Chapter 5 — Walls, Windows, and New Beginnings
1288 Words
I had grown tired of staying at my brother’s house. I loved my family, truly, but living with children was a challenge I never fully mastered. They were adorable creatures—tiny, unpredictable, and emotionally explosive. They cried at the slightest provocation, screamed for reasons that made no logical sense, and followed me around as though I carried the secrets of the universe in my pockets. I didn’t hate children, not at all; I simply never understood them. And perhaps, in many ways, they never understood me either.
Being around so much noise drained me. I was eighteen now, almost done with my second year of university, and the need for silence had become a new kind of hunger. I wanted space that belonged to me—quiet, orderly, predictable. My own place. My own peace.
After weeks of debating within myself, I finally told my parents that I wanted to move out of my brother’s house. They hesitated at first—after all, I was still their youngest, still the “special one” who skipped classes and entered university earlier than most. But when they saw that my mind was made up, they agreed. They decided to get me a self-contained apartment close to school. The plan was set, but I had to wait until my holiday was over.
So I endured the noise a little longer, waking up to crying toddlers, the clatter of cartoons on TV, and the endless chaos of family life. Eventually, the holiday ended, and by my third year, my brother helped secure a proper apartment for me. It was quite expensive—more than a student should reasonably pay for a single room—but everyone in my family seemed to agree that I was worth the investment. My intelligence, my independence, my unusual mind… these things made them feel comfortable giving me whatever I needed to thrive.
During the break, Shalewa kept calling, texting, and sending long w******p messages filled with emojis and dramatic stories. If loyalty had a nickname, it would be her name. She was clingy—unapologetically so. She had asked me several times when my birthday was, and each time, I dodged the question with the same response:
“I don’t celebrate my birthdays.”
She would always reply, “Live a little, my friend,” dragging the friend in a playful yet sincere way. She didn’t understand why I didn’t want to talk about it, but she respected the boundary. She still told me hers anyway—January—because she felt a friendship should have no locked doors. I wasn’t used to that kind of vulnerability. I wasn’t used to someone wanting to know me beyond the surface.
When I finally moved into the apartment my parents got for me, it felt like stepping into a new phase of my life. The place was small but neat, well-furnished, and perfect for someone like me. Water ran easily, the rooms were finished, and all the essentials were arranged. My kitchen was stocked with everything from utensils to pots, from seasonings to bags of rice and garri. Toiletries, cleaning supplies, bedding—everything was there.
My parents wanted me to lack nothing.
I had never been naturally drawn to cooking, but since I now lived alone, I spent hours watching YouTube videos to learn. Surprisingly, cooking wasn’t as difficult as I thought—just science mixed with heat and timing. With practice, I got decent at preparing soups, stews, and even jollof rice without burning the bottom pot… well, not all the time.
Life was going smoothly.
By the way, I should mention something important—my immediate older brother, JC, was also in the university at the time. Not my eldest brother who lived in the East, but the brother closest to me in age. JC was studying at UNN and was in his third year, second semester. Unfortunately—or fortunately—his school had just gone on break due to ongoing issues, so he returned home to the North while I was beginning my third year. My school was fast and blessedly free from strikes, so we were always ahead of most schools in the country.
Back on campus, Shalewa had changed a lot. Her weight-loss journey had been successful; she looked healthier, happier, and more confident. With her new body, she could have easily made friends with any circle she wanted—the stylish girls, the talkatives, the hostellers, the social butterflies, or even the “big girls” club. But she didn’t. She stayed close to me.
Her loyalty surprised me.
She would invite me to her place countless times. “April, come over na. I cooked something. At least come and taste my handwork.” Or, “Come let’s study together,” or even, “I’m bored. Come and save me.”
And every single time, I declined.
It wasn’t because I disliked her. It wasn’t because I didn’t appreciate the effort. It was because opening up felt like a dangerous thing. I had lived most of my life in my own mind—protected, distant, quiet. Allowing someone into my personal space felt strange… even intrusive.
But Shalewa didn’t give up. She didn’t force it, but she remained consistent. She talked to me about everything—her parents, her fears, her excitement, her plans, her insecurities. She trusted me effortlessly. She never waited for me to ask questions; she simply told me things because she labeled me as “her person.”
Sometimes I wondered if I was too cold for friendship… or simply too scared.
Was it possible that I was still keeping walls because I didn’t know if I deserved genuine companionship? Or was I protecting myself from emotions I didn’t understand?
Shalewa was older than me, yet she respected me deeply. She admired my intelligence, the way I handled situations, the calmness that people mistook for arrogance. She always said, “I don’t care if you don’t smile. I know you’re a nice person. The day you helped me, you showed me that.”
Her words often lingered in my mind long after she said them.
Sometimes, late at night, sitting alone in my new apartment, I would catch myself thinking about her—not in a romantic way, but in a way that felt new and confusing. She made me feel… lighter. Like I wasn’t carrying my whole mind alone. Like maybe, just maybe, life was not only about intelligence, strategy, and survival.
Maybe companionship—true companionship—wasn’t a weakness.
Maybe it was another kind of strength.
But I still kept my walls up. Old habits are hard to abandon.
And so when she invited me over again—this time with the excuse of tasting a new dish she cooked—I found myself hesitating more than usual.
Was I scared of getting close?
Or was I afraid of letting someone see the parts of me even I didn’t fully understand?
That question echoed in my mind as I settled deeper into my silent apartment, my books stacked neatly around me, the world outside humming with life I wasn’t sure I was ready to join.
But something was changing.
Something small.
Something new.
And I could feel it growing.
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- Writer
