Better Days

Author: Odita Chidera

I always found bright and vibrant school mornings suspicious. They made you feel energetic, tricking you into a false sense of happiness until something annoying or uneasy happened, leaving you miserable, sad, or utterly exhausted by the end of the day.

The assembly ground vibrated beneath my feet as we went through our usual drills. As always, the soldier caller barked out orders, demanding to be deafened by the stomping of our feet, or he would not stop. The junior students stomped with all their might, thrilled by the rush that made them feel tough, like real soldiers. They had no idea how quickly that feeling would wear off.

I did. For me, it was exhausting. The morning sun threatened to melt my skin, and I knew this was the start of another doomed "happy day." My feet ached in the stiff-soled boots, and the heavy uniform’s coarse fabric scratched at my back. I tried to shift it slightly to ease the itch, but it only made things worse. My head screamed for relief, mad at the cap obstructing the breeze that could have cooled it. All my senses were on overdrive—sounds, smells, the heat—everything felt like an attack. No wonder I was so frustrated.

Finally, the drills ended, and the media team took the podium to deliver the day’s announcements. It all happened so fast: a shriek behind me, followed by a loud thud. I froze, my heart pounding as I turned. All attention shifted to the back of the assembly ground, where teachers, prefects, and soldiers rushed to the commotion.

A student had collapsed during a disciplinary drill. My stomach twisted when I realized who it was. Dorita. My best friend. She had arrived late to school that day, which must have landed her in trouble.

My mouth hung open as they hurriedly carried her to a nearby vehicle, headed for the nearest hospital. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. My feet felt glued to the ground. The only word I could manage was, “No.” No, not Dorita. No, not today.

It was her birthday. We had laughed so hard earlier that morning when I teased her about being more ladylike as she grew older. Her laughter echoed in my mind, and tears pricked my eyes. The emptiness in my chest grew, consuming me.

It all felt eerily familiar—like déjà vu. And then it hit me. I had dreamed this exact moment.

The dream had terrified me so much that I woke up crying. But I had not told anyone, too afraid of acknowledging it and willing it into reality. Now, I felt stupid. I should have told my mom; She would have prayed about it and warned Dorita’s family. I whispered a desperate prayer, hoping someone—anyone—was listening.

Later that evening, the school announced the news of her death.

I do not remember much after that. The next thing I recall is waking up in a hospital bed, staring at white walls. I had fainted. My sister’s face lit up when she saw I was awake, and she quickly went to get the doctor.

I hated hospitals. Who didn’t? The corridors buzzed with noise—a child crying, hurried footsteps, the beeping of a nearby machine.

The doctor asked me questions as he examined me. My mom and sister stood silently nearby. They did not mention Dorita, but the sadness in their eyes was unmistakable. It made me furious. Why wouldn’t they just say it? Why wouldn’t they confirm what I already knew?

But I could not speak either. I was too angry at myself, too consumed by guilt. That dream had been a warning, and i had ignored it.

Now it was too late. Fear: 1. Jite: 0.

I replayed memories of Dorita in my mind, hoping they had bring her closer, although just for a moment. Her loud, carefree laugh. Her determination to become a lawyer. “One day, i will stand in court, and they will all listen to me while I gavel,” she had say, her eyes sparkling.

It was her 14th birthday. She should have had so many more birthdays, so many more laughs, and countless dreams yet to fulfill.

I returned to school a few days later, though i had been given as much time off as I needed. Everything felt different—dull, muted.

I wandered to the edge of the school field, to the quiet spot Dorita and I used to sit. Without her, the silence felt oppressive, heavy, hollow. I hugged my knees to my chest, letting the ache in my heart consume me.

I closed my eyes, remembering the first time we sat there. It had been her idea, of course. She had this way of convincing me that everything would be okay, that we were destined for good things.

Now, I felt like I was carrying her dreams alongside mine, and it was unbearable. Tears streamed down my face as I surrendered to the overwhelming grief.

A warm breeze swept past me, startling me. It felt almost comforting, like an invisible hug. For a brief moment, I imagined she was there, reminding me I was not alone.

When I opened my eyes, I saw it—a small, white feather lying in the grass beside me. I reached out and picked it up, holding it delicately. It felt so fragile, as though it might vanish if I held on too tightly.

A strange warmth spread through me as I brushed my fingers along its soft edges. I looked up at the sky and exhaled deeply. Somehow, I felt lighter. I wondered if Dorita was sending me a message, letting me know she was okay, in a place where hurt could not reach her.

I sat there for a while, holding the feather. Nothing was said, but so much was communicated. Slowly, the weight on my chest began to lift.

My name is Jite Jacobs. I am 14 years old, a high school student at Air Force Secondary School, Abuja. I have two siblings, and I aspire to be a pilot one day. I had a best friend named Dorita, who wanted to be a lawyer. She passed away on her 14th birthday.

I do not know if i will ever stop missing her, but I hope that wherever she is, she knows she was deeply loved. I hope she knows that she mattered.