The night our dorm caught fire, burning our dreams and memories, it was Sister Agnes who saved the day. She drove straight away from the convent to the dorm quarters, made a wedge on the door of the burning hall, and with the help of the security women, helped students to safety.

Afterwards, she ran around the building for the girls trapped in the upper hall. The air was filled with smoke and dread. The windows were clogged by people trying to escape that I could barely move. I struggled against the throng to get behind the window, then held the shutters with trembling hands. I heard them scream, “Jump! Jump!” I did not think about it. I climbed, then jumped.

She staggered as I fell into her arms but with a firm grip, held onto me. On her face was a mix of warmth and worry. I wanted to say something, but I could not find the words. 

That night, we were awakened by a huge sound, like an explosion, followed by screams that pierced into the dark. Then there was the sound of running feet. I lay still on my bed, trying to grapple with my dream-reality confused state.  It was still lights-out.  Just the day before, we spent an entire morning of sweat and tears cleaning the dormitory for the weekly inspections. The Saturday morning routine was always brutal in that way. We swept and scrubbed and raked and brushed until everywhere was squeaky clean. That was exactly how the hall mistress and her clump of prefects wanted it, squeaky clean. But now the dorm was on fire—our yesterday, in ruins. Fate and her long arms were here, to take away not only our home  but our sleep too. Soon, the air was engulfed with the smell of burn and thin slices of dark soot. I groped around in the dark, trying to reach for the door. Across the hall, people were crying and falling on each other. There were flashes of light, lockers overturning, chants of prayer, fire burning. It was a fearful night. 

*

I did not care about many things, especially not Sacred High, this all-girls boarding school that Mother dumped me in. I was growing fast and needed that strict Nigerian training, she said as she argued with Father. They did that all the time, talking above each other’s voices and stealing my sanity. They never agreed on anything and I was often caught in the middle. Father was a real-estate developer who strutted the world; Mother was an attorney and politician. Mother lived in Lagos and Atlanta; Father lived wherever; we saw him whenever we saw him. Their long years together had not made them look alike the way it happened for other couples. Their differences were still glaring–in their features, preferences, and goals. They were together but not together. However, they both finally agreed on my going to Nigeria. Father did not want it, but when he asked–in the middle of their prolonged squabble–and I said yes, it was settled. 

Akpuruka was the one who had reported me to Mother. She told her about all my social media accounts, especially the TikTok video I made shading her. Then she showed her the text message I sent to Dee, which in my excitement I had forgotten to delete. The message read, I want to be touched by you. Mother freaked out immediately. “By whooom? Touched by whom? Who is he?” She called Father and berated him for buying the phone and spoiling me too much. “What, on God’s glorious planet earth, is a 16-year-old doing with an iPhone 11?”

At that moment, I was grateful not to have sent the first  version of the text, which had three additional words, deep deep deep. Still, Mother took away the phone, and a curfew was put in place. She proceeded to make plans to ship me off to Nigeria for some good home training. She called all the people she could call, discussed the nits and grits of my homegoing. She talked, she explained, she gave orders. 

I sat still, watching her hour-long performance without flinching. I knew I would get the phone replaced in no time and the thought of going to Nigeria for whatever reason did not scare me. It was a time when numerous parents in our milieu were sending their children to Nigeria as punishment, disguised under the need to learn the culture and be close to their roots. I spent time on YouTube watching several comparison videos of Nigeria and the rest-of-the-world on all topics from food to accents and found them amusing. It seemed an interesting place, and I really could not think of a better place to serve out my banishment.

It was important for me to accept my fate like a champ, so Akpuruka does not get any satisfaction from her little victory. I did not like Akpuruka, and the feeling was mutual. She was everything to Mother–personal assistant, bodyguard, fixer, village sister. She has been there for so long and over the years has remained stout, fierce and loyal. But she was always in my space,  unraveling any happiness I meticulously built for myself, like  a wicked godmother. Her facial expression was forever stern, and her laughter was a trail of disjointed squeaks. She had the kind of face where a smile and a frown looked the same. Over the years, I had told countless lies and exaggerated half-truths to get her fired but she miraculously survived them all. Maybe someday will come. 

*

Nigeria was that home of fond memories and comfort which everyone spoke about but wanted to leave. Lagos was the heart of the nation, a city for everyone and everything. I was to be enrolled in Sacred High, a secondary school reputed for their discipline and academic achievements. Sacred High was recommended by Aunty to Mother because her twin children studied  there. “It would be a great opportunity to bond with your cousins,” they said. But I did not want to bond with anyone. Well, not yet. 

Aunty was nothing like Mother. She cooked, cleaned, and churched, things Mother never did, things I had no interest in doing–or learning. She blamed my domestic inabilities on Mother, how she failed to raise me well, how I should have been sent home earlier. Her house was modest, a cluster of rooms and hallway topped with a roof, tucked in a dingy neighborhood. I was not impressed by all that piety. How could one be born in wealth yet prefer to suffer? 

She spoke about a faith that could make one fly but always chose to walk. She seemed to be a living embodiment of piety. I disagreed with her on many things until I could tell she did not know what to do with me. I got bored thereafter and asked to go home. Home was Mother’s sprawling mansion, flanked by shades of splendor and elegance, standing proudly in beautiful silence somewhere in Ikoyi. “Will you be fine staying by yourself?”, she asked, her face creased with concern. I was always good alone. That big house draped in fine art was the muse for my soul. I needed to bask in soothing luxury to prepare myself for the rigour of boarding school.  

Back home, I had the chef make only native dishes. I relished all the spice and flavour each meal provided.  The aroma filled the house, but the pepper burned my tongue–setting my mouth on fire. Every meal was followed with ice cream or ice cubes to blend out the pepper. Sometimes the chef would make Jollof rice over wood fire, for that distinct smoky taste. Jollof was the king of dishes, the bowl of culinary excellence. Every other day, I had the driver take me around Lagos, a city of beautiful madness and struggling dreams. I took in the vibrant energy of the young, the desperation of hawkers, the sweet smell of street food, the long lines of traffic. It was a city I struggled to love.

The mornings smelled of haste and hustle, and in the evenings, the streets were noisy and alive. The driver was  keen to show me the island and all that pretend-bougie with pride but I wanted to see the rest of the city—the mainland. He warned that some areas were dangerous but I was braced for everything. 

The mainland and island were like chalk and cheese in a pod, with the mainland being the uncouth version of the island. Often on the mainland, law enforcement officials stopped our car for flimsy reasons, but they let us go once I handed money to them. I was not bemused. The goal was to explore and conquer Lagos and her Hells while I was here. That, in my head, was the only way to win in my banishment. I could not be exiled while I was home.  At least that was what Grandmother said.

*

Grandmother lived very close, in a house bigger than Mother’s, so we spent some weekends together. We talk, we listen, we sit in silence, we watch the rain. She would rant about the state of the nation; I would rant about the slowness of the Wi-Fi.  She would break the kola; we would eat the lobes and enjoy the bitter aftertaste. She would play the piano; I would paint a picture. In our space, we made beautiful art. She had an endearing name for all her grandchildren and mine was, Akwaugo. “This is your land, do not be afraid of it. Eat the food and drink the wine. Go where you want, you will not be lost,” she would say. 

Grandmother was capable of grit and fire. She held the master keys to the hearth we call home. The black of her eye was my good luck charm. She stood tall and on her head was a massive crown of white afro. She was her father’s daughter and although he was late, she still carried around his Ikenga, that two-horned sacred piece of wood for strength and power. During her time, she founded the first bank in her village and proceeded to create wealth from brown sands.

Now she spends her time traveling, having been to 46 countries, this unwavering, thinly wrinkled woman. But she always came home. She said that home is the seat where life begins, and that ours was a lineage of warriors who would always return, following the sound of the gong. I agreed with her. And I was delighted in our friendship and the stories we shared. Together, we would plot that final scheme that would get Akpuruka fired. I was ready for the power chess and she was game. 

*

Sacred High was a horrible life experience. Everything I had was seized at the gate, including my iphone, laptop, tablet and echo dot. It was difficult to function. The buildings needed a makeover; the residence halls were uninspiring. The food was bland,  the meat, too tough. The mandatory uniforms were too thick and too long for a tropical climate. I did not understand why I had to do my washing by hand or use a cutlass for anything. 

The discipline they were reputed for was deliberate hardship and nothing more. The classes were boring. The science teacher had a voice too loud it gave me migraines. The math teacher seemed uninterested most of the time while further math was a nightmare. There was a nun in charge of everything and no, I do not like the nuns either. Their habits and the dangling rosaries looked well designed, but their rules and regimens were tiresome. They were nothing like Maria VonTrapp. Their Sunday talks were long boring monotones  nobody cared about. The unending litanies of prayer time  put me to sleep. Mass itself was graciously solemn and luckily, lasted only an hour. The beginning part was restful, but the latter liturgy seemed like an exercise of standing and kneeling.

My problem with mass was its frequency; as with every other thing in Sacred High, it was daily and painfully consistent. I avoided the head girl and her swarm of prefects as much as I could but watched their performative patrolling with amusement. Oh, the many things they did with the little power they had. My twin cousins were in the same class as me. Fortunately, they were fraternal, so I did not have to get confused about who was who. Cousin 1 and her group of ugly friends did not like me, but I could not care less. I paid no mind to haters. Cousin 2 was kind but cared a bit too much, it was frustrating.  

One month in and I was suspended for fighting. I did not plan to fight but a senior student had pushed me and I returned the favour. I knew it was coming because this student and her myrmidons spent all their time hating and bullying. I did not mind the snobbery, but I would not cower when beaten. Nevertheless, according to Sacred High’s sacred rules both culprits  had to be suspended. Inwardly, I was happy to get a break from school and return to my morning grogginess, but Mother and Aunty were disappointed. Grandmother thought the suspension was too harsh a punishment, so she got me a MacBook and taught me how to hide it better. Unfortunately, it was found weeks later and soon I was suspended again. After I resumed from my second suspension, Sister Agnes who was the vice principal administration and the force that held us all together, called me to order.

She had a lot to say to me about sin and mercy, discipline and obedience. I let my eyes wander around her expertly organized office – everything seemed so painstakingly arranged and I was sure objects in there were afraid to fall. I listened but afterwards told her, “I am sorry, I do not believe.”

She stared at me then asked, “What do you want?” 

“I want to be free,” I replied. 

*

And freedom came. After the fire, everyone was sent home. I was happy to be reunited with the rest of the world but the world was bleeding. There was an ongoing pandemic. People were dying.  People were grieving over the world. Chunks of fret and uncertainty hung loose in the air. It was a frightening thing. My social media accounts had lots of enthusiastic messages from friends in Atlanta: “Where have you been? We miss you. Did you travel? Are you ok?” I scrolled through but there was only one message from Dee, an uninspiring scribble. Six months away and all I get is bland chatter. What a cad!  My feelings for him were a pile of waste. I turned away and did not respond to any of the messages. I stayed indoors following the news, combing the streets of Twitter. Lagos was on lockdown so no one could go anywhere. Word on Twitter was that the armed forces were gunning people down if found outside. I played music a bit too loud so the angst wouldn’t consume me. Father called every day. Mother called every other day. The borders were closed so they could not come home. I did not want them home. Well, not yet. Grandmother asked that I move in with her. Cousin 2 shared updates and rumors. Two students had died in the fire. No student had died in the fire. The dorm had been totally burned down. Only one room was burned down. It was a student’s stove that caused the fire. A committee had been set up to investigate. No one knew when school would reopen. 

 P.S: Bella would be having a party next week.

Days later, news was out that Sister Agnes had died in the fire. They said she went back for one student who was unaccounted for. I switched off my phone as the events of that night rose into my mind, a night I wished could unhappen. For a moment, my heart refused to beat. I paced, stopping to stare at the pieces of art scattered around the study. A human skull with colored eye sockets. An inscribed slate fragment with Nsibidi characters. A rustic wood map of Africa. A timber carved female figurine. Then I stared at the images in my mind. Faces struck with fear. The shouting. The crying. Bodies running. Bodies falling. I wanted to scream but I bit hard into my tongue instead. The smell of burning and dread had stayed with me since the night of the fire.

My dreams have been filled with the groaning of unknown voices, begging to be set free. The fire. The redness. The hotness. The jump. Through the walls, I could hear her voice. I could hear her talk about the things she talked about. Mercy. Obedience. The mystical body of Christ. The night of the fire was the only time I saw her not dressed in a habit. Later, I would ponder on the austere simplicity of that self-denying life she had freely chosen. She saved us. She saved us all. I was grateful but why did she?  It was noble, but still, felt so terribly unjust. Flakes of guilt crept up my skin and spilled onto my face. Was there a body? Was there an afterlife?  

*

It was minutes past midnight when I carried my body to the garden along with my thoughts and demons. I stood amid a sea of green leaves and looked towards the moon. The lush greens brought back vague memories of childhood. And the house in the village. The echoing sound of my shrill voice. The lulling Kumbayas with the extended family. My laughter. My falls. My dolls. Our home.  Sister Agnes always said that the world was not our home. And she said that with a knowing certitude that the other place was better. Maybe the home she believed in would be opened for her. Maybe this home she professed, would be happy to have her. It was consoling to know that there was a place in the everlasting for people like that. Still, it was shuddering to think of the permanence of this end, while in bleak foreboding of the present. And in that draining moment, I did not wish to return to Sacred High. Or wish to see our dorm in ruins. Or wish to see the emptiness of spirit her absence could bring. There was a loud sound of crashing thunder like it was about to rain. When the rain started, I stayed, happy that heaven mourned with me.  

About the Author:

Chinelo Orji was born in Nigeria, but lives in Austin Texas. She enjoys reading and writing. Her writing lives on Medium.

*feature image by Hardae from Pixabay