Chapter 2: First Fight, First Smile

6:01 A.M. The dreaded Saturday morning bell cuts through the dorm like a knife. senior Tony’s voice follows, loud and unforgiving.

“All junior and senior students, JSS1 to SS2! ASSEMBLE ON THE LINE DOWNSTAIRS BEFORE THE COUNT OF TEN! ONE! TWO...”

The shout shakes me out of sleep, and panic surges through me. I leap from the top bunk, yanking my slippers from under the mattress as my feet hit the cold concrete floor. The room is a frenzy of movement, boys scrambling like it’s a prison break, but there is no escape. It’s morning labor hour, and senior Tony’s counting down like an executioner’s clock.

I race toward the door, catching sight of the chaos outside. The air smells thick, like dirt and sweat. My lungs protest, but there’s no time to think. As I hit the corridor, I see senior Tony, standing in the middle of the basketball court, arms crossed, fully dressed in his brown khakis, immaculate and spotless, ironed so sharply they could cut through skin. This was a strong hint that he expected every student in line to be dressed likewise. The mere sight of him quickens my pace as I quickly tuck my shirt in and button up my shirt. I know what’s waiting for those who aren’t downstairs by the count of ten and dressed sharper than the military.

“FOUR! FIVE!”

I shove past stragglers on the stairs, skidding to a stop at the bottom. Ladi, Michael, and Nnamdi are already there, their breaths coming in sharp, frantic gasps, eyes wide with their own rising panic.

“Where the hell is Wale?” I ask, voice tight with panic. “Senior Tony is going to kill him, then skin him alive if he’s not here in the next five seconds.”

Ladi wipes his forehead, still tense. “I told Michael to wake him. Thought he was right behind me.”

The countdown reaches “EIGHT!” as we slot ourselves into line. Senior Tony’s voice thunders through the courtyard like a storm building. “If I come up there and catch anyone still in bed, I will BREAK your head! NINE! TEN!”

Most of the boys have made it, dishevelled but in line, khakis hastily tucked in, but a few stragglers are racing in from the dorm. Senior Tony doesn’t hesitate. He storms up the stairs, belts in hand, like a hunter after prey.

I look at Michael, who’s scanning the lines for Wale. No sign of him. I already know what’s coming next. My gut tightens as Nnamdi and Ladi exchange glances, shoulders shrugging helplessly. Senior Tony’s wrath isn’t something anyone escapes. I’ve seen him slap a boy in the face with his slipper and throw away his dinner just for walking when he should’ve run, and now, Wale’s head is next on the chopping block.

Several minutes later, senior Tony returns, dragging five students behind him, Wale among them. Two boys are already in tears, pleading, but I know it won’t help. Wale looks at me and Ladi, his eyes flashing between anger and betrayal. Senior Tony calls him up first. The sound of the belt cracking against his back makes me flinch. Seven lashes. Hard. Wale grunts through clenched teeth, but he takes it. I watch as his shoulders stiffen with each blow. After it’s done, he rejoins us in line, staring straight ahead, refusing to meet our eyes.

It’s just another Saturday morning at Gateway, but the guilt hangs over me.

When senior Tony finally gives out labor instructions, our group is sent to pick up garbage on the soccer field. It’s a relief. It could’ve been much worse. We could’ve been sent to the bush way behind the kitchen; thick, wild, and crawling with snakes. Just the thought of it makes my skin crawl. I hate snakes more than anything. And then there’s, “Estate”, a cluster of old, abandoned shower stalls now overrun with weeds and repurposed as open-air toilets. It’s essentially a wasteland of feces where boys squat and dump like it’s normal, and no one’s been assigned to clean it in weeks. I’m grateful for garbage pickup.

Wale, still fuming, joins us on the soccer field. He’s quiet at first, picking up trash in tense silence. Finally, he comes over, his voice low and filled with frustration. “You guys didn’t even try to wake me. I thought we were supposed to have each other’s backs.”

I try to explain, stumbling over words, but he shakes his head. “You didn’t look out for me,” he mutters, walking away before I can say anything else.

He does have a point. Wale always look out for us. He’s the one who makes sure we all get a little extra food when there’s some to be had, or that we don’t miss out on the fun. Yet here we were, not returning the favor. Guilt gnaws at me. I know we’ll have to make it up to him later, but right now, there’s something else on my mind.

Her. 

I can’t shake the thought of her. She’s one of the girls from St. Teresa’s Girls School who come to our campus for their tutoring sessions, and I’m counting down the hours. I haven’t worked up the courage to ask her name yet, but I’m close. Last Saturday, I orchestrated an accidental bump into her near the Tech building, and for those brief three-and-a-half seconds, she smiled at me. A smile that felt like I’d been hit by a lightning bolt. Her caramel skin, soft freckles, and deep brown eyes have been on my mind ever since. She’s a JSS3 student, the first girl here who’s made me forget about Renee back home. Today, I have one mission: Ask her name.

After labor, all JSS 2 and 3 students make the mile long trek to the local well to fetch water for the kitchen. On our way, my mind drifts back to my first few weeks here at Gateway. It’s hard to believe it’s only been a month since I showed up, barely knowing anyone, and yet these guys, Ladi, Michael, Nnamdi, and Wale have already become the closest friends I’ve ever had. They’ve had my back since day one, from explaining how not to piss off seniors to standing by me through my run-ins with Gateway’s darker mysteries.

On my third night here, I remember tossing and turning, unable to sleep. That’s when I overheard the stories about the old security guard who prowls the campus at night like some kind of ghostly figure. It didn’t take long to realize he was the same mystery man I had encountered in the bushes. They explained that his son, Idowu, had killed himself years ago, no one knows the full details, but ever since, Baba Idowu, as he's called, has been a permanent fixture at the school. He’s rarely seen in daylight, only coming out after dark to do his "rounds." Even the teachers keep their distance from him.

I thought it was all just a rumor, until I saw him again. It was a week later while I was running an evening errand for a lazy senior from Dorm Room 3. The path took me past those same bushes where I’d seen him before, tall, gaunt, his frame almost blending into the twilight like he was part of the landscape. This time, I didn’t freeze. I slowed, keeping a good distance between us, but my feet didn’t instinctively turn to run. Something in me wanted to see more, to understand what exactly I had witnessed that first time. My breath caught in my throat as his sunken, hollow eyes met mine again, a look that felt more piercing than any normal stare. It was unsettling, yes, but I wasn’t trapped in fear like before. Not this time.

He didn’t move right away, just stood there, silent, his tattered cloth draped loosely around his bony shoulders. For a moment, I wondered if he was going to say something, or if I should, but then, he raised his hand slowly, deliberately, three fingers raised, thumb tucked under. His lips curled into that same half-smile, like he knew something I didn’t. Without breaking eye contact, he bent down, grabbed a handful of dust from the ground, and flung it, hard, in my direction. The sand scattered in the air, but I was far enough away that none of it reached me. Still, it felt like something invisible had. The air seemed to thicken, a weight pressing against my chest as though the act had somehow changed the space between us. I still didn’t move, defiant. He spat on the ground in front of him, eyes still locked on mine for another long, silent beat. Then, just as suddenly, he turned and slipped back into the shadows of the trees, disappearing like he had never been there at all.

That night, the nightmares started. I’ve had the same one almost every other night since; a horrible, vivid dream where I’m being chased by man-sized lizards, scaly creatures crawling out from the bush where I first saw Baba Idowu. They hunt me down, and no matter how fast I run, they always catch up. I wake up sweating, heart pounding, sometimes choking on my own spit.

Michael, the most religious one of us, gave me his rosary to sleep with after I told him about the nightmares. He’s Catholic, so he swears by it. I appreciated the gesture, but it hasn’t stopped the dreams. The worst part is that every time Baba does his nightly patrols, I can hear his bell from below. It’s a common thing, night guards ring bells to scare off intruders or let people know they’re on duty. Everyone’s used to it, but for some reason, it always sounds loudest right outside my section, like he’s ringing it for me, like he knows exactly where I am. It’s unsettling, to say the least.

Through all of that, the nightmares, the strange encounters, my friends have stuck by me. These guys have become more than just dorm mates; they’ve helped me survive Gateway. We’ve shared meals, swapped stories, and backed each other up when it counted. Now, with the water sloshing in our buckets as we make the long walk back from the well, the conversation naturally shifts back to what’s really on everyone’s mind, my mystery girl.

The guys waste no time teasing me, tossing around ideas about how I’m going to pull off actually talking to her today. I laugh it off, putting on my best act of bravado. "Relax," I tell them, flashing a grin. "It’s not my first time toasting a girl. Just watch and learn." Of course, that’s a lie. I have got no clue what I’m going to say when I see her, but I can’t let them know that. 

Once we’ve showered and had a meager breakfast of yam porridge, the tension from earlier still lingers, quiet, but there. Wale sits two tables away, eating alone, his back straight, eyes locked on his plate like we don’t exist. Ladi finishes his bowl, then stands up and walks over to him without a word. He drops the last bite of his yam onto Wale’s plate. Wale looks up, confused. Ladi shrugs, then glances back at us. I catch on first, then Michael and Nnamdi. We each walk over, one by one, adding a little chunk from our plates like it’s some kind of unspoken offering. Wale stares at the pile for a second, then lets out a dry chuckle. “You idiots,” he says, shaking his head, but the edge is gone, and just like that, we’re good again.

After morning study hour, the guys and I decide to play basketball. The court, cracked and worn down, is our getaway. While soccer rules this school, basketball is my escape. It’s where I shine. This afternoon, I challenge a group of JSS3 boys from Room 1 to a 5-on-5 game. I pick Nnamdi, Michael, and a couple of other guys to form our squad, confident we could take them down. Their captain, Bulla, isn’t much of a player, but he’s tough, built like a human tank. The name fits: short, stocky, with arms like tree trunks and a chest that strains against his khaki shirt, Bulla looks like he was born to beat people up. He doesn’t like losing, which makes things more interesting.

We’re leading by five points, and I’m driving toward the basket for another easy layup when Bulla slams into me like a freight train. The collision knocks me hard to the ground, the ball flying out of my hands as I hit the dusty court. He grabs it mid-stride, yelling, “You traveled!” like that somehow justifies the foul.

“Are you blind? I didn’t travel!” I snap, jumping to my feet. I shove him back, anger bubbling up inside me. “Where the hell did you learn to play ball, man!” 

I’m not actually looking for a fight, I just want him, and the rest of JSS3, to know I’m not someone you can shove around. But Bulla’s attack dog mode must’ve activated, because he is definitely looking for a fight. His eyes narrow, and before I can react, he drives his forehead straight into my chest with a bone-jarring headbutt. I stumble back, gasping.

The place erupts. Shouts and cheers explode all around us, boys banging on the basketball post, others scrambling in from across the court like someone rang the fight bell. It’s a full-blown spectator event now. I hear Ladi shouting something, probably cheering me on, but my focus is suddenly split. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a small group of St. Teresa’s girls approaching the court. My chest tightens as I scan the group, praying she’s not among them. The last thing I need is to get wrecked in front of her.

In an attempt to throw Bulla off his fight game, I shout a string of insults about his mother loud enough for the whole court to hear. I’m baiting him, wanting him to charge at me, wild and sloppy because that’s when I’m at my best. Back at Joe Bryant Middle School in Maryland, Stephen and I used to box in his uncle’s garage with real gloves and a half-broken punching bag. He was stronger, but I was quicker. If Bulla and I square up properly, toe to toe, I know I can outweave him and outbox him. That’s the plan, and for a second, it looks like it’s working, his face twists with rage and he charges.

But not how I expect. Instead of standing to fight, Bulla lunges low, wraps his arms around my legs, and heaves. My feet leave the ground and he slams me into the dirt like we’re in a WWF match and somebody just yelled “finish him.” Everyone's screaming now, some cheering, some laughing, some just here for the chaos. Dust flies everywhere as we roll and tussle in the red earth, limbs flailing. For a few seconds, it’s all instinct, elbows, knees, hands trying to grab anything that’ll give leverage.

I manage to wiggle out from under him and scramble to my feet, breathing hard. He’s up too, and this time, he actually puts his fists up. Finally. My kind of fight. I dart in and land two solid punches, one clean to his left eye that makes him stumble, and another to the side of his neck that draws an audible grunt from his chest. Ladi and Wale are almost roaring at this point and Nnamdi’s shouting for me to punch his face again while barely restraining himself from jumping in to help.

Bulla recovers and lunges again, and we’re back on the floor, tangled up like wild animals. We grapple, roll, twist, half-fighting, half-wrestling, and all madness. Someone is chanting “Round two!” like we’re in a Mortal Kombat video game, dust coats my face, sweat stings my eyes, and just when I think I’ve got enough space to get one more swing in… 

WHACK.

A sharp sting lashes across my side, and I wince, twisting to see Senior Tony looming over us, his face a storm of rage. He doesn’t say a word, he just stands there, belt still raised, his stare daring us to lift even a finger at each other.  Then, his voice cuts through the chaos like thunder. 

“BOTH OF YOU, BACK TO ROOM 1, RIGHT NOW!”

We’re hauled up and marched off like prisoners of war. No talking, no eye contact. Students part to let us through, their cheers instantly replaced by whispered commentary. When we get to the dorm, the sentence is immediate.

“Assume the helicopter position!”

The dreaded stress stance. The “helicopter” position requires squatting low, arms stretched straight out in front of you like you’re reaching for something that doesn’t exist. Your thighs start burning almost instantly, and the longer you hold it, the more your body trembles like it’s about to collapse. It’s a painful punishment on its own, but after a fight like ours, it is torture.

Senior Tony stands in front of us, belt in hand, his eyes locked on us like a hawk. He doesn’t have to say another word. The message is clear: flinch, and you’ll regret it.

Minutes feel like hours. My legs are shaking under the strain, sweat dripping down my face, pooling at the base of my neck. Bulla, being shorter and stockier, doesn’t seem to struggle as much with the squat, but he’s wincing too, jaw clenched, arms twitching like he’s trying not to drop them. Whatever edge his body gives him, the pain still finds a way in.

Then, finally, a junior student arrives to tell senior Tony that Mommy Kitchen needs him before they start serving lunch. He walks off with one last threat hanging in the air, and the second he’s gone, Bulla and I collapse to the floor like two deflated tires, but he lands harder, groaning louder than I expect. At first, I think he’s just being dramatic, until I see the way he’s clutching his thigh. His face is twisted in real pain. 

“Muscle pull,” he mutters through gritted teeth, trying not to cry out.

In that moment, whatever frustration I still have toward him disappears. I’ve been there. I know that pain. I move over and start pounding gently on his leg like I’ve seen other boys do during morning drills. “Relax your foot,” I tell him, pressing just above the knot. He doesn’t fight me. Surprisingly, it works. His breathing slows and the tension in his leg starts to ease. The fight is forgotten. We’ve got bigger problems like what’s waiting for us when Senior Tolu returns.

The lunch bell rings, and Ladi and Wale sneak into the dorm, promising to save me food. Bulla shifts beside me, still rubbing his leg. “Abeg, tell my guys too, just in case,” he calls out to them. Ladi nods, and Wale flashes a thumbs up before they slip back out.

The dorm room gradually fills again with the low hum of returning students, plates clattering in the distance, voices echoing from the courtyard. Bulla and I trade a look, we know what that means. Senior Tolu is coming. We scramble upright and return to the squat, arms stretched out like nothing happened. My thighs are screaming again, but I force myself to hold.

Seconds later, Senior Tolu strolls into the room. He’s licking his fingers and carrying a toothpick like a man who’s just had a full plate of Christmas rice and a cold bottle of Coke. For a moment, he doesn’t even seem to remember we’re there. He stops, blinks, and squints at us like we’re part of the furniture.

“Eh!” he says, waving lazily. “You people are still here? Go and eat joh.”

We don’t need to be told twice.

Ignoring the meal waiting for me, I head straight to the Tech building, nerves bubbling up again. I scan the courtyard for her, My girl. Nothing. I make a slow loop past the tap area, pretending to check the water pressure. Still no sign. I head toward the snack corner on the far end of the tech building, where lunchtime traders crowd around selling everything from meat pies to ice-cold sachets of water. My eyes search every group, every face.

And then, I turn the corner. 

There she is.

My heart lifts before it even has time to process. She’s smiling, laughing even, radiant, effortless, like always… but then I see him. Mayowa. One of our classmates. Mr. JSS3 Charisma himself. He’s walking beside her, talking animatedly, clearly trying to impress, and from the look on her face, she’s not exactly bored. Suddenly, the bruises from earlier decide to reintroduce themselves. My hunger roars, my shoulders ache, and worst of all, that jealous, sinking feeling settles in my stomach like Monday night beans.

Why today, God? Why this? Have I not suffered enough?!

Mayowa is tall, smooth-talking, and maddeningly likeable, and while I don’t want to admit it, he’s also… kind of my competition now. I want to turn around. Just walk away, grab whatever food I can find, and disappear. But something in me says not to. I’ve known this girl from a distance for over three weeks now. I’ve fumbled through awkward hellos and talked myself out of speaking to her more times than I can count.

Suddenly, inspiration strikes: What if she’s been waiting for me to show up too? What if, just maybe, she’s been hoping I’d finally say something?

That thought alone gives me the tiniest flicker of courage. I take a deep breath. My legs are heavy, my ego bruised, but I step forward. I walk up to them, ignoring Mayowa’s irritated glance, and focus on her. “Hi… Hey… my name is Myles. Um… we met briefly a few weeks ago, and I, uh, just wanted to say hello.”

She turns toward me, her brown eyes lighting up in recognition. “Yeah, I remember you. Hi, Myles. My name is Ifeanyi.”

Her voice is like music, and for a second, I’m lost. She remembers me! …But the euphoria doesn’t last. My mind goes blank, completely wiped clean like someone hit the reset button. I just stand there, smiling like a dope, all words gone.

Say something, Myles. Anything. Literally anything. Compliment her shoes. Ask what class she’s in. Tell her your blood type. Just. Say. Something. 

Ifeanyi’s still smiling, gently, patiently, like she wants to keep talking. Like she’s giving me a chance, but I just stand there, frozen, every word I’ve ever known suddenly missing in action. And just like that, the moment starts slipping away. Mayowa catches the pause, and his scowl slowly morphs into a victorious smirk. Like he’s watching a small fire burn itself out. He slides back in, smooth and effortless, steering the conversation away like I was never there to begin with.

Finally, I manage a lame, “Uh… okay… bye, Ifeanyi,” and watch her walk away.

I feel like an idiot, and just as I am about to start my own walk of shame back to the dorm, something unexpected happens. Ifeanyi turns around, walks back toward me, and with the sweetest smile says, “It was nice meeting you too, Myles. I’ll see you around next time, yeah?”

I nod, my words finally returning. “Yes, definitely. I’ll catch you around.”

She walks away for real this time, back alongside Mayowa. They’ve only made it a few feet when she glances back over her shoulder, one last time, and gives me a knowing smile. I stand there, my heart pounding, grinning from ear to ear. The day may not have gone as planned, but it wasn’t a total loss. She knows my name and now, I know hers. Mission accomplished.

I float back to my dorm room, the pain from the fight forgotten. When the guys tell me my table leader refused to save me lunch, I don’t even care. I scoop up some garri, sugar, milk, and groundnut from my locker, each bite sweeter than ever as I replay my conversation with Ifeanyi in my head.

It’s the best meal I’ve had since coming to Gateway.

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