The first flip-flop hit the ground with a wet slap. The second nailed a prefect square in the forehead. By the time the third shoe dropped from the sky, Kwaku Mensah accepted two truths:
1) His probability manipulation power was even dumber than he'd feared
2) Mfantsipim Secondary School would never let him live this down
Kwaku had discovered his "gift" three weeks earlier when he'd grumbled "60% chance it rains tomorrow" and promptly caused a localized downpour of bathroom slippers over his neighborhood. Now, standing at the school gates watching students dodge falling footwear, he realized two things:
First, he should really stop testing his powers in public.
Second, the universe absolutely had it out for him.
The Stresx Academy wing of Mfantsipim wasn't marked on any official maps. Kwaku found it by following the smell of burnt toast and poor life decisions to a converted storage closet behind the science block. The door bore a handwritten sign: "BOILER ROOM. KEEP OUT OR ELSE." The "OR ELSE" had been underlined three times.
Inside, twelve boys sat at desks that looked like they'd survived multiple military coups. At the front, a man who could only be their teacher rubbed his temples like he was trying to erase memories.
"Welcome to Stresx Training," the man sighed. "I'm Mr. Ampofo. Rule one: If your power has ever caused a national scandal, don't use it during assembly. Rule two: No, we don't know why you have these abilities either. Rule three: The Methodist Church would like to remind us all that this program is strictly theoretical."
Kwaku took a seat between a boy whose left eyelid kept twitching and another who appeared to be melting his pencil just by staring at it.
"Let's go around," Mr. Ampofo said. "Name and power. Try to keep the property damage to a minimum."
"Yaw. I can teleport." A pause. "My left pinky toe. Just the toe."
"Ebo. My skin prints documents." A longer pause. "In Papyrus font."
"Kofi. Super strength." The largest boy in class looked deeply embarrassed. "But only for plastic chairs."
When Kwaku's turn came, he considered lying. "Kwaku. I can alter probabilities." He braced himself. "For completely useless things."
Mr. Ampofo's left eye developed a new twitch. "Example?"
"Yesterday I thought '50% chance my mom makes waakye for dinner' and suddenly there was a 50% chance the waakye would sing highlife music."
The class nodded in understanding. These were their people.
The orientation was interrupted by the intercom's metallic shriek: "Attention all students. NSMQ preliminary trials begin today. Participation is mandatory for... special program candidates."
The groan that filled the room could've powered a small village. The National Science and Maths Quiz was already academic torture - now they had to navigate it with powers that barely worked?
Lunch brought fresh humiliations. Kwaku eyed his waakye suspiciously. "75% chance this has extra shito," he whispered.
The universe, being a pedantic bureaucrat, processed this as "75% chance this waakye becomes sentient."
The beans twitched.
"Oh no," Kwaku managed, right before his lunch slapped him with a plantain chip.
From the Wesley Girls' table across the quad, a prefect with braids sharp enough to cut glass watched the spectacle. "You're the probability kid, right?" she called. "The NSMQ's going to destroy you."
Kwaku wiped stew from his chin. "What's your power? Killing joy through vibes?"
The prefect - Ama, as he'd learn - snapped her fingers. Suddenly Kwaku's mouth moved on its own: "I STILL SLEEP WITH A STUFFED ELEPHANT NAMED TUSKY!"
The cafeteria erupted. Wesley Girls high-fived. Mfantsipim boys facepalmed.
"Emotional manipulation," Ama said sweetly. "See you at trials, Probability Loser."
That night, as Kwaku stitched up Tusky's loose ear (elephants are noble creatures, shut up), his roommate sleep-summoned a rain of kenkey over their dorm.
As Kwaku picked fermented corn dough from his hair, one thought became clear:
This school would either kill him or make him famous. Possibly both.