~ SEVENTY-EIGHT ~

~ SEVENTY-EIGHT ~
The sun was lazily sinking behind the towering trees that lined the main road outside the faculty buildings, casting soft golden streaks across the pavement. The sky had begun its slow, amber transformation, stained with streaks of orange, pink, and lavender, a perfect end to their first day back.

Kaima slung her tote bag across her shoulder as she stepped out of the building, the chatter and laughter of students spilling around her like a river of sound. Voices overlapped—jokes, complaints, idle gossip—all laced with that signature final-year mix of exhaustion and adrenaline.

She found Chelsea by the foot of the stairs, leaning back against Chuma’s chest with a satisfied sigh. He had one arm draped lazily around her shoulder, the other dangling by his side as they shared something from her phone. They looked disgustingly cute, Kaima thought with a dramatic eye-roll.

Chelsea spotted her and brightened instantly. “Ah! Madam Kaima the Great finally emerges!”

Chuma turned too, flashing his usual boyish grin. “We were beginning to think you’d been kidnapped by Dr. Okocha and forced into a lab forever.”

Kaima scoffed, reaching them and adjusting her glasses. “Please, the only thing Dr. Okocha could successfully kidnap is my sleep schedule.”

“Not you subtly dragging your lecturer,” Chelsea said with a teasing smile, nudging her as they began to walk.

Students spilled around them—some walking in groups, others mounted on bikes zipping through the road, yelling half-greetings. The scent of roasted corn and groundnut wafted from a nearby roadside vendor, while a girl selling iced zobo balanced a cooler on her head with effortless grace.

A breeze rolled through the courtyard, rustling the trees overhead, lifting Kaima’s braids and cooling the heat clinging to their skin. She adjusted her tote strap again, side-eyeing her friends as they linked hands.

“So this is it now?” she asked, feigning seriousness. “This is who we are? PDA specialists? Holding hands like it’s a Netflix series?”

Chuma chuckled. “You’re just jealous.”

Chelsea leaned her head against his shoulder and batted her lashes at Kaima. “Don’t hate us ‘cause you ain’t us.”

Kaima groaned dramatically and covered her eyes. “Oh God, it’s worse than I thought. Save me, Lord.”

They burst into laughter, drawing glances from a few students as they passed the side lawn where first years sat in circles, some clearly lost in schedules while others looked like they hadn’t yet figured out which building was which.

A student in a purple bonnet hissed under her breath nearby, “Babe, I swear if that man puts this course on Friday again, I’ll cry.”

Another guy jogged by, holding up a water bottle and calling, “I no miss y’all o, I just miss this fine girls wey dey this department!”

Chelsea snorted. “Same energy, year after year.”

Chuma turned toward Kaima as they reached the shaded path leading to the car park. “So… still pretending you don’t miss anyone?”

Kaima arched a brow. “Who said I’m pretending?”

He gave her a knowing look but said nothing, and for a moment, her mind flickered—just briefly—to a face she hadn’t seen in months. The memory was swift, like a whisper, there and gone.

“I’m just saying,” Chuma added with a shrug, “when you finally admit you miss him, we won’t judge.”

Chelsea nodded sagely. “We’ll support you. Probably tease you to death, but we’ll support you.”

Kaima grinned, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Thanks for the support I never asked for.”

They all laughed again, the kind of easy, full-bodied laughter that came from years of inside jokes and late-night calls, of stress, growth, shared losses and wins.

They reached Chelsea’s car just as the evening call to prayer began echoing softly in the distance, blending with the hum of students, the clatter of chairs being packed up by hawkers, the rhythmic beat of afrobeat music playing from someone’s portable speaker down the road.

Kaima leaned against the car and stretched, eyes fluttering shut for a second as the breeze touched her skin again.

“You know,” she murmured, “this might actually be our last semester walking out of this building together like this.”

Silence settled briefly between them.

Then Chelsea said quietly, “Let’s make it count.”

Chuma opened the car door and turned to them. “Final year memories, baby. Let’s burn it into the ground.”

They climbed in, and as Chelsea reversed into the slowly thinning traffic, Kaima leaned back, the city slipping past the windows. The glow of the sun softened her face as she stared ahead.

She wasn’t sure what the rest of the semester would bring. But right here, right now—with Chelsea giggling in the front seat, Chuma singing off-key, and the campus she’d come to love slowly fading behind them—Kaima allowed herself one rare, unfiltered truth.

She was okay.

Not perfect. Not whole.

But definitely okay.

\----

Later that night, Kaima padded around her apartment barefoot, her satin bonnet snug over her braids and her oversized grey hoodie reaching her mid-thigh. The air was cool, scented faintly with the vanilla candle burning near the window, mixing with the distant hum of traffic and generator buzz outside. The soft lo-fi playlist on her speaker blended into the quiet as she took slow sips from her mug of ginger tea.

The apartment was nothing like her first place back in 300 level. This one was brighter, larger—an open-plan one-bedroom space with light-wood floors, soft beige walls, and minimalist furniture. Her small but stylish bookshelf stood by the far wall, filled with a mix of fiction, class texts, and a few framed photos. She had decorated it with care—subtle fairy lights wound around her window, a woven rug in the center, and indoor plants thriving in the corners.

She settled into her couch, tucked her legs beneath her, and reached for her phone. Adaora had texted earlier: "I'm free now. Let's talk, wedding planner."

Kaima grinned and clicked on the FaceTime icon.

Adaora picked up almost instantly, her face lighting up the screen. She had her hair wrapped in a silk scarf, minimal makeup on, and was dressed in a matching pajama set. The background revealed the familiar layout of their family house in Enugu—warm, golden lighting and the sound of their mother laughing faintly in the background.

“Sis Kaima!” Adaora beamed, holding her phone at a flattering angle. “Look at you, forming fine girl in your final year.”

Kaima scoffed playfully. “Please, is that not how you started calling me ‘Madam Undergrad’ when you started work?”

Adaora burst out laughing. “Guilty as charged. But abeg, this fine face better show up at my wedding in full glow. No stress lines or final-year eye bags.”

“Wedding wey you never pick bridesmaids dresses?” Kaima teased, stretching a leg on the couch.

Adaora sighed. “Omo. I don’t even know if I want emerald green anymore. Dare’s mum says it’s too deep for a January wedding.”

Kaima rolled her eyes. “Why is it that every Nigerian mother thinks weddings should be dressed like Easter service? Emerald is classy. Period.”

“I said it o!” Adaora threw her hands up. “Please tell her. Ugonna even supported it.”

Kaima smiled at the mention of Dare’s elder brother. “So… how’s Mama Ugo? Planning stress reached her already?”

Adaora chuckled. “She’s trying to stay calm, but you know how it is. Guest list drama has started. Her sister now wants to bring a choir from Owerri.”

“A whole choir?” Kaima’s eyes widened. “What is this? A wedding or a live recording?”

“Ask me o. But sha, we’ve booked the venue. And Dare has confirmed his groomsmen.”

Kaima arched a brow. “Any hot single ones?”

Adaora grinned wickedly. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Kaima narrowed her eyes. “Don’t play with me, Ada. I’m fragile.”

They both laughed, the kind of laughter that rang full and soft, weaving comfort across the distance between them. After the laughter faded, Adaora leaned closer to the camera.

“You okay though?” she asked more gently. “You looked… a little off earlier on our group chat.”

Kaima hesitated. Then she gave a small shrug.

“I’m fine. Just… tired. It’s the last lap, you know?”

Adaora studied her for a beat. “You sure it’s just the final lap?”

There was something knowing in her voice. But Kaima just nodded, offering a wry smile.

“I haven’t thought of him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Adaora didn’t push. She just nodded, eyes soft. “Okay. But I’m here, alright? I always am.”

Kaima nodded, eyes stinging just a bit.

“Thanks, Ada.”

They spent another fifteen minutes discussing fabric samples, the order of the bridal train, and debating whether the DJ should play afrobeats or mix it with highlife for the older crowd.

Eventually, Adaora yawned and waved. “Go to bed, madam. We both need beauty sleep. I want my maid of honor glowing.”

Kaima smiled, heart full. “Yes, bride.”

She ended the call and set her phone down gently.

The room was quiet again, except for the soft thrum of her playlist.

She reached for her mug again, now lukewarm, and stared out through the netted window, watching the city lights shimmer in the distance.

She didn’t let herself think about Obinna.

Not really.

But when she closed her eyes, she wondered—just for a moment—if he ever thought of her too.

Then she exhaled, and let the thought float away.