Hunger was a constant companion in Old FGC. By the third week of the term, most juniors had exhausted their supplies, surviving on watery garri and the thin hope of refills on Visiting Day.
One hot afternoon, Kalu Egbe wandered into Dorm C alone. The dormitory was unusually empty—seniors were still in class or lazing elsewhere.
He noticed a locker door slightly ajar. Curious, he stepped closer. The lock had snapped—rusted through or forced open. Inside, he saw it: a large custard bucket, sealed tightly.
Kalu glanced around. No one.
He opened it slowly. The smell hit him first—milk, Milo, sugar, and something crunchy. Inside was a perfect mix of cornflakes, Golden Morn, cabin biscuits—all soaked together with powdered milk and chocolate. A feast. Someone had prepared it with care.
He knew immediately: this was loot—collected from juniors, now sitting like a throne of greed.
Kalu's stomach growled. He closed the bucket and ran out.
Minutes later, Nedu and Fireboy followed him back into the dorm.
"You sure?" Fireboy asked.
Kalu nodded. "I swear. E dey there, waiting."
They locked the dorm door. With fingers trembling, they opened the bucket again. Hunger made them reckless.
They didn't talk. They just ate.
Spoon after spoon, laughter muffled by full mouths. They called it justice—sweet, cold justice.
When it was done, they wiped the bucket clean, resealed it, and slipped out like shadows.
The next day, chaos erupted.
"Who touch my food?" Senior Ovie roared.
Lockers were searched. Juniors were lined up. No one confessed.
Punishment followed—squats, cane, threats. Kalu and his friends endured it all in silence.
Later, under the mango tree, Fireboy grinned. "They beat me, but my stomach dey sweet."
Kalu laughed. "For once, we chop back."
In Old FGC, survival was art. And sometimes, art meant justice.
To be continued...