Wale swung the brass hand bell twice, his crimson College Prefect blazer catching the light as he stood tall by the centre table in the dining hall. His expression was grave, ceremonial even. As the Prefect on duty, Wale was law incarnate. Until he muttered the grace, no spoon moved, no bread roll was touched. And once he dismissed the meal, you were to leave, or face the consequences. Any breach of the mealtime code—lateness, noise, disobedience—meant automatic punishment, sometimes even a missed meal. Unless you were one of the elite College Prefects, or bore an exeat signed by a master, Wale's rule was absolute.
His now-famous strictness had even caught up with his own class, the School Certificate group. One Saturday afternoon, the Physics master ran overtime. The entire class sprinted from the lab to the dining hall, a minute after the final lunch bell. Wale, fresh from collecting the mail at the Principal's office, arrived just in time to see them sneak in. Without hesitation, he barked an order: "All boys who came in late without exeat, out!" His own classmates, excluding fellow prefects, obediently filed out. Their rumbling stomachs didn't change the verdict. He had earned his moniker that day—"The Hammer of the Monks."
Now, having finished his own lunch of boiled yams and peppered goat meat stew, Wale rose ceremoniously and adjusted his blazer. He turned to the mail he had laid beside him and lifted one envelope, a peculiar one—sky blue, with "GUESS" surrounded by kiss marks where the sender's name should have been.
"Ugochukwu!" he called, loud enough to pierce through the chattering energy of the hall.
Ugochukwu shot to his feet, heart thudding. Being called during mail delivery was always thrilling—but for Wale, of all people, to call him meant this was no ordinary letter. He approached quickly. Wale gave him a thorough up-and-down look, scoffed with a curled lip, and flicked the envelope at him with dramatic disdain.
Muted chuckles and whispers spread around the tables.
Still burning with excitement, Ugochukwu returned to his seat, his fingers tightening over the envelope. The sight alone of the blue paper, addressed with mystery and affection, ignited something inside him—an odd mixture of warmth, pride, and disbelief. He barely waited for the closing grace. As soon as Wale dismissed them, he dashed out—not towards the lawn, as usual, but in the direction of the old latrine huts behind the now-vacant kitchens. No one came there anymore.
Breathing heavily, Ugochukwu tore open the envelope with his thumb and peeled back the folded paper.
"Nkem xxx," it began.
The words hit like a drumbeat in his chest. Nkem. My own. He felt the paper soften in his hands. This was from Amara—no doubt. And those three little crosses—he had heard from others that each cross stood for a kiss. Three crosses meant the affection was real. Strong. Unshakable.
Amara had always written well, but this letter glowed with a different kind of passion.
"Your missive reached me last Wednesday. I could not sleep, Ugochukwu. You tickled me in my dreams. My ribs ached from laughter and longing…"
She went on to describe how letters were restricted at her school—only allowed on Sundays—and how she had begged a sympathetic cleaner to post this one in secret. She wrote of the blue handkerchief he'd complimented and how she now had one just like it.
"There's something else I want to make for you," she hinted. "But I'll wait. Guess what…"
Ugochukwu chuckled and wiped the sweat from his brow. Then his eyes narrowed as he reached the second page.
"One of our Form Two girls was possessed. They say it's Mammy Water…"
The story unfolded dramatically. A girl named Erinma had been experiencing strange losses—money vanishing from her locker each night. Her dorm mates noticed she would disappear in the dead of night, only to be found later, unaware and confused. No door had creaked, no footsteps had echoed. Just silence, then absence, then presence again.
Then came the storm. Thunder shook the ground, wind clawed at the wooden dormitories. Girls were shifting their beds from leaking windows when someone yelled: "Where's Erinma?!"
A full-blown search followed. Armed with flashlights and joined by night watchmen, the girls scoured the campus. They found her by the sacred stream—barely clothed, crouching on the wet sand, unresponsive. The storm had soaked her to the bone, yet she sat unmoving. She had no memory of how she got there. That night, her trance was broken only by the House Mistress.
Amara's letter detailed the interrogation: the Principal, the Matron, teachers—none could get her to speak, until the threat of expulsion. That word alone triggered her sobbing collapse. In tears, she confessed to being overtaken—time and again—by Mammy Water. She never meant to go anywhere. Her mind was hijacked. She had no control. Her money? Taken by the same spirit, she said.
The Principal, in disbelief, summoned Erinma's father. The man wept as he arrived, recounting how his first daughter had suffered the same fate—disappearances, possessions, fear. She had died, and now Erinma was afflicted. He had refused traditional rituals then. And now? Would the gods demand another daughter?
Amara's letter was electric—funny, frightening, emotional, brilliant. She even referenced a banned book the older girls passed around in secrecy—The Awful Disclosures of Maria Monk, whose real title they hid by pasting new covers over it. Amara joked she'd memorize the entire book and "vomit it" for Ugochukwu if she could.
A bell rang across the quadrangle—the five strokes before siesta. Ugochukwu snapped out of the trance. He folded the letter quickly, tucked it back into the envelope, and darted toward the dormitory. He made it just as the final stroke rang. He slid under his blanket, heartbeat still racing.
Later that evening, Emeka spotted the envelope peeking from Ugochukwu's games shirt.
"Still carrying that love letter, eh?" he teased. "Were you reading it while playing hockey?"
"Mind your bu!" Ugochukwu snapped, half-laughing.
"No offence," Emeka said with a sly grin. Before Ugochukwu could react, Emeka snatched the letter and darted off. Ugochukwu chased him, shouting, "Emeka! Bring it back!"
Emeka skimmed through it on the run.
"What's this? Mammy Water? Dreams? Trance? You call this love? Sounds like one of those horror stories from 'Tales by Moonlight.'"
"Who told you to read my letter?!" Ugochukwu was furious.
"Relax. I thought there'd be some real action in it." Emeka shrugged. "Give me her address and I'll show you how to woo a real girl."
"You touch her name again and I'll show you the claws of a leopard!" Ugochukwu roared, breathless.
That phrase shocked even him. Claws of a leopard? Why did it feel so natural? Why did Amara's words awaken something so primal in him?
Later, while lying on his bed, Ugochukwu re-read the letter. He stopped at the part about the blue handkerchief. That had started it all.
He remembered the carol night in Ndikelionwu. Amara had gifted him the navy-blue cloth handkerchief, finely hemmed in gold thread. At one corner: Ugo, and at the opposite: Amara. The boys saw him wave it proudly, and gossip soon turned to jealousy.
Rumors began to fly: he and Amara were caught lying together on a mat near the church. When the rumors failed, four of the boys plotted revenge. They would attack her, together. But Amara—fearless, athletic—found out and confronted them halfway. She challenged the strongest boy, Anthony, and within moments he was rolling in the dust. The rest fled.
From that day, Ugochukwu had seen her differently. She was no longer just a classmate. Or rival. Or pen pal.
She was—Amara.
And that blue handkerchief? He vowed it would be his treasure for life.