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Chapter 3: The Strictest of Them All
The break bell echoed through the school compound, and the once-quiet corridors turned into a wave of footsteps, laughter, and the rustling of snack wrappers. Students darted in different directions—some heading to the tuck shop for meat pies and buns, others to the shade of the mango trees to sit, gist, and steal a moment of freedom before the next period.
In SS2A, Victory was licking the crumbs of chin-chin from her palm as she leaned on her desk, watching Fadeyi argue with Elumezie about whether pineapple belonged on pizza.
"But we're in Nigeria!" Fadeyi said. "Pineapple is for fruit salad, not pizza!"
Elumezie rolled his eyes. "Go and argue with Italians then."
Ajiboye, ever the peacemaker, laughed. "You two should open a restaurant and settle it with cooking."
Ayomide, meanwhile, used the quiet moment to update her school planner. She had neatly written:
Civic Ed: Read on values
Economics: Scarcity essay
Maths: ...Pray it's not Rasheed.
The classroom door suddenly creaked open. The light mood vanished in an instant.
A tall man in a sky-blue shirt and black trousers stood at the doorway, his stern face expressionless. A red pen peeked out from his breast pocket, and a wooden ruler tapped slowly in his right hand.
Mr. Rasheed.
The class froze.
Victory whispered, "Oh no... why today?"
Ayomide sat up straight, closing her planner. Fadeyi quickly wiped her hands on her skirt and grabbed her Maths notebook.
"Stand up!" Mr. Rasheed barked.
The class leapt to their feet.
"Good morning, sir!" they chorused, though not nearly as cheerfully as they had greeted Mr. Daniel.
"Sit."
No one moved an inch until he gestured.
Mr. Rasheed stepped to the front of the class, dropped a heavy textbook on the table, and stared at them in silence for several seconds. The only sound in the room was the creaking ceiling fan and the occasional chirp of birds outside the window.
He finally spoke. "Mathematics is not for lazy minds. If you are looking for mercy, go to chapel. Here, you either know it, or you fail it."
Victory blinked. "God help me," she whispered under her breath.
Mr. Rasheed turned to the board and wrote:
TOPIC: NUMBER BASES
He faced the class. "Who remembers how to convert from base 10 to base 2?"
No hands went up.
He narrowed his eyes. "Are you telling me no one in this class has done number bases before?"
Still, no movement.
"Fifty-six of you," he said coldly, "and not a single one can raise their hand. This is why half of you think WAEC is your enemy. You're your own problem."
Then slowly, a hand rose.
It was Ayomide.
Mr. Rasheed looked at her. "Yes, Miss Adeniji?"
"To convert from base 10 to base 2, you divide the number continuously by 2 and record the remainders. Then you write the remainders in reverse order."
He nodded. "Give me an example."
Ayomide stepped to the board and demonstrated how to convert 45 base 10 to base 2.
"Good," Mr. Rasheed said. "At least someone was not sleeping during the holiday."
He turned back to the class. "The rest of you will solve ten questions on number bases. Submit before I leave."
Gasps filled the room.
"But sir," Fadeyi whispered, "we just resumed..."
Mr. Rasheed snapped, "Should I add five more questions for that complaint?"
She quickly bent her head.
He wrote the problems on the board with loud chalk strokes:
1. Convert 25 to base 2
2. Convert 13 to base 2
3. Convert 100 to base 8
...up to 10.
For the next 30 minutes, the classroom was silent except for the frantic scratching of pens and pencils. Sweat rolled down some foreheads. Victory was already on question 3, muttering, "Divide by 2... remainder 1... oh no, I forgot the last one!"
Ajiboye leaned forward to help but quickly remembered: Mr. Rasheed doesn't tolerate 'eye service' or 'subtle assistance.'
"Five minutes left," Mr. Rasheed announced, checking his wristwatch.
Ayomide flipped through her working again, double-checking everything. Math wasn't her favorite, but she never let herself fall behind in any subject—not with prefectship in sight.
When time was up, Mr. Rasheed walked between rows, collecting the papers himself.
As he reached Victory's row, he paused. "Hmm. Miss Victory, you started strong. But your last two answers—wrong base."
Victory looked like she'd seen a ghost. "Sir, I—I thought I converted it properly—"
"You thought wrong," he cut in. "Next time, don't rush. Mathematics doesn't reward speed—it rewards precision."
He turned and walked back to the front.
When he was done collecting all the sheets, he gave a cold smile. "I'll mark these today. If you see your name on the notice board under 'Math Defaulters', be ready for after-school classes."
Groans followed him as he left the class. As soon as the door closed, the tension broke like a snapped rubber band.
"Ah! This man wants to kill us," Elumezie said, tossing his pencil on the table.
"Honestly," said Fadeyi. "Does he mark us with a calculator or with prayer?"
Victory sank into her seat. "Me that thought I could use brain sharpness to answer…"
Ajiboye reached over. "Don't worry. At least we're not failing in silence. We'll revise together later."
Ayomide added, "We need to start forming study groups again. And practice past questions. He's harsh, but fair."
Fadeyi pointed. "That's why you're trying to become Head Girl."
Ayomide smiled. "Trying? I will."
The final bell rang for closing, but the day wasn't quite over. The class captain reminded everyone, "Cleaners for today, don't run off!"
Victory, Fadeyi, and Elumezie sighed. It was their turn.
As they swept and arranged chairs, they laughed about how Mr. Rasheed must sleep with Math formulas under his pillow.
Outside, the compound echoed with shouts and chatter as other students made their way home. The sun was dipping slightly, casting golden shadows on the school's motto above the gate:
> "God is our Refuge."
In Bosol High School, even when Maths was a nightmare, one thing was certain—you couldn't run from rules, and you couldn't fake hard work