I didn’t think my whole life would depend on a single tick mark on a white A4 paper.
But there it was, pinned to the dusty notice board in front of our principal’s office, fluttering a little in the hot afternoon breeze. Department Selection Form – JSS3 to SS1 Transition. Three options, three futures. Science. Art. Commercial.
The sun was exceptionally hot and sharp that day, burning through my uniform. Students clustered around the board, their voices overlapping like market noise.
“Me, I’m doing science abeg,” Bukola said, already holding her pen like a doctor about to sign a prescription. “My mum said she wants to see me in a lab coat one day.”
Brian laughed. “You that almost fainted during dissection?”
“Better to faint rich than stay awake poor,” she shot back, and everyone laughed.
I smiled too, but my heart was somewhere else. Science. Art. Commercial. I stared at the words like they were spells that could trap me.
The science kids were always the serious ones. The ones teachers adored. The ones who walked around with chemistry sets in their heads and wore “future doctor” like a crown. Commercial students, well, they were the numbers people. Always talking about business, about money. Then there was Arts. The misfits. The dreamers. The “you people like to talk too much” group.
And then there was me, stuck in between.
I loved writing. Not just school essays. I mean stories. Worlds. Characters. Dialogues that existed only in my head until I dragged them out with ink and stubbornness. But how do you tell your parents, “I want to be a writer” when everyone around you is trying to be something that sounds… serious?
“Mummy, I’m not sure which department to choose,” I said that night, standing in the kitchen while she fried plantain.
She looked up. “Choose science now. You know your father’s friend’s daughter is studying medicine in Ukraine?”
I sighed. “But I don’t like science.”
She frowned, the type of frown that carries both surprise and insult. “So what do you like?” I hesitated. “I like… writing.”
She blinked. “Writing what?”
“Stories.”
If looks could petrify, I'd be saying my byes now with the look she gave me. “So after all the school fees I’m paying, you want to be writing storybooks?”
“Mummy, it’s not like that.....”
“Rebecca, abeg don’t stress me this night. Write science on that form. You can be writing your stories in your free time. Abi writers are not doctors too?”
I wanted to say, no, they’re not. But I just nodded, because I knew how this movie ends.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. The air was thick, mosquitoes singing in my ear, the ceiling fan groaning like it was tired of existing. I stared at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to my ceiling. I used to think they looked magical. Now they just looked like question marks.
I pulled out my notebook, the one I hid inside an old biology textbook. I started writing, not even sure what story it was. Just words spilling. A girl standing at a crossroads. A girl who wanted to follow her heart but was scared of disappointing everyone else.
Maybe I was just writing about me.
The next day, we stood at the assembly ground. The principal’s voice boomed through the microphone. “Those who have chosen their departments must submit their forms today!”
My stomach twisted.
Senior Ayo walked up beside me, her braids bouncing as she moved. Despite being two classes higher, she considers me a friend. “Have you picked?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know what to choose. Senior Ayo, how did you choose art despite your dad being an engineer?”
She smiled, that calm, older-sister kind of smile. “He didn’t talk to me for a month. Said art was for lazy people. But I knew I couldn’t spend my life chasing equations I neither love now understand. I liked music. So I stayed with music.”
I didn’t know if I was brave enough for that.
Later that afternoon, I went back to the class. Everyone had left for lunch, but the paper was still there on the desk. My form. Blank. Waiting.
I picked up my pen. My hand trembled. Science stared at me like it was daring me to be practical. Commercial winked like, “You know you like money, girl. You need to be financially literate to get out of this poverty.”
I picked Arts. My chest felt lighter. Then heavier. Like I’d just done something small but irreversible.
That evening, when my mum saw the parent's notice form, she went silent. The kind of silence that feels worse than shouting. “Rebecca, So you went ahead to choose art?”
“Yes, ma.” My voice barely made it out.
She exhaled long and slow. “You’re still a child. You think life is play. You think writing stories will feed you."
“I don’t know,” I said quietly. “But it makes me feel alive.”
She gasped, then took one long, hard look at me. Then she walked out.
That night, she didn’t talk to me. Didn’t even knock when she usually came to say goodnight. My food stayed untouched. I told myself I didn’t care, but my throat ached.
Maybe I made a mistake. Maybe I should’ve just written science.
Two days later, something happened.
We had an interschool essay competition. Nobody wanted to join. Everyone was busy with exams or too shy. The English teacher, Mr. Bassey, said, “Rebecca, you’ll do it.” I tried to say no, but he waved me off. “You’re the one always scribbling at the back of your notebook. Let’s see what you can do.”
The topic was “Next Chapter.”
I wrote about a girl who thought her dreams were too small for the world she lived in. How she hid them under her pillow every night but they kept growing teeth, kept biting through her fear.
When they called me to the stage a week later and said I won second place, my legs almost gave out. The applause was loud. Even Bukola clapped.
My mum came that evening, carrying her market bag, and I showed her the certificate. She looked at it for a long time, like it was a map she didn’t know how to read. Then she said, “Second place? Among how many schools?”
“Twenty-five,” I said.
She nodded slowly. “Hmm. Maybe you should keep writing. Just don’t fail maths.”
It wasn’t full approval. But it was something. A door cracked open, even if slightly. She saw the possibility.
When the new term started, I walked into the Arts class for the first time. The desks were old, the fan wobbled dangerously, but I swear the air felt different. Softer. Fresher. Like I was at the right place.
I sat on my assigned seat, took out my notebook, and scribbled at the back of it, "I'm gonna write a book one day that tells my kid how difficult it was for me to transition to this next chapter, but I did it anyway, and while I may not become a best-selling author......no, I know I will. This experience has taught me that no matter how small my biggest dream may seem to the world, it's still mine. My dreams. My definition of success. I can't wait for what's next."
THE END
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In response to The Inkwell Combined Writing Prompt #2. All images are from Gemini AI.
Thank you for reading. 🧡
