The girls’ hostel at FGGC Kabba lay under the familiar post-exam haze of the days between exams and closing day, when neither students nor staff had the energy to enforce order.
That Friday night, the last day of exams, when Yẹni Arógundádé entered her room and found a handsome leather-bound book on her bed, she wrongly assumed it was a slum book. It was after all, the season for slum books: fancy spiral notebooks that changed hands as girls filled in their candidates for most beautiful, most social, best dancer, neatest senior girl. A few junior girls with social capital crossed class boundaries and passed their slum books to popular seniors to fill. That week, every room had at least one slum book moving hand to hand like a coveted novel.
Yẹni wondered, for a delightful moment, if it was Senior Faka’s, the outgoing sports prefect. Just that morning in the dining hall, Faka had greeted her first and allowed her to sign her white passing-out T-shirt.
She picked up the book and gently turned it over. The room was empty, and the hostel block felt deserted, though she could hear distant voices from other rooms. Most girls—including her roommates—were in the dining hall watching a Bollywood movie. Movie treats came only at the end of term and were always Indian films favoured by the housemistresses. Yẹni had returned to the room to pick up the novel she was reading—a Harlequin about a rake and his reluctant lover.
She sat on her bed and opened the book. It smelled faintly pleasant— leather, mild detergent, and the intangible scent of paper. A pen was tucked neatly into the spine. She pulled it free and flipped through the pages. Each page was unlined and thicker than regular paper. As with all slum books, a question sat at the top of each page.
On the third page, written in cursive, was a list of names with class and room numbers. Her name appeared second. She scanned the list. None of her roommates were included, but she recognized a few classmates. It was an odd mix—juniors, seniors, popular girls, unfamiliar names. Bridget Tukur’s name appeared first and also last. Strange.
Yẹni flipped back to the second page. In the middle was a short instruction she had missed: Please complete and pass to the next name on the list. Do not share with anyone else. Follow the order of names. Intrigued, she set aside thoughts of her romance novel and the Indian film. She scooted further onto her bed, got comfortable, and began to fill the book.
She was filling her answer to Most Generous Senior, when her roommates began to troop in. Instinctively, Yẹni hid the book under her pillow and held her novel to her face.
“You’ve been here since?” Jummy asked, bending to question her bunkmate. “I thought you wanted to see Shah Rukh Khan.”
Yẹni shrugged. “Yes, but I’ve seen the film before. And I have to finish this book.” She lifted the novel for Jummy to see. “There are four people waiting for it.”
She did not retrieve the slum book until late at night when she was certain all her roommates were deep in sleep. At last, she got to the end. The last question on the last page asked: Which school official should not return next year? She thought about it for a few seconds and wrote: Aunty Laila.
The next day, she went looking for Dozie of SS2A, Room C1 to give her the book. She found Dozie in the dining, discman to her ear. She tapped her gently and held out the book. “Slum book,” Yẹni said at Dozie’s questioning look. The answer confused Dozie –she and Yẹni were not acquaintances–but the moment her hand touched the book, her face mysteriously cleared. She collected it, placed it under her discman and immediately exited the dining to go fill it out.
She looked for an empty classroom, settled and opened the book. There were questions on every page but no answers. She wondered why Yẹni had not filled it. The last question on the last page for Dozie was How many A’s do you want this term? She smiled ruefully and wrote: 10.
Over the course of the weekend, the book passed from Yẹni to Dozie to Sherifat to Faka and several other girls. And for each girl, the book was blank, with a unique last page and a unique question.
The last name on the list was Bridget Tukur of SS2B.
The girl before her, Risi of JSS3D, went to the senior block to find her. She tucked the book into her school bag to avoid questions. She knocked and waited for a “come in” before entering. Five senior girls looked up at her.
“Yes?”
Risi swallowed. She had never been in the room before. “Good evening, seniors. I’m looking for Senior Bridget.”
“What do you want with her?” asked a short girl standing near the door. “Aunty Nancy sent me to call her,” Risi replied, the lie falling from her mouth as though she had always planned it.
“She’s doing her laundry,” the girl said. “Thank you, senior.” Risi turned to leave. “What’s your name?” the girl asked.
“Risi.”
“What class?”
“JSS3D.”
“Are you going to science or commercial next year?”
“Science, senior. TD.”
The senior nodded and waved her away. Risi skipped off, pleased with the exchange. Behind the hostel block, near the four large Geepee tanks where girls washed clothes and bathed, Risi realized she did not know what Bridget looked like. She approached a girl scrubbing tennis shoes.
“Good evening, senior. I’m looking for Senior Bridget.” Before the girl could respond, a dark-skinned girl nearby lifted her head from a bucket of suds. “Who’s looking for me?”
Risi walked over and introduced herself. She noted Bridget’s cropped hair and clear skin—no pimples, no black spots—though her nose was rather large.
“I have a slum book for you to fill,” Risi said quietly, mindful of other ears.
Bridget smiled widely. She wiped her hands on her checked housewear, took the book from Risi and slid it beneath her pile of clothes. Curious eyes followed the exchange.
“Thank you,” Bridget said.
Risi smiled and walked away quickly. She did not notice that the tap had stopped running or that the sounds of washing had stilled. She did not look back.
If she had, she would have seen the girls in the yard—the one scrubbing shoes, the two waiting for water, the tall one spreading a blazer—stop what they were doing and stand. Bridget held the book in her hand. Together, they walked toward the main hostel gate and dissipated into nothing before reaching the last block.
The next morning, Aunty Laila did not show up for morning devotion.
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