₦airaland Forum

MY COMPETITOR

There is a woman in this market who refuses to let me breathe.

A wicked woman.
A stubborn woman.
A woman sent personally to monitor my destiny.



If I sell one paint bucket—

she sells two.

If I smile at customer—

she smiles wider.

If I dash one sachet pure water—

she adds biscuit.

Who raised this woman?




I began noticing her years ago.

At first, I ignored her.

Small girl.

But suddenly, everything I did—

she too was doing.



I changed from tomatoes to pepper.

She arrived with fresher pepper.

I moved to rice.

She brought imported rice.

I started selling provisions.

She started selling provisions with POS.

Even my confusion became her inspiration.




This woman does not rest.

If I open by 6—

she opens by 5.

If I wake by 4—

she wakes by 3.

One day I intentionally came late to confuse her.

The next day she came even later.

Madness. Complete madness.


And customers?

Ah!

That woman steals customers with greetings alone.

“Good morning ma!”

“Welcome sir!”

“God bless your children!”

One customer almost abandoned my shop because she called him “Chairman.”

Chairman?

That man sells recharge card under umbrella!




Sometimes I watch her secretly.

The woman studies me like WAEC textbook.

If I rearrange my shop—

she rearranges hers.

If I reduce price—

she reduces twice.

If I wear Ankara—

she wears lace.

At this point, I suspect spiritual involvement.




My friends said I should pray.

I prayed.

Nothing changed.

Another said I should fight her physically.

I considered it.

But the woman is built like somebody that can throw generator.




So I tried strategy instead.

I changed products suddenly.

Baby diapers.

The next morning—

she too was selling diapers.

Different sizes.

Discount available.

Free nylon.

I nearly cried.




One afternoon, I became so angry I asked her directly:

“Mama Nneka, what exactly is your problem?”

The woman blinked.

Confused.

She said:

“What did I do?”

What did she do?

The audacity almost finished me.




That night I could not sleep.

I lay down thinking about her.

How she walked.
How she sold.
How she talked to customers.

And then something entered my head slowly…

Like light entering dark room.




Because truthfully—

before Mama Nneka started waking by 3…

I used to wake by 3.

Before she arranged her goods neatly…

I used to arrange mine neatly.

Before she became sharp with calculations…

I too was sharp.




So when exactly did she overtake me?




I sat up on my bed.

Thinking deeply.

Painfully.

Honestly.




And then I realized something terrifying.

My competitor was never really Mama Nneka.

Or Mama Bassey.

Or that woman selling frozen food beside drainage.




No.

My real competitor is the woman I used to be.



That is the wicked woman chasing me everywhere.

The woman who once had energy.
The woman who once tried harder.
The woman who once believed small business could become big business.




Now every morning, I compete with her.

Yesterday’s me.




If I become lazy—

she mocks me.

If I complain—

she reminds me who I once was.

If I give up—

she stands in front of me laughing.




And tomorrow’s me?

Ah!

That woman is even more dangerous.

She keeps asking questions.

“What are we becoming?”
“Is this enough?”
“Why are we afraid to grow?”




So now I understand.

This market battle is foolishness.

Because even if I defeat every seller here—

if I fail myself, I still lose.




Sometimes I still watch Mama Nneka suspiciously though.

Let us not be careless.

The woman is still somehow.



But these days, when I wake by 4—

I smile.

Because whether I win or lose today,

one thing is certain:

tomorrow’s version of me is already waiting in the market…
ready to compete again.

A PIECE OF REALITY


I met a man from another country once.

He told me his prayer points.

“Peace of mind.
Direction.
Wisdom for the future.”

I nodded politely.

Then I hid my own playlist or should I say Prayer list.

Because where do I even begin?


In my country, we pray before sleeping.

Then pray again to wake up.

Then pray the sleep itself was not rehearsal for death.



Before leaving the house

“Father Lord, as I step out today…”

Because outside is a lottery of potholes, reckless drivers, kidnappers, police checkpoints, stray electricity wires, and one trailer driver who has made peace with the afterlife.




Other people pray for promotion.

We pray


“God, let me reach where I’m going alive.”



I heard a woman abroad praying for her child’s confidence in school.

Beautiful prayer.

Meanwhile here, one mother is praying

“Lord, let the school bus not forget my child by roadside.”

Another is praying

“Father, let the teacher not beat madness into this boy today.”

Another

“Please God, let school fees not rise again before next term.”


Our prayer points have departments.

Security department.
Economic department.
Health department.
Transportation department.

Sometimes even generator department.

“Oh Lord, let NEPA restore light before the meat spoils.”



A foreigner prays before surgery.

A Nigerian prays before entering hospital at all.

“Lord, may there be doctor.”
“Lord, may there be fuel in the generator.”
“Lord, may they not ask us to buy syringe outside.”



I once heard somebody abroad pray for snow not to ruin vacation.

I laughed so hard I almost offended heaven.

Vacation?

My brother here is praying

“God, let this landlord forget this month.”



And travel prayers?

Ah!

In some countries, people travel with playlists.

Here, we travel with anointing oil.



Before bus moves

One woman binds accidents.
Another binds kidnappers.
Another binds ritualists.
Driver himself is speaking in tongues because even he knows the brakes are by faith.

The vehicle is moving on prayer and second-hand spare parts.


Then jobs.

Ah, jobs.

In another country, a man prays to love his career.

Here, a graduate prays for any career at all.

“God, even if it is unpaid internship, let them call me.”


And after getting the job?

More prayer.

“Father, let salary come.”
“Lord, let boss not be wicked.”
“Jesus, let company not disappear overnight.”


Even buying food has become spiritual warfare.

You pray against fake rice.
Against poisoned alcohol.
Against expired drugs with fresh labels.



At first, I blamed only government.

And yes—government deserves many chapters.

But if I am honest…

some of our problems are us.


Who mixed engine oil into food?
Who sold fake medicine?
Who bribed for certificate?
Who saw bad road and still overloaded trailer?
Who stole transformer cable then organized prayer vigil for darkness?


Sometimes we pray against problems we personally watered.


A man will cheat ten people by afternoon
then attend night vigil against “enemies of progress.”

Another will collect bribe on Monday
and fast against national corruption on Tuesday.

We are fighting demons wearing our own faces.



That is what frightens me most.

Not that we pray too much.

But that our prayers have become emergency response for preventable disasters.



And still—

every morning, Nigerians wake up and pray again.

Not because we are weak.

But because survival here often feels supernatural.


Yet somewhere deep inside me, a dangerous question whispers:

What if heaven is tired of repairing what humans keep destroying?


Maybe God is listening.

Maybe He is even answering.

But perhaps He is also asking us quietly:

“After praying…
what exactly are you people doing?”


Still, tomorrow morning,

we will wake again.

Pray again.
Hope again.
Endure again.

Because in this country—

faith is not just religion.
It is survival equipment.

ARTHUR AND THE RING OF MURDERS

Book One: Cheers and Smiles.

Synopsis

Copper Stone Town is a small thriving industrial town built on coal, smoke, and silence. Old abandoned mines surround it like scars, and beneath its steady rhythm lies a rule everyone obeys without question: sorcery is forbidden. No magic. No rituals. No exceptions.

Arthur lives here quietly, the local town's only dentist burdened by grief and routine. Once engaged to the woman he loved, Fiona, his life fractured the night he found her murdered, the night he planned to propose. The image never leaves him.

It returns in dreams that wake him in cold sweat, reminding him that death never truly lets go. He now lives with his silent, wheelchair-bound mother, a woman who watches more than she speaks, and carries a weight Arthur does not yet understand.




Arthur despises killers. To him, murder is a line that cannot be crossed. That belief begins to crack the night Cold stone’s most notorious serial killer The Walking Man—one Arthur has been tracking—is found dead before justice can reach him. The killing is brutal, precise, and wrong. Someone else is now hunting in the town.

But Arthur is no ordinary dentist, he has a secret , one he himself has not fully understood.



Soon, bodies begin to appear.

People vanish without warning. The murders follow no logic Arthur understands, yet one symbol repeats itself in whispers and fear: a smiling mask.

The town names the killer The Smile.

Arthur’s investigation alongside the police draws him toward the Liche family, an influential and strangely untouchable household that has recently settled near copper stone. They are polite, wealthy, and impossibly private. Edward Liche, the eldest son, becomes Arthur’s prime suspect—a man whose presence feels wrong even when his actions appear clean as he vyes for a spot in the towns council, a heart throb of all women. The family’s youngest daughter, Lyna, is newly engaged to the mayor’s son, edward, arthur's best friend. A young police officer.
The relationship feels forced, unnatural, and unsettling.

As Arthur digs deeper, the town begins to resist him. Records vanish. Stories contradict themselves. Every village tied to the Liche family carries a history of unexplained mysteries and deaths.

But nothing prepares Arthur for the deadly secrets he is about to uncover.

THEY LAUGHED, WE CRIED

They met like old friends.

No cameras.
No microphones.
No slogans.

Just two men, two chairs, and a table that had heard too much.



“You look well,” one said.

“Power suits you,” the other replied.

They both laughed.


There was no tension.

Why would there be?

They were not enemies.
Not really.

Just two actors reading from different pages
of the same script.



“So… how is the campaign?”

“Routine, the usual” he said, pouring a drink.
“Same promises. New posters. Old lies.”

They laughed again.



“Have you secured your zones?”

“Of course. The usual arrangements.
A little money here, a little sentiment there.”

“Ethnicity?”

“Always. It still sells.”



“And the youths?”

“Hungry,” he said simply.
“Very cooperative when hungry.”

They both nodded, satisfied.



“What about the opposition?”

He paused—then smiled.

“Which one?”

Silence. Then laughter.


They spoke of rallies like rehearsals.

Crowds hired.
Cheers timed.
Anger manufactured.

“Make sure they cry this time, a little insecurity seasons the meat very well” one said.

“It moves the narratives and numbers.”



“And the media?”


“Already handled.
Some are ours.
Some will pretend not to see.”

“Good. Confusion is useful.”



“What about the results?”

“Safe,” he said, waving his hand lightly.
“We’ve spoken to the right people.”

“Machines?”

“Can fail.”

“Figures?”

“Can adjust.”

Democracy, they agreed, is flexible.



They drank slowly.

Like men discussing weather.



“Any trouble?”

“Just noise. Complaints.
You know how they are.”

“Yes,” the other sighed.
“They cry too much.”

They both laughed.



Outside, the country waited.

Inside, the country was decided.



“Do you ever feel bad?” one asked, almost absentmindedly.

The other thought for a moment.

Then shrugged.

“About what?”



“The people.”

Another pause.

Then—

“They will survive.”

“They always do.”



They spoke of roads not built,
schools not finished,
hospitals without medicine.

Not with guilt.

With strategy.



“Promise them again,” one said.

“They forget quickly.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Remind them of their differences.”



“Religion?”

“Effective.”

“Tribe?”

“Even better.”

“Fear?”

“The best.”

They raised their glasses to that.




“And after the election?”

“We meet again.”

“As usual.”

“Of course.”




Because this was not a contest.

Not really.

Just rotation.
Adjustment.
Continuation.


At some point, one of them said quietly—

“They think we are fighting.”

The other smiled.

“Let them.”



Outside, voices would rise.
Arguments would spread.
Families would divide.
Hope would stretch itself thin again.



Inside, two men finished their drinks.

Stood up.
Straightened their clothes.




“May the best man win,” one said.

The other smiled.

“We already have.”



And as they walked away—

somewhere far beyond that room—

they laughed…
and we cried.

ARE THEY STILL CATTLE?

At first, I thought they were cattle.

The way they were gathered.
The way they were moved.
The way their fear traveled ahead of them.

I told myself—this is normal.
This is what happens in the fields.
This is what happens when animals are owned.




I heard they were taken at night.

I heard they were taken by the roadside

Quietly.
Quickly.
Like something that must not be witnessed.

Their keepers did not ask permission.
They did not negotiate.

They simply came—and took.




In the morning, the stories arrived.

“They’ve taken them again.”
“They are on the move.”
“They are demanding something.”

I nodded.

Yes.
Cattle must be counted.
Cattle must be priced.
Cattle must be returned—if the price is right.



But something began to disturb me.

I heard that these cattle cried out names.

Not sounds—
names.

I heard they called for mothers.
For children.
For husbands
For help.

I paused.

Since when do cattle remember names?



Still, I continued.

Perhaps I misunderstood.
Perhaps these were special breeds.
Valuable.
Sensitive.

Yes—that must be it.




Then I heard about the beatings.

The kind that break more than skin.
The kind that silence even resistance.

I told myself: discipline.

But even discipline has limits.

Even cattle are not broken this way.



I heard some did not return.

Not sold.
Not traded.
Not found.

Gone.

And I wondered—
what kind of herding loses cattle like this
and calls it business?



The ransom confused me the most.

Payments negotiated like markets,
but not for meat, not for milk—

for release.

Who pays to release cattle?

Who bargains for breath?



I tried to hold on to my first conclusion.

It was easier that way.
Safer that way.

If they were cattle,
then the world still made sense.



But the stories kept growing.

“They were beaten until they could not stand.”
“They were threatened until they agreed.”
“They were made examples for others.”

Examples?

Since when do cattle need to be taught lessons?



And then I heard one story I could not bury.

A voice said:

“They begged.”

Not brayed.
Not cried.

They begged.




That was when something inside me refused to lie anymore.

Because no matter how far I stretch my imagination—

you do not ransom cattle for their voices.
You do not torture cattle for obedience.
You do not negotiate with cattle for dignity.



So I sit here now, confused.

Because everything I was told says these are cattle.

But everything I am seeing says otherwise.



And I ask, quietly—almost afraid of the answer

Are these still animals…Are these still cattle?
or have we begun to treat humans like something less?

Chapter One - CORN



The school compound was unusually quiet.

No laughter.
No running feet.
No noise from the basketball court.

Only adults.

Over ninety-five teaching staff had gathered in the main hall that morning. Another one hundred and forty-five non-teaching staff moved about the corridors, arranging chairs, dusting rails, checking files, setting up banners for the new term.

Princeston High International School did nothing halfway.

The hall smelled faintly of fresh paint and polished wood. On the stage, a long table stood ready. A microphone waited at the center.

They were all waiting for one man.

Mr. Butterfield Rochas, The Principal

Teachers sat in clusters, murmuring in low voices. Some flipped through printed copies of the new academic calendar. Others scrolled quietly on their phones. A few stared ahead, thinking.

It was the first official meeting of the term.

Resumption was just two days away. Parents would soon flood the compound in expensive cars, asking questions, measuring progress, comparing results.

Performance was not optional here.

It was expected.

Near the middle row sat Mr. Okorie, the Head of Mathematics. He was a slim man with careful eyes and a habit of tapping his pen when thinking. Numbers lived comfortably in his head.

Beside him was the stout, dark and firmly built Mrs. Wellson, Head of Chemistry. She wore her usual firm expression. Her posture was straight, her files neatly stacked on her lap. Beauty and Discipline followed her like a shadow.

On the other side sat Mr. Copper, the Indian Head of Physics. He adjusted his spectacles and scanned the calendar sheet slowly, his accent always noticeable when he spoke.

Mr. Okorie leaned slightly toward them.

“This new term,” he said quietly, “it will not be as easy as the last.”

Mrs. Wellson gave a small nod. “The new intake,” she replied, “they are different.”

“In what way?” Mr. Copper asked.

She paused before answering.

“They are less hungry, we see it all the time, in the news, in other schools, around the world, it seems like a cancer that is spreading fast.”

The words hung in the air.

Mr. Okorie sighed softly. “Students no longer think deeply. Many want shortcuts. Quick results. Quick fame no structure, no foundation.”

Mr. Copper folded the paper in his hand. “Education has changed. Attention span has changed. Everything is… faster.”

“And weaker,” Mrs. Wellson added.

A teacher from the back row leaned forward slightly. “But this is Princeston and we still have the SS3.”

That changed the tone.

Mr. Okorie straightened. “Yes. SS3 is strong, They are the last of the breed we have always been so proud of,”

“Very strong,” Mrs. Wellson agreed.

There was pride in her voice now.

Christian Ejike.

Handsome Rolland.

The two names did not need to be spoken loudly. Everyone knew them.

Top of their class. Leaders. Consistent ninety-five percent averages across major subjects.

Disciplined.

Focused.

Mr. Copper gave a slight smile. “They are prepared for WAACC.”

The West African Academic Crown Championship.

Even mentioning it brought tension into the room.

“Ninety-five percent is impressive,” Mr. Okorie said slowly. “But it may not be enough.”

Mrs. Wellson turned to him. “You want ninety-nine?”

“One hundred,” he replied.

Mr. Copper raised an eyebrow. “Perfect scores?”

“It is not impossible, We have seen it before and If we want to win, nothing below that would guarantee a win” Mr. Okorie said calmly, “we cannot think small.”

There was silence for a moment.

Ninety-five percent was excellence anywhere else.

At Princeston, it was almost ordinary.

Mrs. Wellson crossed her arms lightly. “The Old batch, definitely but Is it possible with the new ones?”

Mr. Okorie nodded once. “If they want it badly enough.”

Mr. Copper leaned back in his chair. “And if we demand it.”


The room did not fully relax after the mention of the championship.


Mr. Okorie leaned forward again, lowering his voice. “We won the last regional qualifiers as expected, yes. Christian and Handsome carried the team strongly.”

“They were decisive,” Mrs. Wellson agreed. “Sharp responses. Confident delivery.”

Mr. Copper nodded slowly. “But they missed seven questions.”

Seven out of fifty.

It sounded small.

But in Princeston, it was not small.

“That is fourteen percent,” Mr. Okorie said quietly. “Fourteen percent of uncertainty.”

Mrs. Wellson adjusted the file on her lap. “At WAACC level, fourteen percent can cost you the crown, We know how true that is, since we came second the other time.”

The teachers around them understood what that meant.

Seven wrong answers meant gaps.

Gaps meant vulnerability.

Mr. Copper folded his arms. “They are our best. But best must become better.”

There was no mockery in his tone. Only realism.

“They need to push to ninety-nine,” Mr. Okorie said again. “Even one hundred.”

Mrs. Wellson exhaled softly. “Perfection is not natural.”

“No,” Mr. Okorie replied. “But preparation can make it look natural.”

A younger teacher from the English department spoke up. “The pressure is already heavy on them.”

“And it will get heavier,” Mrs. Wellson responded calmly. “Because Africa will not be gentle.”

Silence followed.

They were not cruel people. But they understood competition.

Excellence required discomfort.

Mr. Copper glanced at the calendar again. “Speaking of discomfort…the admission exams begin next week.”

That shifted the energy.

Now they were not talking about those already inside.

They were talking about those trying to enter.

Princeston’s entrance examination was famous across Abuja.

Some called it unfair.

Others called it brutal.

Parents called it necessary.

Out of one thousand applicants, only fifty would be admitted.

Eighty-five to one hundred percent was the standard to even be considered.

Anything below that was politely declined.

“The exam is going to be severe this year,” Mr. Okorie said. “We have added the special clause questions under the principal's recommendation.”

Mrs. Wellson allowed herself a faint smile. “The hidden gem section.”

Mr. Copper adjusted his spectacles. “Those questions are not about memory.”

“No,” Mr. Okorie replied. “They are about thinking.”

The special clause section was designed differently.

Unusual patterns. Twisted logic. Questions that tested reasoning beyond textbooks.

Some students would stare at those questions and freeze.

Others would see something.

A spark.

That was what they were looking for.

Not just high scorers.

But minds.

“Last year,” Mrs. Wellson said, “only twelve students attempted that section properly.”

“And only five solved more than half,” Mr. Copper added.

“That is why the race is important,” Mr. Okorie said. “It filters out noise.”

There was pride in his tone now.

Princeston did not chase numbers.

They chased quality.

“It is harder than WAEC,” one teacher said quietly.

“And stricter than NECO,” another added.

Mr. Copper nodded. “No wonder, students who score only C grades here are often taken quickly by other schools if they defer. That is how tough our standard is.”

That was true.

A Cgrade at Princeston meant above average anywhere else.

But inside these walls, it was not enough.

Mrs. Wellson looked around the hall. “The question is this. Are we still at the fore front of producing minds that can dominate Africa?”

No one answered immediately.

Because that was the real fear.

The world had changed. Students were distracted. Social media. Fast fame. Short attention spans.

Was the hunger still there?

Mr. Okorie’s voice broke the silence.

“It must be.”

He spoke with quiet conviction.

“If not, we will build it.”

Footsteps echoed again in the corridor.

Stronger this time.

Measured. Confident.

The murmurs stopped completely.

The doors opened.

And there he was.

Mr. Butterfield Rochas stepped in wearing his purple suit.

Every teacher noticed.

Purple meant seriousness.

Red was for anger.
White was for celebration.
Black was for days he wished not to be disturbed.

But purple — purple meant war without shouting.

He walked briskly toward the podium, polished shoes tapping confidently against the tiled floor. His posture was straight, shoulders firm, chin slightly lifted. He waved once, controlled and minimal.

The teachers responded softly. A few nodded. Some straightened in their seats.

He placed his folder gently on the podium and adjusted the microphone.

Silence settled like a curtain.

When he began to speak, his voice was calm. Deep. Measured.

“Good morning, colleagues.”

“Good morning, sir,” the hall replied in near unison.

He scanned the room slowly. Not hurried. Not distracted. His eyes moved from face to face, as if measuring something unseen.

“I want to talk to you about corn.”

A few teachers exchanged quick glances.

They knew this story.

He had told it before.

Many times.

He continued.

“I was born the son of a farmer. My father grew maize on a small piece of land. We did not have much. But we had corn.”

He paused.

“Corn is patient. It does not shout when planted. It does not demand applause. It grows quietly beneath the soil.”

His hands rested lightly on the edges of the podium.

“You water it. You protect it. You remove weeds around it. And when the time comes, it stands tall. Not because it was forced… but because it was nurtured.”

The hall was quiet.

Even those who had heard it before listened.

Because Mr. Butterfield did not simply tell stories.

He painted them.

“Corn teaches growth,” he continued. “But more importantly, it teaches sustained growth.”

He leaned slightly forward.

“If you neglect it for one season, you may still harvest. But neglect it for two… and the land begins to weaken.”

The teachers felt the direction of his words.

“This school,” he said, his voice lowering just a little, “has enjoyed thirteen years of harvest.”

There was pride in that statement.

“We have stood tall in Abuja. In Nigeria. In international arenas. We have grown strong.”

He paused again.

“But growth must be protected.”

Now his eyes sharpened.

“And sustained.”

The air in the hall shifted.

They could feel it.

This was not a ceremonial speech.

This was preparation.

His voice grew firmer.

“This term, we do not relax. We do not assume. We do not rely on past glory.”

He removed his glasses briefly, wiped them with a folded handkerchief, then put them back on.

“The West African Academic Crown Championship is before us once again,"

There it was.

Spoken openly.

The teachers sat straighter.

He continued.

“Two years ago, we came second.”

He did not smile.

“Last season, at the regional contest, we won by a huge margin.”

A brief nod.

“But at the continental stage…”

He did not complete the sentence immediately.

They all knew.

An all-girls school from Kenya had defeated them.

By three questions.

Three.

He let the number sit in silence.

It had shaken him. They all knew it had.

They had seen something different in him that day. A quiet withdrawal. A rare vulnerability. He had not spoken much after the results were announced.

During the holiday break, he had excused himself from public events.

He had retreated to Singapore.

His birthplace.

Though born to Nigerian parents, he was a naturalized Singaporean citizen. It was a detail many outside the school did not know.

He was fifty-eight years old now.

And he did not take defeat lightly.

He looked at them again.

“This is my first time addressing you since that competition.”

His tone was steady. Not bitter. Not loud.

But determined.

“We were beaten by three marks.”

He tapped the podium gently.

“Three.”

No anger.

Only focus.

“This term,” he said quietly, “we grow better corn.”


As Mr. Butterfield’s voice carried through the hall, the three Heads of Department exchanged quiet glances.

Mr. Okorie leaned slightly toward Mrs. Wellson and Mr. Copper. His brow furrowed. “It’s… unsettling,” he whispered. “To think that we were caught off guard like that. Three questions, and we lost. That’s a shock to reality.”

Mrs. Wellson adjusted her files on her lap, nodding slowly. “I keep replaying it. Sometimes I wonder if Christian and Handsome should have been considered for the team instead of the others.”

Mr. Copper tapped his spectacles, thoughtful. “I thought the same at first. But you remember the inter-class assessment test, yes? Their results weren’t exactly the best.”

“It was rushed, most of the departments agreed, the test was below par,” Mrs. Wellson replied, “that’s exactly why the selection was such a tussle. Departments disagreed fiercely. Some wanted the senior students, those who had proven consistency over the term. Others argued for potential and raw talent.”

“True,” Okorie said. “It was messy. Heated, even. And in the end, Christian and Handsome did not make it.” He shook his head slightly. “But now… after seeing the championship… it feels different.”

Mrs. Wellson’s eyes softened, a trace of concern in her gaze. “They are the students everyone looks up to now. The ones who set the standard. That changes the atmosphere, you see?”

Mr. Copper leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Yes. There’s an energy in the school that wasn’t there before. And with the six new students joining this term… well, we will have to reassess everything again. Who will step up, who will falter.”

Okorie nodded, lowering his voice further. “It won’t be easy. Whoever the six would be, they could bring surprises. Hidden gems, even. But they could also challenge the order we’ve relied on for years.”

The trio of Heads watched Butterfield as he spoke on, gesturing with precision, each word measured and deliberate.


Mr. Butterfield paused. The hall was quiet, hanging on every word.

He had a plan.

Not just any plan. Ever since that nightmare—the one where Princeston lost the championship—he had begun preparing. Every decision, every idea had been part of it.

“The special clause section in the admission exams,” he said, “will filter out the students with the highest potential. Those with the sharpest minds that needs work on as we prepare for this competition.”

Heads of Departments exchanged glances. They had already understood its significance.

He continued, “Next, a specialized department for the competition. A team dedicated solely to excellence, strategy, and preparation.”

He gestured toward the list he held. “A budget of seven hundred and fifty thousand naira has been allocated to this team. Resources, materials, training sessions… nothing will be spared. The names of the twenty-five staff who will groom this elite team will now be called.”

He began reciting names. Each one brought a quiet stir in the hall. Teachers shifted in their seats. Some smiled. Others furrowed brows.

Of course, the Heads of Departments were included—they had to be—but there were five new teachers added, specially recruited for this mission.

One name made Mr. Okorie pause slightly: John Agba, Mathematics Department.

Okorie’s frown deepened. John Agba was a disruptor. Arrogant. Orthodox. A young man with confidence bordering on recklessness. The kind who questioned traditions and challenged the old ways.

Why Butterfield would choose him, Okorie wondered, was beyond him. What could this young man offer that the school needed? And now, Okorie realized, he would have to work with him. Side by side.

The thought made him uneasy. But deep down, he knew something about John. Hunger. A drive that mirrored what he himself had once carried. Perhaps even still did.

Meanwhile, Butterfield continued. Structures were being put in place. Training schedules. Mock competitions. Detailed assessment plans. Nothing was left to chance.

The trio of Heads whispered among themselves. The Principal was serious. More serious than they had seen in years. Every decision, every name called, every naira allocated—they understood it clearly now. Butterfield wanted this crown. More than anyone.

When he finished, his eyes swept over the teachers. There was calm authority in his gaze. No theatrics. No unnecessary flourish. Just purpose.

He straightened his shoulders, adjusted his purple suit, and stepped back from the podium.

The hall remained silent for a beat.

Then, as he exited, the weight of his plan hung in the air.

This term would not be ordinary.

Nothing at Princeston ever was.

And everyone in that hall knew it.

PROLOGUE



Mr. Butterfield woke up with a sharp breath trapped in his chest.

The room was dark. The ceiling fan turned slowly above him, slicing the silence into soft, steady hums. His nightshirt clung to his back. Sweat. Cold. Unwelcome.

He had seen it again.

The stage. The bright lights. The flags of different African countries hanging behind a long table of judges. The sound of applause rising like thunder.

But the applause was not for Princeston High International School.

It was for another school.

He could still see it clearly. A tall banner behind the winners read:

West African Academic Crown Championship (WAACC).

The gold trophy was lifted. Cameras flashed. A rival school’s name echoed across the hall.

Not Princeston.

Not his school.

He sat upright on the bed.

“No,” he muttered quietly to himself.

It was just a dream.

Just a dream.

But Mr. Butterfield was not a man who feared easily. And that was what troubled him.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and pressed his feet against the cool tiled floor. He adjusted his glasses even though he was alone. It was a habit. A small act of control.

Control mattered to him.

Mr. Henry Butterfield Rochas was not an ordinary principal. He was tall, always neatly dressed, even at home. His hair, once fully black, was now a disciplined mixture of grey and silver. His beard was trimmed with care. His voice was calm, but when he spoke, people listened.

He did not shout often.

He did not need to.

He believed in order. In excellence. In legacy.

Thirteen years ago, when Princeston High International School opened its gates in Abuja, many people laughed. Another private school, they said. Another fine building with empty promises.

But Butterfield had a vision.

He did not want average.

He wanted the best minds in Nigeria.

He wanted students who could stand on any stage in the world and not tremble.

And for thirteen years, they had done just that.

International debates. Science Olympiads. Robotics expos. Essay competitions. Mathematics championships.

They had won trophies from Lagos to London.

Parents across Abuja whispered the name “Princeston” with pride. Some even moved houses just to be close to the school.

Butterfield had built that reputation carefully. Like a man stacking glass cups one by one.

Careful. Balanced. Precise.

And now this new competition was coming.

The second edition of the West African Academic Crown Championship.

Two years ago, they had come second.

Second.

He hated that word.

Second meant someone else was better.

He stood up and walked to the window. He pulled the curtain slightly aside. The early Abuja morning was still grey. Quiet. Peaceful.

But his mind was not peaceful.

All schools in West Africa were watching this year.

Nigeria. Ghana. Senegal. Ivory Coast. Sierra Leone.

The best of the best.

This competition would not just bring a trophy.

It would seal a name.

The first true academic crown of West Africa.

Princeston had to win.

They had to.

He closed his eyes briefly and steadied his breathing.

“It was just a dream,” he whispered again.

Yet something inside him felt uneasy.

The old batch of brilliant students had graduated last year. That golden set. The ones who carried the school on their backs. The ones who made winning look easy.

They were gone now.

In their place were new faces. Fresh uniforms. Unknown minds.

Potential, yes.

But potential is not victory.

He released the curtain and straightened his shoulders.

If there was doubt, he would remove it.

If there was weakness, he would find it.

This year would not be taken lightly.

He would reassess everything.

Every class.

Every teacher.

Every student.

Because excellence was not an accident.

And Mr. Butterfield Rochas did not believe in accidents.

Outside, the first light of morning touched the city.

Inside, a quiet storm had begun.

KING OF PREFECTS — Book One Synopsis

Princeston High International School in Abuja has built a thirteen-year legacy of academic dominance. Feared. Respected. Watched across Nigeria and beyond.

Now, the school stands at a turning point.

With the prestigious West African Academic Crown Championship approaching, Principal Butterfield Rochas knows this year is different. The old champions have graduated. The throne is empty. And new students must rise — or the empire will fall.

But what he does not see coming… are three boys who will change everything.

Kennedy “Gameboy” hides his brilliance behind hoodies and fake laziness. Angry at his father. Tired of expectations. He refuses to shine, even though he is the smartest student in the school. He would rather disappear than be noticed.

David “Einstein” is running from poverty. Adopted into wealth, he studies like survival depends on it. Because it does. He is brilliant, disciplined, and determined to never return to the life he escaped. When football gives him confidence, he begins to dream bigger — perhaps even Head Prefect.

Isah “Skilla” thinks differently. Strong. Sharp. Unorthodox. At home, he battles a painful secret involving his stepfather. At school, he challenges the very idea of what intelligence means. He believes smart work beats hard work — and he is not afraid to question teachers, systems, or traditions.

Standing in their way are Christian and Handsome — the former academic kings of Princeston. Powerful. Influential. Connected. Christian, the pastor’s son, hides ambition behind polished smiles and moral speeches. Handsome, confident and calculated, controls the social hierarchy. Together, they rule the school.

Until the trio arrives.

What begins as silent rivalry becomes a war of reputation, grades, influence, and leadership. Secrets are leaked. Accusations are made. Friendships are tested. The Head Prefect race turns into a battlefield.

As the West African competition draws closer, pressure builds. Expectations rise. And when a public academic showdown forces Kennedy out of hiding, the entire school realizes something shocking:

The quietest boy might be the most dangerous mind of them all.

King of Prefects is a story of ambition, identity, trauma, and the cost of excellence. It explores what it means to lead, what it means to survive, and whether power belongs to the loudest voice… or the strongest character.

In a school where reputation is everything, three boys must decide:

Will they chase the crown?

Or will the crown chase them?