Becoming Me

CHAPTER TWO: THE PRICE OF BELONGING

Every student looked forward to her house party.

For us in Pink House, it wasn't just another event on the school calendar. It was the one day we could momentarily forget the endless routines, the strict rules, the early mornings, and the punishments that seemed to lurk behind every mistake. It was our reward for surviving another school year.

The thought of finally having our own celebration kept us going.

We would have a march past, performances, delicious food, games, and most importantly, an entire day where Pink House members were treated like royalty. Seniors smiled a little more. Teachers became less intimidating. Even the atmosphere around the school seemed lighter.

But before any of that could happen, every member of the house had to contribute.

Nothing came free.

Decorations, costumes, gifts, refreshments, props—almost everything had to be purchased by students and their parents.

One afternoon, a senior prefect walked into our classroom carrying several folded sheets of paper.

"The names I'm about to call should follow me," she announced.

The classroom instantly became silent.

One by one, she called out names.

Some girls smiled confidently as they stood up. Others looked confused.

Then I heard mine.

For a moment, I thought she had made a mistake.

I slowly stood and joined the line of girls making their way outside the classroom.

As we walked, whispers followed us.

"They're calling the rich girls."

"They're the ones whose parents can afford anything."

In my part of Nigeria, people jokingly described children from wealthy families as "people wey their papa guide." In simple terms, it meant children whose parents never allowed them to lack anything.

I never really considered myself one of them.

My parents worked incredibly hard for everything we had. They made sacrifices I didn't fully understand until years later. Looking back now, I realize they simply never wanted my siblings and me to feel the weight of those sacrifices.

Inside one of the classrooms, twenty sheets of paper had already been arranged on a table.

Each represented a list of items that one student would be responsible for bringing.

One after another, we walked forward to pick ours.

I unfolded mine.

My heart sank.

Some of the items were inexpensive enough.

Others...

Not so much.

I silently calculated everything in my head, wondering how I was going to explain this to my mother.

The problem wasn't just the cost.

It was making the phone call.

Unlike most boarding schools, ours operated under rules that made communication with home feel like a privilege rather than a right.

Students weren't allowed to call their parents whenever they pleased.

There were no personal mobile phones.

No quick text messages.

No video calls.

Nothing.

If you needed to speak with your parents, you first had to obtain permission from the school authorities. Even then, the conversation was usually monitored and expected to be brief.

Sometimes, by the time permission was granted, the reason for making the call had already passed.

So, when I finally managed to obtain permission to call my mother, I held the school telephone with both hands as though it were the most precious object in the world.

The phone rang.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Finally...

"Hello?"

Hearing my mother's voice immediately made me smile.

"Mummy..."

"My baby! How are you? Is everything alright?"

There was always concern in her voice whenever I called unexpectedly.

"I'm fine," I replied quickly, trying not to sound nervous.

"They've given us a list of things for our house party."

"Oh."

She paused.

"What do they need?"

I carefully read every single item.

There was silence on the other end.

Not because she was angry.

She was thinking.

Finally, she sighed softly.

"Don't worry."

"I'll get everything."

Just like that.

No complaints.

No questions.

No mention of the amount it would cost.

Only reassurance.

At the time, I accepted her answer without thinking much about it.

Now that I'm older, I wonder what she had to rearrange financially just to make sure I wouldn't disappoint my house.

Parents often carry burdens their children never notice.

Mine certainly did.

The weeks that followed were filled with excitement.

Every conversation somehow found its way back to the party.

Girls debated which house had held the best celebration in previous years.

Others argued about who would perform the best dance routine.

Some couldn't stop talking about the food.

For me, it wasn't just about eating.

It was about experiencing something joyful inside a school where joyful moments were surprisingly rare.

I counted the days with excitement.

Then everything changed.

No one saw it coming.

One morning, rumors spread through the hostel faster than wildfire.

At first, they sounded too ridiculous to believe.

Then reality caught up with us.

One of our house captains had returned to her room to discover human faeces right in the middle of the floor.

Another house captain opened her wardrobe only to find urine splashed across her belongings.

The entire hostel fell silent.

Nobody laughed.

Nobody joked.

Nobody even knew what to say.

Who could possibly do something like that?

Within minutes, bells rang across the compound.

Every member of Pink House was ordered to assemble immediately.

The atmosphere felt completely different from the excitement we'd been enjoying only hours earlier.

Our house captains stood in front of us, visibly shaken.

Some looked angry.

Others looked close to tears.

One of them finally spoke.

"Whoever is responsible should confess now."

Silence.

"If nobody confesses," another captain continued, "there will be no Pink House party this year."

The words landed like a stone in water.

For a second, nobody reacted.

Then voices erupted everywhere.

"What?"

"No!"

"Please!"

Girls began crying almost immediately.

Others insisted they knew nothing about what had happened.

Some swore they had been asleep all night.

Others started accusing imaginary suspects.

The noise became unbearable.

Again, the captain shouted.

"This is your opportunity."

"Confess now."

No one moved.

Not a single person.

I looked around the crowd.

Every face wore the same expression.

Shock.

Fear.

Confusion.

It was impossible to tell who was pretending and who was genuinely innocent.

Then, unexpectedly, one of the seniors pointed directly at me.

My heart skipped.

For one terrifying second, I thought she was accusing me.

Instead, she turned toward everyone else.

"This girl's party items are already on the way through the shipping company," she said.

"Do you people want her parents' money to go to waste? Whoever did this should confess."

The moment she mentioned my parents, I broke down.

Tears rolled uncontrollably down my cheeks.

Not because I believed someone would blame me.

But because I suddenly imagined my mother spending money she had probably struggled to save, only for everything to become meaningless.

Several seniors came over and rubbed my back gently.

"It's okay."

"Don't cry."

"We're sure someone will confess."

I wanted to believe them.

I really did.

But something inside me whispered that whoever had done this had no intention of stepping forward.

That evening, during study hours, an unusual announcement instructed every member of Pink House to return to the hostel immediately.

Nobody questioned it.

We all hurried back.

The seniors had decided to conduct their own investigation before the school authorities became more involved.

The atmosphere inside the hostel felt like a courtroom.

Groups whispered among themselves.

Some girls confidently listed suspects.

Others insisted everyone should simply wait for the truth.

After what felt like hours, the seniors called one particular student forward.

Her name was Nuella.

She was only in Grade Nine.

I watched as she slowly stepped into the middle of the room.

She looked frightened before anyone had even spoken.

One senior crossed her arms.

"Tell us where you were last night."

Nuella answered quietly.

Another senior interrupted.

"That's not what someone else told us."

Another question.

Another answer.

Then another.

Soon, the questions came from every direction.

The room became louder.

More intimidating.

Each response she gave seemed to create two new questions.

Some seniors argued that her story wasn't consistent.

Others began presenting what they believed was evidence.

They claimed she had been awake around one o'clock in the morning.

They mentioned that her bedsheets had been wet.

They reminded everyone that she had previously struggled with bedwetting.

As each accusation piled on top of another, I found myself becoming uncertain.

For a brief moment, even I wondered if she might actually be responsible.

But then I looked at her.

She wasn't speaking like someone trying to deceive everyone.

She was speaking like someone terrified.

Over one hundred girls surrounded her.

Voices overlapped.

Some demanded answers.

Others accused her outright.

The fear in her eyes was impossible to ignore.

Whether she was innocent or guilty, nobody deserved to be questioned like that.

I remember gripping the edge of my bed tightly, wishing the whole ordeal would end.

Deep inside, something didn't feel right.

And I had no idea that the worst part of the story was still waiting for us.

The interrogation eventually came to an end.

No confession.

No concrete evidence.

Just hundreds of unanswered questions hanging heavily in the air.

The seniors dismissed everyone, but no one returned to their beds with peace of mind. The hostel that was usually filled with laughter before lights out had become unusually quiet. Small groups of girls whispered among themselves, each one convinced they knew who the culprit was. Every conversation began with the same question.

"Do you think it was really Nuella?"

Some answered confidently.

"Of course it was."

Others weren't so sure.

"I don't know... something doesn't feel right."

I belonged to the second group.

Although the evidence presented against her seemed convincing at first, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was missing. The more I replayed the interrogation in my head, the more I realized that all they truly had were assumptions.

Yet assumptions can become dangerous when enough people believe them.

As we settled into our beds that night, the atmosphere remained tense. Nobody knew who to trust anymore. Girls who had once shared snacks and laughed together now looked at one another with suspicion. It was amazing how quickly one incident could divide an entire house.

The next day, everyone tried to carry on as though nothing had happened.

Classes continued.

Teachers taught.

Notes were copied.

Assignments were given.

But our minds remained in the hostel.

During break time, the Pink House incident was the only topic anyone wanted to discuss. Even girls from Green House and Yellow House had somehow heard every detail.

"Is it true someone defecated in your captain's room?"

"I heard somebody poured urine inside another person's wardrobe."

"I also heard you've lost your house party."

Each question felt like another reminder that our embarrassment had become the school's latest source of entertainment.

Whenever someone asked me about it, I simply smiled awkwardly or pretended not to hear.

There wasn't much I could say.

I didn't even understand everything that had happened myself.

By evening, another announcement echoed through the school.

"All members of Pink House should report immediately to the front of the administrative block."

Immediately, my heart began to race.

We quietly left whatever we were doing and walked toward the Head of Office's building. Nobody spoke during the walk. The usual chatter had disappeared completely.

When we arrived, she was already waiting for us.

Standing beside her was the Assistant Head of Office.

One look at their faces told us that this meeting would not end well.

We arranged ourselves in straight lines.

The Head of Office looked at each one of us before speaking.

"I have received a report concerning what happened in your hostel yesterday."

Her voice was calm.

Too calm.

"The report I received was not only about the vandalized rooms."

She paused.

"It was also about what happened to Nuella."

Everyone immediately lowered their heads.

"You girls pushed another student to the point where she wanted to jump from the third floor."

The words struck me harder than any punishment ever had.

My eyes widened.

Around me, several girls gasped softly.

I had heard rumors earlier that afternoon, but I never imagined they were true.

Nuella...

Jump?

I remembered the fear on her face during the interrogation.

The trembling in her voice.

The tears she desperately tried to hide.

Now I understood why.

What we had mistaken for guilt had actually been overwhelming fear.

The Head of Office continued.

"Tell me."

She looked directly at us.

"Why would the excitement of a house party become more important than someone's life?"

Nobody answered.

There was no answer good enough.

Even those who had loudly accused Nuella the previous day now stood silently, unable to defend themselves.

She sighed deeply.

"I am disappointed."

Those three words somehow hurt more than shouting would have.

Then came the punishment.

"Everybody kneel."

Without hesitation, every member of Pink House slowly dropped to her knees on the rough concrete.

The ground was unforgiving.

At first, I thought we would remain there for only a few minutes.

Five minutes became thirty.

Thirty minutes became one hour.

The afternoon sun gradually gave way to evening, yet we remained exactly where we were.

My knees burned.

Some girls quietly cried.

Others prayed under their breath.

Not a single person complained.

The silence itself felt like another form of punishment.

As we knelt there, I couldn't stop thinking about Nuella.

What if she had actually jumped?

What if we had lost a fellow student over something as meaningless as a party?

The thought made my chest tighten.

Suddenly, the cancellation of our celebration didn't seem like the greatest punishment anymore.

The possibility of losing someone was.

Finally, after what felt like forever, the Head of Office spoke again.

"I hope every one of you remembers today."

She looked around once more before delivering the news none of us wanted to hear.

"The Pink House party has been cancelled."

A chorus of cries immediately filled the compound.

Some girls pleaded.

Others apologized repeatedly.

A few simply buried their faces in their palms and sobbed.

Months of excitement had disappeared within seconds.

But the Head of Office remained firm.

"This is the consequence of your actions."

With that, she turned and walked back toward her office.

We remained kneeling long after she had disappeared from sight.

Only then did I realize something that would stay with me for years.

Sometimes the guilty remain silent...

...while the innocent suffers alongside everyone else.

And somewhere among the girls kneeling beside me was the real culprit.

She had watched an innocent girl nearly lose hope.

She had watched an entire house lose its celebration.

She had watched every one of us endure punishment.

Yet she still chose silence.

That frightened me more than the incident itself.

The following morning, the entire school seemed to know what had happened.