~ EIGHTY-THREE ~
~ EIGHTY-THREE ~
The soft hum of Kaima’s alarm broke the morning stillness at exactly 5:15 a.m. She stirred under her sheets, blinking sleepily at the soft golden hue bleeding through her curtains. Her hand reached for the phone instinctively, silencing the alarm before it buzzed a second time.
“Final year,” she whispered to herself, sitting up slowly, her body aching just a little more than it used to.
Her room was still and quiet, with the occasional soft hiss of cars far down the street. She slid off the bed, wrapped her robe around her, and shuffled to the small corner kitchen to boil water. While the kettle began to hum, she moved into her bathroom, brushing her teeth as she stood on her toes to reach the mirror—her morning ritual of self-pep talk already beginning.
“You’re almost there. You’ve got this.”
She showered quickly, changed into jeans and a grey top, and twisted her braids into a neat bun. By 6:00 a.m., the kettle had whistled, and she was nursing a steaming cup of lemon tea while seated at her study desk. The corkboard in front of her was filled to the brim—yellow sticky notes marked deadlines, seminar dates, thesis reminders, and a bold, underlined mantra in the center: “DO NOT LOSE YOUR MIND.”
She laughed softly every time she saw it.
Today was packed. A supervisor meeting at 8:30 a.m., a pharmacognosy test at 11, and a class group presentation immediately after. Then, if she survived the mental gymnastics, she planned to spend the night editing a short story submission for a magazine that had reached out to her weeks ago.
She packed her bag and grabbed her iPad and writing journal—the latter now looking almost bruised from use. Her writing, though slower these days, was still her anchor. She had even drafted the first few chapters of a new story. A love story. No, not a broken one this time. A hopeful one.
By the time Chelsea arrived at her doorstep at 7:30, Kaima was halfway through a slice of toast.
“You ready?” Chelsea asked, already in her signature bold lipstick and oversized sunglasses, even though the sun had barely stretched across the horizon.
“As I’ll ever be,” Kaima replied, grabbing her tote.
The campus buzzed with the controlled chaos only final-year students understood. It was different now—there was a silent pressure that lingered in the air like heat. Groups of students huddled together in conversation, some comparing project topics, others debating test scopes or chasing after their supervisors.
Chelsea and Kaima passed a duo arguing by the faculty block.
“Your supervisor said we should change topic since January, and you’re just telling me now?” one girl snapped.
“But I told you nau!” her partner defended, flipping through his notebook frantically.
Further ahead, someone shouted, “Omo! They said Dr. Obot won’t mark any late submission. Your topic list needs to be on his desk today!”
Kaima shook her head, amused. “God, I’m glad I submitted mine early.”
“Speak for yourself,” Chelsea groaned, “My supervisor has been ghosting me like I owe him money.”
They reached the Pharmacology department hallway just as Chuma emerged from the lab. He looked sleep-deprived but energized, coffee in hand, hair tousled in that way Chelsea secretly loved.
“Ah! The ladies of destiny,” he greeted, bowing theatrically.
“Final year is humbling all of us,” Kaima chuckled.
He smirked. “Speak for yourselves. I’ve not slept in two days.”
“Then maybe go and sleep instead of forming hero,” Chelsea said, but her eyes lingered on him just a beat longer than necessary.
Kaima noticed—and looked away with a knowing smile.
Later in class, Kaima sat sandwiched between Zahra and Tayo during their project seminar. Her supervisor, a stern woman who was known to crush egos and reassign topics at will, was drilling students on research relevance.
By the time it was Kaima’s turn, her palms were sweaty.
“Your topic again?” the woman asked.
Kaima straightened. “Phytochemical screening and anti-inflammatory properties of Piliostigma thonningii.”
The lecturer stared at her for a moment, then gave a single nod.
“Good. Proceed. Be thorough. I don’t want laziness.”
That was it. Just a nod and a warning. But in this department, that was a badge of honor.
After class ended at 4 p.m., Kaima’s legs were aching, and her head throbbed. She stopped by the cafeteria to grab a plate of rice and moi-moi, then returned to her apartment just before sunset.
She kicked off her shoes and collapsed on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Her iPad buzzed with an email alert—an editorial comment on her submitted short story.
Heart pounding, she opened it and read:
> “We love your story’s vulnerability and rhythm. It speaks of healing and resilience. We’d like to feature it in our next digital issue. Please send a brief author’s note.”
Kaima dropped the tablet, blinking in disbelief.
Then she let out a small, triumphant laugh.
She walked to her desk, flipping open her journal and writing at the top of a fresh page:
“Even in chaos, your voice can still rise.”
As the sun dipped below the skyline, casting golden shadows across her room, Kaima lit her favorite scented candle, opened her laptop, and began to write her author’s note.
Outside, life moved on—horns honking, footsteps passing, vendors calling out.
But in her little apartment, Kaima Ifedi—final-year student, heartbroken-but-healing girl, and rising storyteller—was thriving in the hustle.
And she wasn’t done yet.
\----
Kaima was tucked beneath her covers, her bonnet already snug around her braids, when her phone buzzed again—this time with a FaceTime notification from the girls' group chat. The contact name flashed “The Sisters Table”, accompanied by a flurry of pink heart emojis. Groaning half-heartedly, she sat up against her pillows and accepted the call.
The screen split into three familiar faces: Chelsea’s glowing smile, Zahra’s blurry camera from what looked like her bedroom, and Mandy—who was oddly teary-eyed and radiant all at once.
“Somebody tell me what’s going on,” Kaima yawned, rubbing her eyes.
“You’re late!” Chelsea shouted. “We’ve been screaming for like five minutes!”
“She just picked up,” Zahra added, trying to adjust her camera.
“Kaimaaaaa!” Mandy called out, her voice cracking.
Kaima squinted. “Wait, why do you look like that? Are you crying?”
Mandy only nodded, biting her lower lip.
“She said yes!” Chelsea screamed again, grabbing her phone so violently that Kaima's screen jolted.
“She said YESSS!!” Zahra echoed.
Kaima blinked. “Wait—what?!”
The story spilled out in choppy pieces between giggles and Mandy’s happy tears. Aaron had taken her out for their usual Friday night dinner in Lagos—nothing unusual at first. But as dessert arrived, so did a small velvet box. She had opened it in shock only for the restaurant lights to shift and a soft instrumental tune to start playing.
Then came the surprise: Mandy’s parents, cousins, childhood friends, even Obinna—Aaron’s closest friend—had all stepped out from behind a partitioned area of the restaurant. Laughter, applause, and tears had filled the air.
“But the best part,” Mandy sniffed, “was when he got on one knee and said, ‘You’re my peace, my home. Let’s build the rest of our lives together.’”
Zahra let out a dramatic wail. “I am never forgiving you for not telling us it was happening tonight.”
“I didn’t know!” Mandy insisted. “He totally blindsided me. I mean—I thought we were just going for food!”
Kaima finally found her voice and let out a high-pitched squeal. “OH MY GOD, MANDY!”
Her face broke into the widest grin, eyes suddenly stinging with happy tears. “You’re getting married!”
“I’m getting married,” Mandy whispered, and then they all screamed again.
Chelsea was already scribbling down tasks for a planning group chat. “Kaima, you’re doing bridal shower planning with me, so get ready. Zahra, you’re heading honeymoon logistics because you’re the romantic. We’re making this wedding the best the Ifedi side has ever seen.”
“Wait, wait—does this mean I can finally wear that dusty pink dress I bought in 300L?” Zahra asked.
“Girl, wear it to the pre-wedding photoshoot,” Mandy laughed.
They kept talking for another hour—sharing ideas, teasing Mandy, making outrageous suggestions for the bachelorette night. The laughter was loud, free, and contagious. In that moment, school stress, deadlines, and final-year panic all faded into the background.
Eventually, as the group call dwindled and everyone began to say their goodnights, Kaima laid back on her pillow, her face still warm from grinning too hard. Her cheeks ached. Her heart felt light.
She stared up at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above and whispered to herself, “Love is still a beautiful thing.”
Her phone buzzed once more with a message from Mandy: “Thank you for being part of this journey. I love you girls.”
Kaima turned off her bedside lamp, pulling the sheets over her body with a content sigh.
And as she drifted off to sleep, her last thought was simple and sweet—
Love was real. And it was happening all around her.