Barrister Ada

Chapter 8: Friday

Chapter 8: Friday

The envelope stayed in Aunty Ngozi's drawer.

I knew exactly where she had put it.

The second drawer on the left, underneath a stack of old receipts and school documents.

I hadn't touched it.

I didn't need to.

The words were already burned into my mind.

DON'T TRUST EVERYONE AT SCHOOL. — A FRIEND

I saw them every time I closed my eyes.

Sometimes I wondered whether the person who wrote them knew how much fear those seven words could create.

The shelter had gone quiet after lights out, but my room was not.

My mind refused to rest.

Every little sound seemed louder at night.

A door creaking.

A child's cough from the next room.

The sound of footsteps crossing the compound.

I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling.

Friday was tomorrow.

Resumption day.

The day I had been looking forward to only a few days ago.

Now it felt like a question I didn't know how to answer.

Aunty Ngozi sat on the edge of my bed.

She wasn't wearing the expression she usually had when she was working.

No smile.

No wrapper tied hurriedly because a customer was waiting.

No customers shouting from outside.

Just her.

And me.

She looked tired.

"Ada."

"Yes, ma?"

Her voice was soft.

"Friday is tomorrow."

I pulled the wrapper tighter around my shoulders.

"I know, ma."

She nodded.

"The car will go to school with or without you."

I looked at her.

"If you go, you face that note."

She paused.

"If you stay, you lose the scholarship."

My throat burned.

I looked down at my hands.

I had spent weeks working toward that scholarship.

Seventy-two percent.

Fourth in class.

Mrs. Ade's recommendation.

The form sitting safely inside my notebook.

It wasn't just a piece of paper anymore.

It represented everything I had been trying to build.

A future.

A way out.

"What if it's him, ma?"

Aunty didn't ask who I meant.

She already knew.

"What if it's my father?"

The room became quiet.

I watched her carefully.

She could have told me not to worry.

She could have said it was impossible.

She could have given me the kind of comforting lie adults sometimes told children.

But Aunty Ngozi didn't lie to me.

"Then we will deal with it."

My eyes filled with tears.

"But what if he finds me?"

"Then we make sure you are not alone."

I swallowed.

She reached for my hand.

"But Ada..."

"Yes, ma?"

"What if it is just fear?"

I stared at her.

"What if fear is the only thing holding you?"

I didn't answer.

Her words stayed between us.

I was afraid.

That much was true.

But I had already spent so much of my life being afraid.

Afraid of my father's footsteps.

Afraid of his voice.

Afraid of what would happen when the next argument started.

Afraid that my mother would be hurt.

Afraid that I would never have a future.

I had run from home because I was afraid.

Now fear was following me.

Maybe Aunty was right.

Maybe I couldn't keep running every time something frightened me.

My phone vibrated on the mattress.

I picked it up.

Tolu.

I answered immediately.

"Ada?"

Her voice was small.

"Yes."

"Are you coming tomorrow?"

I hesitated.

"I don't know."

There was silence.

Then she spoke again.

"Mrs. Ade said if you don't come tomorrow, she'll have to give your spot to someone on the waiting list."

My heart dropped.

"What?"

"She said she can't keep the place open forever."

I closed my eyes.

"Please, Ada."

Tolu's voice softened.

"Come back."

I didn't respond.

"The class isn't the same without you."

I smiled sadly.

"You'll survive."

"No."

She sounded serious.

"I won't."

A tiny laugh escaped me.

Then silence returned.

I could hear her breathing through the phone.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said.

I didn't know what to say.

"Goodnight, Tolu."

"Goodnight."

The call ended.

I placed the phone beside me.

Then I looked at the photo under my pillow.

I pulled it out.

My mother's eyes looked back at me.

She was young.

Happy.

Holding me close.

I wondered what she would say if she were sitting beside me.

Would she tell me to stay safe?

Would she tell me to be brave?

My mother had survived eighteen years in a house that had tried to break her.

She never ran.

I knew why she hadn't.

She had nowhere to go.

But I was tired of running.

I stared at the photograph.

Then I whispered,

"I'm going."

Aunty Ngozi exhaled slowly, like she had been holding her breath.

She nodded once.

"Then you're not going blind."

I looked at her.

"We prepare you tonight."

The next morning, the car was parked outside by six.

My box was already by the gate.

I stood beside it, staring at the school bag hanging from my shoulder.

My stomach was full of butterflies.

I wanted to go.

I wanted to stay.

Both feelings existed at the same time.

Aunty Ngozi walked toward me.

But she didn't let me enter the car.

"Sit."

She pointed toward the chair in her small office.

I followed her.

She closed the door behind us.

"First," she said, "we make sure the school knows."

She picked up her phone.

I watched her face as she dialed.

"Mrs. Ade?"

She paused.

"Yes, it's Ngozi from the shelter."

Another pause.

"I'm bringing Ada back today. But someone is sending her notes."

Her eyes moved toward me.

"I need you to keep an eye on her."

Mrs. Ade's voice came through the speaker.

"Understood, Ngozi."

Her voice was low and serious.

"She will be safe with me. Send her to my office the moment she arrives."

Aunty nodded.

"Thank you."

She ended the call.

Her hands were steady.

But her jaw was tight.

I could tell she was worried.

She wasn't sending me back because she thought nothing could happen.

She was sending me back because she believed I needed to continue living my life despite the danger.

"Second," she said.

She picked up the phone again.

"This one is important."

She called Wuse Market.

The line rang.

"Uncle Musa?"

A rough voice answered.

"Yes?"

"It's Ngozi."

There was a pause.

"How are you?"

"I'm fine. But I need to ask you something."

I watched Aunty's expression.

"Has any man been asking about Okafor's daughter?"

My stomach tightened.

The line crackled.

Then Uncle Musa answered.

"Yes, Aunty."

Aunty's eyes sharpened.

"When?"

"He came again yesterday evening."

My fingers curled around the edge of the chair.

"Again?"

"Yes."

"What did he look like?"

"Cap. Dark glasses."

My heart began pounding.

"Did he say his name?"

"No."

"What did he want?"

Uncle Musa paused.

"He asked if 'the girl' has resumed."

Aunty's knuckles went white around the phone.

"Did he say anything else?"

"No."

She took a slow breath.

"Has he come today?"

"Not yet."

"Call me immediately if he does."

"I will."

She ended the call slowly.

For a few seconds, nobody spoke.

The fear in the room was real.

It wasn't something I had imagined.

Someone had actually been asking about me.

Someone knew where I had lived.

Someone knew I was returning to school.

I looked at Aunty.

"What if it's him?"

She didn't answer immediately.

Then she reached into the fold of her wrapper.

She pressed something cold into my palm.

I looked down.

A small safety pin.

"Keep this pinned inside your clothes."

I stared at it.

"If anyone touches you..."

She lowered her voice.

"If anything feels wrong, you shout."

I nodded.

"You run."

My fingers tightened around the pin.

"Straight to Mrs. Ade."

I nodded again.

"Do you understand me, Ada?"

"Yes, ma."

"Good."

She wasn't finished.

She tore a small piece of paper from her notebook and wrote a number on it.

Then she folded it and placed it in my palm.

"Uncle Musa."

I looked at her.

"He is outside the school walls."

She paused.

"He knew your mother."

That caught my attention.

"He knew my mother?"

"Yes."

She pushed the paper into my hand.

"If the hostel feels unsafe, if you see that cap, you call him."

I looked at the number.

"He will answer."

I closed my fist around the paper and the safety pin.

For the first time that morning, I felt a little stronger.

I wasn't going back blind.

I was going back with eyes.

With people.

With a plan.

The school gate was loud.

Resumption noise filled the air.

New students stood beside their parents, looking lost.

Old students hugged one another and shouted greetings.

Teachers moved around giving instructions.

Boxes were being carried into the hostel.

The familiar smell of school filled the air.

I stood outside for a moment.

My legs were shaking.

I almost turned around.

Then I remembered the scholarship.

Seventy-two percent.

Fourth in class.

Mrs. Ade.

Tolu.

My dream.

I took a breath.

Then another.

And walked through the gate.

I carried my box with both hands.

The photograph was inside my notebook.

Uncle Musa's number was saved on my small phone under one word:

Outside.

My legs were still shaking.

But they moved.

I had spent my life thinking courage meant not being afraid.

Now I was beginning to understand something different.

Maybe courage meant being afraid and moving anyway.

Tolu saw me first.

She dropped her bag and ran toward me.

"Ada!"

Before I could say anything, she hugged me so hard that my ribs hurt.

"You came."

I laughed into her shoulder.

"I came."

She pulled away and looked at me.

"I told you."

"Told me what?"

"The class isn't the same without you."

I smiled.

"I missed you too."

Mrs. Ade was waiting at the administration block.

She didn't smile.

She never did.

But she gave me one firm nod.

"Welcome back, Ada."

"Thank you, ma."

She looked at me carefully.

"My office is open."

I understood what she meant.

If anything happened, I wasn't alone.

I nodded.

"Yes, ma."

That night, after hostel lights out, I lay quietly on my bed.

The room was dark.

Tolu was sleeping nearby.

I reached under my pillow and touched the folded photograph.

Then I remembered the note.

DON'T TRUST EVERYONE AT SCHOOL.

I thought about the man at Wuse Market.

The cap.

The dark glasses.

His question.

Has the girl resumed?

I didn't know who he was.

I didn't know what he wanted.

I didn't know whether the person sending the envelopes was trying to protect me or frighten me.

But I knew something had changed.

I opened my notebook.

Under the date, I wrote:

Friday.

Then:

I chose fear + faith.

I paused before continuing.

I'm not blind.

I have Aunty inside.

I have Uncle Musa outside.

I have Tolu beside me.

I stared at the words.

Then I added one final sentence.

Someone is watching me.

I closed my notebook.

But now... I'm watching too.