As I lay on my bed, contemplating my next move, my mind drifted to the mysterious Head Boy.
A boy who valued practicality in a world obsessed with efficiency. He was an outlier — someone who captured attention without even trying. He was hailed as the epitome of perfection. But I knew one thing, one secret, that could be used against such a giant. And I would save it for when I needed it most.
I also thought about how foolishly I'd misused my luck in the past life. How could I have wasted such an opportunity?
In this very room stayed Rasaq Wobi — aka The Sport Master. The most athletic person in the school. In the old timeline, he won a national scholarship for his achievements in sports. But I'd barely noticed him back then. Now, I knew better.
I drifted into sleep, completely oblivious to the attention I had already drawn.
"I hope you satisfy me," a boy whispered eagerly.
A soft ray of sunshine slid across my bed. My eyes fluttered open, suddenly alert. I got up slowly and headed to the bathroom — communal in name, but thankfully ours had a room-attached option. The white tiles gleamed against the green boarding house palette. The colours annoyed me for reasons I couldn't yet explain.
Then — a shift in the air.
A gaze. Fleeting, but unmistakable.
As I walked back to my room, I turned quickly. A shadow disappeared around the corner.
I couldn't see who it was, but the intent in that gaze lingered like smoke. Whoever it was... they knew me. Or thought they did.
At 7:20 a.m., we left the hostel and walked to the cafeteria. Breakfast was simple — bread and eggs — but warm. Familiar. The kind of meal that made a place feel safe. My tablemates were less than impressive, but potential allies didn't need to be perfect. They needed to be useful.
We received our timetables. First up: English. My favourite.
I entered the classroom calm, composed. My first day had been quiet observation. Now it was time to be seen.
Miss Mojeku stood at the front. She was taller than most teachers — poised, with sharp eyes that softened when they landed on me. Recognition flickered in her gaze. A moment passed. A silent bond formed.
She began the lesson with introductions, but midway through, she paused.
"Is this even necessary?" she asked.
My chance.
I raised my hand — not too fast to seem overeager, not too slow to appear unsure.
"I feel like introducing ourselves after a full day of orientation is a bit redundant," I said. "Continuing with the lesson might be more effective."
A smile touched her lips. Genuine. Approving. We carried on.
"For your homework," she said later, "write an essay on this: Is it better to tell a beautiful lie or an ugly truth? Use real-world examples. Apply it to your thinking. Around 1000 words. But a warning — the truth costs more than marks in this school."
Her voice was light. But the weight behind her words stayed with me.
My second lesson was math. I loved it once — its complexity, its elegance. But that love had decayed.
Our teacher was a textbook case of inherited success. A "nepo baby." Talented, yes, but unmotivated. His laziness dulled his brilliance, like a blade left to rust. He taught well enough — but not in the way that inspired. Only in the way that passed exams.
While we struggled through formulas and theories, my mind wandered to the contrasts between subjects — the cold logic of math versus the raw honesty of English. Both demanding, but with different stakes.
I imagined how Dew would handle this class. Practical, efficient, confident. Probably already a step ahead of all of us.
The rest of the day blurred past. I found myself wandering through thoughts — about assignments, strategies, the long game ahead.
But mostly, I kept circling back to Miss Mojeku's task. And finally, I began to write:
Sometimes, the lie saves more than it destroys.I once read about a ruler who told his starving people that food was coming soon. It wasn't. Not then. But they believed him — and held on. They didn't riot. They didn't give up. Months later, relief did arrive.If he'd told them the truth? They'd have fallen apart.But here's the danger: lies grow legs. The more you tell, the harder it is to remember where the truth ends.A beautiful lie can keep someone alive. But the moment they learn it was false, you don't just lose their trust. You lose them.I've lied before — to protect people."I'm fine.""I've moved on.""Nothing happened."Was it wrong? Probably.But sometimes, I'd rather be a liar than watch someone break in front of me.
I submitted it quietly, and Miss Mojeku read it even more quietly.
Her face gave nothing away.
When she returned the papers, she didn't hand out scores. She just passed mine to me and murmured:
"Some lies are written with too much pain to be fiction. You did well, Abdul. But be careful who you let read your truth."
Her words haunted me for the rest of the day.
I thought I had written with restraint. Subtlety. But maybe I had said too much. Maybe I was still as naïve as ever — believing I could speak freely without consequences.
I made a vow to myself then and there: Never again.
That evening, an envelope lay on the floor just inside my door. Plain. Unsealed. Thin as air.
It hadn't been there earlier.
I froze.
The dorm was silent. The hallway outside — empty, like a confession booth before a storm.
I bent down and picked it up.
No name.
Just one line, scrawled in black ink:
"Some of us remember, Abdul. Watch who you trust."
The air thickened around me. My fingers trembled. Not with fear — but with realization.
I rushed to my desk. Pulled out the essay.
Scanned the final lines again.
You lose more than trust. You lose the person.
Someone had read it. And they had understood it too well.
I thought I'd been cautious.
But someone had seen through me.
And now... they were watching.