It was the weekend after orientation, and word had already spread throughout Form One like wildfire
Homo Night was coming.
No one really knew what to expect, but they'd heard stories. Rumors. Tales whispered between bunk beds and while queuing at the dining hall. In some schools, it meant beatings. Others? Just humiliation. But in St. Hubert Seminary, no beatings were allowed. Just "creative dressing," funny punishments, and embarrassment.
On Saturday night, the seniors brought out piles of old school clothes, torn socks, faded choir robes, aprons, wigs made from mops, and even skirts.
"Tonight, you people are no longer Form Ones. You're officially juniors. Homo!" one senior shouted gleefully.
Kingstar stood still, watching chaos unfold.
His friend Kwame was wrapped in a mosquito net like a wedding veil. Another boy was told to wear his trunk on his head and sing "I'm a Barbie Girl." Everyone was laughing, even the Form Ones who were too scared not to.
Then came his turn.
The Prep Prefect the same boy he had argued with during prep approached him, smirking.
"You again. You like talking too much. Let's give you something to talk about."
He tossed Kingstar a ridiculous outfit: a choir robe inside out, a shower cap, and oversized sunglasses with one lens missing.
Kingstar didn't move.
"Wear it," the prefect snapped.
"I won't."
A hush fell around the classroom-turned-dressing-room.
"Excuse me?" the prefect stepped forward.
Kingstar stood tall. "I came here to learn, not to entertain you. This isn't respect. It's bullying in disguise. I'm not your puppet."
For a second, everything froze. Even the seniors looked shocked.
The prefect's face darkened. "Fine. You'll see me tomorrow."
That night, Kingstar didn't laugh. He didn't dress like a clown. He just sat quietly, thinking about how standing up for himself felt right but also scary.
The next day, during Sunday morning compound work, the punishment came.
"Kingstar," the Prep Prefect said coldly, "go weed from the classroom block to the assembly hall. Alone. Don't stop till the bell rings."
The sun wasn't kind that morning. The cutlass was blunt. His palms stung. But he didn't complain.
As he bent and sliced through overgrown grass, sweat soaking his school khaki, Kingstar made a quiet vow:
"If I must suffer for speaking the truth, I'll suffer. But I won't be silent."
He wasn't just a junior. He was Kingstar and slowly, his star was learning how to rise, even in darkness.