The roar of the crowd swallowed Ifmen's quiet 'yes,' a faint whisper beneath the collective anticipation. He had hesitated, a flicker of something uncharacteristic in his usually bright 'Cyborg' eyes, but my insistence, my plea for the house, for us, had swayed him. He turned, the crisp green jersey of our house rippling slightly as he adjusted it on his slim frame, and then, with that familiar, almost imperceptible bounce in his step, he jogged onto the pitch, a figure of effortless grace already absorbing the energy of the screaming stands. My stomach twisted. It wasn't a gut feeling, not exactly. More like a sharp, cold jab of guilt, the kind you get when you've pushed someone into something they didn't want to do, even if you told yourself it was for their own good, for the team, for the glory. The opening whistle shrieked then, a high-pitched cry that sliced through the raw tension, and the game began. There was no turning back now.
Aurora Spring High School's main football pitch was a spectacle on inter-house final day. The sun, a brazen, almost cruel eye in the Abuja sky, beat down relentlessly, baking the worn-down grass and dusty patches into a parched canvas. It radiated heat that made the very air shimmer above the field, carrying the scent of dry earth, distant sweat, and the faint, exciting tang of popcorn from the makeshift stalls. The low rumble of conversation built into a crescendo of shouts and cheers as the players took their positions. The temporary stands, scaffolding draped with house banners, were overflowing, a vibrant tapestry of our Green House's emerald and the fierce, aggressive scarlet of the Red Dragons. Drums pounded a primal, rhythmic beat from both sides, a pulsating heart-throb that reverberated through the ground beneath my worn trainers. Vuvuzelas shrieked, whistles blew, and a wave of pure, unadulterated excitement washed over the school grounds. This was the moment everyone had been waiting for.
From where I stood, a little removed from the most frenzied cluster of Green House supporters – still Steven, despite my attempts to mimic Ifmen's social ease – I watched him. Ifmen, Ifmen Olarewaju, was already a blur of motion. He was everywhere at once, a flash of green darting between red shirts, his long, natural locks bouncing like a wild crown as he weaved and feinted. His feet danced with the ball, a master of control, making complex maneuvers look utterly effortless. He moved with a liquid grace that was almost mesmerizing, his every touch precise, his every feint a deception. He was the reason our Green House believed. He was the undisputed star, the one who could turn the tide, the magic on the field. And a part of me, the part that secretly yearned for even a fraction of his effortless charisma, basked in his reflected glory. My unease, that cold jab of guilt, momentarily dissolved in the sheer, electric thrill of the game.
The first half was a breathtaking, furious push and pull, a tug-of-war for dominance, each team battling for every inch of that sun-baked ground. The ball crisscrossed the field, a green-and-red blur, sometimes sailing high, sometimes skimming the grass. Goals were missed by inches, groans rising from the stands like a collective sigh. Tackles were hard, bone-jarring collisions that sent dust flying and made the crowd wince. The energy was contagious, a palpable force that surged and receded with every turn of play.
Then, about twenty minutes in, it happened. A sudden, audacious break. Ifmen, somehow, found a pocket of space near the center circle. He received a pass, flicked it over a defender's head, caught it on the other side, and was off. He accelerated, a sudden surge of speed that left two Red Dragons clutching at air. He was a streak of emerald green, unstoppable. The crowd rose as one, a singular gasp of anticipation. He approached the box, a defender closing fast, but Ifmen was quicker. One last, elegant dribble, a perfect setup, and then, a clean, powerful strike. The ball rocketed past the goalkeeper, hitting the back of the net with a satisfying thwack.
A primal roar tore from our side of the stands, a deafening explosion of sound. "Goooooal!" My voice, usually quiet, was lost in the joyous pandemonium. I jumped, yelling, punching the air with the rest of them, my previous unease momentarily drowned out by the sheer thrill of it. Ifmen wheeled away, a wide, genuine grin splitting his face, his teeth bright against his mahogany skin. He pumped his fist, high-fived our teammates, his Caucasian eyes sparkling with triumph. He's fine, I told myself, a fierce wave of relief washing over me. Of course he's fine. He's Ifmen. He's invincible. The first half ended shortly after, our Green House leading by one goal. The tension remained, a thin hum beneath the temporary peace of the break, but my hope, fueled by Ifmen's brilliance, was soaring.
The second half kicked off with a renewed ferocity that bordered on desperation from the Red Dragons. Their coach must have given them a brutal talking-to, because they emerged like a different team – more aggressive, more reckless, their eyes burning with a singular hunger for victory. Ifmen, however, remained cool. He continued to play with that same effortless precision, dodging and weaving through the tightening defense, his focus absolute, eyes locked on the prize. The air grew heavier, thick with anticipation and the unspoken threat of retaliation. Every tackle seemed harder, every challenge more pointed.
Then it happened. The moment forever etched into my mind, a slow-motion nightmare against the backdrop of a roaring crowd.
Our team had just won back possession. The ball came to me near the halfway line, an unexpected gift in the chaos. My heart pounded, but I saw it – a clear, open lane for Ifmen, sprinting towards the opponent's goal, already calling for the pass. "Cyborg!" I yelled, a rare outburst from me, and kicked. It wasn't my best pass, perhaps a little too fast, a little too low.
Ifmen stretched, lunging forward with every ounce of his agile body, trying to control the ball with the outside of his foot. He lunged, his weight shifting awkwardly, and then, as his foot connected with the ball, his knee seemed to give way. It was a sudden, sickening twist, an unnatural torque. I didn't hear a "snap" this time, not a clear one like a bone breaking, but a soft, wet thud followed instantly by a guttural, terrifying shout from Ifmen. He didn't just fall; he seemed to collapse in on himself, his hands flying to his knee, his body crumpling to the dusty ground, his scream tearing through the sudden vacuum of silence that had fallen over the pitch.
My heart stopped. Not figuratively. It simply seized in my chest, a sudden, cold clamp. The world around me, which moments ago had been a vibrant blur of green and red, of shouting fans and pounding drums, dissolved into a terrifying, monochrome haze. All I could see, all I could focus on, was Ifmen, lying there, motionless for a terrifying second, before that agonizing scream tore from his throat again. It wasn't the scream of a player frustrated by a foul; it was the raw, primal sound of pure, unadulterated pain, a sound that would forever echo in my nightmares, a sound that would define the rest of my life. And it was all because of my pass.
Coaches, teachers, and a few students with medical training sprinted onto the field. They moved with a terrifying speed that only underscored the severity of the situation. The referee blew his whistle repeatedly, a frantic, insistent sound that only added to the burgeoning chaos and panic. A ripple of horror spread through the stands, hushed whispers replacing the earlier cheers. I was on my feet, pushing blindly through the stunned crowd, my legs moving without conscious thought, desperate to reach him. Every step felt like wading through thick mud, every face I pushed past a blur of concern or shock.
The sight up close was worse, far worse than I could have imagined from the stands. Ifmen's face was contorted in a mask of pure agony, sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead, his beautiful 'Cyborg' eyes squeezed shut, tears carving clean paths down his dusty cheeks. His hands were clamped around his knee, fingers digging into the fabric of his shorts, as if trying to hold the very joint together. Mr. Adebayo, our games master, usually so boisterous and confident, was kneeling beside him, his face ashen, his hands shaking as he tried to provide comfort. "Get the stretcher! Call an ambulance!" he shouted, his voice surprisingly shaky, stripped of its usual authority, betraying his own terror.
The medics – two older students from the science class, who had only ever practiced first aid on dummies, and the school nurse, her usually calm demeanor now frayed – worked quickly, gently, but the pain was clear on Ifmen's face, etched deep into every line. He tried to move, to shift, and then cried out again, a sound that sliced through me worse than any knife, a sound that screamed of excruciating joint pain, of muscles and ligaments tearing. My throat was tight, my hands clammy, the familiar smell of cut grass now sickeningly mingled with the metallic scent I knew, deep down, was blood. I stood frozen, just a few feet away, watching them carefully load him onto the stretcher. His head lolled against the pillow they'd placed, his eyes fluttered open for a moment, finding mine. In that brief, terrifying glance, I saw not just overwhelming pain, but something else – a flicker of bewilderment, perhaps even a question. It was quick, gone in an instant, replaced by unconsciousness or pure agony as they secured him.
The ambulance siren, a mournful wail, cut through the school's stunned silence as it pulled onto the edge of the field, its red and blue lights flashing in a macabre dance. The paramedics moved with practiced efficiency. Ifmen was gently slid into the back. My mind was screaming, This is my fault. This is all my fault. I did this to him. The ambulance doors closed with a soft thud, sealing him away from me, sealing away the last glimpse of his conscious face, and the vehicle sped off, its siren fading into the distance, carrying my friend, and my burgeoning, monstrous guilt, away.
The school grounds, moments before a vibrant hub of youthful energy, descended into pandemonium for a few frantic minutes after the ambulance left. The festive atmosphere evaporated, replaced by a collective sense of shock and unease. Teachers, led by our stern but usually composed Principal, quickly took charge, their voices, usually firm, now laced with a strained urgency as they barked instructions. "Back to classrooms! Everyone! The match is suspended!"
Students, confused and whispering, were herded like startled sheep back towards their blocks. The joyous shouts had given way to hushed questions, nervous speculation. The inter-house final, the culmination of weeks of practice and anticipation, was forgotten, replaced by the grim reality of what had just happened. A few teachers and senior staff, their faces grim, quickly gathered their bags and followed the ambulance in their personal vehicles, ensuring Ifmen was accompanied, their dedication a stark contrast to the lingering dread.
I couldn't stay. The very air on the pitch felt suffocating, thick with the memory of the snap, the scream, the silence. My stomach churned, threatening to revolt. My guilt was a physical weight, pressing down on my chest, hot and suffocating. I needed to escape the weight of my own complicity, needed to get away from the accusing silence of the empty goalposts, away from the faces that might look at me and see the one who passed the ball. I stumbled out of the school gates and half-walked, half-ran the short distance home, my head spinning, filled with the image of Ifmen's twisted knee. The familiar pathway through Royal Oak Residence, usually comforting, now felt alien and hostile beneath my worn trainers. Each step was a heavy reminder of my role in this unfolding tragedy. The sun, which had felt so invigorating just an hour ago, now beat down with an oppressive weight, mirroring the pressure crushing my chest. My breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, choked by unspoken blame.
My mother, her face etched with immediate, profound concern, met me at the door. News travels fast in Royal Oak Residence. Whispers, phone calls, the visible ambulance leaving the school gates – it was enough. "Steven! What happened? Is he...?" she began, her voice tight with fear, seeing my distraught state, my tear-streaked face, my clothes probably covered in dust from pushing through the crowd. I could only manage a choked whisper, the words catching in my throat. "It's Ifmen. His leg. They took him to the hospital." The words felt inadequate, hollow, failing to convey the absolute horror I had witnessed, the burgeoning terror that festered inside me.
Just then, a small figure appeared from the living room, drawn by the commotion. It was my eight-year-old brother, Rex, his round, innocent face creased with confusion. He looked from my tear-streaked face to our mother's worried one. "Steven? What's wrong? Is Ifmen going to die?" he asked, his voice small and high, cutting through my internal turmoil with shocking clarity.
"No, Rex! Of course not," I snapped, harsher than I intended, the words feeling like a desperate prayer more than a truth. I couldn't bear the thought of that question hanging in the air, articulated by a child who understood so little of the finality of it all.
My mother, her usual calm shattered by the urgency of the moment, grabbed her car keys from the bowl by the door. Her movements were swift, decisive, fueled by the immediate need to act. "Come on, Steven," she urged, her hand firm on my back, ushering me out to the car. "Rex, stay with your auntie next door. We'll be back soon." The familiar hum of the engine was the only steady sound in the world as we pulled out of our driveway. The drive to Nexus Health Haven Hospital felt like an eternity, every street light a cruel, flashing reminder of time stretching on, of the agonizing unknown that awaited us. The usually bustling streets of Abuja seemed to blur past the window, the vibrant chaos of traffic, hawkers, and distant music just a dull roar in my ears. All I could focus on was the terrifying image of Ifmen's twisted knee, replaying it over and over in my mind like a macabre film loop, a constant, sickening torment. My hands clenched in my lap, nails digging into my palms, a futile attempt to ground myself against the surging waves of dread. My mother drove faster than usual, her knuckles white on the steering wheel, her lips moving in silent, fervent prayer.
The hospital was a stark, jarring contrast to the vibrant chaos of the school grounds. It was a sterile, cold place that smelled of antiseptic and a potent cocktail of fear, anxiety, and despair. The air itself felt heavy, suffocating. The low hum of the air conditioning was relentless, an irritating drone that only added to the tension.
Ifmen's parents were already there, their faces pale and drawn, etched with profound worry that seemed to age them by years. His mother, her usually vibrant wrapper now seemed muted, crumpled from her frantic dash, clung to his father's arm, her eyes red-rimmed and distant. Every now and then, a soft, almost inaudible wail would escape her lips, "Ọmọ mi! Ifmen mi!" My child! My Ifmen! - a lamentation that tore at my own heart. His younger sister sat beside them, small and vulnerable, her head buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Other relatives, aunts, uncles, cousins, began to trickle in, their faces reflecting the same deep concern, creating a somber cluster of worried family.
Hushed conversations filled the waiting room – worried whispers from his family members, sympathetic murmurs from school staff who had arrived, the quiet hum of prayers being offered under breath. The urgency was palpable, a heavy blanket of dread that settled over everyone present, making the very act of breathing feel like a chore. Every time the double doors to the Emergency ward swung open, every time a nurse or doctor walked past, a collective tension would grip the room, necks craning, eyes wide with desperate hope for news. But no one came for us. Just the steady, infuriating tick of the wall clock, mocking our impatience, each second a cruel extension of the agony.
My mother kept a protective arm around me, offering quiet words of comfort, squeezing my shoulder periodically. But I could hear her own whispered prayers, see the worry in her eyes, a silent reflection of my own terror. She kept glancing at her phone, which seemed to vibrate every few minutes. "It's Ifeoma," she'd murmur, referring to Ifmen's elder sister, who was studying at the University of Abuja. Ifeoma kept calling, unable to be there, desperate for updates, her anxiety echoing ours even from afar. My mother would step away, keeping her voice low, giving brief, hushed updates – "Still waiting, darling... No news yet... We'll call you as soon as we know something." I just sat there, numb, my mind a ceaseless loop of my pass, the fall, the scream, Ifmen's last look – that flicker of bewilderment and question. A silent plea for forgiveness, desperate and constant, built in my heart. Each minute dragged, stretching into what felt like hours, an eternity in that sterile, fluorescent-lit purgatory. I stared at the tiled floor, counting the patterns, trying to distract myself from the churning dread that had taken root deep within me. People came and went, some rushing in with their own emergencies, others leaving with expressions of relief or despair, but for us, the wait persisted, an agonizing, timeless void.
Then, for the fifth time since we arrived, my phone buzzed in my pocket. It was Rex. I almost ignored it, but his face, small and worried, flashed in my mind. I answered, keeping my voice as steady as I could. "Hey, Rex. What's up?"
"Is Ifmen okay?" his little voice piped, thin and reedy, cutting through the hospital's oppressive silence. "Auntie said he got hurt. Is he going to die, Steven?"
The question, so direct, so innocent, struck me like a physical blow. My throat tightened. I glanced at my mother, who was watching me with concern. "No, Rex," I whispered, forcing the word out, trying to inject a confidence I didn't feel. "No, he's not going to die. He just... he hurt his leg playing football. He's going to be fine, okay? He's a Cyborg, remember? Cyborgs don't die." I hated the lie, hated feeding it to my little brother, but I couldn't let his fear, or my own, materialize into words. "Just rest, okay? We'll call you." I hung up before he could ask anything else, the weight of his question adding another layer to the heavy, churning guilt within me.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity that stretched and warped into an unbearable agony, a doctor, his face tired but calm, emerged from the double doors. He carried a clipboard, his stride unhurried, but to our desperate eyes, he was moving in slow motion. He spoke to Ifmen's parents first, his voice low and compassionate, explaining medical terms in hushed tones. Ifmen's mother nodded, tears silently streaming down her face, but there was a faint, almost imperceptible sag in her shoulders, a loosening of tension. A sliver of hope, fragile but real, began to bloom in the suffocating air of the waiting room.
Then, the doctor turned to us, a glimmer of reassurance in his eyes, a professional empathy that offered a fleeting comfort. "It's a clean break," he explained, his voice matter-of-fact, almost casual, as if discussing a minor inconvenience. "A patellar fracture, specifically. The kneecap. Quite severe, yes, but nothing a good cast and time won't fix. He'll need surgery to set it properly, perhaps even a plate and screws, but he'll be fine. He's stable now."
A wave of dizzying relief, so potent it made my knees weak, washed over me. It was like a sudden, unexpected gulp of fresh air after being suffocated. My parents exchanged relieved glances, their own faces softening with gratitude. Tears of pure, unadulterated thanks welled in my mother's eyes. "Thank God," she whispered, pulling me into a tight hug, her voice thick with emotion. Ifmen's mother, though still distraught, managed to call Ifeoma, her voice trembling but now carrying a note of fragile relief. "He's fine, my dear. A broken kneecap. He'll need surgery, but he's fine. Praise God, Eeyaa! He will walk again."
A broken kneecap. That's all it was. A broken kneecap. Not shattered dreams, not a life irrevocably changed, just a temporary setback. The monstrous shadow of guilt that had started to form in my chest, threatening to consume me whole, shrank. It retreated, at least for now, to a manageable ache, a dull throb rather than a searing pain. He'd be fine. He'd be back. He'd laugh again, his unique, vibrant laugh. And I could tell Rex, honestly, that his friend was going to be okay. We all believed it. We clung to that diagnosis, that promise. For a little while longer, we all believed the comforting, utterly devastating lie.