CHAPTER 13: PAPER AND SILENCE
1156 Words
My body woke before my alarm did.
The city was quieter in the early hours—not silent like Grandpa’s street back home, but quieter. The kind of hush that hung in the air like a held breath. Lagos at dawn was like a secret, one that only a few of us bothered to learn.
I stretched on my yoga mat for a few minutes before slipping into my running shoes and heading outside to the small courtyard Mom called “the garden.” I called it a patch of watered earth with glass lights around the edges. Still, it was enough space for a few laps.
Each morning, I ran—not fast, just consistent. I let the rhythm of my footsteps drown out the thoughts that threatened to talk over each other. When I returned inside, sweaty and clear-minded, the house was just beginning to stir.
A shower.
Black joggers. White shirt. Low haircut freshly moisturized. Books packed.
Still me.
Always me.
---
At school, the corridors were louder. Chatter spilled like water—names, rumors, giggles. I moved through them like a shadow, unnoticed until someone recognized the black hoodie or the face they couldn’t pin down.
I heard someone whisper, “That’s the girl that played on Friday.”
Another: “That’s the one that didn’t clap back at Bianca. Ice cold.”
I didn’t flinch. I was used to being the subject of whispers, just not in a uniform.
Zainab waved at me from a distance. I nodded.
---
First period was Literature. I took my usual seat by the window—far from the center, close to the wind. The teacher walked in, a tall woman with eyes like searchlights, holding a stack of papers.
“Last week, I asked for a short reflective essay—your thoughts on identity and change,” she said. “Most of you wrote what you thought I wanted to hear.”
She paused. Her eyes landed on me.
“But one person didn’t.”
Heads turned.
“Ayoola.”
My eyes met hers.
She raised my essay. “This… was thoughtful. Controlled. A little dark. But real.”
Murmurs.
I didn’t like being looked at, but I didn’t lower my gaze either.
The teacher continued. “Ayoola will represent our class in the school debate. Whether she likes it or not.”
Chuckles.
I stayed quiet.
Not afraid. Just focused.
---
Eli leaned toward me mid-lesson. “You write, too?”
I didn’t answer.
“That’s a yes.”
He had his green sweater on again, headphones loose around his neck. He always looked like he belonged in another world—unbothered.
When the bell rang, he said, “Good luck with the debate. I’ll be watching.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to.”
He left before I could reply.
---
Lunch came and went. I ate by the court. Zainab didn’t come. I didn’t ask why.
---
Final period was quiet. I took notes, wrote down things I already understood, let the class move around me.
I wasn’t here to impress anyone.
Just to stay sharp.
---
School ended. I walked out. No phone check. No waiting.
Passed the nodding security man.
The laughing girls.
The mango seller.
Everything moved like background noise.
But I moved with intention.
From a distance, I looked like a quiet girl going home.
Inside, I was planning my next argument.
---
Wednesday. Lunchtime.
Zainab stirred her rice like it offended her.
I didn’t ask what was wrong.
She finally sighed. “Can you do me a favour?”
“Depends.”
“There’s this party on Friday. Amarachi’s brother is hosting. Clean. Safe. Nothing crazy.”
I waited.
“My dad said I can’t go unless I go with someone he trusts. He picked you.”
“Me?”
“Yes! He thinks you’re the only person who won’t sneak in alcohol.”
“Do I look like I own a purse?”
She laughed. “Exactly! You’re perfect.”
“No.”
“Please. You can wear your black clothes and glare at everyone.”
“Tempting.”
“I’ve been good all term. Let me have this one night.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Which meant: no, but gently.
---
Evening. At home. Dinner was quiet.
Zainab cornered me afterward.
“Have you thought about it?”
“You don’t quit.”
“Dad said if you say yes, I can go.”
“Why me?”
“You walk like a security guard.”
I smirked. “So I’m your permission slip.”
“You’re my scary sister. Debate queen. Saviour of social life.”
“Fine.”
She froze. “Wait—really?”
“One hour. No pictures. I wear what I want.”
She squealed and hugged me.
---
Thursday. School.
During assembly, I thought about the party.
Not the people. The idea of being seen differently.
I hated parties.
Too loud. Too fake.
But maybe Zainab deserved it.
Maybe I needed a break.
“You’ve been quiet,” Eli said.
“Quieter than usual.”
I looked at him.
“Zainab’s talking. They think you’ll show up in a tux and boxing gloves.”
“They’re not wrong.”
“Just don’t knock anyone out.”
“No promises.”
---
Literature teacher returned with debate topics.
“Ayoola Davis,” she called.
“You’ll argue: ‘Social Media is a Greater Harm Than Good.’”
I tilted my head. Easy.
Grandpa’s voice echoed in my mind: “A fight isn’t about shouting loud. It’s knowing where to hit.”
Eli peeked. “Want help?”
“I work alone.”
“I figured.”
---
Thursday night. Studying. A knock.
Zainab entered with a duffel bag.
“Outfit time.”
“I have clothes.”
“Yes. Ayoola clothes. We need something that says ‘I might dance. Or fight.’”
“I’m not here to impress anyone.”
“You’re not. Just to give them a little fear.”
She held up a dark cropped jacket and grey tee. “With your cargo pants? Perfect.”
I raised a brow. “Where’s it from?”
“My side. Return it after you break one heart.”
“I’m not breaking anything.”
“Not even bones?”
“Only if provoked.”
She sat on the floor, scanning my dark room.
“It’s so you.”
I didn’t reply.
She softened. “Dad trusts you. I do too.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“I should. You’re Ayoola Davis. That’s terrifying.”
She stood. “We’ll take Mom’s spare car. Let me do your hair?”
“No.”
“Just edges?”
“No.”
“Okay. Brows?”
I stared.
“Just shaping. You’ll still look scary.”
She left.
I looked at the jacket.
Tried it on.
It fit.
- Writer
