Kalu was walking past the hostel block one quiet afternoon when he overheard a senior, Musa, holding court with a few others, boasting about one of his most daring escapes. It happened before Mr. Ogbemi's time, back when the school's rules were easily bent by those with the nerve to try.
It was the Saturday of a PTA meeting—a day notorious for tight morning inspections, where every corner of the hostel would be turned upside down by prefects and staff. Visiting hours came afterward, with parents and guardians bringing food, provisions, and news from home. Musa and a handful of others decided they wouldn't be around to face the inspection. They slipped out of the school through a hidden gap in the fence, a spot they'd widened over time, stifling their laughter as they disappeared into the bush path beyond.
Their hideout was the compound of a nearby primary school, quiet and empty in the early hours. They lounged under the shade of a mango tree, swapping jokes, nibbling on groundnuts someone had brought along, and watching the clouds drift lazily across the sky. The air smelled faintly of wet earth from the night's rain, and they were certain they'd timed their escape perfectly. Once the inspection ended, they planned to stroll back in, blend with the crowd, and enjoy the treats their visitors brought without a single question asked.
But fate had other plans. The calm morning was shattered by a loud bang—a car door slamming hard—followed by the sharp metallic click of boots hitting the ground. Then came voices, deep and commanding, moving closer. One boy, curious and reckless, crept forward to see what was happening. He returned in a half-run, eyes wide, voice trembling. "Soldiers," he hissed.
Panic erupted like a spark to dry grass. Boys scrambled in every direction—some vaulted the low walls into adjoining compounds, others vanished into the thick bush, branches snapping in their wake. Musa remembered leaping over a pile of old desks, landing hard on the other side, his heart pounding against his ribs like a drum. The soldiers were already in pursuit, their boots pounding the earth, barking orders to "Catch them all!"
A few unlucky ones were grabbed, hauled back toward the waiting vehicle like goats bound for market. Most, however, relied on desperation, adrenaline, and their knowledge of the terrain to melt into the maze of narrow footpaths around the village. Musa himself ended up crouched behind a heap of rusted roofing sheets, holding his breath so long his chest ached, as two soldiers strode past, their shadows stretching over him.
When he finally made it back to school hours later, the PTA meeting was ending. Parents bustled around with packages, unaware of the morning's drama. Those who had been caught returned with sore backs, torn uniforms, and humiliation etched on their faces. Musa, on the other hand, relished his narrow escape, grinning wide as he told the story to anyone who would listen.
But to Kalu, listening from the edge of the group, the tale wasn't one of bravery—it was another reminder of Old FGC's untamed spirit. Here, a harmless plan could explode into chaos in the blink of an eye, and survival often came down to speed, luck, and the art of knowing exactly when—and where—to disappear.