CHAPTER THREE

LAILA

I have a system for everything.

Which seat I take in each lecture hall. Middle row, third from the left, close enough to hear clearly, far enough from the front that nobody calls on you first. Which route I walk between the faculty and the library. Which keke driver I prefer in the mornings, the older one who does not play music loud and does not try to make conversation. Which bench outside the building catches the most shade by two in the afternoon.

The system works. It keeps the days orderly and the orderly days keep me functional.

What the system does not account for is people.

The campus is full of them, loud and moving and constantly requiring things of the space around them. I exist among them every day. I say good morning to the security guard at the school gate. I answer when my name is called in lectures. I participate in the class WhatsApp group when something requires participation.

Some girls tried in the beginning. They sat beside me, started conversations, included me in their plans. I was not cold to them. I smiled and I answered and I was genuinely grateful for the trying. But I kept something back and after a while the trying tapered off and they became what most people on this campus are to me, faces I know, names I remember, people I greet in the corridor and nothing more.

The class WhatsApp group was created in our first week.

One of the boys in my department made it, collected numbers from whoever was standing nearby and added everyone else from the faculty noticeboard. I was added without being asked, which is how these things work, and I accepted being in it the way I accept most things that require no decision either way.

I mostly mute it.

The group is active the way all student groups are active, assignment questions, lecture announcements, arguments about things not worth arguing about, photographs from events I did not attend. I check it when I need to and close it when I don’t. I have never contributed anything beyond answering a question about a deadline.

This is where he got my number.

I did not know this at first. The first message came from a number I did not recognise, on a Monday evening toward the end of my first semester.

Hi. You’re in International Studies right? First year?

I looked at the message.

I blocked the number.

He appeared in our Introduction to International Relations class one morning in the second week of my first semester. He came in after the lecture had already started, stood at the entrance looking for a seat, and there was something in that looking, completely unbothered, as though arriving late to a full room was a neutral thing, that was impossible not to notice.

He was tall. Well dressed in the manner of someone who never thinks about being well dressed. He had an ease that comes from never having walked into a room and wondered whether he would be received.

Girls in the front rows shifted in their seats.

He found somewhere to sit. The lecture continued. I looked back at my notes.

The third time he came to that lecture he sat beside me.

I was writing, head down, working through notes on sovereignty and statehood. I became aware of him gradually, a shift beside me, a presence where there had been none. The seat next to me, which was always empty because I chose it for being always empty, was no longer empty.

I looked up.

He was settling his bag under the chair. He had a paper notebook. I noticed because most of the boys used their phones. When he had arranged himself he looked up, saw me looking, and said simply, “Hi.“

“Hi,“ I said. And looked back at my notes.

He said nothing else for the rest of the lecture.

He came back the following week and sat in the same seat. And the week after that. By the fourth time it was simply his seat, not assigned, not discussed, just settled into by repetition until the arrangement became fact.

I accepted it. He was quiet during lectures. He took his notes. He did not lean over to look at my work or try to talk while the lecturer was speaking.

But I was aware of him every time.

Ruqayyah told me one afternoon outside the faculty. She delivers information the way she always does, directly, without wrapping it in anything.

“That guy,“ she said. “The one who sits beside you. His name is Sultan. Three hundred level. He has been asking about you.“

I looked at her.

“Your name. Your department. Whether you have a boyfriend.“ She paused. “Some people told him he is wasting his time. That you don’t do that kind of thing.“

“They’re right,“ I said.

“I know. Just thought you should know.“

I nodded. I went to my next lecture.

The messages came after that.

Not from one number. From a series of them, appearing with enough space between to suggest someone who had been blocked and thought about it and decided to try again. The messages were never inappropriate. Nothing in any of them gave me grounds for clear offence. Just a name at the end. Sultan. Sometimes a question about the course. Sometimes only a greeting.

I blocked every one.

I stopped counting after a while. It was more than ten.

My classmates found this entertaining in the way people find things entertaining that do not belong to them. I don’t know how they find out. I heard my name sometimes in conversations I was not meant to hear. His name paired with mine. The girl who blocks every number. The boy who can get any girl.

I kept blocking the numbers and going to my lectures and coming home on the keke and sitting at my desk until Isha.

Second year began.

The system was still the system. Sultan still sat beside me when he came to the retake course and I still accepted this as a fact that required nothing from me. He had stopped messaging. The phone was quiet.

What I had not been careful enough about was my second year course registration.

It happened during the online registration period, when everything moves fast and the portal times out if you take too long. I added a course by mistake, one of the general university electives that International Studies students do not need. I must have clicked it while scrolling. I did not realise until two days later when I printed my Course Registration Form and saw it sitting among my actual courses like something that did not belong.

It did not belong.

I needed to submit a correction form during the add and drop period before the portal closed.

I bought the form. I filled it out. I put it in my bag.

Then I kept telling myself I would submit it tomorrow. And tomorrow kept arriving and I kept saying it again, and the days went by.

The portal was closing at midnight.

I had been carrying the form for eight days.

I had been feeling wrong since the beginning of the week.

Not ill in the clear definable way that gives you permission to stay home. Just wrong underneath things, a heaviness behind my eyes that arrived and did not leave, a throat slightly too tight when I swallowed, a tiredness that sleep was not touching. I pushed through Monday. I pushed through Tuesday. By Wednesday afternoon I was on the bench outside the faculty building and the pushing was finished.

I sat there and thought about the form in my bag.

I went through my contacts.

I went through every name and arrived at the same place. The names were there, faces and numbers from a year and a half of shared lectures and class groups. But having someone’s number and having someone are different things.

I put my phone face down on my knee.

My head was pounding.

I closed my eyes.

I felt him before I heard him.

When I opened my eyes he was standing a few feet away. Not close, not crowding me. Just there, with his bag over one shoulder, looking at me with an expression I had not seen on his face before. Not the easy confidence of the lecture hall. Something more careful.

“You’re not well,“ he said. Not a question.

“I’m fine,“ I said.

He looked at me for a moment. “Can I sit?“

I looked at the empty bench.

I nodded.

He sat at the other end, the full, respectful distance of someone who understood without being told where the line was.

We sat quietly. The campus moved around us. I kept my eyes on the path in front of me.

“What’s wrong?“ he said. Low. Just asking.

I did not answer immediately.

He did not rush me.

“There’s a form I need to submit,“ I said. “To the registry. Before midnight tonight.“ I paused. “The registry is across campus.“

He looked at my hands pressed flat against my knees. “And you can’t get there right now.“

Not a question. Just naming what was already visible.

“I’ll be fine in a few minutes,“ I said.

“Can I take it for you?“ he said. “The form.“

I looked at him.

“I’ll go now,“ he said. “Before the queue builds up. You stay here.“

“You don’t have to…“

“I know.“ Simply. Without making anything of it. “Can I take it?“

I reached into my bag. I took out the form, slightly creased at the corner where it had folded against my notebook. I held it out.

He took it carefully, looked at it briefly to understand what he was holding, and stood up.

“Don’t go anywhere,“ he said.

I nodded.

He walked away toward the admin block.

He was gone for twenty minutes.

The dizziness I had been managing through sheer will decided it was done being managed. The path in front of me tilted slightly. The noise of the campus came and went in waves. I pressed my palms flat against the bench.

When I tried to stand to prove I could, the path moved again and I sat back down harder than I meant to.

I sat very still.

He came back with the receipt, the form stamped, my name on it, the time printed in the corner. He held it out. I took it and put it in my bag.

“Thank you,“ I said.

“How are you feeling?“ He was looking at my face carefully.

“Better,“ I said. “I’m going to get a keke.“

I stood up.

The world tilted.

I sat back down.

He had seen it. There was nothing to explain.

He did not make a fuss. He did not say anything. He just stood there for a moment and then looked across the path.

Ruqayyah was walking toward the faculty entrance, her notebook under her arm.

“Ruqayyah,“ he called.

She looked over. She saw me on the bench. Her pace changed immediately and she came across without him having to say anything more.

She crouched slightly to look at my face. “What happened?“

“Nothing,“ I said. “I just need to go home.“

“She’s not well,“ he said.

“I can see that.“ Ruqayyah looked at me with the direct assessment of someone deciding whether to argue. “I’ll take you to the clinic.“

“I want to go home,“ I said.

“Laila…“

“I want to go home.“ Not loudly. Just clearly.

Ruqayyah looked at him. He looked at Ruqayyah. Some small agreement passed between them that I was not part of.

“Okay,“ Ruqayyah said. “Home then.“

He had already stepped away. He was looking toward the main road, scanning for a keke. He found one quickly, flagged it down, spoke to the driver briefly in a low voice, and came back.

“It’s waiting,“ he said.

Ruqayyah helped me up. I was dizzy, not helpless. But I accepted her arm because refusing it would have required more energy than I had.

We walked to the keke. He walked behind us, not beside us, not ahead, just present at the correct distance.

I told the driver my area. The driver nodded.

I got in.

He stepped forward once, just to the side of the keke, close enough to be heard.

“Sannu. Allah ya kara sauƙi.“ Sorry. May Allah ease it for you.

“Ameen,“ I said.

He nodded. He stepped back.

The keke pulled into traffic.

I held the bar with one hand and looked straight ahead at the road.

I went home and I slept.

When I woke the next morning there was a message from an unknown number.

Hope you’re feeling better. The correction is showing on the portal. I checked.

I looked at the message.

I did not block the number.

✦