I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the my ceiling like it owed me money. My room was quiet—too quiet. That kind of silence that makes your heartbeat sound like a generator struggling to start. Outside, the world was moving like nothing had happened, but inside my chest, everything had collapsed like a building the contractor didn't measure well.
My phone, still open on the WAEC portal page, lay beside me. The blue-and-white interface mocked me without mercy.
"F9 in Core Maths… F9 in Elective Maths… D7 in Science… E8 in Physics… E8 in Chemistry…"
Every time I blinked, the grades blinked back like they were winking at me.
The only grades saving me from total disgrace were English C6, Social C4, and ICT C5. At this point, I felt like even WAEC was surprised I passed those ones.
I let out a slow breath—more like a sigh mixed with frustration, regret, shame, and small anger at the universe. I felt heat behind my eyes again.
"No, Elvis. You cried in Chapter 3," I whispered to myself. "This is Chapter 4. You need to be strong."
But immediately, a single tear rolled down like it didn't respect the chapter arrangement.
I wiped it aggressively.
How was I supposed to tell my family? These people believed in me like I was the chosen one. Anytime they talked about my future, they said things like:
"You will be the first doctor in this family."
"You'll make us proud."
"You did science, so your road is straight."
Straight? This road? My results curved it like a roundabout.
I lay backward on my bed and stared at the ceiling fan. It wasn't spinning, but somehow it still managed to remind me my life wasn't moving anywhere either.
I pulled the pillow over my face and screamed—quietly, so they wouldn't hear me outside.
Why did life do me like this?
For three whole years I wore uniform, suffered school food, copied notes like my hand was a photocopier, dodged teachers like I was in an action movie, and still—this?
Three years of suffering for F9? If failure had a scent, I was bathing in it.
I turned to the wall and pressed my forehead against it like someone praying in a movie. "God," I whispered, "I know I didn't study every day… or every week… or every month, but… this punishment is too strong."
I slid down to the floor dramatically. My legs just surrendered.
---
My mind began replaying all the "future conversations" my family would now have about me. I imagined my aunt saying:
> "Ah, but are you sure he didn't open the wrong portal?"
Or my uncle:
> "Let him check again; maybe it's network."
Or my grandmother:
> "Ei, this boy diɛ, when he was small, I said his head was too hot. See now."
I could even imagine my little cousin asking:
> "So you can actually get F9? I thought it was a myth."
The shame alone made me curl up on the floor like a cooked shrimp.
---
I crawled back onto my bed and lay there like a stranded dolphin. My phone buzzed—WhatsApp. Oh, the group chats had started.
"Guys show your results let's compare!"
"I pass am ohhh!"
"Who get F9?
The way my soul left my body and returned out of sympathy… I just put my phone face down.
Then, suddenly, I started laughing—just small at first.
Because I remembered how confidently I had told my friends:
> "Bro, if I no get at least D7 in Maths, I'm not human."
Well… now the portal confirmed it. I was not human. I was lower.
The laughter got louder until it started sounding like someone crying in comedy form.
"Ei, my life," I whispered as I wiped my eyes again.
---
Hours passed. I didn't move. I didn't eat. I didn't breathe properly. My pillow had witnessed all my emotional episodes.
Every time I tried to stand, my legs refused, like they also failed their own exam.
I checked the time—6:42 PM.
That meant everyone was home now.
I felt my stomach twist.
They were probably sitting in the hall, waiting. Or maybe they were pretending not to wait but still waiting inside their minds.
I pressed my hand to my chest.
I could feel my heartbeat knocking like a tenant who hadn't paid rent.
I started pacing. Then sitting. Then lying. Then pacing again. My room became a football field of anxiety.
Then, out of nowhere, I started rehearsing my confession.
"Good evening, everyone. I have something to say."
"No, too formal."
"Hello… please don't shout… but I have failed."
"Too emotional."
"Listen, don't panic. The results are… interesting."
"Too suspicious."
At this point, even my rehearsals were failing.
I sat down one last time and whispered to myself, "Elvis… if you don't go out there, they will come in here. And that one will be worse."
I took a deep breath.
I wiped my face with my shirt.
I fixed my hair.
I tried to look alive.
Then slowly, slowly…
I placed my hand on the door handle.
My heart was beating like a DJ setting beats. My breath was shaking. My hand was trembling.
I twisted the handle.
The door clicked open.
Light from the hall spilled into my room, bright and unforgiving.
And with the last bit of courage I had left inside me…
I stepped out.