Thursday, 7:30 a.m. — Tower of Precious Seed College
The morning bell for devotion rang out sharply, echoing across the school compound like a command that could not be ignored. One after another, students drifted toward the chapel hall, their footsteps softened by the dampness of a rain-soaked morning.
On ordinary days, devotion took place under the open sky, where voices rose into the air and dissolved into the wind. But today, the heavens had opened early, and the rain had forced them into the shelter of the chapel.
The hall stood vast and solemn, designed like a theatre of worship. The front descended gently, while the back rose in tiers, ensuring every gaze met the altar without obstruction. Its orange walls glowed faintly under the muted light, and the white tiled floor reflected the restless movement of feet like ripples on still water. Every sound lingered too long, rebounding softly through the space.
Over time, authority had quietly shifted into student hands. What once belonged fully to teachers was now shared—students leading devotion, organizing order, and shaping the rhythm of school life.
The chapel prefect stepped forward.
Silence fell as though it had been poured into the room.
"Stand up and be in the mood of prayer and worship," he said.
The students rose in unison, heads bowed, bodies still, as if the weight of the moment pressed gently upon their shoulders.
Then his voice softened into melody.
"You are Yahweh…"
The chant moved through the hall like a slow current—familiar, repeated, almost eternal in its repetition.
"You are Yahweh… Alpha and Omega…"
The sound swelled, filling every corner of the hall until it felt less like singing and more like breathing.
Then came prayer.
At once, the hall fractured into a thousand voices. Some spoke in tongues, their words breaking into rhythm and fire. Others prayed aloud, urgent and personal. A few clapped softly, while some stood motionless, their silence louder than the noise around them.
After a while, the atmosphere settled.
The assistant chapel prefect stepped forward.
"Bring out your hymn books and open to Hymn 270."
Paper rustled like dry leaves in harmattan wind.
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me…"
"One, two, go."
The hymn rose slowly, carefully woven from many voices.
"Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee…"
The final "Amen" lingered in the air, stretching itself thin before dissolving into silence.
Then the visiting minister stepped forward.
He was young—composed, deliberate in appearance. A black T-shirt sat beneath a brown jacket worn open, paired with black trousers and brown shoes. He moved with calm assurance, as though the weight of attention did not disturb him.
He placed his Bible on the desk.
"Open your Bibles to Deuteronomy 31:6."
A student stood.
"Be strong and courageous… for the Lord your God goes with you. He will never leave you nor forsake you."
A hush deepened.
"Another scripture," he said quietly. "Hebrews 13:5."
Another voice rose.
"I will never leave you nor forsake you."
He nodded, eyes scanning the hall.
"Do you see the thread between them?" he asked, pacing slowly across the front like a man walking through thought itself.
"In Deuteronomy, it is spoken at the edge of uncertainty—war ahead, fear present. Yet God declares presence. In Hebrews, it is echoed again—not in war this time, but in life itself, in want, in survival, in everyday breath."
He paused.
"The promise does not change with circumstance. Only our understanding of it does."
A stillness followed, heavy and complete.
His voice lowered.
"Even when men feel forgotten… heaven remains constant."
The bell rang softly in the distance.
He closed his Bible with calm finality.
"Bow your heads," he said.
And they prayed.
When it ended, he stepped down and left quietly, like a man who had said only what needed to be said.
The chapel prefect returned once more.
"Everybody, stand for the national anthem."
The students rose as one body again.
"Arise, O compatriots…"
Their voices filled the hall like a single breath.
Then came the pledge.
"I pledge to Nigeria my country…"
Afterward, the principal stepped forward, dressed entirely in black—cap, gown, and shoes—moving with the gravity of long-standing authority. The students already understood what followed.
Thursday in black.
"ZIP UP!"
The response echoed through the hall like tradition itself.
Asher leaned slightly and muttered under his breath:
"My zip don spoil."