Yinka sat by the window of their small flat, watching the rain slide down the glass. It was quiet, except for the soft voice of her mother humming in the kitchen. The smell of beans and plantain drifted into the room, but Yinka wasn’t hungry. She was thinking about the future.

“I want to be a doctor,” she had told her parents a hundred times. And each time, they had smiled with pride.

“I know you can become one,” her father always said, though his tired eyes showed how hard he worked as a tailor to make ends meet.

Yinka was seventeen, in her final year of secondary school. She had always been the serious type and top of her class, loved by her teachers, trusted by her parents. But lately, things were changing. Her classmates talked more about parties, and “blowing” on social media than about WAEC or JAMB.

Still, Yinka stayed focused. Her friends called her “nerd” because she didn’t go out much. She wore neat braids, ironed her uniform, and didn’t wear makeup to school like most girls did. But deep inside, Yinka sometimes wondered what it would feel like to just blend in.

That Monday, school felt different.

A new girl, Sade, had joined the class. She had a sharp smile and wore her confidence like perfume (strong, sweet, and a little too much). During break, Sade walked up to Yinka.

“Why do you always sit alone?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“I just like to read,” Yinka said, closing her book slowly.

“Hmmm. You’re that kind of girl,” Sade said with a small laugh. “Smart and boring.”

Yinka didn’t reply. She had heard it before. But for some reason, Sade didn’t walk away.

“I like smart people,” Sade said. “Come eat with us.”

Yinka looked at the group of girls that were Sade friends, they were loud, pretty, carefree. They waved at her. For the first time, she felt a small pull in her chest. She got up and followed Sade.

That night, as she helped her younger brother, Ayo, with his homework, her mind kept drifting back to lunch time. The girls had talked about makeup, fashion, and boys. Yinka didn’t say much, but they had laughed with her, shared meat pie, and even called her “fine girl.”

It felt good. But as she lay in bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning slowly, she felt something strange and it felt like guilt. Her mother’s soft knock came pulling her from her thought. 

“Yinka, are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Mummy.”

She wasn’t sure if it was a lie or not.