The rest of the week stretched like wet cloth on a line — slow, sagging, and mostly unremarkable. A blur of classes, rushed meals, whispered gossip, and glances exchanged in the corridors. Nothing much happened. Or maybe too much did, just beneath the surface.
But then came the morning of the trip.
A warm haze hung in the air as the students gathered outside the school gates, some yawning, others buzzing with caffeine and anticipation. Parked just beyond the walkway was a massive, luxurious tour bus — sleek and black with tinted windows that shimmered like obsidian in the early light. Its doors hissed open with a mechanical sigh, revealing a plush interior lined with ambient lights and wide leather seats, more akin to a business-class cabin than any regular field trip transport.
The students — all in uniform for official documentation and group photo purposes — began trickling in, dragging their bags, joking too loudly, shoving each other playfully. White shirts crisp, navy trousers or skirts neatly pressed, shoes polished. The bus looked more like it was about to take a group of ambassadors to a summit rather than a bunch of high schoolers on an excursion.
Then came Timi.
For once, he didn't look like the odd one out.
Gone were the worn sandals and the casual slouch. His white shirt sat clean and well-fitted on his frame, tucked into his navy-blue trousers with sharp creases. On his feet — black Nike sneakers, laced and gleaming. On his wrist — a gold Richard Mille watch that caught the sun like a blade. His hair had been freshly trimmed and lined with precision, giving his face a cleaner, more mature edge.
People noticed. Heads turned — not in mocking surprise this time, but with quiet curiosity.
He didn't strut, didn't announce himself. He just walked toward the bus with the same detached calm he always had. But for once, he didn't look like he didn't belong. For once, he blended right in — maybe even stood out among the rich kids who'd always assumed they had the monopoly on presence.
Nila, approaching from the other side of the parking lot, was too focused on trying to tuck a loose strand of hair into her scarf to notice the small dip in the pavement near the bus step.
Her heel caught.
Her body pitched forward sharply, the concrete looming up toward her like a threat. She gasped, arms flailing—
And then, hands.
Firm, steady, strong.
Timi caught her — one arm wrapped tight around her waist, the other bracing her shoulder just in time to stop her head from slamming into the hard edge of the bus steps.
The world froze.
She was pressed against him, her breath caught in her throat. His scent — something fresh and clean and strangely grounding — hit her in a wave. Her face was inches from his, close enough to see the flecks of brown in his eyes, the sharp lines of his jaw, the smoothness of his chin.
He didn't say anything. Didn't make a face. He just held her there, eyes steady, waiting for her to catch her balance.
Students still outside the bus went quiet. Conversations stalled. A few phones subtly lifted — always ready for a viral moment. Inside the bus, faces turned toward the windows, watching through the tinted glass.
Even Claire, halfway up the aisle, paused mid-laugh, her expression flickering to something unreadable.
Nila's hands clutched the front of his shirt instinctively, her cheeks slowly heating under the weight of everyone's eyes.
"You alright?" Timi asked, voice low, almost private.
She nodded — far too quickly — and managed a breathless, "Yeah. Thanks."
Still, he didn't move immediately.
Their proximity hung thick between them, electric and unmistakable.
That was, until—
Ahem.
The pointed cough of a teacher — Mr. Dare, tall, mustached, and no-nonsense — cut through the silence like a blade. He stood just beside the bus, arms crossed, one eyebrow raised high with barely disguised amusement.
"Unless the two of you are rehearsing a romantic drama for the talent show, I suggest you move along."
There was a ripple of stifled laughter, and just like that, the spell broke.
Timi helped Nila to her feet, his grip gentle as he let her go. She cleared her throat, smoothing her skirt, and stepped onto the bus with what little dignity she could scrape together, her face now absolutely radiant with blush.
As Timi followed behind her, Claire whistled under her breath. "Well, well. Mister Mysterious with the hero moment. What next — save a cat from a tree?"
Timi just gave her a look and slipped into an empty seat near the window, watch catching the light again like a secret wink.
Nila slid into the seat across the aisle, staring out the window — not that she saw much. Her mind was still replaying the feeling of his hand on her waist.
Just as the murmurs were beginning to die down, a ripple passed through the bus.
She arrived with the sun behind her.
Chiji stepped onto the top step of the bus like she was walking onto the runway of a Milan show. The sunlight hit her skin like a spotlight — glowing, smooth, and golden-brown, with undertones that shimmered like burnished bronze. Every movement she made was languid, deliberate, like she had time in the palm of her hand.
A wave of perfume — jasmine and oud — drifted in behind her, rich and sensual, cutting through the adolescent musk of body sprays and sweat.
But what really stole breath was the jewelry.
Long, slender gold earrings dangled from her ears, each inlaid with diamonds so fine they caught the light like droplets of stars. Around her neck, a subtle but expensive Van Cleef & Arpels necklace in rose gold glinted with every step she took — a clover-shaped pendant resting just above her collarbone like a kiss. Her wrists bore stacked Cartier bangles — yellow, rose, and white gold — each engraved, each silent, each heavy. A sapphire ring nestled on her index finger, its deep blue a stark contrast to the dusky warmth of her skin.
Her uniform, despite being standard issue, looked custom-fit — tailored to perfection. She didn't wear a scarf like Nila, but her thick, black curls tumbled down in perfect spirals, stopping just below her shoulders, framing her delicate cheekbones and full lips with cinematic precision.
A hush fell across the aisle.
Even the boys from the athletic class — usually too busy playfully roughhousing and comparing biceps — paused. One of them actually nudged another and whispered, "Bro… is that sunlight or a person?"
Mendel, the ever-bold one, shot up from his seat like a cannon and attempted to slide into the empty seat beside her.
Too late.
Will Weyland had already claimed it.
Will — the Chairman's son — wasn't just another rich kid. He had a presence that blended contradiction effortlessly. His uniform clung to a broad chest and well-toned arms, the result of years spent between swimming pools and gym racks. His sandy blond hair was messily perfect, and his face carried that easy mix of upper-class charm and boyish mischief.
But what made Will stand out was the bag slung casually across his back — a canvas satchel, meticulously embroidered with anime patches. A blue-haired Hatsune Miku sat next to the Attack on Titan insignia, and tiny chibi keychains of Guts, Zero Two, and Shinobu Kocho dangled off the zipper like trophies. His water bottle bore a huge sticker of "I paused my game to be here."
Mendel's jaw tightened.
Chiji, oblivious or perfectly aware, simply offered Will a graceful nod as he lowered himself into the seat beside her, his bag resting neatly on his lap. She pulled out her phone, its custom Louis Vuitton case sparkling as she scrolled with slow, elegant fingers.
Then the question came from the front:
"Is everyone on the bus?" asked Mr. Dare, his tone brisk.
A chorus of voices answered in the affirmative.
And then — she arrived.
The bus seemed to tighten with anticipation as the principal stepped on.
Dr. Okonkwo Maren Oladokun — known to the students only as "Dr. Maren." She was a force of nature.
Tall, striking, and carved like a statue from ancient myth, she wore her authority like a second skin. Her curves were powerfully feminine, draped in a deep-blue pantsuit that still somehow adhered to the uniform color code, tailored so sharply it might've been forged. Her biceps strained slightly against the fitted sleeves, her gait was the kind that made even the rowdiest students sit straighter, and her short, natural hair glistened under the soft light of the bus ceiling.
A hush fell again — this time out of pure respect, or perhaps fear... or something else.
Even the younger male teachers straightened up.
"Good morning, students," she said, her voice deep and commanding, with a faint musical accent beneath it — the kind that made every word sound important. "Let's behave like the representatives of Greenfield International that we are."
Then she took her seat — not in the front, but mid-way down the aisle, in a window seat near the teachers, her sharp eyes glancing around once to register all faces.
Mr. Dare cleared his throat and stood.
"Let's pray," he said, his voice gentler this time.
Everyone bowed their heads, murmurs quieting. His words came out soft, practiced, and deeply sincere:
"Father, thank You for this day and for every life seated on this bus. We ask for Your protection, guidance, and traveling mercies. Let this trip be filled with growth, joy, safety, and a spirit of unity. Amen."
A round of quiet amen followed.
"Seatbelts," he added immediately. "Everyone buckle up. We're moving in two."
There was the rustle of nylon and clicks of metal as students obeyed, the bus engine humming awake beneath them like a beast about to stir.
And just like that, the journey began.
---
The road out of Lagos was surprisingly smooth that morning. The sprawling chaos of the city slowly faded into scattered estates and farmlands, the bus gliding along the highway like a luxury liner on an open sea. Students leaned against windows, watching the blur of Lagos melt into Ogun's quiet rurality — red earth, palm trees, makeshift stalls with faded "Recharge Card Available Here" signs, and sleepy towns barely waking up.
Laughter rose from the middle seats where the athletic boys were sharing memes. Nila had put in her earbuds, swaying her head gently to music, while Timi sat quietly by the window, arms folded, one AirPod in, watching the road with his usual unreadable face. The morning sun caught the gold of his Richard Mille every time the bus tilted slightly.
Delta State came into view around midday. The bus cut through the low hills and thickening greenery like a knife through soft butter. Towns around Auchi gave way to long stretches of bush-lined highway. Edo's air was hotter, thicker, but calmer. Billboards for hotels, churches, and politicians peppered the road. Sellers with trays of plantain chips and bottled water chased cars at rest stops, calling out in melodic Pidgin.
By the time they reached the outskirts of Asaba, the mood was mellow, almost sleepy.
Until the Mercedes arrived.
A silver Mercedes-Benz C300 came screaming past the bus — a blur of chrome and recklessness. The engine roared like a lion in heat, and the bass of music from inside the car rattled even the bus windows. It swerved slightly, cutting dangerously close as it overtook. Smoke — unmistakably weed — poured from the barely open rear windows, twisting into the air like fingers from some other realm.
Inside, bodies moved wildly to the beat — young men with dyed hair, sunglasses indoors, and necks heavy with chains. The plates were Lagos, but the attitude was global menace. It didn't take a genius to clock it: Yahoo boys.
The driver of the bus honked lightly, irritated but cautious.
The C300 didn't like that.
Suddenly, it slowed down — fast — and swerved in front of the bus, braking hard. A sharp skreeeech! rang out as the bus driver slammed the brakes.
The world lurched.
Backpacks flew.
Snacks hit the floor.
A scream escaped someone's throat.
And then —
Thud.
Mr. Dare, who had been reaching over to adjust the overhead AC vent, lost balance completely. His glasses flew off, and he fell forward — face planting right into Dr. Maren's chest with a graceless thump that echoed with the force of God's own irony.
Time froze.
Students gasped. One boy whispered, "Jesu!" and covered his mouth. Dr. Maren's body stiffened like stone.
She didn't say a word — just looked down at the teacher now scrambling backward, mortified beyond redemption. Her expression was one of imperial disgust, like Cleopatra being handed a dirty towel. Mr. Dare adjusted his glasses with shaking hands, whispering apologies so fast they blurred into a single wheezy breath.
Near the front, Chiji had been leaning forward to get a better look at the madness outside when the sudden stop sent her flying toward the dashboard.
Will Weyland's reflexes kicked in instantly. One moment, he was immersed in his Nintendo Switch, furiously pressing buttons in a boss fight; the next, his hand shot out like a seatbelt forged in anime justice. He caught Chiji's upper body midair, his arm across her collar, holding her steady before her forehead could meet reinforced glass.
She froze in his hold — breath caught — inches from calamity.
The Switch clattered to the floor, forgotten.
"You good?" he asked softly.
She looked at him for a moment — not flirty, not dramatic. Just a silent nod. Then she adjusted her necklace, retaking her seat with quiet grace. Her fingers went to her lips, then to her phone, pretending to scroll, but her eyes lingered on Will for just a second longer.
The Mercedes peeled away, vanishing into the Benin horizon like a ghost of chaos.
Silence sat heavy in the bus for a beat — thick, buzzing, awkward.
Then Nila muttered, "Na wa…"
Timi just shook his head, one corner of his mouth twitching upward.
Dr. Maren finally spoke, voice sharp as glass:
"If I see that kind of thing happen again, Mr. Dare, you will ride on top of the bus."
The bus roared with laughter — even as a few students still checked to see if their bones or dignity had remained intact.
The bus rolled forward again, a taut quietness settled inside. Dr. Maren stood, her tall frame composed yet commanding. She adjusted her crisp, olive-green blouse — the only color that dared challenge her muscles — and turned to face the students.
"Everyone," she said, her voice as sharp and unbending as steel, "remain in your seats. Seatbelts on. We're approaching a very rough portion of the road. I don't want anyone flying out of a window today."
There was scattered motion — clicks of seatbelt buckles, murmurs of unease. Some still looked behind through the rear window, wondering if the Mercedes would return.
Nila leaned toward the tinted glass, her brow furrowed. Under her breath, in perfect Farsi, she whispered, "Those boys wouldn't slow down for their own funeral."
The road grew rougher — cracks, dips, patches of half-hearted asphalt repairs. The bus creaked and groaned slightly, massive suspension swallowing the tremors.
And then it came — the second brake check.
No warning. Just smoke — black and sudden — as the C300 reappeared, darting across from behind another vehicle and slamming its brakes right in front of the bus.
The driver reacted fast — the bus surged forward, missing the Mercedes' bumper by what felt like inches. You could almost hear the collective stomachs lurching. A scream rang out from somewhere in the back. Will's knuckles whitened as he gripped the backrest before him. Chiji shut her eyes tight, clutching her necklace, heart in her throat.
But the bus driver wasn't having it anymore.
He floored it.
The bus, heavy, armored with teenage nerves and adult adrenaline— gained speed. Dust trailed behind its tires as it bounced lightly along the uneven road. The C300 tried to keep up, weaving recklessly in and out of traffic, skimming the yellow lane dividers like it was dancing on a knife's edge.
Then it happened.
As they entered a wide curve just past the outskirts of Benin, a particularly nasty bump lay hidden in shadow beneath a low bridge.
The Mercedes hit it dead-on.
The car lifted— almost gracefully— into the air, like a bird learning to fly. But it wasn't flight. It was chaos.
The undercarriage scraped midair as the car spun, one wheel shattering mid-twist. It careened sideways, the rear smashing full-force into a concrete barrier. There was a sharp, metallic crack. The sound of glass exploding...and the back end folded like paper.
But it didn't stop.
The forward force flung it off the barrier and into the opposite lane — a spinning blur of mangled steel and glittering debris. It collided hard with the side of an orange construction truck — a massive industrial thing moving at full speed. The impact was merciless. The Mercedes crushed inward like tinfoil, one side completely flattened.
Blood sprayed.
A windshield was painted red in a blink.
The rear door flung open mid-spin, and a limp, bloodied arm slapped the tarmac before vanishing under the crumpled heap.
Gasps filled the bus like smoke.
One girl started crying. Someone said a soft "Jesus." Even the athletic boys sat frozen, wide-eyed and quiet for the first time all day.
The chaos outside faded, the Mercedes now an unmoving wreck in the distance, the orange truck slowly grinding to a stop further up the road.
And in the silence, Timi leaned closer to Nila and muttered just loud enough for her to hear:
"Guess they did slow down for their funeral after all."
She snorted.
Laughed — sharp, shocked, involuntary — and immediately covered her mouth, shoulders shaking quietly.
Dr. Maren turned slowly toward the students, the low rumble of the bus continuing as it cruised past the wreck. Her eyes were dark, but calm — the calm of someone who had seen too much already.
She said firmly, "This is why irresponsible speed kills. Let this burn into your memory. You're not invincible."
The only sound after that was the hum of the tires and the soft wind coming through the slightly open sunroof — like the road was mourning too.