Chapter 5 - The Kindergarten Defense
Monday morning arrived at Surulere Primary School with the usual chaotic energy of a Lagos schoolyard—children running through the dust, the scent of fried bean cakes from the street vendors, and the loud, rhythmic chanting of morning prayers from the assembly hall.
But outside the rusty iron gates, three unmarked cars with tinted windows sat idling. Two reporters from a local entertainment blog were standing near the entrance, holding small cameras, waiting for Adanna to appear.
Adanna walked through the gates at exactly seven-thirty, wearing her usual neatly ironed skirt and a plain white blouse, her canvas tote bag heavy with lesson plans. The reporters instantly moved toward her, thrusting a microphone into her face.
“Miss Okoro! Miss Okoro! Is it true you're separating Chijioke Eze from his fiancée for a ten-million-naira payout?” one young man shouted, trying to block her path.
Adanna didn't flinch. She stopped right there in the middle of the schoolyard, her eyes steady, her voice cool and perfectly clear as she looked directly into the camera lens.
“I am an educator,” Adanna said, her tone carrying the absolute authority of a woman who managed thirty children every day.
“My salary is paid by the Ministry of Education, and my focus is making sure these children can read before they reach primary one. Mr. Eze made a donation to our library fund because he believes in literacy, not because he is involved in my private life. If you want to discuss corporate budgets, go to Victoria Island. If you are here to disturb my students, I will have the school security detail remove you for trespassing. Good morning.”
The reporters blinked, completely taken aback by her total lack of fear. Before they could ask another question, a large, burly man in a dark suit stepped between them and Adanna. It was Chijioke’s head of personal security, Chinonso.
“The lady has spoken,” Chinonso said, his massive frame completely blocking the cameras. “Step away from the gate.”
Adanna walked into her classroom, her heart pounding against her ribs, but she didn't let the children see her shake. For the next four hours, she immersed herself in her work, teaching the letter ‘B’, helping little Tunde write his name for the first time, and ignoring the constant vibration of her phone in her desk drawer.
At noon, during the lunch break, the classroom door opened softly.
Chijioke entered. He wasn't wearing his executive suit; he had chosen a simple grey linen native outfit, looking strangely approachable against the backdrop of alphabet charts and finger paintings. He carried a small cardboard box filled with fresh boxes of crayons, storybooks, and a container of warm meat pies from a bakery downtown.
Adanna looked up from her grading, her blue-black eyes holding a complicated mix of relief and exhaustion. “You shouldn't be here, Chijioke. The press is outside.”
Chijioke set the box on one of the tiny wooden tables, walking over to her desk. He sat on one of the adult-sized chairs near the corner, looking at her with a profound, quiet reverence that made the entire room feel warm.
“The press has been handled,” Chijioke said softly.
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“My legal team filed a blanket injunction against the blogs two hours ago for defamation. But I didn't come here to talk about them, Adanna. I came to bring the crayons you mentioned during our first date. The red ones and the blue ones. The ones the school ran out of.”
Adanna looked at the box of bright, new crayons, then up at his face. A warm, beautiful tear finally broke through her composure, tracking down her cheek. He had remembered. Amid a multi-billion-naira corporate war, the coldest billionaire in Lagos had remembered her fifteen children and their missing crayons.
