THE WEIGHT OF THE MIRROR

​The journey started not with excitement but with fear—a low, nauseating hum that matched the vibrations of the engine and the twisting in my stomach. The five-hour drive felt like crossing an emotional desert. I vomited twice onto the emergency blanket my father had thoughtfully placed on the seat, the physical distress mirroring the dizzying anxiety of leaving home. ​This school was a transaction, and I was the expensive third item on the receipt. The crushing weight of the tuition felt tangible; I saw it in the strained lines around my parents’ eyes as they handed over the colossal sum. That pressure was heavier than any bag they helped me carry. ​The final inspection was ritualistic and cold: Dad laid out my bed linen, adjusting the blanket to a military fold, while my mother, ever-vigilant, watched the gate as the matron checked our bags. My younger sister was clicking photos, preserving the moment I was supposed to look proud, but all I registered were the rough, tight braids on my scalp—my mother’s final attempt at keeping me ‘neat’ for the world. ​Then came the final words, spoken in our dialect, in a tone that was less a goodbye and more a decree. ​“Ranti ohun to wa se, Ola," my mother commanded, her gaze not meeting mine but focused on the horizon as if she were speaking to the future itself. Remember what you came here to do, Ola. You came to read. Do well and make me proud. She adjusted a fold in my uniform, her fingers cool and distant. Manage your things, Eliza, because there isn’t enough money. Ranti omo ti iwo je. Remember the child of whom you are. ​"Yes, ma," I replied, the words small and thin, barely audible over the crunch of gravel. ​And then they were gone. Just like that. The car disappeared down the long avenue of pines, and they ceased to exist, leaving me alone with the new, loud silence of the boarding house. ​That first week was orientation. Everything was ugly: the unforgiving purple uniform, scratchy and smelling faintly of chemicals, and the industrial brown sandals that chafed my heels. The only thing uglier was my sudden lack of control. ​Waiting for dinner that first evening was torture. I was used to eating when I was pleased, when the focus of my attention broke. Now, I sat in the mandatory, echoing stillness of the common room, waiting for the bell that dictated all things. ​I walked to the dining hall alone. Shyness had always been my armour, keeping me safe from scrutiny, but now it felt like a cage. I found the last table in the hall, choosing the deep, isolated corner, and sank onto the bench. The room was divided by colour houses—sections marked by banners and flags. I was assigned to the Green Side, and even this minor, accidental group felt like a crushing obligation I was unprepared for. I didn’t know anyone. I didn’t want to know anyone. I just wanted to read, to eat, and to hide. When the food arrived, it was strange. A heavy, doughy mound with a thick, reddish-brown sauce ladled over it. I had never seen it before. The fear of being called 'local' was a sharper, more immediate pain than my hunger, so I simply ate, copying the quiet, cautious movements of the girls around me. ​We were told these were our temporary table partners. One girl, friendly despite my silence, introduced herself as Damilola, explaining her name meant "wealth is mixed with honor"—a name that sounded far too grand for this awkward corner of the hall. The other girl, whose name was Dede, was harder to remember, as names always slipped away from me, casualties of my perpetual shyness. ​Damilola pointed to the glossy sauce. "It’s made with cornstarch," she whispered, like sharing a state secret. It was surprisingly sweet and utterly delicious. It tasted like the first moment of simple, unexpected joy I’d had all day, and I wanted more. ​When one girl at aneighbouringg table stood up, daring to approach the serving line, a collective energy passed through our freshman-only hall. Since no seniors were present, the shame of asking for seconds was diluted. We all stood up, a clumsy, purple-uniformed army, and followed the first bold girl. ​The brief euphoria of a second plate vanished when the school authorities went to centre stage. The Principal was a white man—Wow, I thought, the novelty momentarily distracting me—and he was followed by matrons and prefects who looked like granite statues. They spent the next hour detailing the rules that would govern our existence. ​The schedule was rigid: mandatory Afternoon Prep and Evening Prep. Our comforting Provisions—the few snacks meant to bridge the gap between home and this harsh new reality—were banned from the hostel and had to be surrendered. Most frighteningly, we would not use cash, but cheques—a system so formal and new it felt explicitly designed to confuse and trip me up. ​The new world wasn't just ugly and lonely; it was strictly, coldly regulated.