By: Esther Alabi, 9 Juba, Lekki Campus
This year asked more than we expected
and gave back more than we knew to want.
A grade, a friendship, a version of ourselves
We hadn’t met in September.
We learned that failure has a short memory
If you refuse to give it the last word.
The teacher who pushed hardest
was usually the one who saw something first.
That kindness, offered quietly, lands harder than you think.
Then came exams. The silence of the hall,
clocks loud as heartbeats, pens moving like silent prayers.
Weeks of revision notes and convincing yourself you knew enough.
You did. Mostly.
Prize-giving day is still coming.
Names will be called.
Stages crossed.
The work will become something you can hold,
something to show for the long months of it.
And the Year 11s, they stand a little more straight,
knowing this is the last time the school will call them students.
Knowing the next thing has no uniform.
No bell to follow and no one to take the register.
Just the open door and the particular fear
that lives right next to excitement,
the kind you feel when something real is starting.
The door is still open.
That’s enough.
