Gradually — through the tension, calmness, introspection, exam fever, homesickness, and stress — Sola was finally free. Exams were over.
She felt light, nervous, and strangely excited to be going home.
Every morning she looked at the calendar like it was a ritual. The closer the date came, the more restless she became.
A day before traveling, she could hardly sleep. You know school life — the stress, the noise, the exhaustion — and yet, there's something special about home. The smell, the familiarity, the comfort of people who know you. Every Nigerian student understands that feeling — except maybe those without a happy home.
Still, the difference is always there.
That night, she kept rolling on the bed, restless with excitement. Kemi, her roommate, watched her with quiet envy, throwing her sharp glances now and then.
"Omohh, my head strong oo," Sola thought, chuckling softly. She wasn't petty, but it felt good to be leaving before Kemi.
When the exam timetable had come out, Sola was unhappy — her papers ended late, and she dreaded spending another month surrounded by bad energy, empty cupboards, and boredom. Kemi had been visibly delighted, almost mocking.
But fate played its hand. Kemi's own exams were postponed, pushing her vacation a week after Sola's. That silent victory was sweet.
"Omohh, I can't even imagine traveling without a phone," Sola thought, staring at the ceiling with a bitter smile. "It's going to be so boring."
Her stomach growled loudly. "First thing tomorrow morning — puff puff. Hot one." She chuckled again.
Finally, the wait was over. "I can't wait for tomorrow to come," she whispered, drifting off with a smile.
Morning came too soon.
She thought she'd be excited, but her heart was heavy. She kept thinking about the things waiting at home — family gatherings, the awkward stares from neighbors, the parties, the questions about her phone. Still, the thought of home-cooked food and familiar air washed away the worry.
She moved quietly, trying not to wake Kemi, though the door's creak made it impossible. She had packed three days earlier, but there were still small things to grab. Her charger cord was missing — she'd lent it to a neighbor — but she decided against asking for it. The idea of small talk made her stomach twist.
After bathing, she dressed in her favorite casuals — a green and white striped top and jeans. She loved that outfit; it made her feel like herself again.
There was a strange feeling in the air — a mix of nerves and calm. Kemi, who was awake now, stayed silent. For some reason, Sola missed her usual hisses and grumbles.
"Aunty Kemi, o dàbọ̀ ooo," Sola said softly as she picked up her bags.
"Safe journey oo," Kemi replied flatly.
For a brief second, the moment felt like one of those final movie scenes — the kind where a simple goodbye carries a strange weight. The air felt heavy, charged, as if something meaningful had just passed between them.
The garage was buzzing.
Agberos shouted destinations — "Oyo! Ibadan! Oyo! Ibadan!" — while passengers with different sizes of luggage hurried about.
Sola stepped off the bike and breathed in the chilly morning air. The place was loud, colorful, and chaotic: conductors in bright Ankara shouting over each other, puff puff sellers by the roadside, and the smell of fried oil and exhaust blending in the air.
A man called Baba Laide helped her carry her load. She thanked him and climbed into the bus, choosing the last seat by the window. The bus was still empty, so she went to buy a snack — puff puff, just as she had promised herself.
At the stand, two boys were glued to their phones, laughing at a game. The puff puff wasn't ready, but she decided to wait.
Then a dark-skinned man with a scarred face and a designer shirt approached — clearly a regular. "Oga, abeg, e don ready?" he asked.
"Almost," the seller said, stirring the oil.
Sola could feel the man's eyes on her. She kept her face blank.
"Omohh, this babe fine o," the scarred man said suddenly.
Sola's stomach tightened. She looked away quickly, embarrassed. The boys chuckled; one even scoffed.
"Did she tell you she's beautiful?" the puff puff seller joked.
The laughter that followed was small but sharp — the kind that cuts quietly. Sola froze, her chest heavy.
She took her puff puff without a word and walked away like a robot. Her face was calm, but inside she was burning.
Back at the bus, a few passengers had arrived. She sat in silence, clutching her snack, forcing herself to breathe.
When the bus finally filled up, they took off. The driver's voice mixed with music and traffic noise. Sola leaned her head on the window, watching trees flash by.
Her seatmate, a young man, kept sneaking glances at her. She noticed but didn't respond.
Then suddenly — thud!
Her small phone fell to the floor.
"My phone!" she gasped softly, bending to look for it. The bus was still moving.
"Is everything okay?" the guy beside her asked.
"My phone fell," she said, her voice rough. "Please, can you hold my bag?"
He nodded, taking her bag. She bent down carefully, reaching under the seat. Everyone's eyes were on her, but she didn't notice — not until she sat back up and felt it.
A woman opposite her was staring with open disdain, her face tight and cold.
"Why is she looking at me like that?" Sola thought. "Do I know her? Did I do something wrong?"
She sighed and turned to the window, pretending not to notice.
"Hmm, finally home," she whispered as the bus stopped.
The familiar sight of her city — the dust, the chatter, the smell of roasted corn by the roadside — wrapped around her like an old song.
She crossed the road and hailed a cab.
When the bike dropped her at her house, a chorus of small voices echoed:
"Aunty Sola ti dé!"
She smiled softly, tired but happy. A little boy rushed to carry her bag, and she let him.
Inside, her mother's voice rang out.
"Ha-ha! Adesola rí!"
They hugged tightly, warmth flooding through her. Sola wished it could last forever, but her mum soon pulled away, studying her closely.
"Kilode to rú báyìí?" — Why are you so lean?
Sola smiled sheepishly, unsure what to say.
"Ó yá jóko. Kí ló fé jẹ báyìí? Àkàrà wà oo. Kí nì kí wọ́n lọ gba búrẹ́dì?"
Sola chuckled softly. Here we go again, she thought. She was too tired to eat, even though she'd been dreaming of home food all week.
"Okay, ma," was all she could say.
Her mum sighed and went out.
Sola sat quietly, a small frustration building inside. Why couldn't I just say what's on my mind?
She sighed again. "Next time, we try harder," she whispered.
Moments later, her mother returned with a big loaf of bread and a plate of akara.
"This is bread and akara. Let me get a chilled drink," she said.
"Don't worry, ma—"
"Eh-eh! Sit down, joor."
Sola obeyed, laughing softly as her mum scolded, "Yo scarf lórí, ṣọ́rú o máa mu ẹ ni."
She removed her scarf and began to eat quietly. Every bite filled her with warmth — the taste, the scent, the love in it. Nothing like mum's cooking, she thought.
After eating, she took her plate to the kitchen. Her mum was on her phone, watching funny reels and laughing heartily.
Sola smiled and went to her room. Some things had changed — the furniture, the curtains — but the scent was still the same. Comfort. Safety. Home.
She took a shower, changed into soft clothes, and went back to her mum's room.
"Come in," her mum said, noticing her peeking by the door.
Sola sat on the bed quietly.
"Do you have gist for me?" her mum asked, putting her phone aside.
Sola smiled and shook her head.
"Where's Daniel? I thought he was around for the holidays."
"Didn't you see him outside?"
"No."
"He's probably playing outside."
"Toor."
She was beginning to feel comfortable again.
"Have you started lessons?" Sola asked casually.
"Ehn! Thank you for reminding me," her mum said quickly.
"Eh?"
"Well, the school is short of teachers… can you help us?"
Sola froze. This was not in the plan.
"You can start next week. Rest for now," her mum said, smiling.
Sola nodded, though her heart was heavy. I just wanted to write… to breathe.
Still, she smiled. Maybe this could help me too — a way to face people again.
"Okay, ma," she said softly.
And then, without warning, something shifted.
The quiet shell she'd built for years began to crack.
Words — too many words — tumbled out of her mouth. Stories, jokes, small talk, laughter.
Her mother listened at first, smiling. Then, after a while, she rubbed her temples and laughed. "Ah, Sola, e don do! Let me rest small, abeg."
Sola laughed too, surprised at herself — the chatter, the ease, the way her voice filled the room