvas bag,
pulled out his cracked ballpoint pen, and began drawing a small, neat
diagram of a distillation flask on the inside cover of his workbook. He
didn't use a ruler. His hand was steady, but the lines were short,
broken by the irregular texture of the cheap paper.
"You're not going to look for him?" Crown asked.
"Why?" Privilege said, his voice level.
"No reason," Crown said, turning his ruler over to start on the other
side. "Just asking."
Chapter Ten: The Railway Lease
By Thursday, the rain had cleared, leaving the courtyard smelling of wet
gravel and hot earth.
The mid-term break announcement was brief. Usually, the students would
be screaming down the corridors by 2:00 PM, their drivers blocking the
outer crescent with lines of idling cars. But the SS1 division remained
locked inside Room 4 for the final seminar briefing.
Mr. Adebayo stood by the lectern, his fingers yellowed from whiteboard
marker dust. He didn't look at Privilege, and he didn't look at Mary.
He just adjusted his glasses and laid out two white card folders on the
table.
"The ministry presentation is next Saturday at the television authority
studio in Ikoyi," he said, his voice dry from the afternoon heat.
"There is no alternate date. Mastercollege has held this trophy for
four years. If the transition register reflects a drop, the board will
review the departmental allowance."
He picked up his briefcase and walked out without saying 'Good luck.'
The classroom emptied slowly. Mary stayed at her desk, her fingers
tracing the red plastic seal of her folder. When the room was down to
just three people, she stood up, her chair making a short, sharp scrape
against the floor.
She walked to the back row, stopping two paces from Privilege's desk.
"My father wants to buy your mother's stall space," she said.
Privilege stopped packing his books. His hand remained inside his canvas
bag, his fingers curling around his physics text. "What?"
"The logistics company," Mary said. She didn't look angry; she just
looked small against the large whiteboard behind her. "They're
expanding the container terminal behind the Yaba market line. He told
the supervisor to clear the structures before the dry season."
Privilege stood up slow. He was half a head taller than her, his uniform
shirt still showing the rough stitch where his mother had mended the
torn sleeve from the fight. "He can't do that. We pay the local
council every December."
"He doesn't care about the council," Mary said, her voice dropping
until it was almost lost to the sound of the courtyard generator
outside. "He says the land belongs to the railway corporation. He has
the lease from Abuja."
She reached into her blazer pocket, pulled out a small piece of folded
paper, and laid it on his desk. It wasn't a typed legal document; it
was just a page from her own notebook with a phone number written in her
neat, micro-twist handwriting.
"That's the agent's name," she said. "The one handling the
relocation payments. It's five hundred thousand naira if you sign
before the clearing starts."
Privilege didn't touch the paper. "Why are you giving me this?"
"Because you're going to lose the debate if you're looking for a new
shop next week," Mary said. She looked at his bruised jaw, her face
tightening into that proud, defensive mask she'd worn since the first
day of term. "And I don't want to win because your mother had to move
her market bags to the roadside."
She didn't wait for him to answer. She turned, her leather bag swinging
against her hip, and walked out of the classroom, her shoes clicking
down the concrete corridor until the sound faded completely.
Privilege looked at the piece of paper on the wooden desk. The ink was
blue, the same color as the detergent his mother used every Sunday. He
didn't pick it up. He just left it lying next
to the broken plastic
casing of his pen while the shadow of the window frame grew long across
the floor.
- Writer
