The heat was the kind that made you want to peel your skin off and hang it on a hanger.
MU's main campus sprawled like a concrete fever dream; dormitories the color of bruised fruit, lecture halls with peeling paint, a cafeteria that smelled like regret and fried plantains. The harmattan dust had settled on everything, giving the world a yellow-brown filter like an old photograph of a war you didn't fight in. Students shuffled between buildings like zombies; some were laughing, some were crying, most were just trying to survive until the weekend.
Aaron adjusted his backpack strap and watched Charlie argue with a vending machine.
"Give me the fucking Fanta," Charlie said, punching the glass. His bicep flexed; impressive muscle, wasted on a boy who would cry himself to sleep three nights later. "I put in five hundred naira. FIVE. HUNDRED. Give it or I swear to God I will—"
The machine whirred. A can of Fanta dropped. Then another. Then three more.
Charlie blinked. He looked around like he'd just committed a felony and gotten away with it. "Aaron. Aaron, look. I'm a god."
"You're a thief," Aaron said, but he was smiling. He always smiled at Charlie. That was the thing about Aaron; he made you feel like you were the funniest, most important person in the room, even when he was laughing at you. Especially when he was laughing at you.
Charlie grabbed all five Fantas, cradling them like newborn babies. "This is providence. This is the universe saying Charlie, my son, you are blessed."
"The universe is saying you're going to get diabetes."
"The universe," Charlie said, cracking one open and chugging half of it in three seconds, "can mind its fucking business."
They walked toward the dormitories. The sun was setting; the temperature was dropping from "surface of the sun" to "inside an oven." Students milled around; girls in shorts that defied every dress code, boys in jerseys that hadn't been washed since last semester, a couple making out against a wall like they were trying to fuse into a single organism.
Charlie noticed them. He always noticed couples. His jaw tightened.
"You see that?" he said, nodding toward the making-out duo. "That guy is shorter than me."
"Okay."
"Shorter. Than. Me. And she's fine. Like, fine fine. How does that happen?"
Aaron didn't answer. He'd learned that Charlie's questions weren't questions; they were performances. The answer didn't matter; what mattered was that someone was listening.
"I'm more muscular than him," Charlie continued. "I'm more; I'm just more. You know?"
"You're definitely more," Aaron said. "More what? I don't know. But more."
Charlie laughed; a real laugh, not the show-off bark he used around Oliver. That was Aaron's gift. He could make you laugh at yourself without making you feel small. It was a trick. He knew it was a trick. But it worked.
Their dorm room was a shoebox with pretensions.
Two bunk beds, a desk covered in ramen wrappers and lecture notes, a fan that sounded like a dying generator, and the smell of three boys who didn't do laundry often enough. Oliver's side was immaculate; designer sneakers lined up like soldiers, cologne bottles arranged by height, a poster of some American rapper looking angry at the camera. Charlie's side looked like a tornado had sex with a thrift store. Wesley's side was empty; he was probably in the library. Or with a girl. Or both.
Aaron's side was in the corner; neat but not obsessive. A Bible on the shelf that he didn't really read but kept because his mother visited sometimes. A framed picture of Vicky; her smile wide, her eyes the color of honey in sunlight. No drugs. No alcohol. No cigarettes. Aaron was the clean one, and everyone knew it, and everyone respected him for it, and everyone used him for it because the clean one is the one who drives everyone home when they're too fucked up to see straight.
Oliver was already there, lying on his bed with his phone above his face. He was 6'5" of effortless grace; long limbs, sharp jaw, the kind of face that made girls forget their own names. He looked up when Aaron and Charlie walked in, and his eyes flickered to the five Fantas in Charlie's arms.
"You steal those?"
"Providence," Charlie said.
"Providence," Oliver repeated, and laughed. It wasn't a mean laugh. Oliver's laugh was never mean. That was what made him dangerous. "Give me one."
"No."
"Charlie."
"I'm not your errand boy."
Oliver sat up. The room shrank when he stood. He was shirtless; he was always shirtless, because he knew exactly what his body looked like; and the evening light caught the veins in his arms. "I said give me one."
Charlie handed him a Fanta.
Aaron watched the exchange without watching. He'd seen it a hundred times. Oliver asserts dominance, Charlie resists, Charlie folds, everyone pretends it didn't happen. The rhythm was as predictable as breathing.
"So," Oliver said, cracking the can, "Wesley's talking to Rose again."
Charlie stopped drinking. "Rose? The one who rejected you?"
Oliver's jaw tightened. Just a flicker. If you blinked, you missed it. "She didn't reject me. She's just... complicated."
"She told you she didn't like you like that."
"She's confused."
"She said, and I quote, 'Oliver, I would rather eat my own hair.'"
Oliver's eyes went cold. The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. "Charlie. Shut the fuck up."
Aaron stepped in. He always stepped in. "Charlie, did you finish the lit review for Dr. Adebayo?"
Charlie took the bait; he always took the bait; and launched into a long complaint about the professor, the word count, the unfairness of it all. The tension dissolved. Oliver went back to his phone. Aaron sat on his bed and pulled out his own phone.
A text from Vicky: Zuru tried to sit on my lap today. In the cafeteria. In front of everyone.
Aaron typed back: What did you do?
I stood up. She fell on the floor. Everyone laughed. She said she'd remember that.
Shit.
Yeah.
He stared at the screen. Zuru was connected to the college higher ups; her uncle was on the board of trustees. She could make their lives hell. But she wouldn't. Not really. Because she wanted him. And wanting someone made you stupid. Aaron knew that better than anyone.
The door opened.
Wesley walked in, silent as always. He was short but not small; his shoulders were broad, his jaw was sharp, his eyes the color of cold coffee. He didn't look at anyone. He went straight to his bed, sat down, and pulled off his sneakers.
"You're back early," Oliver said. "No luck with Rose?"
Wesley didn't answer.
"Come on, man. I'm just asking."
"She's busy," Wesley said. His voice was flat. Too flat.
Charlie snorted. "Busy doing what? Someone else?"
Wesley's head turned. His eyes met Charlie's. For a long moment, no one spoke. The fan whirred. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed.
Then Wesley smiled. It was a small smile; the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah, Charlie. Someone else."
Charlie's face went red. He opened his mouth, but Aaron put a hand on his shoulder.
"Leave it," Aaron said.
Charlie shut his mouth.
Wesley lay back on his bed and stared at the ceiling. The room settled into an uneasy silence. Oliver went back to his phone. Charlie fumed quietly. Aaron watched them all; the way they orbited each other, the way the air thickened whenever Wesley and Oliver were in the same room.
His phone buzzed again.
He looked down. Not Vicky. Not Zuru. An unknown number.
Unknown (8:47 PM): You don't know me. But I know you. Meet me behind the science block. Midnight. Come alone. Or don't. Your choice.
Aaron's heart stopped.
He read the message again. Then again. He looked up at the room; at Oliver scrolling, at Charlie sulking, at Wesley staring at the ceiling. None of them were looking at him.
He typed back: Who is this?
The message didn't deliver. The number was already dead.
Aaron put his phone face down on his bed. His hands were shaking. He didn't know why. He didn't know anything. But somewhere in his chest, a small voice whispered that something was coming. Something none of them were ready for.
He looked out the window. The harmattan dust had thickened; the moon was a pale smear behind the haze.
Midnight.
He had four hours to decide.