ADUNNI'S CALLING
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE — Roots Growing Underneath
The storm of the previous days gradually softened into a quiet rhythm.
Adunni woke before the bell, this time not out of fear or pressure, but out of a growing sense of purpose. Her muscles still carried the memory of the seniors’ punishment, yet the heaviness was fading.
Kíké stirred when she heard Adunni dressing.
“You’re up again,” she murmured.
“I want to revise before morning rounds,” Adunni said, tucking her notes into her bag.
Kíké sat up fully, squinting at her. “You know… I used to think waking early meant you were being forced. But now I’m starting to believe you truly enjoy learning.”
Adunni smiled, tightening her headscarf. “I do. Every time I learn something new, I feel closer to my dream.”
“And what dream is that?” Kíké asked, although she already knew.
“To be one of the best midwives in this country,” Adunni said quietly. “To help women… to save lives. To do more than what my mother could do.”
Kíké’s face softened. “Then wake me tomorrow too. I want to study with you.”
Adunni blinked, surprised. “Really?”
“Yes. If you continue like this, you will leave me behind,” Kíké teased. “And I must not let that happen.”
They both giggled, the kind of laughter that makes friendship feel like a warm roof over the head.
After assembly, the class had a two-hour break before their next module, so Adunni led Kíké outside to her favourite place, a bench under the old mango tree near the east field.
“This is where you always disappear to!” Kíké exclaimed, dropping her books dramatically onto the bench.
“It is quiet here. My mind breathes,” Adunni replied, opening her notes.
As they studied together, Kíké discovered that Adunni had a gift, not only for understanding but for explaining.
She broke down complex things with simple illustrations:
“The pelvis is like the entrance to a hut. If it is too narrow, the calabash cannot pass.”
Kíké’s eyes lit up. “Ahh! That makes sense!”
Soon the two girls were leaning closer, flipping pages, sketching small diagrams in their notebooks, finishing each other’s explanations. Other students passing by glanced at them curiously.
Some admired the seriousness.
Some whispered.
But unlike before, Adunni didn’t hear judgment, she heard progress.
During their next class, the lecturer asked a challenging question about fetal positioning. Kíké nudged Adunni’s side.
“Answer,” she whispered.
Adunni hesitated, she never wanted to seem like she was showing off, but confidence warmed her like sunlight.
She raised her hand.
Her answer was correct, and the lecturer smiled.
“Excellent, Adunni. The rest of you should take note.”
Kíké beamed with pride, nudging her again.
“See? My friend is becoming a doctor,” she joked.
“Midwife,” Adunni corrected shyly, but her smile refused to disappear.
The murmurs from the other students felt smaller these days, like distant noise she no longer needed to fight.
At lunch, Kíké pulled Adunni to a corner of the dining hall where they could talk freely. She shared stories about her village, about her stubborn baby brother who loved climbing trees, and about her mother who sold palm oil in the market.
Adunni listened, laughing softly, real laughter, not the tense smile she used when trying to avoid attention.
“And you?” Kíké asked. “Tell me something about your home.”
Adunni hesitated, picking at her food. “My day is always full of activities, after tending to the missionary house cleaning, I read when there are no deliveries in the missionary. Mrs Thompson delivers babies every week, I watch and offer little help with the deliveries.”
“But that is where your heart was planted,” Kíké said. “Small seeds become big trees.”
Adunni nodded, feeling her chest swell.
That evening, Kíké rushed to finish her chores early and joined Adunni at their study corner in the dormitory.
They spread their books, reviewed notes, quizzed each other, and shared simple tips, Adunni’s memory tricks, Kíké’s colourful notes.
Soon, other juniors noticed.
A shy girl named Ronke approached them timidly.
“Can I join you? I don’t understand the diagrams from today.”
Adunni looked at Kíké.
Kíké squeezed her hand under the table.
“Let’s teach her,” she said.
And just like that, a small circle began to form around Adunni, unofficial, quiet, but growing.
No posters.
No announcements.
Just students drawn to someone who learned with passion and taught with kindness.
As lights-out approached, Kíké whispered from her bed:
“Adunni… do you know what I think?”
“What?”
“You will become something big. I can feel it.”
Adunni hugged her pillow, warmth filling her chest.
Not the warmth of praise, but the warmth of being seen.
Of belonging.
Of blooming.
Her friendship with Kíké had taken root, spreading comfort into the cracks the seniors had left behind.
And her studies were no longer an escape, they were a path.
A clear one.
Bright.
Steady.
Waiting.
As she drifted into sleep, she whispered to herself:
“Tomorrow will be better.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE — Roots Growing Underneath
The storm of the previous days gradually softened into a quiet rhythm.
Adunni woke before the bell, this time not out of fear or pressure, but out of a growing sense of purpose. Her muscles still carried the memory of the seniors’ punishment, yet the heaviness was fading.
Kíké stirred when she heard Adunni dressing.
“You’re up again,” she murmured.
“I want to revise before morning rounds,” Adunni said, tucking her notes into her bag.
Kíké sat up fully, squinting at her. “You know… I used to think waking early meant you were being forced. But now I’m starting to believe you truly enjoy learning.”
Adunni smiled, tightening her headscarf. “I do. Every time I learn something new, I feel closer to my dream.”
“And what dream is that?” Kíké asked, although she already knew.
“To be one of the best midwives in this country,” Adunni said quietly. “To help women… to save lives. To do more than what my mother could do.”
Kíké’s face softened. “Then wake me tomorrow too. I want to study with you.”
Adunni blinked, surprised. “Really?”
“Yes. If you continue like this, you will leave me behind,” Kíké teased. “And I must not let that happen.”
They both giggled, the kind of laughter that makes friendship feel like a warm roof over the head.
After assembly, the class had a two-hour break before their next module, so Adunni led Kíké outside to her favourite place, a bench under the old mango tree near the east field.
“This is where you always disappear to!” Kíké exclaimed, dropping her books dramatically onto the bench.
“It is quiet here. My mind breathes,” Adunni replied, opening her notes.
As they studied together, Kíké discovered that Adunni had a gift, not only for understanding but for explaining.
She broke down complex things with simple illustrations:
“The pelvis is like the entrance to a hut. If it is too narrow, the calabash cannot pass.”
Kíké’s eyes lit up. “Ahh! That makes sense!”
Soon the two girls were leaning closer, flipping pages, sketching small diagrams in their notebooks, finishing each other’s explanations. Other students passing by glanced at them curiously.
Some admired the seriousness.
Some whispered.
But unlike before, Adunni didn’t hear judgment, she heard progress.
During their next class, the lecturer asked a challenging question about fetal positioning. Kíké nudged Adunni’s side.
“Answer,” she whispered.
Adunni hesitated, she never wanted to seem like she was showing off, but confidence warmed her like sunlight.
She raised her hand.
Her answer was correct, and the lecturer smiled.
“Excellent, Adunni. The rest of you should take note.”
Kíké beamed with pride, nudging her again.
“See? My friend is becoming a doctor,” she joked.
“Midwife,” Adunni corrected shyly, but her smile refused to disappear.
The murmurs from the other students felt smaller these days, like distant noise she no longer needed to fight.
At lunch, Kíké pulled Adunni to a corner of the dining hall where they could talk freely. She shared stories about her village, about her stubborn baby brother who loved climbing trees, and about her mother who sold palm oil in the market.
Adunni listened, laughing softly, real laughter, not the tense smile she used when trying to avoid attention.
“And you?” Kíké asked. “Tell me something about your home.”
Adunni hesitated, picking at her food. “My day is always full of activities, after tending to the missionary house cleaning, I read when there are no deliveries in the missionary. Mrs Thompson delivers babies every week, I watch and offer little help with the deliveries.”
“But that is where your heart was planted,” Kíké said. “Small seeds become big trees.”
Adunni nodded, feeling her chest swell.
That evening, Kíké rushed to finish her chores early and joined Adunni at their study corner in the dormitory.
They spread their books, reviewed notes, quizzed each other, and shared simple tips, Adunni’s memory tricks, Kíké’s colourful notes.
Soon, other juniors noticed.
A shy girl named Ronke approached them timidly.
“Can I join you? I don’t understand the diagrams from today.”
Adunni looked at Kíké.
Kíké squeezed her hand under the table.
“Let’s teach her,” she said.
And just like that, a small circle began to form around Adunni, unofficial, quiet, but growing.
No posters.
No announcements.
Just students drawn to someone who learned with passion and taught with kindness.
As lights-out approached, Kíké whispered from her bed:
“Adunni… do you know what I think?”
“What?”
“You will become something big. I can feel it.”
Adunni hugged her pillow, warmth filling her chest.
Not the warmth of praise, but the warmth of being seen.
Of belonging.
Of blooming.
Her friendship with Kíké had taken root, spreading comfort into the cracks the seniors had left behind.
And her studies were no longer an escape, they were a path.
A clear one.
Bright.
Steady.
Waiting.
As she drifted into sleep, she whispered to herself:
“Tomorrow will be better.”
