CHAPTER 12: AFTER THE ECHOES
1232 Words
The sky was bleeding a soft orange by the time I got back to the house.
Lagos didn’t sleep the way Grandpa’s neighborhood did. Here, everything moved—cars honking in the distance, the hum of generators filling the gaps between footsteps and laughter. But up here, on the balcony outside my room, it was quieter. The house was quiet too—Mom was at a meeting or a shoot, I didn’t ask which. Zainab hadn’t returned from her group study.
And I was alone again.
Just how I liked it.
I dropped my gym bag beside the door and leaned on the railing, letting the evening breeze curl into my arms. The scent of suya from a distant street vendor drifted upward, mixing with the faint smell of Mom’s flowers downstairs—too delicate, too polished.
My hands were still buzzing from practice. My shoulders ached in the best way.
But it wasn’t the game I kept replaying.
It was her.
Bianca.
The way she stood in the hallway like the main act on a stage no one asked for. The way she tried to use silence against me—like my quiet was a weapon I wasn’t allowed to own.
She hated me. Not because I did anything. But because I didn’t.
I didn’t beg to be noticed.
I didn’t move out of the way.
I didn’t perform.
People like her didn’t know what to do with people like me. I wasn’t loud enough to fight and not soft enough to disappear. I was stillness. And stillness scared them.
I remembered something Grandpa once said—something I hadn’t thought about in years.
> “Silence doesn’t mean weakness, Ayoola. Sometimes it’s the sound of someone thinking how to win.”
I hadn’t understood it then.
But I did now.
---
I walked into my room, switching off the main light. I preferred the dim glow of my standing lamp in the corner—moody, soft, a little like dusk in a bottle.
The punching bag hung quietly near the closet, and for a moment, I saw Grandpa adjusting the hook it hung from. His hands, rough but gentle. His voice, firm but warm.
> “Hit it with your focus, not your anger. Anger burns fast. Focus builds fire.”
I sat at my desk, opened my journal, and stared at the blank page.
I didn’t write much. Just a sentence.
> Bianca looked at me like I stole something she thinks she owns.
Then I closed it.
---
There was a time I wanted a friend like her.
Back when I was ten or eleven. Someone who smiled with their whole face and braided your hair during lunch breaks. But that time passed. Somewhere between being called a “ghost,” and watching people back away when they realized I wasn’t soft enough to mold.
Now, I didn’t know what I wanted.
Maybe nothing.
Or maybe just space.
Space to be who I was, without being asked to smile more, talk more, dress different, sit prettier.
I wasn’t pretty. I was blunt. Sharp-edged. A blade in a drawer full of spoons.
And here, in this house full of strangers and siblings and questions, I needed to carve out my own rhythm.
---
A knock at the door.
Soft.
Cautious.
“Come in,” I said.
Zainab peeked in. “You back from practice?”
I nodded.
“You were really good,” she said, stepping in fully now. “I didn’t expect you to go that hard.”
“Why?”
She blinked. “I don’t know. You just… don’t talk much.”
“I don’t need to.”
She laughed nervously, fiddling with her bracelet. “I guess not.”
I didn’t say anything else. She seemed unsure whether to stay or leave.
Finally, she asked, “You want anything from the kitchen? We still have some fried rice.”
I shook my head. “I’m good.”
“Okay. Well… see you tomorrow?”
I nodded again, and she left.
The door clicked shut behind her.
I exhaled.
---
Sometimes I wondered if being this quiet made me hard to love. But I didn’t know how to be any other way. I wasn’t closed off. I just didn’t open easily.
Like a lock with a missing key.
Or a house with only one light on.
But I was here now.
And the game had started.
I took off my hoodie and slung it over the back of the chair, then went to sit on the windowsill.
From up here, I could see part of the street—cars slowing near the gate, a keke weaving through traffic, a boy balancing loaves of bread on his head while yelling something I couldn’t make out.
The city felt like it was constantly moving, like even the walls had things to say. But I didn’t want to hear them yet. I just wanted to breathe.
I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and closed my eyes.
I didn’t belong to this city yet.
Not to the luxury of Mom’s polished home, not to the high gates or the soft couches or the glossy tiles that made my footsteps sound louder than they should.
But I didn’t belong to Grandpa’s house anymore either.
The truth? I didn’t belong anywhere right now.
And that feeling wasn’t new.
It had just found a new postcode.
---
My phone buzzed once.
Unknown Number.
I stared at it, let it ring twice, then silenced it.
A message followed a moment later.
> You played well. I see you. – C.A.
I blinked at the initials.
Christopher Adefila.
I didn’t remember giving him my number.
But of course he would find it.
He was like that.
Always watching. Always waiting for a moment to be remembered.
---
I didn’t reply.
Instead, I walked over to my punching bag and threw a clean right jab. Not too hard—just enough to feel the tension leave my knuckles.
Then another.
And another.
Steady. Focused.
I wasn’t angry.
Not at Bianca. Not at Christopher. Not even at myself.
I was just… full. Full of thoughts. Of motion. Of the weight of being watched.
Back at my old school, I had gotten used to being invisible. Just a name on the register, just a girl with a soldier-grandfather who kept to herself and didn’t smile much.
Here, it was different.
Here, I was being seen.
Not for who I was yet—but for who they thought I might be.
And that? That was dangerous.
Because when people expected something from you, they started to mold you, push you, change you—until your name didn’t sound like yours anymore.
I wasn’t going to let that happen.
---
Grandpa used to say, “Don’t let people speak you into becoming someone else. You’re already someone. Make them adjust.”
I would.
Starting tomorrow.
---
I turned off the lamp and lay in bed.
I didn’t scroll my phone. I didn’t text anyone back. I just stared at the ceiling, tracing the shapes the shadows made as the wind stirred the curtains.
In the distance, I heard a train.
It reminded me that things were always leaving.
And sometimes, you had to decide what part of yourself you wanted to take with you… and what to leave behind.
- Writer
