~ SIXTY-SEVEN ~

The air inside the 300-level classroom was tinged with the scent of dust and marker ink, windows thrown wide to allow a reluctant breeze in. The long weekend had passed, but its shadow still clung to some students. Lethargy danced in the corners of the room, yet amidst it all, one group sat huddled together near the middle rows—determined, focused, though a bit frayed around the edges.

Kaima sat with her sleeves rolled up, her laptop open and a notebook beside it, flipping between tabs and scribbled ideas. Zahra was cross-legged on the desk beside her, tablet in hand, tapping furiously. Chelsea had her hair up in a hasty bun, colored pens scattered around her notes like a chaotic rainbow. Chuma, their course rep, was pacing just a little, muttering to himself and checking his phone for any updates from their supervisor. And David, quiet as ever, was hunched over a textbook, brows drawn into a deep furrow.

“Alright, so if we’re focusing on drug metabolism, we need to refine our approach. The original angle feels too broad,” Kaima said, glancing at each of them. “I think we need to break it down to Phase I and II reactions, then maybe draw comparative analyses on how certain enzymes influence pharmacokinetics.”

Zahra groaned, dropping her tablet onto her lap. “Can we not talk about enzymes again? I’m already dreaming about cytochrome P450 every night.”

That earned a laugh from Chelsea. “Better that than dreaming about Dr. Ogene’s face. Man’s got a talent for making people regret their career choices.”

“I’m serious,” Kaima pressed, though she smiled. “We’re losing focus. This thing is due Friday, and our literature review section is still a mess.”

Chuma finally sat down, exhaling. “I sent a text to Dr. Ogene. He hasn’t replied. I think we should stop waiting for feedback and go with our instincts for now.”

“Agreed,” David muttered, eyes still on his book. “The longer we wait, the more behind we’ll get. We can always adjust later.”

Zahra leaned forward. “Okay, but can we at least divide the workload properly? I’ve been doing most of the referencing and honestly, I’m burning out.”

Kaima turned toward her, brows lifted. “Zee, you should’ve said something.”

“Well, I’m saying it now,” Zahra replied, not unkindly, but firmly. “I love you guys, but this whole ‘we’re a team’ thing only works if the weight is evenly distributed.”

Chelsea reached for her notebook. “She’s right. I’ve been slacking. I got distracted with… stuff. But I’ll handle the data analysis part today. No excuses.”

Chuma nodded. “I’ll work on cleaning the abstract and organizing the final structure of the report. And I’ll double-check our references. David, you’re good with stats, right?”

David finally looked up. “Yes. I can finish the interpretation section if someone helps with the charts.”

“I can do that,” Kaima offered, already typing. “And I’ll edit the conclusion and proofread once everyone’s done.”

For a moment, silence settled over them—not awkward, but heavy with a shared sense of responsibility.

“You know,” Zahra said softly, picking up her tablet again, “we’re actually good at this. Like, really good. It’s just… we all tend to wait till the last minute before snapping into gear.”

Chelsea smirked. “Because chaos breeds creativity?”

Chuma laughed. “Nah, chaos breeds stress. But I get her point. We have potential—we just need to harness it without a deadline breathing down our necks.”

Kaima looked at each of them—these mismatched puzzle pieces that somehow made sense when forced into close proximity. There were gaps in their rhythm, missed cues and imbalanced contributions, yes. But there was also effort. A silent promise that they were in it together.

“Let’s prove it then,” she said, her voice gentle but resolute. “Not just to our supervisor or our department, but to ourselves. Let’s make this project something we’re proud of, not something we just ‘survived.’”

They all nodded.

Chelsea popped her earbuds in but left one out so she could hear them. Zahra leaned in to show Kaima something on her tablet, while David flipped his textbook to another page, underlining something and scribbling notes beside it. Chuma opened his system, setting up the shared document they’d all work on simultaneously.

The background chatter of other students working or scrolling through their phones faded into white noise. Their team, with all its imperfections, was finally beginning to move in sync.

And for the first time in days, Kaima felt like maybe—just maybe—they’d be alright.

\---

The week had not flown by—it had trudged.

Between classes, impromptu tests, and lecturers demanding updated notes or threatening to cancel attendance sheets, it felt like the campus had transformed into a tightrope, and every student was walking it with their breath held. The project deadline loomed like a storm cloud, darkening everything it passed over.

Kaima barely had time to sleep. Her laptop had become an extension of her body, and her fingers often tingled from typing. There were moments when she felt her brain would shut down, when even coffee seemed too weak to keep her grounded. But there was also satisfaction—raw and fulfilling—at how the pieces of their project began to come together.

Zahra and Chelsea had found their groove, syncing their strengths like two dancers who’d finally learned to hear the same rhythm. Zahra, for all her whining, had a meticulous eye when it came to citations and data presentation, and Chelsea—brilliant, scattered Chelsea—could take the dullest information and transform it into an engaging narrative. Her part on patient-centered care and drug interactions had left even David impressed.

David had remained the quiet workhorse, often staying up late in the class group chat, posting stats and suggesting formulas, cross-checking values that no one else had the mental strength to touch. His calm presence steadied the storm that sometimes threatened their progress.

And Chuma—responsible, pragmatic Chuma—took the burden of being team lead without ever actually saying he was. He coordinated updates, liaised with the supervisor (even when Dr. Ogene gave more headache than guidance), and ensured the document was neat, uniform, and professional. He was a natural at it, though he often grumbled under his breath while doing so.

By Thursday night, the five of them sat in Kaima’s room—papers everywhere, a whiteboard leaned against the wardrobe, half-empty packs of crackers and water bottles lining the bed like exhausted soldiers.

“This is it,” Kaima exhaled, saving the final PDF. “We submit tomorrow and present at noon.”

“God,” Chelsea whispered dramatically, throwing herself on the bed. “I feel like I’ve fought a war.”

“You did,” David said with the faintest smile. “Against procrastination.”

Zahra chuckled, lying next to Chelsea. “And against this school system.”

Kaima turned to Chuma. “You okay with leading the presentation? You’re best at winging on your feet.”

“Sure. But we’ll all say something, right? It’s a group presentation.”

“Definitely.” Zahra yawned. “I just don’t want to stutter. I always stutter when I’m nervous.”

“You’ll do fine,” Kaima reassured her, gently. “We’ve worked too hard to fall apart now.”

—

Friday – 12:03PM – Pharmacology Department Hall

The hall wasn’t full, but it had just enough people to make your palms sweat. Their classmates, some lecturers, a few junior students, and most importantly, their supervisor, Dr. Ogene, with his perpetually furrowed brow and glasses he never really looked through.

The projector screen buzzed to life, and their title slide filled the room:

“Pharmacokinetics and the Impact of Enzymatic Activity on Drug Metabolism”

— Presented by Group 2

Kaima’s heart pounded, but she kept her expression calm. Chelsea stood beside her, rehearsing her part one last time under her breath. Zahra clutched her flashcards, lips moving silently. David was reading over the statistical charts again, as if he could summon a last-minute change. And Chuma stood front and center, pointer in hand, his confidence solid and grounding.

He began with the introduction, weaving through their research journey with ease, adding humor in places that warranted it, engaging both classmates and lecturers with a quiet, practiced energy.

Then Zahra stepped forward, talking about enzyme families and cytochrome P450 with such passion that Kaima could’ve sworn even the usually distracted boys in the back were actually listening. She didn’t stutter once.

Chelsea followed, her voice warm and magnetic. She broke down complex interactions between patient history and drug processing in a way that was both technical and strangely poetic. A few heads nodded along, and even Dr. Ogene cracked a smile.

David’s turn was brief but powerful. His graphs were clean, his figures accurate, and his delivery clipped and professional. He answered a follow-up question without faltering, and Chuma gave him a subtle nod of approval.

Then it was Kaima’s turn.

She stepped up, nerves threatening to trip her at first, but her voice didn’t shake. Her part was the conclusion—a synthesis of everything they had said, drawing insight from their findings and how it could impact real-world pharmacy practices. She spoke from the heart, her passion for the course bleeding into her words.

“This research,” she ended, eyes sweeping across the room, “taught us more than what was in the books. It taught us patience, teamwork, and the importance of listening—not just to each other, but to the data itself.”

A pause.

“Thank you.”

Applause. Light at first, then fuller. A few classmates whistled softly. Chelsea squeezed her hand. Zahra beamed. David gave a rare, full smile. And Chuma slapped her back proudly.

Dr. Ogene scribbled something in his notes, then cleared his throat. “Good effort. Well-rounded. Your cohesion as a group reflects in your delivery.”

That was as close to a compliment as any student would get from him.

Outside the hall afterward, the group stood under the shaded walkway, the afternoon sun barely sneaking through the gaps in the trees.

“Guys,” Chelsea said, her voice trembling a little. “We did that.”

“And we didn’t kill each other,” Zahra joked, nudging David.

Chuma reached into his bag and pulled out five sachets of chilled water, tossing one to each of them. “To the best team in 300L,” he said, raising his own sachet like a glass of champagne.

They all cheered softly, laughing as they clinked the plastic pouches together. For that brief moment, the weight of the week fell away. They had pulled through. Together.

And Kaima, sipping her water, looked around at her friends—no, her team—and felt a quiet kind of pride swell in her chest.

They had done it. Against fatigue, stress, and every odd that threatened to pull them apart—they had done it.