Chapter Eleven: What Are We?
---
First week, Monday, 9:02am
9:02am. Advanced Cognitive Systems. Front row, third seat.
His usual spot for her. Empty.
9:03am. Josie walked in late. Took the back corner. By the window.
Orwell didn’t look up from his slides. Didn’t pause. Didn’t miss a beat.
9:04am. “Reciprocal activation in the anterior cingulate,” he said. Voice flat. “Turn to page 217.”
9:05am. But his hand.
White-knuckling the laser pointer for half a second too long.
---
First week, Thursday, 4:59pm
4:59pm. Tutorial. Study Room 3B again.
Josie came in at 5:03pm. Left at 5:47pm.
5:00pm. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t answer when called on. Didn’t meet his eyes when he handed back papers.
5:01pm. He didn’t call on her twice.
He used to call on her three times minimum.
5:02pm. When the last student filed out, the room went dead quiet.
5:03pm. Just them.
5:04pm. His mask slipped.
Not much. Just his shoulders. Dropping one inch. Just his eyes. Flicking to the door she’d walked out of.
5:05pm. Wrecked.
For three seconds.
5:06pm. Then he was Orwell again. Packing his bag. Precise. Controlled.
Like she hadn’t spent the last hour acting like he was air.
---
Second week, Tuesday, 11:47am
11:47am. The coffee line at Bishop’s.
She was three people ahead of him.
11:48am. She felt him. That presence. Cedar and solder and silence.
11:49am. She didn’t turn.
Ordered her black coffee. Paid. Walked out.
11:50am. The barista called, “Next,” and Josie heard his voice behind her.
“Iced americano. Black.”
No _good morning_. No _Josie_.
11:51am. She kept walking.
11:52am. In the reflection of the library window, she saw him.
Still standing in line.
Hand shoved in his pocket. Jaw locked.
Staring at the spot on the floor where she’d been.
---
Third week, Friday, 6:22pm
6:22pm. Department hallway.
Empty. Summer term thinning out.
6:23pm. She rounded the corner with her bag on her shoulder.
He was there. Coming from Dr. Iro's office. Door still open behind him.
6:24pm. Just the two of them.
6:25pm. The air changed.
His stride hitched. Half a step. Barely anything.
6:26pm. Their eyes met.
And it was there.
The wreckage.
6:27pm. Not in his posture. Not in his face. Orwell didn’t break where people could see.
6:28pm. It was in his eyes.
The same eyes that lit up at 11:00pm.
Now they were starved.
6:29pm. He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
6:30pm. Josie walked past him.
Didn’t slow. Didn’t speak.
6:31pm. She heard his office door shut behind her.
Too hard.
---
Fourth week, Monday, 8:00am
8:00am. Advanced Cognitive Systems.
He was already there. Writing on the board before anyone arrived.
8:01am. _Mirror Neurons and Dyadic Regulation_.
His handwriting was perfect. As always.
8:02am. Except for one letter.
The _y_ in _Dyadic_.
A tremor. Small. If you didn’t know him, you’d miss it.
8:03am. Josie knew him.
8:04am. She sat in the back.
He didn’t turn around.
8:05am. But he erased the _y_.
Wrote it again.
Perfect this time.
---
10:08am. Saturdays were for the market.
Not thinking. Not Orwell. Not nightmares or umbrellas or _every night since I was sixteen_.
10:09am. Tejuosho. Loud. Alive. The air thick with pepper, dried fish, exhaust, and sweat.
Perfect.
10:10am. Josie haggled for tomatoes. Paid for yams. Weighed her bag of garri with both hands to feel the heft. Real. Grounded.
10:11am. She was good at this. The rhythm of it. The noise drowning out everything else.
10:12am. Then she reached for the ugu.
10:13am. And remembered.
10:14am. G.R.A. His gate. Rain.
Knees buckling on the bare concrete. The world spinning. The iron bars cold against her cheek as she went down.
10:15am. The knot hit her belly. Sudden. Vicious.
10:16am. Because after the collapse came the arms. His arms.
_I was shown you._
10:17am. Josie’s fingers went numb around the ugu. The market seller was talking. Prices. Fresh. Today-today.
She couldn’t hear her.
10:18am. She paid. Too much. Didn’t haggle. Just wanted out.
10:19am. The walk back to her dorm was too long. Bags cutting into her palms. The knot in her belly twisting tighter with every step.
---
11:47am. Her dorm.
And he was there.
11:48am. Orwell.
Leaning against the brick wall by the entrance. No umbrella. Black shirt. Jeans. Like a normal person, except Orwell was never normal.
11:49am. Students passed. No one stared. Because he was just a man waiting.
But Josie’s lungs forgot how to work.
11:50am. His eyes caught hers.
The scan.
11:51am. But deeper.
Not the professor scan. Not the _what-are-you-hiding_ scan.
Not lurking.
11:52am. Calm.
Burning.
11:53am. Like he’d been standing there for hours just to look at her like that. Like she was the only real thing on the street.
11:54am. Josie stopped walking.
She couldn’t ignore him.
Not after four weeks of empty chairs and averted eyes. Not after the way his hand tremored on the _y_ in _Dyadic_.
Not when he looked at her like _that_.
11:55am. He pushed off the wall.
Crossed the three feet between them in one stride.
11:56am. He took her bags.
Just took them. Both of them. Heavy with yams and garri and tomatoes and the memory of his gate.
11:57am. His knuckles brushed hers.
Accidental. Or not.
The knot in her belly pulled tight.
11:58am. “Josie.”
Her name. Not _Adebayo_. Not _you_.
_Josie._
11:59am. “Can I speak to you.”
Not a question. Not a command.
Sincere.
12:00pm. But Orwell-ish.
Because his face didn’t move. His voice didn’t soften.
The sincerity was in the fact that he was here. At her dorm. Holding her market bags. Looking at her like she was the answer to a question he’d been asking since he was sixteen.
12:01pm. The burning in his eyes didn’t flicker.
It waited.
For her.
---
12:04pm. Josie let him hold the bags.
Let him follow her.
12:05pm. They didn’t go inside. Cassie was there. And this wasn’t for Cassie.
12:06pm. The cemented patio outside her apartment. Two steps. A low wall. The smell of sun-baked concrete and old rain.
12:07pm. He set the bags down. Careful. Like they were glass, not yams.
Sat.
Not next to her. Across. One step down. Leaving her the high ground.
12:08pm. Orwell-ish.
12:09pm. Silence.
Then: “The last four weeks were... inefficient.”
12:10pm. Josie blinked.
He ran a hand over his jaw. Didn’t look at her. “Data was not being processed effectively when proximity was removed. Output suffered.”
12:11pm. An apology.
For treating her like air.
In the most Orwell way possible.
12:12pm. Josie’s mouth twitched. Despite everything. “You’re saying you missed me in scientific method.”
12:13pm. His eyes cut to her. Sharp. Then — not quite a smile. “I’m saying the system malfunctions without all variables accounted for.”
12:14pm. The knot in her belly loosened. Half an inch.
12:15pm. Then she asked it.
The question that had been clouding Dr. Iro’s lectures and cold coffee and every tutorial she sat through like a ghost.
12:16pm. “What are we?”
12:17pm. He went still.
Not stunned. Never taken unawares. Orwell catalogued threats before they happened.
But stunned that she’d said it out loud.
12:18pm. He exhaled. Slow. Looked at his hands. Then at her.
12:19pm. “The Word says no man is an island,” he said.
Quiet. No lecture tone. No blade.
12:20pm. “Ecclesiastes. Two are better than one. Because if they fall, one will lift up his companion.”
12:21pm. Josie’s breath caught.
12:22pm. “I fell,” he said. “For years. Every night since I was sixteen. And now you are here.” His gaze didn’t waver. “It feels like help was sent to you. Like you’re the one under the umbrella.”
12:23pm. A pause.
12:24pm. “But God brought you to me, Josie.”
12:25pm. No tragic tale. No _my parents_. No nightmare details.
Just that.
12:26pm. “I’m just another person allowed into your life,” he said. “I can make you. Or mar you.”
12:27pm. The truth of it hit her chest like a physical thing.
12:28pm. No romance. No _I need you_. No _you saved me_.
Just scary truth.
12:29pm. That he was human. That he could hurt her. That letting him in was a risk, not a rescue.
12:30pm. It frightened her.
More than the nightmare had.
12:31pm. Because Josie was smart.
So she did what smart girls do when truth is too big to hold.
12:32pm. She deflected.
With a challenge.
12:33pm. “Fine,” she said. “If you can make or mar me, then prove you’re not all ruin.”
12:34pm. He frowned. “How.”
12:35pm. “Another football game,” Josie said. “You. Me. No science. No Word. Just — see if you can still beat me.”
12:36pm. Silence.
12:37pm. Then he laughed.
12:38pm. Shockingly.
Out loud.
A real laugh. Rough at the edges from disuse. It startled birds three buildings down.
12:39pm. Josie was bewildered.
She’d never heard it before. Not like that.
12:40pm. The sound cracked something open in her chest.
12:41pm. “You’re insane,” he said. Still laughing. Eyes lit. Not with delight. With something warmer.
12:42pm. “Maybe,” Josie said. And for the first time in weeks, she smiled back. Small. Real.
12:43pm. They were still talking — her gesturing about goal posts, him arguing about optimal ball pressure — when heels clicked on concrete.
12:44pm. One of the four girls.
The blonde. Pre-med. Front row.
12:45pm. She passed by.
Slowed.
12:46pm. Saw them.
Josie on the step. Orwell on the ground below her, bags at his feet, head tipped back, laughing.
Chatting heartily.
12:47pm. The girl’s eyes went wide.
Then narrow.
12:48pm. She kept walking.
But her phone was already in her hand.
---
2:16pm. The Student Affairs block smelled like paper and cheap coffee.
2:17pm. Mitchell Okonkwo didn’t knock.
2:18pm. She never knocked. Pre-med. 4.0 GPA. Front row in Advanced Cognitive Systems. Daddy was a trustee.
2:19pm. Dr. Adekunle looked up from her desk. Student Counselor. Ten years in the job. Had recommended extra tutorials to half the struggling sophomores on campus, including Josie Adebayo.
2:20pm. “Mitchell,” Dr. Adekunle said. Tired. “Do you have an appointment?”
2:21pm. Mitchell Okonkwo shut the door.
Clicked.
2:22pm. “It’s about Dr. Ferguson,” Mitchell Okonkwo said. “Orwell.”
2:23pm. She said his first name like she had a right to it. Like she’d earned it by sitting front row for two semesters.
2:24pm. Dr. Adekunle set her pen down. “The Course Rep? What about him?”
2:25pm. Mitchell Okonkwo perched on the edge of the chair. Didn’t sit. Perched. Like she might need to fly out fast.
2:26pm. “I think he’s using the tutorials for... ulterior purposes.”
2:27pm. The words were chosen. Rehearsed. Mitchell Okonkwo had practiced them the whole walk over.
2:28pm. Dr. Adekunle’s eyebrows went up. “That’s a serious accusation, Mitchell. Do you have proof?”
2:29pm. Mitchell Okonkwo’s mouth curved. Not a smile. A hook.
2:30pm. “I saw him today. Outside Josie Adebayo's dorm. 11:47am.”
2:31pm. She let the time hang. Precise. Like Orwell would.
2:32pm. “He was carrying her market bags. They were sitting on the patio. Alone. Talking. Laughing.”
2:33pm. She stressed _laughing_. Like it was indecent.
2:34pm. “He doesn’t laugh in class, Dr. Adekunle. Not for us. Not for anyone. But for her?”
2:35pm. Dr. Adekunle frowned. “Mitchell, students and tutors talk outside class. That’s not—”
2:36pm. “He recommended the extra tutorials to her himself,” Mitchell Okonkwo cut in. “You put her in his class. And what’s changed?”
2:37pm. She pulled out her phone. Already open to the student portal.
2:38pm. “Josie Adeyemi. Current GPA: 3.1. Same as last semester. Before the tutorials. Before all the... special attention.”
2:39pm. She turned the screen.
2:40pm. “If the tutorials were academic, Dr. Adekunle, her performance would have improved. That’s the point, isn’t it? But it hasn’t.”
2:41pm. The logic was clean. Cold. Damning.
2:42pm. Mitchell Okonkwo leaned forward. Lowered her voice. “So if it’s not academic, then what is it? Why is he at her dorm? Why is she the only one he laughs for?”
2:43pm. Dr. Adekunle stared at the GPA on the screen. 3.1. Unchanged.
2:44pm. She remembered Josie’s file. Anxious. Brilliant but erratic. Recommended for support.
2:45pm. She remembered Orwell Ferguson’s file too. Course Rep. Spotless. Too spotless.
2:46pm. The room went quiet except for the AC humming.
2:47pm. Mitchell Okonkwo didn’t fidget. Didn’t blink.
She’d planted the seed.
2:48pm. “I’m just concerned,” Mitchell Okonkwo said softly. “For Josie. And for the department. You know how rumors start.”
2:49pm. Dr. Adekunle closed the laptop. Slow.
2:50pm. “Thank you for bringing this to me, Mitchell. I’ll look into it.”
2:51pm. It was a dismissal.
2:52pm. Mitchell Okonkwo stood. Smoothed her skirt. “Of course. I just thought you should know. Before someone else notices.”
2:53pm. The door clicked shut behind her.
2:54pm. Dr. Adekunle sat still for a full minute.
2:55pm. Then she pulled Josie Adeyemi’s file.
And Orwell Ferguson’s.
2:56pm. Two folders. Side by side on her desk.
2:57pm. Outside, Mitchell Okonkwo walked down the hall texting:
_Done. She’s looking into it._
2:58pm. The _ulterior purposes_ lie was in motion.
2:59pm. And the evidence was a girl with a 3.1 GPA who still looked wrecked in class.
---
3:42pm. Campus field. Empty bleachers. No classes.
3:43pm. Josie stood on the grass in jean shorts and an old UNILAG tee. A football at her feet.
3:44pm. She felt ridiculous.
3:45pm. Students cut across the field in twos and threes. Eyes snagged on them. On _him_. Orwell Ferguson in joggers and a black Henley, sleeves pushed up, forearms bare. Course Rep. 4.9 CGPA. The guy even final year students asked for help.
3:46pm. Eyes boring holes in her soul.
3:47pm. “You look like you’re about to be executed,” Orwell said.
3:48pm. He didn’t look at her when he said it. He was rolling his shoulders. Limbering up. Keen.
3:49pm. Keen on kicking her butt for the second time. Keen on watching that cute scurrying of hers when she lost.
3:50pm. Josie scowled. “I’m not used to public humiliation.”
3:51pm. “Good,” he said. “You’ll get used to it.”
3:52pm. Orwell-ish.
3:53pm. He tapped the ball toward her. “Your move, Adebayo.”
3:54pm. She couldn’t.
3:55pm. Her eyes kept flicking to the path. To the girl with the tote bag whispering. To the two guys by the goalpost pretending not to watch.
3:56pm. Her kicks were weak. Distracted. Nothing like the fire she’d had at 11:00pm in his compound.
3:57pm. Orwell watched her for three minutes.
3:58pm. Then he stopped the ball under his foot.
3:59pm. “This isn’t working,” he said. Flat. “You can’t focus with all these people watching.”
4:01pm. Josie let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. “Yeah. Okay.”
4:02pm. Relief. And shame.
4:03pm. She bent to pick up the ball. “Hey. Earlier. Did you notice...”
4:04pm. She hesitated.
4:05pm. “The girl in the blonde wig? From tutorials?”
4:06pm. Orwell went still.
4:07pm. Not his body. His eyes.
4:08pm. That shift. From keen to calculating. From play to threat.
4:09pm. “Mitchell Okonkwo,” he said.
4:10pm. He knew. Of course he knew. Orwell noticed everyone.
4:11pm. “She walked past the patio,” Josie said. “When we were...”
4:12pm. _Laughing._
4:13pm. He heard it anyway.
4:14pm. Something moved behind his eyes. Not fear. He was piecing it together.
4:15pm. “Something’s wrong,” he said. Quiet.
4:17pm. They didn’t say it out loud.
4:18pm. They ended the day. Logic, not emotion. No painful separation. Just: problem spotted, pull back for now.
4:19pm. “You should return to your dorm,” he said.
4:20pm. Not a suggestion.
4:21pm. Josie nodded. Picked up her bag.
4:22pm. And the heavens roared.
4:23pm. A crack of thunder so loud the students on the path jumped.
4:24pm. Josie sighed. Loud. Frustrated.
4:25pm. _Not again._
4:26pm. Rain. Always rain. Always when she was with him.
4:27pm. And it wasn’t possible that he would have an umbrella. Here. On a field.
4:28pm. But he did.
4:29pm. “Wait.”
4:30pm. He was already walking. Not running. Orwell never ran. Toward the staff lot.
4:31pm. He came back in two minutes.
4:32pm. In his hand: a black umbrella.
4:33pm. Not a small one. Not a flimsy campus-store one.
4:34pm. This one was large. Canopy wide enough for two. Ribs of steel, not aluminum. Handle solid wood, worn smooth. The fabric was thick, matte black, the kind that drank light. No logo. No brand.
4:35pm. It looked like a weapon.
4:36pm. Like something he’d own.
4:37pm. He held it out to her. “Take it.”
4:38pm. Josie stared. “You keep an umbrella in your car?”
4:39pm. “I keep what I need,” he said.
4:40pm. He pushed it into her hand.
4:41pm. Then: “Call me when you get home.”
4:42pm. Josie blinked.
4:43pm. First time.
4:44pm. First time he’d asked.
4:45pm. Then she realized.
4:46pm. “I... don’t have your number.”
4:47pm. The first drops hit the grass. Slow. Fat. Warning shots.
4:48pm. No time. No time to recite digits. No time for _put it in your phone_.
4:49pm. Orwell did the strangest thing.
4:50pm. He pulled his phone from his pocket. iPhone. Black. No case. Screen already cracked at the corner.
4:51pm. Held it out to her.
4:52pm. “Give me yours.”
4:53pm. Josie, stunned, fumbled hers out of her bag.
4:54pm. They swapped.
4:55pm. His phone warm in her palm. Heavy. His.
4:56pm. Hers disappeared into his hand.
4:57pm. Rain started to fall harder.
4:58pm. “Go,” he said.
4:59pm. And Josie went. Black umbrella opening over her head with a _snap_.
---
5:01pm. By the Engineering block.
5:02pm. Mitchell Okonkwo lowered her phone.
5:03pm. Click.
5:04pm. Photo saved.
5:05pm. Orwell Ferguson, standing in the rain.
Josie Adebayo, walking away under his umbrella.
His phone in her hand.
5:06pm. Mitchell zoomed in.
5:07pm. The timestamp was clear. The faces were clear.
5:08pm. She typed fast:
_To: Dr. Adekunle_
_Subject: Course Rep Conduct — Follow-up_
_Attachment: 1 image_
_He’s the one running the tutorials you assigned Josie to. This was after hours on the field. He gave her his personal phone and his umbrella. He’s not supposed to be meeting students privately like this._
5:09pm. Sent.
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