Episode 2
After the inspection, Tamara was called into the Matron’s office. The walk across the courtyard felt longer than usual, with girls peeking from classroom windows and whispering like crows. Inside, Madam Grace handed her a clipboard with an intimidating stare. You need to bring a medical exemption letter by tomorrow, she said. No scarves. No wigs. No excuses. Tamara nodded, but her heart raced. The truth was, she already had a note—an old one, from a Lagos hospital—but she’d hoped to never use it. Not here. Not where everyone already thought she was weird. That note wasn’t just a piece of paper—it was proof of what she was trying to hide from the world.
That evening, Tamara sat alone under the mango tree beside the dormitory block, clutching the folded medical note in her hand. She hadn’t opened it in months. Her fingers trembled as she unfolded it—just seeing the hospital logo made her stomach twist. She knew once she handed it in, everything would change. People would ask questions. They’d Google the name of her condition. They’d treat her like a science experiment or worse—a freak. She heard footsteps and quickly shoved the paper into her pocket. Bunmi was approaching, her arms crossed and a wicked smile playing on her lips.
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By prep time that night, Bunmi had already told at least ten girls what she planned to do. They gathered in little groups around the dormitory hall, whispering and giggling like it was all a game. Bunmi, bold and mischievous, had placed a bet: five meat-pie coupons to anyone who could snatch Tamara’s wig before the week ended. The idea spread like wildfire. Some girls were thrilled by the drama. Others, like Adaora, the class prefect, were uneasy. Something about Tamara gave her goosebumps—not just the wig or her silence, but a kind of quiet heaviness that felt… spiritual. Like Tamara was carrying something not of this world.
Meanwhile, Tamara sat with her Chemistry textbook open, though her eyes weren’t moving across the page. She could feel the energy shifting in the room—eyes on her, whispers behind her back, footsteps echoing louder than they should. Then something strange happened. The lights flickered. For just a second, everyone paused. A cool breeze swept through the hall, though no windows were open. Tamara didn’t look up, but her fingers gripped the edges of her book. The scarf around her wig rustled lightly, as if stirred by something unseen. That night, as the generator hummed back to life, even Bunmi felt a chill crawl down her spine.
Saturday morning brought a rare excitement to the school—inter-house sports tryouts. While most girls were in the field chanting and warming up, Tamara stood at the edge of the crowd, far from the drums and cheer. She hated attention, and she especially hated games where people ran and tugged at each other. But Madam Grace was strict—everyone had to participate. Bunmi, spotting her alone, saw the perfect opportunity. During the tug-of-war event, Bunmi volunteered Tamara’s name loudly, shoving her into the lineup before Tamara could protest. Reluctantly, Tamara joined in, planting her feet deep into the sandy field.
The rope tug began with chaos—screaming, feet dragging, hands blistering. Tamara pulled with the others, trying to blend in. But then Bunmi, pretending to cheer from behind, darted forward and yanked hard—not at the rope—but at the back of Tamara’s scarf. It slipped slightly, and part of her wig lifted. For a split second, a patch of her real scalp was exposed—smooth, shiny, and unusually pale. The sunlight hit it strangely. The girls froze. Some gasped. But before anything else could happen, a sudden wind swept across the field again, knocking the rope loose from everyone’s grip. Dust rose like a veil, and Tamara clutched her scarf, running off the field before anyone could say a word.
Jennylight
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