The Scholarship

There can only be one.

Those are the words that echo in my head as our class teacher, Mrs. Afolabi, talks about the prestigious Ganiyat Sadau Scholarship, which will get one lucky student into Fairfield University in the UK, on the first day of class.

The requirements are straightforward: excellent grades. Recommendations from five teachers. An exemplary record of behavior. A thousand-word essay based on the topic, "How Would You Change the World?"

It's everything I could have ever hoped for.

Victory, my best friend, winks at me from the seat beside me as Mrs. Afolabi continues to speak.

"I don't have to emphasize how much of a big deal this is. Make sure you all try your best." She opens her lesson notes and turns the board to begin the class.

I chew on my bottom lip, scribbling in the corner of my notebook with my pencil, anticipation thrumming in my veins.

***

Victory and I have been best friends since JS1. We met at the introductory dinner for our set the first night we came into the school. It's a tradition for every new set of first years to get us familiar with our teachers, seniors, and with each other.

That night, Victory and I stuck out like sore thumbs, me, the scholarship student in a sea of children whose parents could afford the school fees, and she, full of nerves and shyness. Thus our friendship was born, and we've been inseparable ever since.

After class we walk together to the cafeteria for lunch. The sun is shining, with no cloud in sight, as we come out of our class block, and my eyes squint against its glare. Victory adjusts her glasses as she talks about the scholarship.

"Thank you, Ganiyat Sadau," she jokes, using her hand to shield her face. "Imagine a scholarship like that?"

I nod. "Who even has that kind of money lying around?" I ask. There's a whoosh of static in my mind from the thought of it. Four years of tuition, plus feeding and accommodation. And in the city of London. All of it paid for.

"I know, right?" Her expression turns wistful. "I don't know what I would do if I won. My parents would be so happy."

"My mum too," I reply distractedly, fiddling with a loose thread on my uniform skirt. The conversation ends as we enter the cafeteria, and a nagging realization tugs at the edge of my thoughts.

There can only be one winner. And as the top two students in our SS3 set, Victory and I are each other's main competition.

***

That night, my mum calls me. I sit in the courtyard of the girls' hostel, leaning against a pillar, closing my eyes as her voice washes over me. Her voice is laden with fatigue; she would have spent all day at the office, as her boss doesn't like anyone, especially the janitorial staff, leaving the office until he's ready to go - and he often closes late.

As we talk, I keep my voice low to ward off any eavesdroppers. They can be cruel, these other girls, crouching below the windows and behind walls to listen for any bit of gossip they can spread like wildfire around the school, maliciously embellished details included. It's like a currency, and girls like me are often the unwilling mints.

"There's a scholarship I'm going to apply for," I tell her. "It's for a school in the UK."

Her voice brightens immediately, and I smile. "That's wonderful! I know you're more than capable. God will favor you." Her words are followed by a yawn. "My star girl," she continues through the yawn.

I'll have to cut the conversation short so she can go and rest. "Amen," I reply. "Let me let you go to sleep, Mummy."

"No nau," she protests. "I didn't even ask you how your own day was."

"My day was fine. Go to bed now."

She chuckles at my abruptness. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm the child in this relationship."

I roll my eyes, even though she obviously can't see it. "Well, someone has to take care of you."

"Alright o, Mummy." She giggles at her own joke. "Good night, my love. You're blessed."

"Good night, Mum," I reply, my voice choking up. "I love you."

I'm crying by the time the line goes dead.

***

The next few weeks go by in a blur as I struggle to keep my grades up. All I can think about is the scholarship, about a different life for myself. Before I go to bed, after hours of studying, I add up and multiply and convert the fees to naira, staring at the total worth of the scholarship printed out on the calculator. I wake up to thoughts of experiencing winters, of seeing Big Ben and riding the London Eye, the city spread out before me.

Victory and I still study together for exams, but the closer the deadline for the essay approaches, the worse it feels being around her. Meanwhile, I have no idea what I want to write for the essay.

"What are you going to write about?" I ask Victory one night during study hall as we prepare for a test. She looks up from where she's been meticulously jotting down notes from her textbook. "How would you change the world?"

"Hmm." She leans forward, arms on the table, and places her chin in her hands, her expression thoughtful. "You know I've always wanted to be a doctor. And there's so many people here that don't have access to quality healthcare. I'd like to do something about that."

I lean back against my chair, scratching at my thumb. "Wow," I say, impressed, but I can't meet her eyes. "And how do you think you're going to do it?"

"Probably by improving PHC in underdeveloped areas, that sort of thing," she replies. "I'm thinking of working in government. Maybe in the ministry of health, shaping policy."

"But that's not the world though," I point out. "That's just Nigeria."

She shrugs at that, turning back to her notes. "Well, Nigeria is my world. And I'm sure 'the world' in the essay is up to interpretation." Scrutinizing me, she asks, "What are you writing about?"

I've opened up a wound on the corner of my thumb now, and blood beads up at the surface of the punctured skin. I put my hands under the table, hiding them from view. "Not sure yet," I reply, and turn back to studying.

***

It's December, almost the end of first term. Harmattan comes with blustering winds, a wave of dust-laden air fresh from the Sahara that coats everything, even the lining of my esophagus. I cough and clear my throat as I sit in front of a computer in the computer lab, staring at the blinking cursor and near empty page.

Of the thousand words I need to finish this essay, I have only about a hundred and fifty written down. It's due at the end of the term, which leaves me with only a week left until the deadline. I'm sure Victory will be done with hers by now, with all her lofty ideas. She might have already submitted her essay.

The problem is the topic. How can I think about changing the world when my own future isn't guaranteed without this scholarship? It's not that I don't know what I want to study at university, or what to do afterwards. But my only motivation is to make enough money to give my mum and myself a better life. I don't care about a world that has done nothing for me.

That definitely won't impress the scholarship judges. They want someone who isn't just smart, but has big aspirations, someone who is driven, someone who will go on to do great things. Someone like Victory.

The door to the lab creaks open, and Victory herself peeks her head through the entrance, as though summoned by my thoughts. She sees me and walks in, grinning.

"What are you doing?" she asks in a sing-song voice. I frown. She doesn't ever seem to have any worries, does she?

"Trying to figure out what to write," I reply, my fingers poised above the keyboard, hoping it will kickstart the frozen part of my brain. As a young girl, I...the blinking cursor taunts me.

"Oh, no," she says as she sits at the desk beside me. "Do you want to look at mine? I actually brought it here to do some final edits. And I had a feeling you'd be here anyway. So we can work on it together!"

She hums as she boots up her computer, and then opens up the browser to access her Google Drive. She turns to me with an eager smile. We haven't spent a lot of time together since the night I asked her about her essay. Guilt churns in my belly. I've not been a good friend lately.

"Here we go!" Her essay displays on the screen in its full, probably enthralling, glory. The earlier guilt I felt seeps away, leaving only annoyance. My own unfinished work judges me from my screen. "You can take a look at it, see if it sparks any inspiration. I'm going to get a snack from the canteen."

I watch her leave, and then glance at her computer screen, reading through what she's written. By the time I get to the end, my shoulders are slumped, and tears prick at my eyes. It's everything I thought it would be, and I know that Victory will get the scholarship. We may be tied when it comes to school performance, but this essay will definitely put her over the edge.

My chin trembles. If I don't win this, I'll have nothing, and all my mum's efforts to make sure I got this far - the late nights, the side hustles to make sure food was always on the table, hiring lesson teachers that allowed me get the scholarship that brought me to this school in the first place - will amount to nothing.

Unlike me, Victory doesn't really need the scholarship. Her parents have good jobs; at least she'll be able to go a good university here even if she doesn't win. She'll still have the future she wants.

It feels as though I've been pulled outside my body, seeing it move like someone watching a movie. I become a pair of eyes watching my hands move on the mouse, wheeling the pointer to download Victory's essay to the computer. Then I'm switching the account on Google so that I can log into my own Drive, where I upload her essay. Afterwards, I delete the copy on the computer, as well as the download notification on the browser.

By the time Victory returns, her arms laden with meat-pies and Ribena for the two of us, I've returned to my own computer, my pulse racing.

"So, what do you think?" she asks, her eyebrows raised. "Did it help?"

I nod. "Oh, yes, it did," I reply. My voice comes out cracked, so I clear my throat. "Your essay is really good, by the way."

She beams, and inwardly, I wilt. "Thank you! I know you'll do a good job too."

I return her grin, but if she notices that my smile is cracked and peeling like old paint, she says nothing.

***

Three days later, I'm on my bed, reading a novel, when the room door swings open with so much force that it bangs against the wall behind it.

"Ah-ah," one of my roommates protests as they all look at the entrance. "Victory, what is all of this?"

Victory ignores her, marching to my corner of the room until she's looming over me, her expression thunderous. I drop the book and sit up, glancing nervously at my roommates, who stare at us with gaping mouths. It is the first time Victory and I have ever fought, at least publicly. I can already see the gossip mill spinning.

I turn back to Victory, looking her right in the eyes. I flinch at the rage I see there, but before I can say a word, she spits out, "How. Could. You?"

I look away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Victory scoffs. "You don't know what I'm talking about. Why then did Mrs. Afolabi accuse me of copying your essay?"

I can hear my roommates murmuring, their whispers crawling along my skin. "Victory, let's go somewhere else and talk about this, okay?"

"No!" she shrieks, tears trailing down her face. "There's nothing to talk about! I worked so hard on that essay! Those were my words, my experiences, and my feelings. And you just plagiarized them!"

The silence that accompanies her words is heavy. I swallow, unable to defend myself. "I'm sorry," I say finally, my voice low.

Victory wipes a hand across her cheeks. "Sorry for yourself." Her voice is laced with venom. She has never spoken like this to me before. "I hope it was worth it, you thief. Fucking traitor."

With that, she spins on her heels and storms out of the room, banging the door shut behind her. My roommates' whispers have risen to a crescendo, with snickers at my expense woven in.

I lay back on my bed, ignoring their chatter, breathing in and out deeply, until my heartbeat is no longer pounding like a talking drum, until the tears threatening to fall like a thunderstorm have receded.

I close my eyes. I see the numbers floating in the dark space, the worth of the scholarship - twenty million naira a year; I see my mum and I browsing the shops on Oxford Street, riding double-decker buses as we tour the city, my mum whispering to me, "Well done, my star girl..."

I sigh and rub a hand down my face, Victory's pain-filled words burrowing themselves under my skin: "I hope it was worth it..." Unbidden images appear in my mind then: Victory and I studying together in the hotel's common room, lying side by side on her bed or mine and talking all through the night about everything and nothing, her parents taking care of my mum that time when she was so ill that she had to go to hospital.

I can't hold back the tears now; they flow out of me in torrents, along with body-racking sobs. I can hear everyone go quiet now as the sounds of my weeping fill the room. And I know that nothing will ever be worth this pain that I feel.