The official noticeboard outside the bustling dining hall bore the announcement of the National Science and Maths Quiz preliminary rounds. Its stark typeface, however, seemed to convey the grim finality of a death warrant, a stark contrast to any intended fanfare. Kwaku, oblivious to the surrounding chatter, was engrossed in picking stubborn bits of marshmallow from his ears. His gaze drifted over the team listings, a familiar dread coiling in his stomach. His name, unceremoniously, appeared under the banner of "Mfantsipim Team B." Beside it were the names Yaw and Ebo. To Kwaku, this pairing felt like an academic sentence, a life sentence to hard labor.
"Team A gets the actual geniuses," Yaw stated, his voice laced with a familiar cynicism. "They have the real brainiacs. We get the probability disaster, the guy who can teleport himself into the wrong answer, and the human printer. You know, the one who can't even manage basic functions."
"Print in Arial, I know," Ebo finished gloomily, his own voice barely a whisper. The despair in his tone was palpable.
Their inaugural practice session was relegated to what appeared to be a cramped, repurposed janitor's closet. The air was thick with the scent of stale disinfectant and forgotten cleaning supplies. Coach Ansah, a man who had once stood tall as a former NSMQ champion, now carried the hunched posture of someone who had witnessed too many intellectual battles. He tossed them a worn stack of past questions, the pages brittle with age.
"Rule number one of any quiz competition worth its salt," Coach Ansah declared, his voice raspy, "is that everyone cheats. Your singular job is to cheat better than the rest."
Kwaku blinked, processing the coach's words. "That can't possibly be legal," he stammered, incredulous.
Coach Ansah let out a booming laugh, a sound that suggested Kwaku had just delivered the punchline to an exceptionally witty joke. "Legal? Last year, Achimota had a contestant who could mentally intercept radio waves. PRESEC's entire team had memorized every conceivable answer by converting them into intricate memes. And Wesley Girls?" A visible shudder ran through him at the memory. "They had perfected the art of weaponized emotional manipulation. Their strategy involved making opponents doubt their own basic arithmetic skills. It was terrifying."
As if conjured by the very discussion of clandestine tactics, Ama materialized in the doorway. She was clad in a crisp Wesley Girls tracksuit, a smile gracing her lips. It was a smile sharp enough to slice through glass, exuding an unnerving confidence. "Heard you losers needed some practice opponents," she announced, her voice dripping with an almost theatrical condescension.
What transpired next was less a quiz and more an exercise in sophisticated psychological warfare. Ama's team answered questions with unnerving speed, their responses delivered before the questions were even fully articulated. Their voices were laced with an acidic disdain. When Kwaku, through sheer luck or desperate intuition, finally managed to buzz in with a correct answer, Ama simply snapped her fingers.
Instantly, Kwaku was ambushed by an overwhelming, inexplicable urge. He blurted out, "I STILL USE TRAINING WHEELS ON MY BIKE!"
The Wesley Girls team erupted into peals of laughter, their mirth echoing in the small room. The moderator, a man clearly past his breaking point, sighed heavily. "Points deducted from Mfantsipim for... whatever that was," he announced, his voice devoid of any emotion.
Later, reeling from the utter humiliation, Kwaku found Coach Ansah in his dimly lit office. The coach was meticulously polishing a gleaming trophy, its surface reflecting the meager light. "They're not even trying to hide it," Kwaku complained, his voice thick with frustration. "How can this possibly be considered fair?"
Coach Ansah turned the trophy over and over in his hands, his gaze distant. "You know what they call the team that comes in second place at the NSMQ?" he asked, not waiting for Kwaku's response. "The first losers. Nobody remembers them. Absolutely nobody cares about them." He placed the trophy back on his desk with a decisive clink. "Fairness," he concluded, his voice low, "is a luxury reserved for people who enjoy losing."
That night, sleep eluded Kwaku. He lay awake, listening to his roommate's incoherent sleeptalking, a bizarre symphony of food-related puns. Somewhere in the distant darkness, a chicken crowed mournfully at the moon. Kwaku suspected it was the result of another experimental culinary disaster from the Aburi Girls. He found himself wondering if a carefully orchestrated probability manipulation could grant him a guaranteed 100% chance of gracefully exiting the competition.
Then, inevitably, the ceiling began to leak again. This time, it was jollof rice, splattering onto his already stained blanket.
With a resigned sigh, Kwaku reached for his trusty bucket. This, he thought, was his new reality.