It had started snowing a bit now, and the weather looked gloomy in a way that matched my internal state perfectly. Small clusters of people moved around campus, and they all seemed perfectly alright with this frozen hellscape like it was normal. Meanwhile, I felt like an imposter in a borrowed life.
I had video-called Chukwuma two days after I arrived. He seemed excited to hear from me, asking questions about everything: the weather, the food, the people, and I told him about how everyone said sorry for absolutely nothing. He told me he missed me, and I told him I missed him too while I fidgeted with my sweater because saying it out loud had felt weird.
We ended the call after thirty minutes, and I had gone back to scrolling Instagram with no one else to reach out to because, Jesus, my life felt like the most boring script ever written with no supporting characters, no dramatic plot twists, nothing. Just me.
I had no close friends, only classmates, family friends, and people with labels attached. I had never had time to build anything deeper. My life had always been school, church, and repeat.
Instead, I existed quietly online, on Pinterest, Instagram, and TikTok, even though I had accounts there with no videos or history, just a profile picture of my lips zoomed in and three followers, whom I didn’t even know.
I didn’t know how long I stayed like that, lost in thoughts about home and loneliness and whether I had made a terrible mistake, until I heard the door creak open and turned my neck to see who it was.
My heart jumped so fast I thought it might launch out of my throat.
I blinked once, because there was no way. Absolutely no way.
What were the actual odds that the universe could be this cruel or this kind, depending on how you looked at it?
Because tell me why the person I had bumped into outside the airport on the day I arrived—I mean, the vulgar white lady with eyes bright and piercing as shattered emeralds in sunlight—was walking towards me now.
Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her brown leather jacket, a white T-shirt tucked into black jeans with a black belt, a backpack slung over her shoulders, and black boots that resembled the ones construction workers wore on site.
I was staring until she cleared her throat.
My head snapped up to find she was already looking at me, a faint frown creasing her forehead, and our eyes locked for half a second.
Pinpricks of goosebumps prickled down my back.
I turned away immediately, heat rushing to my face, internally panicking for reasons I couldn’t even explain, which was funny and crazy at the same time.
Why was I freaking out?
She passed my row, and her scent hit me. I could tell from the sound of her footsteps that she was heading to the back seats.
Great idea. I loved the distance.
We remained alone, clearly pretending the other didn’t exist, until more students started trickling in and the room slowly filled.
A petite Asian-looking woman with greying hair pulled into a neat bun walked in soon after, carrying a stack of papers and a red thermos.
“Welcome to Ethics in Global Perspective,” she said briskly. “I’m Dr Chen, and for those of you just joining the programme, prepare yourselves. We don’t do gentle introductions here.”
She set her papers down and turned to us, her eyes scanning the room.
“Today we’re starting with cultural relativism, and I want to see where you all stand before I corrupt your minds with too much of my theory.”
My stomach clenched. On the first day of class, she was already expecting participation.
I glanced around at my new classmates, trying to gauge their comfort levels, and my eyes drifted, accidentally, to the back row.
My breath caught.
The airport lady was sitting with her arms crossed, completely unbothered.
She hadn’t noticed me yet, too busy examining whatever was on the screen of her laptop with the same detached attention she had given me outside the terminal.
“Let’s start with a scenario,” Dr. Chen continued, pulling my attention back to the front. “A culture practices female genital cutting as a rite of passage. Defenders argue it’s their tradition, their way of honouring womanhood, their cultural heritage. Critics call it mutilation and human rights abuse. Who’s right?”
The room fell silent.
