Chapter 1: Pancake Palava at the Fence

My younger brother, Chibuzor, dey always dey boast every single day about how their school food sweet die.

E go dey use am pepper me, like say my own school no try before. Sometimes, he go even come house, begin dey describe: Chibuzor: “Ngozi, you suppose taste that beans—e soft like say na mummy cook am. And the egg pancake? Omo, e just dey melt for mouth! The meat? Correct spice wey only school cooks sabi!” I go just hiss, roll my eye—this boy sabi yarn dust, but na my blood, wetin I go do? If no be say we dey use the same mama, I for say e dey lie!

But since the day I mistakenly chop the egg pancake wey he carry come house, na so I begin dey make am smuggle food for me.

Omo, that pancake na another level. As I chop am, my body just dey do me one kind—na so I dey reason how to turn am to steady supply. Sometimes, I go give am small change. Other days, I go just use elder sister level threaten am small: “If you no bring, I go report you give Mummy say you dey hide assignment!” Chibuzor, e no get choice. Who go see correct food run?

Until one day, na so his class teacher catch me red-handed for the iron fence.

That morning, na with confidence I dey squat by the fence, dey wait for Chibuzor with my nylon. I no even know say Teacher dey waka pass that corner. The way breeze just blow my hair that day, I no suspect say wahala dey near.

The man just vex, voice sharp: “So na you dey bully our student, dey force am buy food for you abi?”

His voice get that deep echo—like when principal catch person for morning assembly. I shock small, but I gats package myself. My hand even dey tremble small as pancake dey my mouth.

I just look the guy—about 180cm tall, with those fine-fine lowcut waves, e get that neat barbershop line up and face wey fit act for film. But see as him wear one correct old-school teacher polo, e shock me small.

Him face be like one of those men wey dey act for Nigerian series—smooth skin, but the clothes na proper teacher standard. You go just sabi say this one no dey play with him work.

“Erm (chew chew chew)... you wan talk?”

I talk am with mouth full, still dey chop. My body dey calm but my mind dey race, dey find escape.

The man eye open wide like say na magic. “Wh-what?”

E be like say I talk am so bold, e no expect am. The way him eye bulge, I fit swear say he dey reason whether na craze dey worry me or na hunger. Under that early morning sun, the sweat for my forehead dey shine like palm oil.

I dey squat for fence, still dey munch my egg pancake.

The breeze dey blow the smell of food pass both our nose. My mouth no wan stop—pancake too sweet. But as I dey chop, my mind dey calculate escape route if wahala burst.

We just dey look each other through the iron bars.

E resemble one Nollywood scene, as if na two spirits dey plan their next move. For my mind, I dey rehearse my defense. For him mind, na only God know wetin he dey think.

Honestly, e be like live-action for ‘Tears Behind Iron Bars.’

If dem dey record us, I sure say dem for upload am for Facebook, caption: "Sisterly love or criminal intent?" I just dey wish make ground open swallow me. Even the keke driver for road dey look my side.

I wan repeat myself, na so the lettuce wey dey my mouth fly commot, jam the fence.

That lettuce just land kpata-kpata for iron fence, spread like suya onions after rain.

I just shame, dey look as the man frown, bring out tissue, gently remove the lettuce from the fence, throw am for dustbin.

This kain gentle handling—e just remove am as if e dey clean him own house. Na that time I know say this man get patience.

Me: ......

I just dey quiet, my mouth no fit talk. Wetin I wan explain?

Plenty way dey to die, but to disgrace yourself for public dey top for the list.

I dey reason say if dem give award for public disgrace, na me go carry first that day. Even my shadow dey hide for wall.

I never even collect the guy number, my respect don scatter.

I no fit even raise head look am again. My mind just dey for ground.

I wan use style run, na so sharp voice land for my back.

That kain voice no dey gree for joke—if e call you, you go answer!

“Stop there!”

As the thing enter my ear, e reset my brain. I pause, pancake still for hand. For my mind, I dey shout: "Who send me o!"

Maybe na fear of teacher wey dey my body since small or na because him voice too serious—but anyhow, I freeze (still dey hold my egg pancake).

My body just stiff, I no fit move. E remain make breeze blow me fall.

After like one minute, the man waka come from inside the fence.

Him shoe dey make kpokpo sound for ground as e dey approach. Small time, I smell that faint scent of teacher perfume—those ones wey mix with chalk and biro ink.

For close, the guy fine no be small—e get that rugged, real man swag, no be all those fine boy wey dey for TikTok.

E get small beards, the kain wey girls dey trip for. But e no send. Him own swag dey natural.

Sharp face, clean jawline, hair scatter for forehead, thick eyebrow, but eye soft well. Silver-frame glass dey him nose, the eye narrow and long, corner small-small drop down, and when he look up, him eyelash dey brush the lens.

I just dey observe am with correct eye. If my mama see me so, she go say, "Ngozi, face your front!"

I swallow egg pancake, dey look the guy like mumu.

My throat dry, but I gats finish am—no waste food!

But as e fine reach, that old-school polo just dey pain me. The combo na rustic but handsome—na wah.

The polo na that deep blue, with small bleach stain for armpit. But somehow, e fit him like say na designer.

He fire me three questions straight:

“Which class you dey?”

“You be our student?”

“Why you no wear uniform?”

The questions land sharp, like police checkpoint for express.