Chapter 1: First Day, First Enemies

"How in the world did I end up here?"

The thought loops in my head as I walk across the dry, sunbaked sands of Gateway Boarding School for Boys in Ibadan. The orange dust clings to my sneakers, like it knows I’m not from here. The air presses against my skin, thick and heavy with humidity, and laced with the sharp, smoky scent of roasted corn, sweat, and something else I can’t place… maybe fear.

Every step feels like I’m dragging the weight of another life, one that ended the moment I boarded that plane. Above me, the sky stretches on forever, pale blue and uncaring, framed by tall mango trees whose shadows can’t decide if they want to help or haunt me. A late-afternoon breeze rolls through, offering a flicker of relief, but not much. A storm is probably coming, September rains here don’t ask permission and are always sudden and intense.

This isn’t my first time starting fresh at a new school, but it’s definitely the first time I’m here because of something stupid I did.

Back in Maryland, just a few months ago, I was still navigating freshman year, 9th grade at Joe Bryant High School. Locker combinations, cafeteria fights, that sweet spot between invisibility and relevance. I wasn’t exactly the star of anything, but I had my rhythm, my people. My best friend Stephen and I had been tight since sixth grade, video games, late evening bike rides, dumb arguments that never lasted long. Except one did.

It started over something so stupid, it still makes me cringe. A game cartridge. Street Fighter II, to be exact. I swore I loaned it to him, and he swore he returned it. I called him a liar. He said I was losing it, and somewhere between his grin and my pride, I lost my grip. I swung first and hard, his anger matched mine. Before I knew it, we were on the hallway floor, punching and yelling like strangers. A teacher’s whistle cut through the chaos, and two staff members dragged us off each other like we were wild animals.

In the principal’s office, my knuckles were scraped and throbbing. Stephen had a bloody lip, but I swear he smirked at me when no one was looking. Like we both knew how dumb it was. That office had become familiar - too familiar. Clearly I was a menace because I’d been sent there enough times that the receptionist didn’t even ask my name anymore. Disrupting class. Talking back. One too many hallway “incidents.” Not as often as Stephen, though practically had a seat reserved in there, but somehow, this time, it was different.

Stephen came out first. He caught my eye and gave a sheepish half-smile, like even he couldn’t believe what just happened. As he passed, he leaned in and whispered, “Detention. Just one day.” Then he patted my shoulder, quick, like a peace offering, and walked off. We were still boys. Even after throwing punches, we somehow always found our way back to each other. I figured I’d be right behind him with the same slap-on-the-wrist punishment. I mean, yeah, we both fought, and if anyone threw the first verbal jab, it was him.

But when I walked in and sat across from Principal Baker, he didn’t sigh or launch into his usual lecture. No “What happened this time, Myles?” No raised eyebrow, no half-smile like he was tired but not mad. He just looked at me, long and hard, like he’d finally made up his mind about me.

Then he slid the pink slip across the desk.

“EXPELLED.”

Stamped in bold, merciless ink. No explanation. Just a decision. Final.

I sat there in a daze, trying to absorb what I was looking at. For a second, I wanted to blame someone, to tell myself it was because I was Nigerian-American and Stephen wasn’t. That the reason I was out and he was staying was because of my name, my accent, my skin. Maybe some part of me still believes that. Deep down though, I knew the truth: I’d been warned. Detention, twice. A one-day suspension earlier in the semester. All those red marks adding up until this final one tipped the scale. I had crossed some invisible line. Maybe I didn’t see it, but Principal Baker definitely did.

When I finally walked out of the office, trying to hold it together, there she was - Renee. Sitting just across the hall, flipping through her folder like this was any other Tuesday. She looked up and smiled, her eyes meeting mine. Then she gave this small wave, the kind you give a friend you’ll catch up with at lunch. She didn’t know it was goodbye. I didn’t wave back. I couldn’t. The weight of what had just happened and the sinking feeling that I’d never see her again froze my hand in place.

I’d never told her how I felt. Never got the chance.

Outside, my uncle was waiting in his Toyota Camry with the engine running and jaw clenched. I slid into the passenger seat, trying not to breathe too loud. We hadn’t even pulled out of the school parking lot before his hand lashed across my cheek.

CRACK.

The kind of slap that buzzes in your ears and turns your eyes glassy. It hurt like hell, but I didn’t cry. If it hadn’t been for the time zone gap, for the flurry of phone calls flying between Maryland and Lagos, for my mom’s furious silence and my dad’s clipped commands, that slap would’ve been just the warm-up.

He didn’t need to beat me. He and my parents already sentenced me: You’re coming back to Nigeria.

I remember sitting on that KLM flight, forehead pressed against the window, watching clouds blur beneath me, wondering if I’d ever step foot in Joe Bryant again. Everything that felt stable, Stephen, Renee, home, was behind me now. In front of me was a continent I hadn’t seen since I was a toddler and a future I hadn’t asked for.

After I arrived, my parents decided I needed more discipline, more structure. Like most Nigerian parents, they believed boarding school would “make a man” out of me. So they made a deal, partly with me, but mostly with themselves: if I could keep my grades up and stay out of trouble, I’d earn my ticket back to the States at the end of the school year.

Several schools were considered, including one in Ogbomosho, Osun State that sounded like a teenage horror movie. Thankfully, my parents picked Gateway in Ibadan, Oyo state where my dad’s uncle, a zealous evangelist fondly referred to as “prophet Dayo” had once gone. Somehow, I was supposed to feel comforted by that.

Standing here now at Gateway, as I look around, I don’t feel comforted at all. Everything feels foreign. At the administrative office orientation, an older woman with a thick Yoruba accent hands me three sets of uniforms. I barely understand her as she explains when to wear each one. I’m given two green-checkered shirts, two green shorts, two brown khakis, and a white shirt with matching shorts. It all blurs together in my head.

My dad and younger sister came with me to Ibadan, but they aren’t allowed past the office. They say their goodbyes at the soccer field, and I can see my sister’s about to cry. I tell her to stop because I’m more concerned about looking weak in front of everyone. This is an all-boys school and weakness doesn’t appear to be an option here. I’d give anything to be back in Maryland, back at Joe Bryant, back in the hallways with Renee, the girl I’d just started winning over before everything fell apart, and even, weirdly enough, back around Stephen. But none of that is happening anytime soon.

As I make my way toward the dormitory, or the “Dorm,” as the students call it, I hear a sharp, repeated swooshing sound. Then, the cries. It’s someone begging for mercy. Instinctively, I follow the sound and poke my head into one of the rooms. Inside, a senior student is whipping a younger kid with a leather belt cane. I had been warned about this, discipline at boarding schools in Nigeria is no joke, but seeing it in action quickly unnerves me. My heart races as I try to back away quietly, but my luggage snags on a hook by the door. The noise is enough to make the senior pause, and I panic. I yank my bag free and bolt down the hallway. Luckily, he doesn’t follow.

I eventually find my assigned room and start unpacking. The dormitory is ancient, like really old. I hear water dripping from the roof, probably from leaks that never got fixed after the last rain. The bunk beds creak under the weight of the boys lying on them, and the windows are just open spaces with no screens, letting in the humid air and mosquitoes.

As I’m settling in, a few boys, about my age, approach my bed. One of them, tall and slim, leans casually against the bunk post. “My guy, where you from?” he asks, his voice casual, but there’s an edge, like he’s assessing whether I’m a threat or just another newcomer.

I keep my eyes down, fiddling with the lock on my locker. “I ain’t from here,” I mutter, not really in the mood to talk.

The tall boy exchanges a look with his friends and raises an eyebrow. “You from Lagos, abi?” he asks, like he already knows the answer.

Another boy, shorter with round cheeks and dimples, chimes in, “Or Yankee?” He stretches the word ‘Yankee,’ throwing in an exaggerated American accent.

“Yeah, I just got here from the States,” I say flatly, hoping that ends the conversation, but of course, it doesn’t.

The round-faced boy grins and nudges the tall one. “Yankee boy! Ehn, see as you just dey.” He mixes Pidgin and English, a combination I’m still getting used to. “How Yankee life be? You get white babes there?”

The others chuckle, but the tall one doesn’t. He leans in closer, feigning intimidation. “You bring dollars for us?”

I match his stare, a bit thrown off by his sudden change of tone. Before I can answer, another voice cuts through the room from the far side. “Ladi, abeg leave am joh!” The distraction is enough to shift the focus, and just then, a bell rings.

Chaos. Everyone starts scrambling, tucking in their brown khakis and rushing out the door. The tall boy, Ladi throws one last smirk my way. “Better hurry, my guy. Seniors don’t care where you’re from if you’re late.” His friend snickers as they dash out of the room, leaving me fumbling with my locker.

I curse under my breath. Why can’t I figure out this stupid lock? Everyone’s already gone, and I’m still trying to stuff my belongings inside. I hear the sound of an angry voice grow louder as an older student makes his way down the hall. He’s yelling, threatening to annihilate anyone still in the dorms.

"No, no, no… this can’t be happening on my first day," I mutter as I try again to lock my locker. The latch jams, and I yank at it, but it won’t budge.

Suddenly, he’s here. A senior, short but stocky, with two leather belts in his hand. His dark complexion shines with sweat as he lurches forward and swings the belts at my shoulder. The pain sears across my back.

“Are you deaf?! Didn’t you hear the bell?” he shouts, his voice filled with fury.

I rub my shoulder, trying to hold back a curse. “I DID! I’m new, and I was just trying to put my stuff away…”

Another whip of the belts. “I don’t care who you are! Drag yourself downstairs. NOW!”

Something inside me snaps. Before I know it, I’m grabbing his belts, yanking them from his hands. The look of shock on his face is brief, replaced by rage. He shoves me against the locker, grabs my shirt, and cocks his fist back to punch me. My instincts kick in, and I catch his arm mid-air, but he’s stronger, way stronger, and I know if he lands a punch, I’m done for.

A flash of the hallway fight with Stephen crosses my mind. If this turns into a full-blown fight, I’ll end up in the principal’s office again. Worse, word will get back to my parents, and my chance of going back to the States will disappear. So, for the first time in a long time, I pull myself back from the edge. I let go of his arm and raise my hands in surrender. “Senior, I’m sorry, man. I just got here from the states. I didn’t know how things work.”

His eyes narrow. He slaps me across the face, hard. The sting burns, but I bite back a reaction. He pauses, like he’s deciding whether I’m worth more trouble. Then, without a word, he steps back. “You have three seconds to vacate my presence and head downstairs.”

I don’t waste a second. I bolt out the door, nursing my stinging face and shoulders.

Outside, hundreds of students in brown khakis are lined up on the basketball court. Seniors shout orders, and I quickly realize they’re the ones in charge here. No teachers. No adults. The seniors run the show.

I’m the only one not in uniform. One of the seniors calls me out and demands to know why I’m dressed in "mufti", regular clothes. I explain, again, that I just arrived and haven’t figured out the schedule yet. He lets me off with a warning and points me to the right line.

Great. Day one, and I’m already a target.

A few moments later, we’re told it’s “labor hour,” and I’m assigned to join a group of JSS1, JSS2, and JSS3 boys. Our group leader, a loud, spirited senior named Muyiwa, points us to a large wooden box filled with machetes, which, I quickly learn, are called cutlasses. We each grab one and march in single file to a grassy field behind what looks like the shower stalls. The grass is waist-high and wild.

Senior Muyiwa points and shouts, “All of you, oyah, spread out! Start cutting from here to here, and then there. Make sure you finish over there too!”

The “here to here, and then there” covers what looks like an entire football field. I’ve never cut grass in my life, let alone with a cutlass, but I don’t let on. I take my spot and start swinging. It doesn’t go well. I can’t seem to grip the thing right, and my strokes are all over the place. They might as well have handed me a plastic baseball bat because the grass isn’t going anywhere. It’s like it too knows I’m an outsider and refuses to cooperate.

After what feels like an eternity, a senior student named Jonathan walks over and gives me a break. “You’re the new Yankee boy, abi?” he asks.

I nod, still out of breath.

“Oyah, leave that cutlass and go back to your room,” he says.

Relief washes over me. I don’t ask questions; I just hand the cutlass to another boy and head back to the dorm. As I walk away, I notice some boys and seniors watching me. There’s no anger or resentment in their eyes, curiosity maybe? Perhaps there’s a bit of envy. I catch a senior’s gaze, and he asks in a forced American accent, “So which part of America are you from?” 

Then it hits me, being a Yankee kind of makes me a rock star. Two more seniors wander over, pretending to speak in American accents, clearly amused with themselves. They mostly want to know if I have a white girlfriend. I just smile and make a mental note: always speak with an accent… and start inventing legendary tales about my almost-relationship with Renee.

After a few more minutes of questions, they let me go, and I head back toward my room. By the stairway, I run into the same belt-wielding senior from earlier. His angry scowl hasn’t budged. His name is Senior Kunle, but everyone calls him Senior Menor. Unfortunately, Senior Menor doesn’t seem the least bit impressed by my American roots. He shoves me aside and stares me down as he passes. A few other seniors trail behind him, and from the looks on their faces, they share whatever beef he has with me.

As I walk past them, I hold their stares for a second, just long enough to pretend I’m not intimidated, but of course, I am. The fading sting where that belt struck my shoulder is a clear reminder: this place might not let me get away with the bullheadedness that worked for me in other schools. I break eye contact and jog up the stairs toward my dorm, my heart pounding harder than I’d like to admit.

When I finally reach my room, Room 7, I’m relieved to see my luggage still untouched. I unpack the rest of my things into my locker, slip into my brown khakis, and decide to explore the campus a bit. The first week’s schedule is supposedly relaxed, and I need to get familiar with my new home.

I head down from the dorm, stepping onto the long balcony, and onto the basketball courts straight ahead, two of them, cracked and faded, their rusty hoops swaying slightly in the breeze. A few boys are shooting around, their shouts echoing across the yard, but I don’t stop.

To my left, the main classroom building stretches long and low, its upstairs windows lined with dusty office blinds. I cross the courts and wander through the corridor on the ground floor, passing a few classrooms before slipping out the other side and into the wide-open soccer field.

This field is huge. Uneven patches of grass spread out like a bad haircut, and the goalposts are held together with wire, tape, and what looks like sheer faith. Traders are already setting up near the edge, pushing carts filled with puff-puff and roasted corn. The air smells like charcoal, sweat, and cut grass.

Just across the field is the school gate, the same place where I said goodbye to my dad and sister earlier today. Standing here now, everything feels vast and unfamiliar. I suddenly wish I had been nicer to my sister when she said she’d miss me. I didn’t realize until now how much I’d miss her too.

I turn back and head toward the classroom blocks on the far side, walking along the outer edge of the field. Eventually, I veer off down the path that leads past a second row of classroom buildings and toward the tech building, far behind the dorm, tucked near the edge of campus.

The tech block feels like a ghost town. Fluorescent lights flicker above, casting an eerie glow on the cracked tiles. The rooms are filled with dusty computers, tangled wires, and lab stools that wobble when you breathe near them. The whole place hums with the weird silence of somewhere nobody wants to be.

I don’t stay long.

From there, I cut across the rear paths and circle around the back of the school compound, past the kitchen block and the cafeteria, until I reach the small field behind them. A few juniors are playing barefoot with a flat volleyball. They don’t notice me. Beyond them, the grass starts getting taller, waist-high in places. I keep walking.

Eventually, I reach the far rear edge of the compound, where the path narrows into a trail flanked by thick, bushy grass. Way in the distance, half-hidden by overgrowth, I spot what looks like small cabins. Earlier, I overheard someone say that’s where the night guards and housemasters live.

Exploring new places on the first day has always been my thing. In every school I’ve been to, finding hideouts has helped me survive tough spots. I figure it’ll be no different here. But the farther I walk, the stranger the air feels. It’s not just the heat sticking to my skin anymore. It’s something else. Heavier. Like the air itself is watching me. Like something’s crawling up the back of my neck and settling into my chest.

I can’t explain it. But every part of me knows I’m not supposed to be here. I should turn back. I should let this stupid curiosity go and head back to the dorms before someone catches me wandering. But, stubborn as always, I press on, determined to see where this trail leads. Determined not to let some creepy vibe scare me off.

And then I see him.

To my left, standing by one of the cabins, is a tall, skinny, gray-haired old man. His face is deeply lined, like he’s seen more than most people should. He’s wearing a single white linen cloth that reaches his feet, and a large red, beaded chain hangs around his neck, but it’s his eyes, sunken, shark-like eyes that stop me in my tracks. 

My heart pounds and I want to run, but my legs won’t move. He just stares at me, like he recognizes me. For a moment, neither of us moves, locked in this strange, tense silence. Then, his voice. It’s deep, much deeper than I expect from such a thin frame.

“You! It can’t be… YOU! How… how did you get here? They… they said you would never come! ANSWER ME! What are you doing here??? THEY SAID YOU WOULD NEVER COME!!!” 

I freeze. Clearly, he isn’t just asking about me being in his part of the bush. It feels like he’s questioning my very existence here in Nigeria, maybe even the fact that I’m alive at all?  I don’t know what to say, so I blurt out a lie.

“I’m… I’m sorry, sir. Our housemaster, Mr. Eniade, sent me here to look for some boys from Room One. He told me to come back and report to him if they’re here.”

For a moment, nothing happens. Then, as if something snaps inside him, he raises the smoking clay pot that I hadn’t noticed him holding till now, screams something in Yoruba, and smashes it against the cabin wall. Shards fly everywhere as he pulls out a cutlass I also didn’t notice before.  

Adrenaline floods my system. My legs finally listen, and I run… hard. I don’t dare look back. I don’t even take the path I came through, fearing it would be too easy for him to catch up. All I know is I have to get away.

I burst out into a smaller open field behind the dining hall, where a bunch of students are playing soccer. Without a second thought, I blend into the crowd, standing on the sidelines like I’ve been there the whole time. My heart is pounding in my ears. I glance back toward the bushy area… no sign of the old man.

I want to report what just happened, to find an adult or someone in charge and tell them about the old man in the bush and the way he looked at me like he knew something I didn’t. My heart is still racing, and the urge to get it off my chest is strong, but the warning in orientation from one of the older students’ creeps into my mind: “Don’t listen to this foolish woman! If you like yourself, don’t report any senior. You’ll just end up as a target.”

I glance around, still shaken, still half-expecting the man to somehow show up again, his hollow eyes staring me down. I can’t shake the feeling of unease, like he’s watching me even now, but I swallow the fear and abandon my plan to report this to any school authority. No way I’m making myself an even bigger target on day one.

As I continue to catch my breath, the bell rings again, dinner time.  The noise jolts me back to reality, though my thoughts are still a mess. I hurry back to the dorm, grab my bowl and cutlery, and make my way to the dining hall, moving on autopilot. The tension in my chest doesn’t ease as I step inside, the chatter and clinking of dishes filling the air, but at least I’m surrounded by other students. It feels safer in here, but just barely.

I’m assigned to Table 21, and when I sit down, it’s with the same group of boys who interrogated me earlier. My nerves are still on edge, but I force myself to relax. I can’t let them see how rattled I am.

The boy with the slender, runner-like build, Ladi grins and reaches out for a fist bump. I hesitate, suspicious of his motives, but I need friends here. I bump his fist and try to act normal. “What’s up, bruh?”

Ladi’s smile widens, and he starts introducing the others, as if we didn’t already have our awkward meet-and-greet earlier.

“This is Michael, that’s Wale,” he says, pointing to a fair-skinned boy with a constant smile and a pudgy boy with dimples. Then, gesturing to a muscular kid with a confident smirk, he says, “And that’s Nnamdi. We’re all in JSS3.”

I nod, trying to remember all their names. “I’m Myles,” I say, “in JSS3 too.”

They all seem impressed when I reiterate that I’m from the United States. Ladi jokes about how the food we’re about to eat will be like nothing I’ve ever had before. He suggests I buy bread from the kitchen to help soak up the watery beans. I don’t know what he means until our table is called up for dinner. They serve me a tiny portion of corn and beans, a sludgy, brownish and yellow mess that barely fills my bowl. I think at first it’s a joke, but the server just yells, “NEXT!”

When I return to my table, the guys are enjoying my reaction. Michael reassures me. “Don’t worry, Wale went to get us some bread.” Moments later, Wale returns with small loaves, tossing one to me. “Consider it a welcome gift,” he says.

After dinner, the guys take me on an unofficial tour of the campus. We pass by the bushy area I had just run from, and the dread returns, but I keep quiet. I don’t want to mention the old man… at least not yet.

“Any of you ever been over there?” I ask casually, nodding toward the bush.

“Nah, nothing there,” Michael shrugs. “That’s where the night guards live.”

“You’ve met them?” I ask, trying not to sound too interested.

“Nah, man. Do you have relatives there?” Ladi teases, making the others laugh.

I laugh along with them, trying to hide my unease. “Nah, just curious.”

Then Nnamdi suddenly blurts out, “We should go explore it one day. Bet there’s something interesting down there.”

Michael immediately shuts him down. “You mad? Don’t you remember the story about those twins that went missing?”

Nnamdi waves him off. “It’s just a rumor, joh! The seniors say that to keep people out when they sneak off with their girlfriends.”

Michael doesn’t flinch. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Wale and I aren’t going. Ladi? Myles? What about you guys?”

I glance at Ladi and can tell he’s hesitant, but he doesn’t want to be the first to say it. So I step in. “What’s the rush? We’ve got the whole semester to explore. We can check it out another time, yeah?”

That seems to satisfy Nnamdi, and the tension dies down as we keep walking toward the dorms. We spend the next few hours chatting about school, America, girls, and our favorite rap groups. A bell rings after a while, signalling it’s time to get ready for bed. As we settle in, I notice everyone setting up their mosquito nets. I pull mine out, remembering the warning from earlier. “Gateway mosquitoes don’t mess around,” someone jokes a few beds to my left. “They will eat you alive.”

Just then, Senior Menor walks into the room and announces that lights-out is in ten minutes. He spots me, scowl still firmly in place, and lets his eyes linger a few seconds too long before turning and walking out.

“Wow. What did I even do to this guy?” I mutter under my breath.

Part of me wishes he’d just say something, shout, threaten, insult, anything to get it over with. But no. He walks away, and that’s worse. Walking away means I’m on his radar. It means he’s saving something for later. It means that along with the old man, I’ve now managed to make two enemies, and it’s only my first day.

I lie there in bed, staring up at the ceiling as the homesickness creeps back in, heavier this time. Tears prick at my eyes. I'm thousands of miles from home, and suddenly the whole thing feels too real. Before the tears get a chance to slip out, I hear voices. It’s Ladi and Wale, stopping by to check if I’m settled in.

They’re probably here to see if I’ve been crying. Apparently, it’s tradition. “Even that tall Hausa boy in Room Five who just came from Jos has been wailing all evening,” Ladi says, laughing. “He’s already driving his roommates crazy.”

Thankfully, my tears and I seem to be on the same page tonight. My eyes are dry, and I manage to assure them I’m good. We chat for a bit, about life in America, the fight that got me expelled, random stuff. Ten minutes later, they’re gone, and the lights go out. I pray quietly before drifting off to sleep.

“God, if you’re out there… I need your help. I don’t know how I’m going to survive here. Please.”

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