Lola Adunlade

*My name is Lola Adunlade.*

I’m the kind of person most people overlook — not because I’m invisible, but because I don’t demand attention. I stay in the background, watch from the edges, and keep quiet even when I know more than I should. I’ve always been that way — the onlooker, the observer, the one who notices the things others miss.

I don’t like noise, I don’t like crowds, and I definitely don’t like parties. Especially not the Shutdown — the wild, end-of-semester celebration that leaves the campus littered with red cups, regrets, and sometimes… things no one talks about.

I’m in my final year at *The Ingenius University*, studying Public Health. Finishing school is something I’ve been working toward with quiet determination. No drama, no attention — just focus. That’s how I’ve survived . I grew up fast. My mum died when I was eight — a quiet illness, the kind that takes and takes until there’s nothing left but the smell of hospital rooms and old photographs. My dad, a no-nonsense school principal, raised me and my younger brother Damilare with structure, curfews, and strict routines. He did his best. But there’s something growing up without a mother does to you — it makes you cautious. Guarded. Always scanning.

That’s probably why I’m so good at noticing things.

I have a few people who’ve managed to get past my walls.

*Koyinsola Davids* is one of them — my best friend since forever. She’s everything I’m not: bold, outspoken, fiery. She studies Mass Communication at *Charming University*, a few states away, and never hesitates to voice her opinions — or drag me out of my shell when necessary. She thinks I overthink everything. Maybe she’s right.

Then there’s *Tobi Babatunde* — my childhood friend turned coursemate. We’ve grown up side by side, and though he sometimes gets on my nerves with his sarcasm and endless energy, he’s always had my back. He doesn’t always understand the way I process things, but he never judges me for it.

Lately, though, I’ve been unsettled.

I’ve started to notice a pattern — one that appears only around Shutdown.

Each year, there are whispers.

A girl who doesn’t return to her hostel.

A guy found unconscious in a car.

Another one who “just disappeared.”

People always blame cult boys, drugs, or stress. But I don’t believe in convenient explanations.

Last year, I saw something again — and it shook me. A girl was found behind Faculty of Arts, unconscious, bruised. They said she was high. But I saw the guy who brought her to the health centre. He was there last year too. Different girl. Same story.

Someone close to one of the victims approached me recently — discreet, scared. They hinted at something organized. Something ongoing. Something dark.

That was the moment I realized — I’ve been watching for too long.

Now, I’m done just being the observer.

Something is happening at this school.

And I think it’s time someone paid attention.

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