CHAPTER 10: CHECK THE BOX THAT SPEAKS TO YOU
1275 Words
The announcement came after assembly.
"All SS3 students are to submit their extracurricular participation forms by Thursday. Activities include sports, cultural clubs, creative arts, debate, and others. Forms will be distributed during second period."
The form came in a flimsy yellow sheet, folded neatly and slipped into our notebooks during class.
Zainab looked at hers like it was a makeup tutorial—eyes scanning each section with a kind of sparkle. “We’re allowed to choose two max,” she said, nudging me. “I’m definitely picking fashion club. And cheerleading. You?”
I didn’t reply.
Not right away.
Because the moment I opened the form and saw the section for Sports, my heart thudded.
There it was, listed in all caps like it was waiting for me:
BASKETBALL.
I didn’t need to overthink it.
No weighing options.
No second guesses.
My pen moved before my mind could catch up.
✅ BASKETBALL
☐ Football
☐ Athletics
☐ Cheerleading
☐ None of the above
That last box—None of the above—mocked me for a second.
Because for years, I had felt like that box.
But not today.
---
Later, some girls were still debating between dance and cheerleading like it was life or death.
One glanced at my form and raised a brow. “You ticked basketball?”
“Yeah.”
“With the boys?”
“With the ball.”
Zainab laughed from across the room, shaking her head. “This girl is something else.”
---
On our way home, she brought it up again.
“You know Eli is captain of the basketball team, right?”
“Okay.”
“Just saying. He’s intense on the court.”
I didn’t respond. I’d played in silence, with sweat and scrapes and no audience. I wasn’t here to impress anyone.
Basketball was one of the few things in this world that didn’t ask me to speak.
And if Eli was on that court...
Well.
He’d find out soon enough—I don’t play to be noticed.
---
It happened on Wednesday. Lunch break.
I wasn’t hungry. Just sitting near the window with water and half an apple. Zainab had gone off to finalize her cheerleading uniform fitting.
I didn’t expect peace, but I didn’t expect noise aimed directly at me either.
“So you’re the new girl.”
The voice was sharp—like it wanted to cut.
I looked up.
Tall. Glossed lips. Uniform skirt too tight. Her edges were so perfect they could’ve had a fan page.
“And you are?” I asked.
“Bianca. Head of the cheer team.”
Her smile was sugar-coated acid.
I nodded once.
“Heard you joined basketball.”
So that was what this was.
“Yeah.”
“You know we don’t usually have girls on the team, right?”
“That a rule?”
She blinked, slightly thrown.
“It’s just… people stick to what fits.”
“I fit basketball. You fit sparkles.”
I bit into my apple.
Her smile twitched. “You’re brave. Talking like that in your first week.”
“I’m not talking. You are.”
That did it.
People nearby went quiet. Not full drama silence, but just enough to notice.
Bianca looked me over. From my joggers to my braids.
“Just remember,” she said, flipping her hair, “this school was balanced before you came. Don’t think a pair of sneakers makes you special.”
I didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
She walked off, heels clicking like an ending scene.
---
When Zainab came back, she glanced toward the door.
“What happened?”
“She introduced herself.”
Zainab winced. “Bianca doesn’t like competition. Especially not near Eli.”
“This has to do with him?”
“You joined his team. That’s enough.”
I finished my water and shrugged.
Let them talk.
Let them look.
I didn’t come here for anyone’s crown.
Just the court.
The quiet.
The moment the ball kissed the net and made everything make sense again.
Still...
Grandpa used to say, “You won’t always start a fight. But people will throw punches at your presence.”
Now I understood what he meant.
---
The library was the only place I could breathe.
No glitter. No sneakers. Just books that smelled like answers.
Thursday afternoon, right after Literature, I skipped lunch and wandered into the fiction aisle.
Achebe. Adichie. Soyinka. Morrison.
The Famished Road caught my eye. I slid it out, brushed the dust away—and turned.
A shoulder hit mine.
Hard.
The book almost slipped.
I stepped back, looked up—and froze.
Three boys.
Polished. Pressed. Privileged.
The one who hit me raised a brow. “Are you blind?”
I held his gaze for three seconds. Then turned, walked to a nearby table, and sat.
Silence followed.
The founder’s son.
That had to be him.
Nate Adekoya.
---
Their footsteps returned. One boy sat across from me. Another leaned against a shelf. Nate stayed standing, eyes sharp.
“People usually say sorry,” he said.
“You bumped into me.”
A pause.
The seated boy smirked. “Yo, she has no idea who she’s talking to.”
“I do,” I said. “Founder’s son. Library wanderers. Shirts ironed so flat they could slice air.”
The second boy let out a whistle. “You trying to be funny?”
“No. I came to read. You bumped me. I didn’t make a scene—you did.”
Nate studied me. His silence was heavier than the other two combined.
“What’s your name?”
“Ayoola.”
“Ayoola what?”
“That’s all you need.”
The seated boy stood up, annoyed.
“You know who you’re—”
Nate raised a hand.
“Leave it.”
He was watching me. Not with anger—curiosity.
Then he turned and walked off. The others followed.
---
By the time I left the library, word had already spread.
“She didn’t say sorry.”
“She just kept reading.”
Some stared.
Not admiration.
Not hatred.
Just... calculation.
---
That evening, in the locker room, whispers chased me.
“She acts like she owns the school.”
“She wears trousers like a guy.”
“She thinks she’s tough because of basketball.”
I tied my shoelaces without looking up.
Their words were loud.
But my silence was louder.
---
Zainab knocked on my door that night.
She leaned in, arms folded. “Are you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Calm. Unbothered. Silent assassin.”
“I’m not rude.”
“You’re Ayoola. That’s its own category.” She laughed. “People are still talking, you know.”
“Let them.”
“They say you challenged Nate.”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s what makes it worse. You didn’t try—and you still shook the table.”
She crossed the room, stared at my punching bag.
“That guy—Nate—his dad funds the school. Everyone listens to him.”
“So?”
“So… now they’re listening to you, too.”
---
Friday came.
No one bumped me in the hallway.
They moved.
Not out of fear. Out of... awareness.
Nate didn’t look at me. But his silence followed like an echo.
In the library again, I found The Famished Road where I left it.
No interruption.
No words.
But something told me... next time, there might be.
Because someone like Nate wouldn’t let a mystery stay quiet.
And I?
I wasn’t the type to explain myself.
- Writer
