About time

Chapter 3

The morning air of Lagos does not bring relief; it brings the heavy, humid weight of a city waking up to a new reality. By 5:30 AM, the rain has reduced to a persistent, misty drizzle that clings to the windows of the hired sedan Tife arranged for us. We sit in total silence in the back seat. Tife is staring blankly out the window, her thumb rhythmically tapping against the edge of her phone. She has traded her soaked hoodie for her pristine Maryland High ironed uniform the navy blue blazer with gold embroidery, the crisp white shirt, and the pleated plaid skirt. On the surface, she looks like the immaculate, highsociety student she has always been. But the dark circles under her eyes are painted over with far too much concealer, and her breathing is shallow, frantic. Beside her, my own uniform feels stiff and unfamiliar against my skin. Six months of wearing faded wrappers and clay-stained tees in my grandmother’s workshop have made the structured wool blazer feel like armor. Or a cage. In my lap, my phone hums softly. I don't need to unlock it to know what is happening. About Time v2.0 is updating its live metrics every fifteen minutes. Across the city, hundreds of students sitting in traffic in Ikoyi, Lekki, and Ikeja are staring at the exact same dark dashboard, watching their social capital fluctuate before their tyres even cross the school threshold. "We have two hours before the resumption assembly," Tife whispers, her voice barely carrying over the drone of the sedan’s engine. She doesn't turn to look at me. "The update drops at 8:00 AM sharp. If the administrator doesn’t see my reply, I'll be blacklisted from the editor board permanently." "Your rank won't drop, Tife," I say softly, my voice steady despite the adrenaline surging through my veins. "Because by 8:00 AM, we're going to give the app something else to process." "You're insane, Dara," she mutters, finally glancing at me, her eyes hollow with fear. "You think you can just outsmart whoever built this? They spent six months studying us. They know every group chat, every leaked audio, every private drama from the entire lockdown. You can't fight an algorithm that has been imbedded into the daily life of about 300 students" "Algorithms don't create information out of thin air," I reply, leaning closer so the driver won't hear. "They scrape data. Whoever built About Time had access to the student portal's backend long before the broadcast link went live last night. They needed administrative credentials to embed that link on the official school domain. That means our creator isn't just a bitter student they're someone with high-level access." Tife pauses, her tapping thumb freezing over her screen. "The IT student prefects? Or the magazine board?" "That's what we're going to find out." At 6:45 AM, the massive wrought-iron gates of Maryland High swings open. For six months, these grounds have been abandoned a sprawling, quiet sanctuary of manicured lawns, palm trees, and Victorian-style brick architecture nestled away from the chaotic noise of Lagos. But as the line of luxury SUVs begins pouring through the gates, the silence shatters. Usually, the first day back after a long break is defined by loud reunions, shouting across the courtyard, students sorting out their new dorm rooms and tight hugs near the administration block. Today, the atmosphere is eerily muted. Students step out of their cars with their heads down, eyes glued to their glowing screens. Groups of friends stand in awkward, distant clusters, whispering in hushed tones while constantly checking over their shoulders. A single glance at someone's screen can tell you where they stand: green numbers mean smiles and relaxed shoulders; orange means tense jaws; red means total isolation. As Tife and I step onto the gravel walkway, the shifts are immediate. Two girls from the senior track team usually Tife's closest allies on the magazine committee walk past us. Months ago, they would have rushed over to admire Tife’s hair or discuss dorm placements. Today, as soon as their eyes land on Tife, their expressions harden. One of them checks her phone, flicks her eyes toward Tife's #212 ranking, and pulls her friend away without saying a word. Tife flinches as if she has been slapped. Her throat works silently as she grips the strap of her leather backpack until her knuckles turn white. "Don't react," I whisper, stepping slightly ahead of her to block their gaze. "That's what the system wants. It feeds on visibility and panic." "It's working, Dara," Tife chokes out, her posture slumping. "Look at them. I'm invisible to them. Worse than invisible, I'm contagious." "You're not contagious. You're just targeted." I scan the crowded courtyard, taking in the layout. To the left stands the three-story glass-and-brick library, the place I dreamed about on rainy evenings in my grandmother’s shop. To the right is the administrative block, housing the computer labs and server rooms. Straight ahead is the main auditorium where the assembly bell will ring in less than an hour. "Where is the magazine server hosted?" I ask quietly. Tife blinks, trying to pull her mind back to logic. "The... the media room. On the second floor of the library block. The chief editor and the IT prefects have physical keys, but the server itself is linked to the school's main portal." "Who was appointed interim IT prefect during the lockdown?" Tife frowns, her eyebrows drawing together in thought. "Tari. Elo Tari. He’s my classmate. He ran the online learning portal during the pandemic when the school servers kept crashing." Elo Tari. The name hits me with a subtle weight. Tari is a legend in the upper classes, quiet, hyper-intelligent, and completely unbothered by the school’s social politics. He is usually seen sitting on the library steps with a laptop, ignoring everyone around him except Eli, his bestfriend. If anyone has the technical knowledge to build a scraping algorithm without triggering the school's firewalls, it is him. "We need to get into the media room before assembly," I say. "Are you crazy?" Tife whispers furiously. "The library block is locked until 7:30! And even if we get in, what are we going to do? Search through his private files?" "We don't need his private files. We need to check the local access logs for the About Time broadcast link. If the link was posted from an IP address inside the school network during lockdown, it will leave a timestamp on the local router." Before Tife can respond, a sharp, digital chime echoes simultaneously from every phone in the courtyard. A collective gasp ripples through the crowd of students. Hundreds of heads drop in unison as screens light up with a bright crimson flash. I pull out my phone. A new system-wide alert has been pinned to the top of the About Time interface: [SYSTEM NOTICE: COUNTDOWN INITIATED] The 8:00 AM morning update will feature the first verified submission from the 'Outlier Dossiers'. One fake scholarship story will be unmasked live on the main courtyard display board during assembly. Current Status: Processing submission from #212 [Tife Ladi]... Tife lets out a strangled sob, dropping her phone onto the gravel. "I didn't submit it! Dara, I swear on my life I didn't press send!" I pick up her phone, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. The app has automated the threat. It doesn't care whether Tife actively pressed the button or not; it is using her lingering panic to force the leak automatically, it needs a betrayal story and will not be getting it today. "We have twenty minutes," I say, grabbing Tife firmly by the wrist. "Forget the front doors. How do we get into the library from the back entrance?" Tife looks at me, the terror in her eyes slowly giving way to a desperate, wild spark of recognition. For the first time, she isn't looking at me as the quiet girl from the pottery shop. She is looking at someone who is willing to burn down the entire digital panopticon to save them both. "The delivery basement," Tife whispers, wiping a tear from her cheek. "Where they bring in the shipment boxes for the art department. The latch is always loose." "Lead the way." We turn away from the crowded courtyard, cutting through the damp shadows of the palm trees toward the back of the three-story library. Behind us, the clock tower begins its slow, heavy chime, marking fifteen minutes until the entire school gathers for assembly. As we move into the shadows, I glance down one last time at my screen. My name is still sitting at the very bottom: #248 — Dara Bako. I close the app, shove the phone into my blazer pocket, and follow Tife into the dark.