The sun rose early, but I was already up. The night had been kind—quiet, still, dark. Just the way I liked it.
By the time the house began to stir, I was fully dressed. Black joggers. A dark t-shirt. Hair tied back in a single puff. My backpack, the same one from Grandpa's house, sat by the door, its zipper slightly frayed from years of use.
Mom had been out of the house since dawn—an early call on set. She'd left a note on the dining table, alongside a new phone and the school ID slip.
"Good luck today. The principal is expecting you. Call if you need anything. Love, Mom."
I didn't take the phone. I slipped the note into my backpack and left before anyone else could ask how I felt about it.
Zainab wasn't up yet.
The driver dropped me off in front of a large black gate. A tall building stood behind it, polished and modern, with flags waving in the breeze. Students moved in groups. Some with fresh braids. Some dragging backpacks that looked heavier than their thoughts.
I walked in alone.
The school grounds felt foreign—like someone pressed "copy and paste" on a magazine version of what school should look like. Tall trees lined the sidewalk, and there were benches painted white and green, not a chip on them. Too clean. Too watched.
Everyone turned when I passed.
Whispers started. Stares followed. Some smiled too quickly, others looked like they were trying to place me, like a name floating in gossip just got a face.
I didn't blink. Didn't flinch.
Grandpa always said, "Let them look. They'll get tired eventually."
At the reception, a lady with lashes long enough to block the sun gave me a warm, pre-programmed smile.
"You're Ayoola, right? New SS3 student?"
I nodded.
"The principal's waiting. Second floor, left wing, first office on your right."
I climbed the stairs two at a time.
The principal was a tall woman with neat cornrows and a voice that didn't need to be raised. She asked about the journey, said she'd spoken to my mother, mentioned how "things might feel new, but we're all one family here."
I nodded again. Said thank you. That was all.
She handed me a paper and pointed down the hall.
"Give that to the uniform office. They'll get you your set. Once you're done, SS3B is your class."
I walked down the hallway, hearing the slight creak of my sneakers on polished tile.
The uniform office smelled like starch and new fabric. A slim man stood behind the counter, eyeing me over his glasses.
"New girl?"
"Yes."
He passed me a form to sign and slid two pictures of the standard uniform across the table—one female, one male.
I picked the male one without hesitation.
He blinked.
"The girls' version comes with—"
"I want this one," I said, tapping the male outfit again. "Trouser, shirt, tie. No skirt."
He paused, then shrugged. "We've had a few requests like that before. Not common, but okay."
He handed over the items—freshly ironed dark green trousers, white shirt, blazer, and tie. The school crest looked serious, like it had seen too much.
I stepped into the changing area.
When I came out, the man gave a low nod.
"Fits you better than the skirt would've."
I didn't reply.
Outside the uniform office, a group of students stood near the corridor, pretending not to look.
Someone whispered, "That's her. The new one from Abuja or wherever."
Another muttered, "Why's she wearing the boys' uniform?"
I walked past them without slowing.
Let them look.
I had a classroom to find—and no patience for people who judged clothes louder than they judged character.
SS3B was on the second floor, near the back.
As I opened the door, the hum of morning chatter dropped just slightly.
Heads turned.
A few brows lifted.
I found the nearest empty desk and sat without asking questions, without introducing myself.
The teacher hadn't arrived yet, but I could already feel the air shift. Curious eyes. Wondering glances. And somewhere in the far left corner, a girl with glossy braids and arched brows whispered something to her seatmate while staring at me.
"She's not even fine like that."
I almost laughed.
Zainab had warned me last night.
"Just expect a little extra attention the first day. Everyone talks."
Let them.
Let them talk.
I sat back in my seat, eyes forward.
Uniform: chosen.
Classroom: entered.
Back straight, mind clear.
This was just another ring.
And I already knew how to hold my ground.
----
The classroom noise grew until it broke into pieces—scattered laughter, a desk scraping against the floor, someone flipping through a textbook too loudly.
Then the teacher walked in, and everything fell back into place.
She was tall, middle-aged, with tortoise-shell glasses and a calm voice that made you want to sit up straighter even if you had nothing to say.
Her eyes swept across the classroom until they landed on me.
"You must be Ayoola," she said.
I gave a small nod. The class turned again. No one was pretending not to look anymore.
"Everyone, this is your new classmate. Please stand and introduce yourself."
I rose, adjusting the sleeves of my new blazer.
"My name is Ayoola," I said.
And that was it.
Silence.
A few people blinked. Someone in the back chuckled like they thought I was joking. The teacher raised her brows, clearly waiting for more—where I was from, what I liked, a joke maybe. Anything.
But I just stared ahead, my voice still in my throat, calm.
She nodded slowly. "Alright then. You may sit."
I did.
From the corner of my eye, I saw someone mouth, "That's all?"
Someone else whispered, "Mystery girl."
Another voice snorted softly, "She thinks she's in a movie."
I'd heard worse.
And besides, I wasn't here to entertain anyone.
The teacher moved on, writing the topic of the day on the board. Literature. The use of satire in The Trials of Brother Jero. I opened my notebook and began to write. My pen moved, but my mind floated, half-watching as people settled back into their rhythm—though I could feel some of them still watching me, still thinking.
---
By lunch, the sun was high and harsh. The school courtyard was dotted with cliques like islands—science students clustered in one corner with their lab coats and whiteboards, art students lounging under a tree, a few juniors chasing each other near the water fountain.
I didn't eat in the cafeteria. I found a shaded bench near the side wall of the school. Alone. My lunch box unopened on my lap.
I liked it that way.
Or so I thought.
"Ayoola!"
Zainab's voice came before I saw her.
She appeared from behind a group of students, flanked by two girls with matching butterfly clips and another with bright red braids. They all looked fresh out of a boutique and walked like their feet didn't know sand.
"There you are," she said, plopping down beside me.
The others hesitated, unsure if they were welcome, but Zainab waved them over casually.
"This is Ayoola," she said to them. "My sister. Well, stepsister technically, but whatever."
The girls looked at me with polite smiles—some curious, others cautious.
"You didn't tell us she was the one everyone was talking about," one of them said, unwrapping her sandwich.
"They're saying she gave a ten-second introduction," the red-braided girl added, giggling.
I opened my lunch box, ignoring the noise. The food was simple—jollof rice, plantain, grilled chicken. The way I liked it. Someone must've asked the house cook. Probably Mom.
"She's in Art class," Zainab said, biting into her own food. "So we're in different blocks."
"Oh, you're in SS3B?" another girl asked.
I nodded once, chewing slowly.
"You don't talk much, do you?" butterfly-clip girl asked.
Zainab cut in before I could respond. "She talks when she has something to say. Leave her alone."
The girl raised her hands in mock surrender. "Okay okay. Calm down."
It was quiet for a moment. Then red-braids asked,
"So… why the boys' uniform?"
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
Zainab looked at them all, then back at me.
"You don't have to explain anything," she said.
I gave her the tiniest nod. A silent thank-you.
The others ate their food and changed the subject. Something about a chemistry test and who was dating who. I barely followed. But I didn't mind their presence. They filled the space with noise I could tune out—like background music.
For a while, we all just sat there. Eating. Talking. Watching the schoolyard move around us like a restless sea.
Zainab glanced at me, a faint smirk on her lips.
"You made it through the first half of the day. That's something."
I didn't smile, but I met her gaze.
"It's just a new ring," I said.
She raised an eyebrow.
"Huh?"
"Nothing," I murmured, picking up my spoon again.
But in my chest, I heard Grandpa's voice.
Keep your stance. Watch the space. The opponent isn't always a person—sometimes it's the day itself.