The Administration Block, commonly called the AD block, loomed on concrete stilts like an old colonial elephant trying to stay relevant in a modern jungle. At Government College, Ahia, it stood as the first building ever raised when the school was founded. Its ground floor served merely as carports — one for the Principal's gleaming Mercedes-Benz and another for the Vice-Principal's less glamorous Peugeot 404. The upper floor, however, held the nerve center of school operations: staff library, common room, the VPGC's office, and, dominating the end, the Principal's office. On the other side, you found the Bursar's office, the General Office, the stores, and the famous Assembly Hall.
Josiah, the school messenger, didn't knock when he stormed into Form 2A, disrupting Mr. Ebube's heated lecture on plate tectonics. He stood like a tree stump at the door, and without even looking at the teacher, barked:
"Ugochukwu, sir! Principal say make I bring Ugochukwu!"
The entire class stilled. Mr. Ebube, also known as "Computer," shut his large, battered textbook gently, his thick spectacles sliding down his nose. The boys had long called him "Computer" not because he knew technology, but because his memory was so efficient that he once reeled off the capital cities of all African nations in one breath. He squinted briefly at Josiah, then signaled to Ugochukwu with his chalk-stained hand.
Ugochukwu stood, blood draining from his face, his knees almost giving in. As he stepped away from his desk, a warm dampness spread on the front of his shorts. One drop? Or two? He didn't know — only that it escaped without permission. A strange, airy weightlessness lifted from his belly and vanished — a silent scream his insides had let out.
The class did not jeer. Not openly. Everyone knew that being summoned by the Principal — and by Josiah, no less — was no casual matter. It usually meant something serious, sometimes catastrophic. As Josiah marched him across the gravel toward the AD block, his thick-soled military boots crunching the pebbles with aggressive finality, Ugochukwu's mind raced for a reason. What could he have done? Then it hit him — the orchard. The raid with Emeka. Had someone snitched?
"Sir... please... why the Principal want me?" he finally dared to ask as they approached the green lawn that flanked the grand building.
"You wan make I tell you?" Josiah snapped without even turning. His voice carried no empathy — only the blunt delivery of a war veteran still stuck in the discipline of 1943 Burma.
Ugochukwu's bladder panicked again.
"Please, I need toilet first!"
He dashed off toward the neat rows of the school's modern toilets, bolting himself into the first stall. It had become one of his quiet refuges. A place where one could think without being watched, where tiles were always cool and the white porcelain fixtures were a world apart from the soot-dark pit latrines back home in Umueke.
"Why me?" he mumbled to himself, crouching inside the cubicle. "Why not Emeka too? It was his idea, not mine. I only followed because he couldn't tell a banana from a breadfruit…"
He remembered it all — the orchard raid, code-named "uppers." Every boy worth his salt at Government College had to raid the orchard at least once. It was like baptism. A daring act that earned you unspoken respect. And Emeka, ever the American, had insisted on doing it in his first term. He had dragged Ugochukwu into the plan like a general conscripting a reluctant soldier.
"But what if someone saw us?" he whispered now, thinking of the Prefect they had nicknamed "Hammer," a boy whose nightly prowls had exposed many boys studying by candlelight. But they had gone out earlier, well before Hammer's rounds. And they had chosen oranges — nothing pungent like pineapples that would betray them.
The toilet stall suddenly felt less secure. The memory of that night returned in full force. Emeka had led the way, confident as ever. They had slithered past the tennis courts, maneuvered around the staff quarters, and then Emeka had turned left into the dense shrubs.
"Snake!" Ugochukwu had screamed when something slithered through the grass.
"Relax, man!" Emeka chuckled. "You afraid of snakes? In Palo Alto we used to visit the reptile house every Saturday."
Ugochukwu had refused to move. America or no America, snake na snake. They had changed plans, climbing the iron gate instead of the wall. Thank heavens the night watchman had snored through their mission.
The memory broke as Josiah hammered on the toilet door.
"Ugochukwu! You dey born pikin there?!"
He jumped. It was time. The long walk up the stairs felt like a trip to the gallows.
Inside the Principal's Office, Ugochukwu met a different kind of surprise.
"Ugochukwu, sit down," the Principal said, motioning gently. His massive form was partly submerged in his chair, his large belly creating a comical arc as he leaned forward. He wore a white shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows, sweat glistening on his bald head. His famous Cambridge gown hung like a ghost on the far wall, its black fabric catching slivers of light from the jalousie windows.
"I don't usually like pulling boys from class," he began, sipping water slowly. "But your family sent a message — said you must come home today. I tried to decline, but your House Master, Mr. Eigbe, thought we should let you go. So I'm giving you a one-week exeat. Please tell your parents not to use school channels for personal messages again."
Ugochukwu blinked. That was it? Not the orchard? Not expulsion?
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
As he stepped out, the mid-day bell rang. Boys spilled from their classrooms in a white wave, heading toward the dining hall. Emeka dashed toward him, grabbed his arm, and whispered urgently.
"What happened? Are we busted?"
"No, it's not that," Ugochukwu replied. "They said my parents need me at home."
Emeka lost interest immediately, fading back into the throng.
Ugochukwu spotted Wale, his guardian and one of the College Prefects, heading to the Prefects' Room.
"Wale, please."
Wale turned, brows furrowed. "I heard you were summoned. Hope you haven't done anything foolish?"
"No, sir. Just that my family sent word. The Principal said I should go home."
Wale's face softened. "Well, that's okay then." He pulled out his wallet and handed over five shillings. "Take care, and don't forget your guardian when you're back."
Ugochukwu beamed. Wale was known to be generous. His parents were Lagos elites. But Wale's soft-spoken nature also birthed bizarre rumours. That he was too pretty for a boy. That he showered with his shorts on. That… well, there were whispers.
Still, he was kind. That's what mattered.
Walking down the tarred road toward Ahia township, Ugochukwu wondered why he'd been summoned. His school was six kilometers from town, placed deliberately away from the "civilising corruption" of city life.
"Maybe Papa is sick," he thought. "Or Mama?"
But no — he had never known either of them to be seriously ill. Then a new idea lit up his mind: maybe it was Emeka's initiation into the ancestral cult. Could it be?
He smiled, his pace quickening.
He remembered his own initiation vividly. The massive earthen pot filled with palm wine, the ancient omu nkwu decorations, the garlands… Fourteen ancestral spirits had attended that night. He had stood proud, swallowing back fear, as he was presented to the ancestral host. He had crossed the threshold from boy to man — no longer scuttling for cover when the ogene rang out. He was now one of the initiated. The spirit language was no longer foreign to his ears.
But he hadn't yet exercised his new privileges during the Ikeji Festival. School was in session then. Maybe now…?
He imagined it now, even as he reached the public square at Ukwu Udala. A spirit jumped out from behind a fig tree.
"Ugochukwu du-me!" it challenged.
"Ududo!" he responded, standing his ground.
He imagined Amara next to him, clutching his arm in awe, as spirits danced and flared around them.
Then the truck ground to a stop at Olie Market. He was home. The sweet, red dust of Umueke filled his nostrils. Bag in hand, he began the short walk to his father's compound, questions still buzzing in his chest.