THE SCHOOL REUNION THAT WENT WRONG

CHAPTER 1

The day my old classmates added me to that reunion group chat was the day my peaceful life ended.

If somebody had told me that a simple WhatsApp message would scatter my mind that Friday morning, I would have sworn on my late father’s grave they were lying.

It was just one green notification, but the way my heart jumped, you would think they told me EFCC had frozen my account.

I was sitting at my office desk in Warri, pretending to focus on those useless spreadsheets, when the message popped up. “Class of 2014 Reunion!!!” It came with one of those badly designed flyers full of glitter fonts, and before I even opened it, my phone started buzzing with voice notes and memes from people I had not heard from in ten years.

The group name was already dramatic: “Future Leaders Reloaded.” Future leaders my foot. Half of the boys that used to mock me in school were now in the group, talking big, sending pictures of themselves beside cars that were probably on loan. Emeka was already dropping long voice notes about how “this reunion will change lives.” I laughed small. That boy never changed. He was the head boy, the same one that used to write names of noise makers like his life depended on it. Now he runs some logistics company in Lagos and behaves like Dangote’s younger brother.

Chiamaka, my ride-or-die back then, quickly sent me a private message: “Ada baby, you must come o! This one na our chance to show face.” She has three kids now, a small catering business in Asaba, and a mouth that cannot rest. She said even Tunde, the one that used to make my heart scatter in SS2, was coming back from Canada. I almost hissed. Ten years and I still remember how he smiled when he borrowed my Physics note? Life is wicked.

For the rest of that day, I tried to ignore the group, but every time I opened WhatsApp, somebody was posting their wedding pictures, their trip to Dubai, or that annoying “throwback vs now” nonsense. Some girls were already forming slay queens with their husbands beside them. I just kept scrolling quietly.

When I got home that night, I sat on my bed, staring at my cracked ceiling, wondering what I even had to show if I went. A small job that barely paid, one black dress that still fit me, and a heart full of unfinished dreams. But something in me wanted to go—not for them, but for me. To see what ten years had done to all of us.

Just when I was about to mute the group and sleep, my phone buzzed again. A new message popped up at 11:37pm. It was from a name I hadn’t seen in years.

Tunde: “Can’t wait to see you all.”

My hand froze on the screen.

THE SCHOOL REUNION THAT WENT WRONG

CHAPTER 2

I almost didn’t want to get out of the car when I arrived at the venue. I swear, I could feel the eyes of the world on me the moment I stepped out. The hall wasn’t flashy, no. Just one of those places that looked like they cleaned up the floor, added some balloons, and called it a “reunion.” Still, the cars parked outside told a different story. Big men and their big cars, flashing lights everywhere, people laughing too loudly as they stepped out. I could already feel myself shrinking, even before the door opened.

Chiamaka had been all over me about my outfit, but I didn’t care. What was the point of dressing up when I wasn’t sure I even belonged here anymore? So I wore my black dress, the one that still fit, the one I bought in Onitsha market years ago. Simple. Not too flashy. But as soon as I walked in, it felt like I was invisible. I could see them—those that had it all. I could smell their new money. Emeka, with his sharp suit and the way he swaggered with the microphone, was the first person I saw. Always the show-off.

“Can you hear me, people?” Emeka’s voice boomed across the hall, and the crowd went wild, clapping like they were waiting for him to announce the opening of heaven. His voice got louder with every sentence, talking about how “life had been so good to him.” I rolled my eyes, but what else could I do? He was the same boy who used to punish us for talking in class. Now he was the king of Lagos, running his logistics company and still acting like the class captain.

I didn’t even need to search for Tunde. I spotted him as soon as he walked through the door, just like in those dreams I had back in secondary school. His tall frame stood out even in the crowd. He wasn’t the fresh boy from our school days. This one looked older, sharper, like life had finally kicked him into reality. Still, there was that same warmth in his smile that made my heart scatter a little. I tried to play it cool, but he caught my eye. He smiled, and for a second, everything felt like it was happening all over again.

“Adaora!” Chiamaka squealed, dragging me away from my thoughts. She pulled me into the group where people were gathered. They were chatting, laughing, and exchanging memories of the good old days. Some of them hadn’t changed—still loud, still too proud of their “achievements.” But then there was Ngozi. She stood off to the side with her husband, her face strained, the smile on her lips not reaching her eyes. I had always wondered how she kept up that perfect “good girl” act. It was hard to ignore the whispers that followed her wherever she went.

A bit of small talk here, some laughter there, and I was getting caught up in the night. Drinks flowed. The music pumped in the background. Everyone was pretending to be unbothered, but I could feel the tension building—hidden, like a quiet storm waiting to burst. It wasn’t just me. Even Tunde had that same distant look in his eyes, like he wasn’t fully in the room.

I didn’t know when it happened, but at some point, the music drowned out everything else. My eyes caught something—Emeka and Ngozi, standing together by the bar, speaking in hushed tones. The way their eyes locked, like they shared a secret, made my skin crawl. I didn’t hear the words, but the tension was thick, almost suffocating. Emeka was laughing too loud, as usual, but Ngozi? She didn’t look happy. There was something behind her eyes—something I couldn’t put my finger on, but I knew it wasn’t good.

Just then, Tunde caught my gaze again. His smile was softer this time, almost like he was trying to reassure me. But something about the look in his eyes told me he wasn’t just here for the old memories. He had his own battles, his own secrets.

I could feel it, the slow build-up. This night wasn’t going to end like any of us expected.

THE SCHOOL REUNION THAT WENT WRONG

CHAPTER 3

The moment Tunde looked away, I caught myself still watching him, but the music swallowed my thoughts. The hall was louder now, people shouting across tables, glasses clinking, waiters rushing with trays that were already half empty before they even reached the back. It was that kind of night where laughter started sounding like noise, and the smiles on people’s faces began to look like masks.

Near the buffet table, a small commotion started. Two men—Tochukwu and Desmond—were standing chest to chest, voices rising over something that sounded so ridiculous I had to strain my ears to believe it. An old debt from 2014. Class contribution money for our valedictory party that one claimed he never returned. Ten years had passed and here they were, veins standing on their necks, throwing insults that made some of us step back. Emeka quickly grabbed the microphone again, his “gentlemen please, let’s respect ourselves” voice cutting through the tension before it turned into a full-blown fight. People laughed it off, but that kind of thing leaves a taste in the air.

I had just moved towards the drinks table when my eyes caught something by the side exit. Ifeoma, the married one with the diamond ring that could blind you, was walking fast, head low, and beside her was Chike, one of those boys that never had shame in school. He looked too eager, and she looked too comfortable. They didn’t even glance around properly, just slipped past the curtain like they came here for a private appointment. A boy with his phone out was already pretending to scroll, but his camera was facing their direction. You know that kind of video people leak the next day and swear they didn’t mean to record.

I didn’t want to think about it, so I drifted towards the back where the music was softer. That was when Tunde found me. He didn’t come with noise or big talk, just that calm presence that made people want to listen. “Adaora, you’ve changed… in a good way,” he said, and I almost laughed because what does that even mean after ten years? We talked a bit about school, how the hostel food used to taste like punishment, how our maths teacher once fainted during assembly. Little, useless things that suddenly felt precious. There was something in his eyes though—some story he wasn’t ready to share. I had mine too.

Outside, the rain started quietly, tapping the zinc roof like fingers. Inside, the drinks got stronger, the music faster, the people louder. Someone dragged Chiamaka to the dance floor, her wig shifting with every move, and the hall felt like it had a heartbeat of its own. But just as I was starting to relax, the lights flickered.

First once, like a warning. Then again, longer this time. People shouted “NEPA!” like we were still in boarding school, and then the hall went completely dark. Only the rain outside and the low hum of voices filled the space. When the lights came back, it couldn’t have been more than a minute, but something had changed.

Ngozi was no longer where she had been standing.

Her drink was still on the table. Her bag was still on the chair. But Ngozi herself—gone.

THE SCHOOL REUNION THAT WENT WRONG

CHAPTER 4

For a moment, nobody moved. People were still laughing, adjusting their clothes, sipping their drinks, until someone finally said, “Where’s Ngozi?” It sounded casual at first, like she had just stepped out to pick a call. But her handbag was right there on the chair, the same chair where her half-empty drink was sweating onto the tablecloth. Her phone was flashing with a new message. It didn’t add up.

Her husband came back from the restroom looking confused. “Has anyone seen my wife?” He tried to smile, the kind of smile that begged for a quick answer, but his voice was already rising as he tapped her phone screen again and again. “She wouldn’t just leave her bag here now. Has anyone seen her?” He started dialling her number, holding it to his ear, frowning, redialling, pacing. No answer. The way the phone kept ringing on the chair made the hall suddenly feel too small.

People began to whisper. You know the way people gather in small circles, pretending to mind their business but their necks are turning. Someone said they saw her by the bar with Emeka earlier. Another swore they heard them arguing about something—money, business, nobody was sure. The whispers travelled fast, faster than the music could cover, and in minutes Emeka was already looking restless, his phone in his hand, his forehead shining as if the heat had picked only him.

I was sitting with Chiamaka and Tunde, my eyes still on that empty chair. It felt strange how one person could just vanish in the middle of so many people. Tunde leaned closer and said quietly, “Adaora, do you want me to drop you when you’re ready? This place might get messy.” I nodded without thinking, but my mind wasn’t calm. I kept looking at that chair, at her phone blinking there, as if it had a story to tell.

The rain outside had grown heavier. People were checking the time, some already making their way to their cars. But the mood had changed. The excitement that filled the room an hour ago had shifted into something else—something uneasy, like everybody suddenly remembered how late it was. Emeka was now on his phone at one corner, talking too fast, while Ifeoma had returned looking like she just ran a marathon, her lipstick smudged, pretending to fan herself from the heat.

By the time I finally left with Tunde, the WhatsApp group was already catching fire. People were typing faster than sense—“She left with someone,” “Check the CCTV,” “I heard it’s her husband’s fault,” “Somebody saw her entering a jeep.” Voice notes were flying, screenshots everywhere, everybody suddenly an investigator. Chiamaka kept forwarding me things, her voice notes full of “haaa” and “Jesus o.”

I got home, changed my dress, and lay on the bed scrolling through the chaos. That was when my phone buzzed with a new message. No name. Just a number I didn’t have saved.

“You were sitting close. Did you see anything?”

THE SCHOOL REUNION THAT WENT WRONG

CHAPTER 5&6

I didn’t reply to that message. I just stared at it, the way you stare at something that feels like a trap, thinking maybe the sender would reveal themselves if I waited. Nothing came. Only the typing dots that appeared and disappeared like the person was changing their mind. I dropped the phone on my pillow and turned it face down, but even in the dark, it felt like the screen was burning into my back.

By morning, the whole thing had scattered. My phone was vibrating like it was being chased. WhatsApp was mad. Screenshots everywhere. Somebody had posted a short clip of Ifeoma sneaking out with Chike, the same one I saw last night. The comments under it were wild—people dragging her, tagging her husband, even adding old school gist that didn’t concern the matter. Instead of focusing on Ngozi, the group was now divided. Some were saying, “Leave Ifeoma, she’s not the missing one,” others were saying, “This is the real reason Ngozi disappeared, women like this are the problem.” It was like the reunion had turned into one long family meeting with no head.

The organisers were now trying to save face. They posted an official message in the group, begging everyone to stop spreading unverified information. “The police have been informed. Please cooperate and stop causing panic,” they wrote, but you know Nigerians—once gist starts flying, nobody can catch it again. People started asking for CCTV footage, someone even tagged the hotel’s Instagram page like that would make them release camera evidence on social media.

Around mid-morning, Chiamaka called me. “Adaora, please, don’t involve yourself in anything. I’m begging you. People already said you were sitting near Ngozi before she disappeared. Just don’t talk too much. Don’t even answer any random message.” Her voice was sharp, like she was warning a stubborn child, and I understood why. I had already deleted the strange message from last night before picking her call.

Not long after, Tunde sent me a chat. Simple, not the kind of man that adds drama. “Hope you’re okay? This thing is getting serious.” I told him I was fine, even though my hands hadn’t stopped scrolling since I woke up. We ended up talking a bit longer than we planned. About the mess. About how one night could carry so many secrets. He said he would come around later, bring some tea, just to check on me, and for a moment, I felt a small pocket of calm in the middle of the noise.

But the noise didn’t stop. By afternoon, another message dropped in the group, this time from one of the organisers. Short and heavy.

“The police want everyone that attended the reunion to assist with the investigation. A list has been sent out. If your name is there, expect a call.”

I scrolled down the attached screenshot, scanning through the names until my eyes found it.

Adaora Chukwudi.
……..
……..
I stared at my name on that list like it could blink and disappear if I kept looking long enough. The letters felt louder than the rest, sitting there in the middle of all those people I barely spoke to that night. My phone kept buzzing with group messages—some pretending to be calm, others already typing like lawyers: “If your name is there, cooperate o.” “Better go early before they come for you.” It wasn’t even up to two hours before the first call came through: “Madam, please report to the station for questioning. It won’t take time.”

The police station was one of those old buildings with peeling paint and chairs that looked like they had survived a flood. Everyone from the reunion who had been listed was already there in small groups, whispering, adjusting their faces. The air smelt like too many perfumes mixed with nervousness. Rumours were flying like mosquitoes. One woman swore Ngozi had been planning to leave her husband, another whispered that she owed some serious money, and then there was someone claiming she had been threatening to expose somebody at the reunion—nobody could say if it was true, but you know how talk grows wings when there is tension.

Emeka came in with his big car and big noise, talking as if everybody had accused him directly. “I didn’t even talk to her that night more than greeting o. What’s all this nonsense?” he kept saying, but people were side-eyeing him. Someone said they saw them arguing near the bar. He denied it so fast it sounded rehearsed, his hand moving from pocket to pocket like it was searching for peace.

When it got to my turn, the questioning wasn’t long, but it left a strange taste. They asked where I was sitting, who I talked to, whether I saw her leave, if I noticed anything unusual. I answered everything, trying not to sound defensive. It felt like they were just gathering details, but the way the officer’s eyes lingered on my face before dismissing me made me wonder if they knew more than they were saying.

Outside, Tunde was leaning by his car, waiting. He had finished his own questioning earlier and decided to wait for me. “Don’t worry, it’s procedure,” he said, handing me a bottle of water. We ended up driving to a quiet spot to get suya and tea, both of us tired of the noise. For the first time, we talked about things beyond the reunion—how life had turned out so differently from the big dreams we used to draw in secondary school, how people expected us to have become these shining, loud successes by now. There was a softness in his eyes that hadn’t been there in school, a gentleness that made me forget the chaos for a short while.

By the time I got home, it was already late evening. My clothes smelled of roasted meat, my head full of unfinished conversations. I dropped my bag on the chair, plugged in my phone, and saw a new message. No name. Just a number I didn’t know.

“Ask Tunde where he was during the blackout.”

THE SCHOOL REUNION THAT WENT WRONG

CHAPTER 7

I kept staring at that message until the words stopped looking like English. Ask Tunde where he was during the blackout. My first thought was to ignore it the way I ignored the first one, but something about the timing made it stick like pepper in the throat. Why now? Why him? Just when I had started feeling that tiny bit of peace with everything spinning around us, somebody wanted to pour sand inside it. I read it again, this time slower, like maybe I would see a lie hidden between the letters. Nothing.

I didn’t reply. I locked my phone, unlocked it again, went straight to Tunde’s chat. His last message was still there, simple, soft, nothing suspicious. My mind started to divide itself: one part telling me to trust what I saw with my own eyes—this man that bought me tea, that sat with me and listened like my words mattered, the other part whispering that people are not always what they show in public. I carried that confusion into sleep, and it followed me into morning like a stubborn stain.

By afternoon, the reunion gist had taken another turn. Photos started spreading—Ngozi’s scarf was found near the riverside close to the hotel. It was the same bright yellow one she wore that night, no mistaking it. People began shouting online: “Her husband should talk!” “Check her bank records!” “This is no ordinary case!” It was like the whole city suddenly became investigators. Old classmates were even fighting themselves on the group; husbands and wives were dragging each other because of who they followed or didn’t follow on Instagram that night. The thing had scattered beyond control.

I thought I would escape attention, but Emeka found me that evening outside my office. He didn’t even pretend to smile. “Adaora, let me warn you. Mind how you talk about that night. Don’t go and put yourself inside what you don’t know.” His voice was low, but the threat was sitting behind every word. I wanted to ask him why he cared so much when he claimed he barely spoke to Ngozi, but I just nodded and left. The air around him smelt like trouble.

Later, I called Tunde. I didn’t send the message to him, I just asked casually, “That night during the blackout, where were you?” He paused, the kind of pause that drags. Then he said, “I stepped out to take a call. That’s all.” I asked who called him. He laughed a little, too light for the matter. “Adaora, is this an interview? Don’t start joining them to look for who to blame.” That answer did not settle me. It felt too easy, like the top of a pot covering something boiling inside.

Two days later, I was coming out of a pharmacy near the main junction when I saw him again. Tunde. Standing by his car. But he wasn’t alone. He was talking with a man I recognised immediately—Ngozi’s husband. Their faces were tight, their hands moving fast as if they were exchanging something more than greetings. I slowed my steps, hiding behind a parked keke, my heart knocking small-small.

What exactly were they discussing?
………..
………..
I stayed behind that keke for a few seconds longer than made sense, just watching them. Tunde’s face was stiff, his hands moving like somebody trying to explain his innocence, while Ngozi’s husband only nodded now and then, his jaw hard, like a man carrying too much in his head. I didn’t wait to see the end of their talk. I turned back towards the main road and pretended to be on a call till they both entered their cars and drove off in different directions. But my heart had already collected the picture and kept it.

That evening, I sent Tunde a message. No emojis, no pleasantries. “We need to talk. I saw you today.” He called almost immediately, his voice calm, like nothing had happened. “I was going to tell you,” he said, and that one line made me angrier. “Tell me what exactly?” I asked. There was a pause again, that same kind of pause that gives room for lies to enter, then he said he only met Ngozi’s husband because the man wanted to ask him some questions about that night. I didn’t let him off. “So, during the blackout, where did you go? Because somebody is saying you were not in the hall.”

He exhaled loud into the phone, then told me the truth—at least the one he was ready to share. He said he had stepped out to take a phone call and on his way back, he saw Ngozi at the back door arguing with someone. A man. He didn’t see the person’s face clearly because the light there was poor, but the argument sounded serious, not like lovers’ quarrel. “I didn’t want to get involved,” he said. “I just kept walking.” The way he said it didn’t carry pride, more like regret.

That night, while I was still turning the matter over, Chiamaka came by my place. She looked like someone that had not rested since the reunion ended. She closed the door behind her and said, “Adaora, I need to tell you something but it stays here.” Her voice was low, her eyes everywhere except mine. She said Ngozi had been planning something big that night—she didn’t know if it was to run away with somebody or if it involved some money issue, but there had been whispers in their circle even before the event. “She was too tense that day,” Chiamaka said. “I thought it was just marriage wahala. Now I’m not so sure.”

Meanwhile, online, things were getting messier. The police released a shorter list of suspects, names of those that needed to come in again. People were dragging names without facts. Screenshots, old photos, even things from secondary school days were being used to shame people. Some had turned the case into gossip market, forgetting a real human being was still missing.

Through all this, Tunde and I started talking more. He would check on me, bring food, ask if I was coping with the calls and questioning. There was something steady in him I wanted to trust, but that small seed of doubt refused to die. Anytime my phone buzzed, my mind would jump.

Then it happened. A classmate—Kunle, the one that liked recording everything with his phone—was attacked on his way home from work. They said he had been running his mouth too much online, claiming he knew the person Ngozi was last with. He ended up in the hospital with stitches on his head. The group chat went silent for almost an hour after that news dropped.

Who was trying to shut people up?
……
……
The news of Kunle’s attack was still hanging in the air like harmattan dust when another bombshell dropped the next morning. Someone leaked a screenshot from the police investigation showing a bank transfer—Ngozi’s account had sent a huge sum of money, almost five million, to another account the same night of the reunion. The timestamp was a few minutes after the lights went off. People went wild. Some said she had been kidnapped for ransom, others swore she staged everything and was laughing somewhere abroad. Me, I just stared at the phone like it could explain itself.

The group chat was no longer reunion talk; it had turned into a tribunal. Emeka’s name came up again and again until the man himself posted a long voice note, his voice sounding tired and desperate. He admitted he had argued with Ngozi that night about some money she owed him from a joint business deal. “Yes, I raised my voice,” he said, “but I swear on my mother’s grave, I did not touch her. We finished talking and I left her there.” Some believed him, some didn’t. The comments under that voice note were like firewood—everybody had something to add, whether it made sense or not.

I sent the transfer screenshot to Tunde. He didn’t reply immediately, but when he came to pick me later that evening, his face looked like he hadn’t slept well. We drove around for a while, no music, just the noise of traffic filling the space between us. “Adaora,” he said finally, “what if Ngozi is not dead? What if she ran?” I looked at him, thinking he was trying to sound hopeful, but his eyes were too sharp for that. “Run to where?” I asked. That was when he told me he’d heard whispers about a house somewhere outside town, a place she used to visit whenever her husband’s wahala became too much.

It started to make sense in a way that annoyed me. The money, the blackout, the scattered marriage. Even Chiamaka’s warning that night about Ngozi’s tension—it all pointed to somebody that wanted to vanish before the world caged her. Tunde and I agreed to tell the police about that hideout, not because we were sure, but because doing nothing was eating both of us inside. They listened, said they would check.

But before we could even breathe from that decision, another message entered my phone, this time from an unknown number. No greeting, no name, just one line: “Meet me if you want to know the whole truth.”

There was a location pin under it.
…..
****
The message was still bright on my screen, that small red pin staring at me like an eye. I didn’t even wait to think too much before forwarding it to Tunde. He came to pick me, no words, just a quick look at me like, are you ready for whatever is ahead? We drove out of town following that map, the roads getting quieter, trees leaning over the tar as if they too were watching.

When we reached, it was not some bush hideout like in films. It was an old bungalow, paint peeling, a small shop in front selling recharge cards and bread. The gate wasn’t locked. Tunde went first, I followed. And there she was. Ngozi. Sitting on a plastic chair like somebody waiting for exam results. Her face was leaner, her eyes restless, but it was her.

She didn’t scream like she was surprised or something.

Staring at us, she said, “You people came.” Her voice cracked, not like someone caught in crime, more like somebody finally tired of running. The police came not long after, we called them. They didn’t drag her or shout. They just asked her to talk. And talk she did.

She said the money was hers, that she had planned everything because her marriage had become a trap. That night at the reunion, while people were laughing and dancing, she was calculating how to breathe again. Her husband had debts, people were threatening her, somebody even tried to use her past against her to collect money. She didn’t trust anybody, not even her own friends, so she planned that blackout with the help of a staff at the venue and moved the money quietly. “I wanted to disappear before they finish me,” she said. “I didn’t know it would scatter this far.”

By the next week, the news had spread. Some people insulted her, some said she was brave. Emeka was cleared. Tunde too. Those who had been dragging their names began to keep quiet, but not before many marriages had entered storm. One woman left the group entirely after her husband’s chats with Ngozi resurfaced. Another man’s business suffered because of the lies people cooked online.

As for me and Tunde, the whole thing left us looking at each other different. He wasn’t the villain people painted, and I wasn’t just that girl who was always suspecting him.

One evening he brought me food like he used to, no big talk, just a quiet, “So where do we go from here?” And I knew my heart had already answered before my mouth spoke.

We decided to start all over again, because this time, we had known what we wanted: he was all I wanted.

The reunion group didn’t die, but it changed. The noise dropped. No more fake updates, no more loud draggings like before. Just small check-ins, birthdays, work referrals. People were behaving like people who had seen how quick life can scatter when envy and secrets mix.

One morning, a new message entered: “Let’s plan another get-together.” This time, the chat stayed calm. Nobody rushed to shine. Everybody was just typing small small, like people that had learned their lesson the hard way.

If you’ve not gathered your moral lessons for this story, you can take this:

Pride fades, but the way we treat people lasts forever. True success is not what you flaunt, but the peace you leave in others’ hearts.

THE END