Frozen Heart

NEW HORIZONS AND LINGERING SHADOW.

Chapter 7

New Horizons And Lingering Shadow

September brought a fresh wave of change to Ifeoma Chioma Greenstone's life. At twelve years old, she stood on the cusp of junior secondary school, her primary days a bittersweet memory. The family had chosen Riverview Academy—a reputable mixed secondary school in the upscale Rumuola area of Port Harcourt, known for its rigorous academics and lush green fields dotted with palm trees. Registration had been straightforward: David Greenstone handled the paperwork, paying the fees from his oil company salary, while Ngozi fussed over Ifeoma's new uniforms—crisp white shirts, navy blue pleated skirts, and black shoes polished to a shine. "Make us proud, eh?" Ngozi said absently, her attention already drifting to Amara's latest babble from the playmat.

But entry wasn't automatic; Riverview required an entrance exam for JSS1 placements. On a muggy Saturday morning, Ifeoma arrived at the school hall with hundreds of other hopefuls. The room buzzed with nervous chatter—parents hovering outside, children clutching pencils like lifelines. Ifeoma sat at her assigned desk, heart steady despite the stakes. The papers covered basics: Mathematics with algebraic expressions creeping in, English comprehension on folktales, Basic Science on ecosystems, and Quantitative Reasoning puzzles. She dove in, her mind sharp from months of self-study. Equations solved themselves; passages yielded answers effortlessly. While others scratched heads and erased furiously, Ifeoma finished first—handing in her booklet with twenty minutes to spare. The invigilator raised an eyebrow. "Already? Double-check, girl." But Ifeoma smiled confidently. "I'm sure, sir."

Results came a week later via email. Ifeoma scored 98%—the highest in her batch. David whooped, lifting her in a bear hug. "My brilliant princess!" Even Ngozi managed a nod of approval, though she was busy feeding Amara. "Good job. Now behave in secondary school." Ifeoma beamed inwardly; perhaps this was a turning point.

Her first day at Riverview was a whirlwind. The school gates loomed grand, flanked by security in khaki uniforms. JSS1A—her assigned class—was a mix of wide-eyed newcomers in a spacious room with wooden desks arranged in rows, chalkboards spanning the walls, and fans whirring lazily against the heat. As roll call began, whispers followed Ifeoma. "That's the girl who topped the entrance," someone murmured. Her intelligence was evident from the start: in introductory English, she answered questions on synonyms with precision. But it wasn't just brains; her beauty turned heads—smooth ebony skin, long lashes framing expressive eyes, dimples flashing in rare smiles. She carried herself with smartness—uniform impeccable, backpack organized—and boldness, speaking up without hesitation. By break time, classmates swarmed her. "How did you finish so fast?" a boy asked. "You're so pretty and smart!" a girl gushed. Ifeoma, the most brilliant girl in class, became the instant star—admired for her wit, adored for her confidence. Even teachers noted her: "Greenstone, keep it up."

Amid the admiration, Ifeoma made three friends who felt like destiny. First was Zara, a bubbly girl with curly hair and a laugh like tinkling bells, from a nearby estate. Then Nnenna, quiet but artistic, always doodling in her notebook. And finally, Chisom—tall, serious, with glasses and a Bible verse pinned to her bag. Chisom was deeply religious, raised in a strict Pentecostal home, believing any mingling with boys was a sin that could lead to "temptation." "God says we should be pure," she'd whisper during assembly. Ifeoma, confused at first—why avoid half the class?—played along to keep the company. "Okay, let's stick together," she'd say, though inwardly she rolled her eyes at the childishness.

The four became inseparable. They shared everything: snacks from home—Zara's biscuits, Nnenna's fruit, Chisom's boiled eggs, Ifeoma's plantain chips. Gossips flowed during lunch under the mango tree: "Did you see Mr. Okoye's funny tie?" or "That senior girl is so rude!" Playtime meant games like "Catch the Flag" in the field or hide-and-seek behind classrooms, always disguising themselves from boys. Chisom led the charge: "Quick, hide! That boy's coming!" They'd duck behind walls, giggling, even if the boy was just passing. They extended the avoidance to other girls who hung with boys— "They're not serious," Chisom declared. "Boys distract from studies." Ifeoma nodded, though she found it silly for JSS1 kids; still, the bond felt eternal. "Besties forever," they'd chant, linking pinkies.

Ifeoma's brilliance shone in helping them. As one of the top in class, she'd whisper answers during tests—subtly, a glance at her paper or a coded cough. "Number five is 'photosynthesis,'" she'd murmur to Nnenna. Exams were tougher, but she'd position her desk for peeks. "Thanks, Ife! You're a lifesaver," Zara would say. It boosted Ifeoma's ego, reminding her of old glories.

The first term ended with position announcements in assembly. Ifeoma took second overall—straight A's in most subjects, edged out by a boy named Kelechi, a lanky math whiz who'd competed with her in every test. Another boy, Tobi, snagged third. "Well fought," Kelechi said graciously, but Ifeoma burned with quiet ambition. "Next term, first is mine."

Home life, however, remained a frozen tundra. All love orbited Amara, now three and a half, a toddler tyrant with curls and a mischievous grin. Ngozi doted endlessly: extra hugs, favorite meals, endless praises. "My little angel did her puzzle all by herself!" she'd coo. David tried balancing, but work kept him away. Grandmother's visits from Aba amplified the chill. The elderly woman, with her wrapper tied tight and cane in hand, arrived monthly, arms full of village treats. But her eyes lit only for Amara.

One afternoon in October, during a visit, the family gathered in the parlor. Ifeoma and her brothers helped with chores—Chukwuma mopping, Emeka washing dishes, Ifeoma sweeping. Amara "helped" by toddling around with a tiny broom, mostly knocking things over. Grandmother watched, clucking. When Amara managed to sweep a small pile of dust, she erupted: "See my granddaughter! So perfect. You're the best among the four of you—smart, helpful, everything!" Amara beamed, while Ifeoma's broom paused mid-sweep. The words stung like salt in a wound. "But I swept the whole veranda," Ifeoma muttered under her breath. Grandmother continued: "Amara is just perfect. God blessed this house with her." Jealousy surged in Ifeoma—hot, bitter—but she forced a smile. "Yes, Grandma." Later, alone, hatred flickered: Why her? But she pushed it down, seeking moments with Amara—playing dolls in the yard, singing hits like Asake's "Lonely at the Top" off-key, dancing silly. The bond grew; Amara's giggles thawed Ifeoma's heart temporarily. "I love you, sis," Amara would say, hugging her legs. Affection bloomed, but jealousy crashed back whenever adoration flowed Amara's way.

Amara, perceptive for her age, knew the score. She exploited Ngozi's favoritism ruthlessly—whining for toys, snacks, anything. "Mummy, I want Ifeoma's book!" she'd demand, and Ngozi would oblige. False accusations flew: "Ifeoma hit me!" even if it was a bump during play. Ngozi scolded Ifeoma without question. Around Mummy, Amara turned bossy: "Give me that!" snatching Ifeoma's pencil during homework. It was a game to her—testing limits, basking in the power.

One incident crystallized it. It was a lazy Sunday in November, rain pattering on the tin roof. Ifeoma sat at the dining table, sketching a map for Social Studies homework—a detailed outline of Nigeria's states, colored meticulously. Amara wandered in, eyes on the crayons. "I want to draw too!" she chirped. Ifeoma, in a good mood, shared: "Okay, but don't touch my map." Amara nodded, but soon her small hands "accidentally" smeared blue across Ifeoma's work—rivers bleeding into states. "Oops," Amara said innocently, but her smirk said otherwise.

Ifeoma's temper flared. "Amara! You ruined it!" She snatched the paper, but Amara wailed dramatically. Ngozi rushed in. "What happened?" Amara pointed, tears flowing: "Ifeoma yelled at me! She said I'm stupid!" A lie, bold and calculated. Ngozi's face hardened. "Ifeoma, how dare you? Apologize!" Ifeoma protested: "But she—" No use. "Quiet! You're always jealous. Help your sister redraw it." Amara, victorious, stuck out her tongue when Ngozi turned away.

This was Amara's pattern—a short story of calculated perfection. From that day, she amped it up. If Ifeoma baked simple akara with Mummy, Amara insisted on "helping" more, flipping them perfectly (with Ngozi's guidance), earning: "See how neat Amara is!" Overshadowing. When Ifeoma sang a school hymn, Amara mimicked flawlessly, her high voice drawing coos: "Amara's the real talent!" Ifeoma practiced dance steps for a school event; Amara copied, adding twirls, and Ngozi clapped: "My baby girl's a star!" Everything Ifeoma did, Amara tried to top—just to gain those praises, her eyes gleaming with childish cunning.

The situation eroded Ifeoma like river on rock. At school, she shone, but home was a battlefield of bitterness. Mornings started with resentment—watching Amara get the fluffiest moi-moi slice. Evenings ended in silent tears: "Why me?" The jealousy poisoned her thoughts; she'd snap at Amara over nothing, then regret it, forcing hugs to mend. But the bitterness festered—sleepless nights wondering if she'd ever be enough. School friends noticed her moods: "Ife, you okay?" She'd fake a smile. "Yeah, just tired." Inside, the freeze deepened, her heart a fortress against the endless overshadowing.

Yet, in quiet moments—Amara asleep, clutching Ifeoma's hand—affection flickered. "I have to love her," Ifeoma told herself. But the shadows lingered, horizons new but home eternally cold.