Daniel and I are kneeling in the Principal’s pocket-sized office. Our faces simply that of woebegone, our heads hanging loosely, downwards, foreheads plastered with sweat. The air in the now crowded room is gently invaded by the feral stench of pubescent perspiration, mainly Daniels.

Mr Alao, the school’s chaplain, and the disciplinary committee are taking turns rummaging through different (love) letters I had received and exchanged with Daniel, the tense atmosphere sporadically interjected with histrionic sighs and gentle hisses.

“In our time, we didn’t do these things. Can you imagine?” Mrs Orki says in her usual raspy voice, slightly irritated, her eyes bulging over bronze-rimmed bifocals.

On the principals table, the tag, DANIEL AHIDJO, alongside the inscription, HEADBOY, printed in silver strokes over blue plastic rests above two suspension letters.

My mind wanders.

The universe conspires with us in both the minutia and the complicated, delicate things as we deal with life, because how do you explain that twelve years after we were suspended from High School, we will run into ourselves again. That we will rekindle the embers of our puerile love and that, I will become Mrs Ahidjo. Repeatedly, we will back flip into that night, and rehash how Daniel, nervously planted his chunky lips on my quivering cheek – the butterflies in my stomach commenced a vigorous gyration I recall. I had worn my shortest compound uniform that clung to my body like leech, applied a mild amount of pink lip-gloss, and the mix of three different deodorants I was wearing could render any seventeen-year-old boy spellbound with love; I was the nectar, he was my bee.

Only Mrs Orki’s flashlight had interrupted and launched us headlong into two weeks of suspension.

Sitting beside Daniel today in this cathedral, we steal glances at ourselves – jocund and satisfactory glances. A sea of humans beautifully clad in colourful regalia, mostly olive green and gold to celebrate us, to witness a love that had fought its way through a decade and survived. All the days that led up to today, we had chosen that we would exempt ourselves from how overly uptight and almost hyperbolic Nigerian adults react to dating and open affection. How impractical it is, a conversation that should be broached with gentle attention is attacked like a deadly virus, quarantined in a musty dark room and then expected to be opened ‘when we are ready to settle down’. Hence, we had planned to be parents who had open conversations with their children about who they liked during their adolescence.

……………………

I reason that the universe sometimes does not intrude in our lives as I tumble out of my reverie. Suddenly I feel the burning sensation on my knees, thanks to kneeling in this office for almost an hour, the cathedral and sea of humans dissolving from my mind, immediately greeted with these familiar faces- fiery balls of rebuke still bouncing off different mouths as I anticipate the worst when my parents finally walk through the narrow door.