Chapter Three: The Unlikely Friendship
1689 Words
Returning to school after the New Year holidays felt strangely refreshing. The cold harmattan mornings, the dryness of the northern wind, the heated confrontation in the village—all of it stayed behind as I boarded the bus back to the East. My father had looked at me differently since that day in the village. Not with fear or surprise, but with a deepened respect. He had always admired my quiet strength, but seeing me defend him so boldly opened his eyes to the layers he had never noticed before. I may not have been expressive with emotions, but in that moment, I had shown him something more powerful than smiles or words: loyalty.
When I resumed my second year, campus life felt slightly different. The familiar buildings, the lecture halls, the noise, the crowds—all of it returned. Yet I felt myself stepping into the new semester with a sharper awareness. Perhaps it was maturity, or maybe it was simply the realization that not everyone was raised with kindness or logic. University wasn’t just a place for education—it was a small society, complete with power struggles, insecurities, and people who preyed on the weak.
One afternoon, during the second week of resumption, I encountered the situation that would change my life in ways I didn’t expect.
I had just left the faculty library and was walking toward the hallway that led to the departmental block when I heard muffled voices behind one of the abandoned lecture rooms. Normally, I minded my business—peacefully, quietly. But something about the tone of the voices made me pause. It wasn’t just chatter; it was aggression. I took a few steps closer and saw three girls surrounding someone—a fourth girl—with her back against the wall.
She was fat, with a gentle round face and timid eyes. A girl who looked like she avoided trouble with every fiber of her being. I recognized her vaguely, someone I must have seen during general courses, but we had never spoken.
The three girls cornering her were older—definitely in their third year—bold, loud, and clearly used to intimidation as their sport. One of them was demanding money, accusing the fat girl of “owing them.” Another snatched her bag and dug through it. The third blocked her path and slapped her books out of her hands.
I took a deep breath.
I had two options:
Walk away.
Or step in.
I initially turned to leave—because honestly, conflicts exhausted me. People exhausted me. Drama irritated me. But after a few steps, something pulled me back. Maybe it was my father’s proud eyes that flashed in my mind. Maybe it was the helplessness on the girl’s face. Or maybe it was simply the irritation I felt toward bullies who thrived on weakness.
I walked back, quietly but with purpose.
“Is this what you girls do now?” I said, my voice calm but sharp enough to cut through their laughter.
They turned around with surprised expressions. The smallest of them looked me up and down and scoffed.
“Who are you?” she asked.
I didn’t answer. Instead, I stepped forward and retrieved the girl’s bag from the bully’s hand.
“What exactly are you doing?” I asked.
“Mind your business,” the tallest girl hissed.
I smiled—not with warmth, but with that particular expression I used when someone had just made a very stupid mistake. “If you’re not too old for this nonsense, why bully a fellow student on campus?”
They exchanged looks, clearly confused by my fearlessness—and even more confused by the fact that I was small, young-looking, and barely bothered by their threats.
“You don’t know who we are,” one said.
“I don’t need to,” I replied. “I already know what you are.”
They lunged at me verbally, but I was two steps ahead. Calmly, I lifted my phone and pointed the camera at them. What they didn’t realize was that I had already been recording the entire scene the moment I walked back.
“If you think beating her is fun,” I said softly, “wait until the school authorities—and i********:—see this. University bullies? You’ll go viral in two minutes.”
Their faces drained of color instantly. They suddenly looked less confident.
“You’re bluffing,” the tallest said again, but her voice lacked weight.
I zoomed in on her face as a warning.
“I don’t bluff,” I said. “And I’m giving you one chance to walk away before this becomes your reputation.”
Maybe it was arrogance, maybe it was intuition, but that moment belonged to me. They hesitated, whispered among themselves, then stormed off angrily—threatening to “deal with me later,” but we all knew they wouldn’t dare.
When they finally left, the girl they had cornered stood frozen.
She stared at me with wide eyes, as if trying to understand who—or what—I was.
“You—you didn’t have to do that,” she stuttered.
“I know,” I replied, slipping my phone back into my pocket. “But they needed to know they can’t try nonsense on everyone.”
She blinked at me several times, her face softening with gratitude. Then she managed a small smile.
“My name is Shalewa,” she said quietly.
I nodded. “April.”
That was how it started.
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Over the next few days, I realized Shalewa and I were course mates. Not only that—we were in the same year, same department, same faculty. Somehow, I had gone an entire year without noticing. That was how withdrawn I had been. Campus life had always existed around me, not with me.
Shalewa, however, noticed me. From that day onward, she seemed to appear everywhere I turned.
At first, it was annoying.
She followed me after lectures.
She sat next to me in class.
She tried to walk with me to the hostel.
She brought me snacks.
She thanked me repeatedly.
I found it overwhelming.
“Stop following me,” I told her one morning as we left our 8 a.m. lecture.
“I’m not following you,” she protested softly, clutching her books. “I’m just… walking in the same direction.”
I gave her a look.
She smiled awkwardly. “Okay, maybe I am following you.”
I sighed. “Why?”
“You’re different,” she said simply. “Strong. I’ve never seen anyone like you.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. Being “different” wasn’t something I liked people acknowledging. It made me feel exposed.
“I don’t do friends,” I told her plainly.
She nodded. “It’s okay. I can wait.”
Wait?
Who waits to be someone’s friend?
Most people would have walked away from me at that point. I wasn’t easy to approach, and I wasn’t friendly by nature. But Shalewa… she was patient, quiet, respectful. She didn’t demand space in my life, she simply waited near its edges.
One day, after a particularly stressful class, she handed me a small gift—a pack of cookies and a thank-you note. She didn’t say anything. Just placed it on my desk and walked away.
No one had ever done something like that for me. Not a stranger. Not someone who owed me nothing.
That evening, I found myself thinking about her. About her timid smile, her soft voice, her bruised confidence. How someone so gentle survived in a place as harsh as university amazed me.
Maybe, I thought, she needed someone like me.
And maybe… I needed someone like her too—someone calm, warm, steady.
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By the fourth week of the semester, Shalewa had become part of my routine.
Slowly. Softly. Naturally.
We began sitting together in class.
We shared snacks during breaks.
We studied together sometimes after lectures.
She talked. I listened.
I talked. She listened twice as hard.
When rumors started spreading about the bullying incident, many students looked at me differently. Some admired me. Some avoided me. Others feared me—not because of anything violent, but because I had a reputation for seeing through people.
And somehow, in the middle of all that noise, Shalewa became the one person who wasn’t afraid of me.
Our friendship didn’t happen with a dramatic moment. It happened with small pieces—shared silence, exchanged books, understanding glances, and the unspoken bond formed in the corner of an abandoned classroom where I chose to stand up for her.
I had always believed I didn’t need friends.
But what I didn’t realize was that sometimes, friends find you—even when you push them away. Even when you try to keep your distance. Even when your heart doesn’t know how to soften.
Shalewa didn’t break through my walls.
She simply stood at the gate until I opened it myself.
And that was how an unlikely girl, bullied and quiet, slowly became the only friend I allowed into my life.
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- Writer
