About time

Chapter 2

I stare at the glowing blue URL. Outside, the rain is beginning to fall again, tapping against the windowpane. Somewhere across the city, in a luxurious bedroom filled with terracotta vases, Tife’s phone is probably lighting up with the exact same message. I hover my thumb over the screen, a strange coldness settling in my stomach. The six-month silence is over, but the school I am returning to is no longer the one I had left, I click on the link, and the installation is complete in a heartbeat, The interface is stark, clinical, and aggressively modern a dark, minimalist dashboard with glowing crimson metrics. At the top sits the leaderboard, dynamic and constantly shifting as algorithms feeds on social data scraped from six months of lockdown chatter, group chats, and student posts. I scroll past the top names the usual crowd of politicians' children, trust-fund heirs, and socialites whose ranks glinted in proud, emerald green. Then I scroll down slowly. Down past the middle tiers, past the fading middle-class overachievers, until I hit the bottom. There it is. My name, sitting at the very base of the digital food chain, glowing in a harsh, neonred font: #248 — Dara Bako [Unverified / Outlier] A few rows above mine, hovering in a precarious orange warning zone, sits Tife’s name: #212 — Tife Balogun [-42 positions today] A strange, numb coldness settles in my chest. For me, sitting at the bottom is expected, I had spent my entire year at Maryland High hiding in the shadows, keeping my head down, and playing invisible. But for Tife? Position #212 is a death sentence to everything she had spent years building, I understand why she would throw out our friendship for this. Afterall Tife made me. At twelve, my routine was locked in with mathematical precision. Mornings were spent at the local vocational center, sitting on creaky wooden benches while learning the fundamentals of early childhood care. Evenings were for the clay sorting out the grit and small stones so my grandmother’s hands wouldn't catch on sharp edges while throwing on the wheel. It wasn't a life of grand ambition, but it was safe. It meant food on the table, a predictable tomorrow, and eventually, a steady job at a decent daycare in one of the bigger districts. “Dara, open the door” my grandmother called out. I stood up, smoothing down my faded wrapper, and walked to the front counter. Standing on the porch, shaking out a bright neon-yellow umbrella, was a girl who looked like she had accidentally stepped out of a different reality. She was around my age, but that was where the similarities ended. Her hair was braided in intricate, pristine knotless box braids that fell past her waist, completely untouched by the humidity. Her denim jacket looked crisp, and even her sneakers despite the sea of murky water outside were spotless. "Hi!" the girl beamed, stepping inside and letting out a breathless laugh. "Oh, thank goodness you're open. The driver tried to tell me the street was flooded, but I told him I wasn't going back without the fired vases." "We're open," I said, my voice naturally dropping an octave lower than the other girl's bright tone. "Which vases?" "The terracotta ones with the geometric etchings? My mum ordered them last week." The girl stepped closer to the display shelves, her eyes wide with genuine excitement as she looked around the dusty, humble shop. "I need them for my dorm room. I'm redecorating before the new term starts." I navigated behind the counter and reached for the box marked ‘Paid, Ready for Pick Up’. "You stay in a boarding school?" "Maryland High," the girl said, pronouncing the name with a casual reverence that made my hands pause slightly on the cardboard box. "I'm Tife, by the way." "Dara." "It's my third year," Tife continued, talking with the rapid-fire energy of someone who expected the world to always listen. "Well, starting JSS3 now. I’m joining the student magazine team this term, so I need my room to look different, you know? Creative editor vibes. Everyone at Maryland goes so hard with their room setups." I set the box on the counter. "It’s eight thousand naira balance for the firing process." Tife handed over the crisp notes without looking at it, still scanning the room. "You should see the library there, Dara. It’s three stories. And the literary club has actual published authors come in for workshops. Last term, we had a panel with two writers who won the Caine Prize." She leaned against the counter, her eyes gleaming with an unbothered, dreamy brilliance. "It’s intense, but, when you’re there, it feels like you're actually becoming somebody. You know?" I locked eyes with Tife for a fraction of a second. Becoming somebody. The words hung in the damp air between us, heavy and suffocating. Tife took her box, offered a warm, glowing smile, and stepped back out into the dreary afternoon, leaving behind the faint scent of expensive vanilla perfume. I stood by the counter long after the black SUV pulled away from the muddy alleyway. I looked down at my hands stained with grey earth, calloused from sifting clay. For the first time in my life, a sudden, sharp ache blossomed in my chest. It wasn't envy; it was a terrifying, hollow longing. I didn't just want security anymore. I wanted the three-story library. I wanted a world where people talked about ideas instead of the cost of kerosene. That evening, while my grandmother slept, I pulled out an old, spiral-bound notebook under the dim glow of a rechargeable lantern. I knew the reality. Maryland High was for the children of senators, tech tycoons, and old-money dynasties. My grandmother couldn't afford a single term’s uniform, let alone the tuition. A scholarship was the only doorway, but I wasn't particularly a genius. I couldn't compete with kids who had spent their lives with private tutors. I had to play to the one thing I possessed, Maryland High prized its literary reputation above all else. They wanted voices. So, I would give them one. I uncapped my pen. My fingers trembled slightly against the lined paper, but as the ink touched the page, the tremor stopped. I began to write about the rain, about the clay, about the terrifying way time seemed to stop when you were trapped in a life too small for you. I titled it: Time Hits a Stop.