PRISM international

Hello readers!

I am honoured to share with you the second runner-up of the 2026 Jacob Zilber Prize for Short Fiction, “SchoolBoi” by Cletus Okoro! This story’s distinctive and lyric voice will immediately pull you into its world, tracing a narrative rich with both grief and longing. I hope you all take pleasure in reading this piece.

Sincerely,
Megan Horsthuis
Promotions Editor

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SchoolBoi

Present Day

SchoolBoi be my name.

I cannot telling this story wella-wella without beginning from the beginning. Without speaking yafu-yafu of the girl that never calling me SchoolBoi. Of the day the river taking her from me, and I letting it happening. Divine. 

Divine be her name. That term, we becoming friends.

She not laughing at my handwriting, not saying it looking scratch-scratch like where chicken mother scattering sand. Her full-full hair shaking chakamcha as she teaching me spellings without shakara. Her voice louding the words, but her patience with me never exhausting.

I not remembering telling her how my heart doing jim-jim and sweet. I thinking that our time long-long like cold-cold rain pouring from heaven.

Three years passing now, and I still remembering the salt-stiff remnants of her checkered uniform pushing onto the shore three days after she disappearing. The tightness in my chest when the news coming, the knowledge that she being gone, gone, gone, and my own small-small heart refusing to follow.

Most of all, I cannot speaking of her without speaking of the quiz. Or our school. 

Now, I must talking how I remembering it.

…

Friday, 08/07/2023
11:05 a.m.

We waiting in class for the mathematics teacher, Mr. Erasmus, to arrive.

Divine sitting in the front row, book in hand. I liking sitting in front, too, but the first time Mr. Erasmus entering our class, he looking me korokoro and saying, “SchoolBoi, you’re too tall like a pyramid,” then pointing me finger to the back.

Exactly five minutes earlier, our class president assuring us again that Mr. Erasmus coming soon. Still, she not seeing reason to wipe the board sharp-sharp, arrange chalks end-to-end, or asking us to pick trash from under the desks. Instead, she joining the boys to make noise and jump fiam fiam from desk to desk like monkey fleeing from poacher. 

We not learning anything since Monday.

The arithmetic homework Mr. Erasmus giving to us that Monday still hanging on the board in white cursives, and it doing strong-strong to solve. Earlier in class, I attempting it. The addition symbol twirling like fan, the faint gridlines entangling it, and from nowhere number eight turning into snake, eating itself mouth to tail.

My chest tightening. It causing my ribs to clash kom-kom against my small-small heart.

I snapping the book shut to suffocate the snake.

Minutes later, I looking out through the cracked window pane. Break commencing in half an hour, but many students already milling in the sun’s glow. In my reflection on the cracked pane, my head appearing shiny-shiny with vaseline, catching the sun’s glint. Because my maale not affording barbershop every two weeks, she cutting my hair down kpata-kpata. Like my classmates, if the students outside seeing my haircut, they taunting me:

SchoolBoi, why your maale barb your hair with broken glass? SchoolBoi, bow your moro-moro head make we check if oil dey our teeth.

The moment I shifting my gaze back into class, I hearing bawling sound tearing through playground before I even spotting the face crying wa-wa. Maza-maza, everyone breaking into sprints, dust rising like in the James Bond film I watching from the hole in my neighbor Oga Emma’s window when he chilling with walka-walka girls inside house. 

In the whole school, only one person having power to trigger that stampede and instill silence, like that tense moment I stealing meat from pot and the lid slipping from my hand, striking on Maale’s kitchen floor kprakatam.

Even before Principal’s voice rushing into barking commands, his cologne already invading our nostrils gbas-gbos. It smelling something citrus and ripe, like the bums I getting after shaving my first underarm hair with used blade. 

As Principal pacing aisle, he shouting at class president, “My friend, wipe the board!”

She jumping into action, chalk dust soaking our uniforms fast-fast. 

Principal calling everyone his friend. Even the gate man. But Principal not paying him every kobo of his salary. Gate man complaining all the time, but still doing his job. Because jobs hard to find in our island town, Salvation. The river surrounding it cutting us away from City, where Maale saying Job pour full ground brekete, and where Paale going with briefcase every morning and returning in casket one evening. 

 Principal also calling latecomers his friends, but he slipping out long-long koboko cane tucked into his trousers and flogging them ta-ta-ta at their calves and saying he doing so out of love. Or he slapping them, tawai, and saying, “Turn the other cheek.” Like that girl crying on the playground.

He still pacing.

I feeling bead of sweat trickling down my temple. The class quietness screaming in my ears, like that time in church when Pastor saying “a minute of silence” at Paale’s requiem.

“There’s a spelling quiz in two weeks’ time,” Principal speaking in our silence. “It’s the first time our school has been selected.”

He not pausing for us to celebrate. Even if he doing so, we not knowing if applause annoying him. We not wanting his palava. So, we watching him moor-moor like zombie as he nodding iyanga-iyanga like agama, saying, “Our school is the only public school invited.

If you hear your name, stand up immediately:

1. Divine
2. Class president… Goodday
3. Nzu—no, sit. You can’t represent the school while you’re still owing fees. Two of you come to my office during the break.”

Unless Divine not having an answer, occurrence rare like seeing bush meat in my soup, Nzube, my seatmate, be the only boy who not raising hand. Meaning that he knowing the answer wella-wella. But it doing me surprise that he exhaling heavy-heavy, relieved, or disappointed, or both.

Though I cannot spelling even my own name smooth-smooth, I murmuring small-small prayer simi-simi for Principal to select me. But he just scanning the class, throwing the trash lying dirty-dirty on aisle I-don’t-care look, and walking away like he not seeing me any more than he seeing the trash.

I hating myself for not raising my hand and halting him.

“Thank God he had a change of heart,” Nzube laughing.

Finally-finally, his relief stabbing my stomach chu-chu like fish bone.

“What if they ask me to spell antipotogeographica—?”

“Antimonopologeographicationalism,” Divine’s voice coming out polite-polite siriri-werere. It not carrying the I-too-know manner of her friend, Amarachi, who getting kom-kom brains and talking cho-cho-cho. “It’s the longest word in a faux dictionary,” Divine adding.

Nzube flashing me puzzled look, as in, When did she come here?

Piss pressing me one place. I bowing my head on my desk.

Small-small, I peeking my eyes to behold Divine’s big smile but they lowering to my dowa-dowa sandals as I finding out she neither smiling nor still standing in our midst because Amarachi whistling her to come over.

I imagining Divine coming back and asking me Hi, making intelligent comments about my haircut. In reality, my lips curving mumu-mumu like Christmas goat.

I vexing, digging my hand into my schoolbag and lifting the maths workbook out.

Hands quaking, I opening it, trying to channel my embarrassment into the arithmetic exercise. By now, the snake not even dying. It almost striking me from the white sea of paper. 

I shoving the book back into my bag, hissing, Mtchwww, like the watersnails and periwinkles Maale and I picking every night by the shore at low tide.

…

After Break: 12:47 p.m.

Lingering by the corridor, I rehearsing my words before mustering confidence to approach. Divine sitting with Amarachi by her desk. My confidence breaking sharp-sharp as Amarachi sighting me and blowing gossip shi–shi into Divine’s ear like mosquito.

As I reaching them, my tongue producing only slurred words praaa like tap. “What Principal telling you?”

“Since you jumble your tenses so well,” Amarachi snickering, “of what good will you be to the team?”

Then her thick-thick laughter exploding around me like the exhaust fume Principal kabukabu car vomiting woto-woto.

My eyes, red like pepper, itching with salt. I blinking, I blinking back tears.

Of all people saying this, Amarachi, who I knowing to crane her tolotolo neck into Divine’s booklet every exam, be the one shaming me olodo, illiterate.

It not surprising me. But my heart bursting on the ground like ball touching nail bwah.

Divine stepping between Amarachi and me. “It’s enough,” she saying. Then touching my chest and, for the first time, calling me by one name.

Not SchoolBoi.

Not something troublesome.

It doing my body relax-relax like sweet-sweet ogogoro Maale sipping every day to forget Paale.

But I regretting not meeting Divine that time she eating alone after principal’s meeting. Maybe because she eating what I never tasting in my life: soft mai-mai and jollof rice.

Only Ika Divine cooking mama-put with aka siri ike, with careful hands. But my maale buying me akara and bread from Ika Goodday, because only Ika Goodday allowing her to buy on credit. Like the ones before, the akara and bread I eating that break tasting tart. Still, Maale paying Ika Goodday back with our fresh-fresh periwinkles and watersnails.

…

12:50 p.m.

“Mr. Erasmus has been transferred!”

Goodday saying Principal telling them so in his office. 

“And what else?” Nzube asking, pretending as if he not noticing the jubilation shaking class roof gim-gim-gi.

“Go home!” another student from the backseat screaming jolly-jolly.

~

Minutes later, as I sitting alone under the neem tree in playground, Divine coming to me. All the hair on my skin standing gidigba.

She asking me if she can sitting. I nodding, yes. Above us, empty nests hovering on the tree canopy, the air doing cule-cule with breeze.

Then she saying that Principal also telling them he assigning the new teacher from Form Three to prepare them for the quiz.

As she speaking, I focusing on the star embroideries on her collar, then losing focus because of how close she sitting now. Cold catching inside my bones, and my chest doing gbim-gbim to kiss her. I looking at the sharpness of her eyes belleful, her voice doing me winini-wanana like music.

But instead, I slipping my hands into my pockets and shifting back. She not copying my motion. Instead, she speaking big-big English, just like Big Man children in City.

I remembering telling Maale, after Paale disappearing, that I must running away to City. I getting tired of eating only fufu morning and night. She cannot stopping me, I yelling. She pausing from pounding the fufu in the mortar, not looking up mancha-mancha. So, I repeating my words. When she looking at me finally-finally, I seeing tears forming in her sick-sick eyes but not dropping. She looking like a child stranger snatching toy from hand. Something melting inside my chest that day, and I feeling sad-sad about wanting City.

“The quiz will take place in the city,” Divine telling me. Her eyes not on me now, but on the water’s far side. “Principal says a good school can hear you from across the river.”

My chest sinking; in place of it, emptiness swelling-swelling like garri. And I feeling the weight.

I thinking of Maale, of her voice that afternoon. “Leaving this island did not cost only your father,” Maale speaking in Ogba. Any matter Maale speaking in Ogba, just knowing it serious thing. “Where is Aunty J since she left the two of us?”

Unlike Paale, who leaving Salvation to fend for us, Aunty J sailing out to experience city life. Aunty J not contacting us for seven months. She not going missing like Maale fearing. She just not missing us, and I not having her to blame. My paale not her father. And no sweetness here in Salvation. No electricity. Only boys smoking under trees and giving walka-walka girls belle.

Still, it paining me the first time I seeing Aunty J again. She looking different-different. Her chest exposing like showroom on Oga Emma’s Whatsapp screen. We learning more about her new life from that screen. She wearing tattoo, smoking igbo, and no longer replying to my messages. 

But she sending money at the end of every month. 

Money I not asking for, money that making me angry but Maale happy—money she using to register me in entrance exam. Because of that money, Maale forgiving and starting to call Ejiro, her own daughter, Aunty J.

I not surprising.

And I thinking, if city can changing person like that, what can it doing for person like Divine, who brain already sharp-sharp?

…

Two Days to The Quiz
Tuesday, 19/07/2023
5:07 p.m.

Ms. Njoku, Form Four teacher, making the team to stay behind for spelling drills. Amarachi and I waiting under the neem tree.

Ms. Njoku’s voice sounding onekind-onekind and crammed. I not understanding it lai-lai. I telling Divine this. Amarachi overhearing and saying Ms. Njoku’s invented accent better than mine. By now, I learning to put up with her sharp-sharp tongue, all for my Divine. But sometimes, I wondering how they becoming friends: Amarachi be fear, Divine water.

Ms. Njoku starting and ending her lessons with prayer, Divine saying so as we trekking home one evening. That only God giving victory. And I wondering if He also giving victory to the storm that capsizing my father’s boat. 

If Paale not deserving of the victory of life.

They praying, Divine gesticulating, packing every maami spirit in the river and casting them in the lake of fire. Then before teaching, Ms. Njoku arranging the chalks on the desk, line by line, as if order here meaning commanding order on the water.

Unexpectedly, Divine asking me to join the boat going to cheer them on.

I freezing like purewater.

“I picking periwinkle with my mother that morning,” I blurting, avoiding her eyes as they holding me, as if questioning the lie—or my fear of crossing the river.

Then I imagining:

The next day in school, I will steering clear of her desk. At closure, as the bell jingling gida-gida through the halls, I will grabbing my bag to scale the fence. But she there, at the school gate, waiting. Not with the other girls. Alone.

“You are not coming,” she will asking me again, her voice not sweet-sweet like before, not sharp-sharp like Amarachi’s. Just not her voice.

My eyes will lowering to my shoes, baked in Salvation mud. “My mother. The periwinkles,” I will stuttering.

She will be quiet for a long time. “Nzube says you are afraid of the river. That you have never crossed it since your paale.”

My chest will firing hot like bullet. I will wanting to saying, Yes, I be afraid—so?

But I will not finding my words.

“Okay, SchoolBoi.” She will sighing.

And SchoolBoi, to me, will forever sounding like a small, sad thing. 

“Keep periwinkles for me,” she hugging me now, pulling me from my imagination.

As she not letting my body go, I feeling hot like I catching harmattan. Images of Spartacus film Oga Emma playing on TV and shutting the window when he doing something with walka-walka girls pouring inside my brain.

“I will bring you a spelling book from there.” She turning to leave. “A proper city one.”

As she skipping away, I watching her hair and the stars on her checkered dress twinkling. I standing there watching and watching until the gate man shouting, Yeye boy, go house! 

That be the last time I ever seeing her in school.

…

Three Days After The Quiz
Tuesday, 26/07/2023
4:31 p.m.

Like tide, the news coming unexpectedly and burying the name of the winning school. Most of all, it lacking details why our team not returning. The news itself unsettling me more than its absence.

Seeing Ms. Njoku visiting the homes of the team members jeje, I resolving that most content losing in translation true-true. Because which unlettered parent in Salvation can understanding her pri-pri-pri English? 

Later, she finally-finally locating our house, knocking kpo-kpo-kpo, asking if Ika Divine living here. Maale using her puckered lips as pointer, Not here, down the road. Then in Ogba, “Hope all is well?”

Ms. Njoku sitting in our parlor. 

Ms. Njoku, who tall and big like blom-blom, now holding herself tight-tight like gum, her polished English tumbling out jaga-jaga.

“They are… fine,” she telling my maale, hands buried in her thighs. “There was… a storm. The boat it was thrashing. But, uh… we rescued most of the students.”

Maale nodding, slow-slow. She understanding “fine.” Not “most.”

“What do you mean most of the student?” I demanding, my body weak-weak like fever that the only perfect sentence I ever producing in life coming wrapped in horror. 

For whatever reason, Maale forgetting the part where she needing to scold me and reassure the visitor that she raising me proper-proper. That she not knowing how I losing my manners and chucking mouth in adult conversation. But maybe both Maale and Ms. Njoku sensing why, the tightness in my chest, the heftiness of my words. 

I thinking of Divine. Of her begging me to follow them.

In my head, everywhere turning voom voom like speeding okada. I wanting to fall. They rushing to catch me.

I cannot bringing myself to ask if Divine the one almost saved. I cannot speaking; my mouth heavy-heavy, like somebody replacing my tongue with rock that gritting against my teeth.

I stumbling backward, squirming free, dashing toward the shore.

On the shore, sunset dabbing the horizon three shades of maroon, fishermen tethering their boats. I remembering the common belief in Salvation: after the river sinking a person, on the third day, it rebelling against gravity, forcing the corpse to surface, blotted and musty.

Like Paale’s case happening.

I plowing down the muddy shore, eyes scanning for checkered cloth, for star embroideries. My body feeling empty-empty like it not my own. Then not sudden-sudden, I catching sight of checkered uniform gaping at me. 

Fast-fast, my two feet ceasing like ink, give to tide, and my body dropping onto the water surface, gbam. Like mangrove.

~

When I waking up, it not the next day. It be the same night. Smell of kerosene lamp and sound of weeping filling our room. Maale crying. Ms. Njoku crying. 

My eyes clearing slow-slow. I seeing Amarachi. Goodday. Nzube. They not dying. They sitting around my mat, wiping noses, crying.

And then I seeing her. “Divine,” I groaning.

She sitting closest, her body not musty, not blotted. It clean-clean, but her hair not shaking chakamcha now. It laying flat-flat, serious. 

Grunting, I trying to sit up. Cold stinging my lungs. She holding me down. 

Her eyes not meeting mine full-full. They holding something heavy-heavy. My heart wanting to do jim-jim, but it cannot.

She saying my name. Not the one she giving me. Not SchoolBoi. My real name. She repeating it, and I not recognizing her anymore.

She saying one student from another school not making it. His body, the river keeping.

That it being the fishermen who fishing me out without hook.

She saying our school winning. That she spelling the final word correct-correct. A-n-t-i-m-o-n-o-p-o-l-o-g-e-o… Her voice fading in my ears.

She saying a big-big city school hearing her spelling it. They offering her scholarship there and then. Full-full. Room and board.

“I am going there,” she saying. “I came to tell you before we sail tomorrow.”

The words not entering my ears. They falling on my skin like stones. I looking at Maale, who crying not for death, but for the old-old story. The story of someone sailing to the city and never coming back. Of being left.

Divine placing something on the mat beside me. A book. Thick-thick.

“I brought you the spelling book,” she saying, her voice tiny-tiny. “Dictionary.”

I looking at it. I thinking of the river I fearing. River that taking Paale and Aunty J and now taking Divine, not by force but by promise.

They all watching me, waiting for smile to cut my face. But inside, I feeling new thing, the true thing, filling me like black water. I drowning alive. It not sharp-sharp pain of loss. It being dull-dull ache of being left behind. Of staying here.

She leaning forward to hug me, like that time under the neem tree. But my body stiff-stiff like wood. She pulling back, her eyes shining wet-wet.

“Keep periwinkles for me,” she whispering, the old joke now tasting like ash.

She standing up. They all standing up, filing out jeje, leaving me with Maale and the new book and the old silence.

…

Wednesday, 27/07/2023

The next morning, I not going to the shore to see her off. I staying in my bed, listening for the boat engine to cough and fade. I holding the spelling book, its weight trembling my arms.

When the sound gone-gone, I getting up. I walking to the shore alone. No corpse pushing onto the sand. Only the endless water, going to City and coming back, coming back and going to City.

I opening the book. Looking at the words, lines and lines of them, marching like soldiers to a place I cannot reaching. My eyes blurring. I reading the first word I seeing, my lips moving simi-simi:

S-p-e-l-l.

I saying it loud-loud to the river. “Spell.”

Then I flinging the book, this heavy-heavy gift, as far as my fear can throwing. It hitting the water with slap, not sinking first, just floating for a moment like small boat, before the pages drinking the river and it going down, down to where Paale be.

That be how she not dying, but leaving.

And that be how I learning to spell my grief.

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