Some punishments in Old FGC went beyond fear—they became legend.
A junior named Sunday was caught by seniors for arriving late from night prep. They didn't just flog him—they brutalized him. In the dim light of Dorm B, Sunday's cries echoed until they faded into silence.
Kalu Egbe heard the screams from Dorm C. "That na real beating," he whispered.
"Wetin Sunday do?" Nedu asked, eyes wide.
Fireboy replied, "Dem say he come late. Na just ten minutes late."
By morning, the dormitory smelled of blood and sweat. Sunday's mattress was soaked. Blood stained the concrete floor beneath his bunk, seeping into the cracks.
The worst part? The seniors laughed. They dipped fingers into the blood and smeared it across the dorm wall.
They wrote: "Murder Case with five fingers."
Below the words, they drew a crude stick figure with lashes on its back.
It was more than cruel—it was madness.
Word spread like wildfire. Juniors walked past the wall in silence, heads down. Some whispered prayers. Others feared they'd be next.
Sunday was rushed to the school hospital. He didn't speak for two days. Teachers murmured but did nothing.
That same week, a new principal arrived—Mr. Ogbemi.
Tall, stern, and quiet, he walked the school grounds with sharp eyes. He saw the blood writing. He saw the fear. But he said nothing—for now.
But before Ogbemi, there was Principal Eke—the weakest principal Old FGC had ever known.
During assemblies, as he gave serious speeches, a senior might leap from a hostel window mid-announcement, land on the ground, and stroll past him grinning. Sometimes, seniors would wear only towels, step out of the hostel gate, and shout "Na lie!" when Eke made a point.
Some even threw chalk or folded paper at him from the back. He would pause, adjust his glasses, pretend nothing happened, and continue speaking. The disrespect was open, and he could do nothing.
To the seniors, he was a joke. To the juniors, he was no shield at all.
Weeks passed. Sunday recovered slowly. His back bore scars, but his spirit burned.
Most thought the story would fade.
Then came the twist.
Mr. Ogbemi called Sunday privately. He listened. Quietly, he asked for names.
Sunday gave him a list.
Senior Okechukwu. Senior Bala. Senior Ayo. Others.
Mr. Ogbemi's eyes darkened. "Thank you. Rest now."
He planned his move.
One midnight, while the school slept, shadows moved.
Mr. Ogbemi and his security men entered every dorm listed. They moved like ghosts, silent and swift.
Whistles blew. Lights flashed.
"Seniors! Stand up now!"
Some tried to run. They were caught. Others hid under bunks. They were dragged out.
Kalu awoke to the sound of chaos. "Wetin dey happen?"
Fireboy grinned. "Na justice."
In Dorm B, Sunday watched from the shadows, silent.
By morning, eight seniors were gone.
The blood writing was scrubbed clean. The wall painted over.
No one laughed.
And Old FGC began to change.
For the first time, fear had a new name—Ogbemi.
But the story did not end there.
The next day, during classes, students were still buzzing about the midnight raid. Kalu, Nedu, and Fireboy tried to concentrate, but the tension lingered.
Suddenly, through the classroom windows, movement caught their eyes.
"Seniors dey run!" a boy shouted.
They saw several seniors sprinting toward the stream at the back of the school compound, bags in hand.
Behind them, Ogbemi's security men pursued, boots pounding the earth.
More whistles. More shouting.
Two seniors were caught and tackled to the ground. Others vanished into the bush.
Kalu whispered, "Dem still dey find the ones wey run last night."
Fireboy nodded. "No escape. Ogbemi want them all."
That afternoon, the stream path was quiet again. But the fear had shifted.
From juniors... to seniors.
But there were other battles. When the new principal sent soldiers after the seniors who had beaten a junior into the hospital, chaos erupted. One senior ran straight to the school borehole, blending into the long queue of students fetching water. The soldiers searched slowly, and the juniors in line, hating what the senior had done, began giving subtle signs—tilting heads, shifting eyes—until the soldiers found him and dragged him out. Others had fled over the fence to hide off-campus, planning to sneak back in, but the principal had anticipated them. Soldiers disguised as bus conductors and drivers waited in motor parks. One by one, the fleeing seniors were caught, their disbelief plain as they were herded into waiting trucks.
As the end of term approached, parents and guardians arrived to pick up their children. The school compound buzzed with voices, hugs, and farewells.
Kalu stood by the dorm window, watching a scene unfold.
A man—tall, dressed in native attire—was speaking sternly to his son, a junior named Emeka.
"Where is the bucket I bought for you?"
"Gone, sir."
"What about your cutlass? Your foam? Even your slippers?"
Emeka's head dropped. "All stolen, sir."
The man's voice rose. "Stolen? Everything?"
Kalu turned to Fireboy and Nedu, chuckling. "This na why I dey hide my real stuff."
Nedu raised an eyebrow. "You dey hide?"
Kalu nodded. "From first day of term, I lock all my new things—bucket, cutlass, slippers—in one hidden spot. I dey use the ones I pick from hostel. Old ones wey students dump. If dem steal am, I no feel am."
Fireboy laughed. "You dey use fake to protect original."
Kalu grinned. "If I lose something, I find another old one, clean the name off, write my name, and use am. End of term, I bring out the real ones. My parents no dey ask question."
Nedu whistled. "You na thief wey dey thief thief-proof."
They all laughed.
In Old FGC, survival wasn't just about avoiding beatings. It was about protecting what little you had—by any means necessary.
To be continued...