Rain

The rain in Lagos never asked permission. It just came, drowning the gutters and turning Oshodi into a river of okada tires and shouting voices.

Chidi stood under the leaking awning of a phone repair shop, holding the only thing left from his mother’s savings: a battered WAEC slip. It said “5 Credits, 1 Sitting.” It also said “Chidiebere,” not “Chidi.” One extra letter. One reason the CBT centre had sent him home yesterday.

“Dem say JAMB no go accept am like that,” the operator had muttered, not meeting his eyes. “Go swear affidavit first.”

Affidavits cost money he didn’t have. Admission deadline was in 4 days.

A small boy splashed past, selling pure water. “Uncle, buy nah. Hot day, cold water.”
“It’s raining,” Chidi said.
The boy shrugged. “Rain no dey stop thirst.”

Chidi laughed despite himself. He thought of Esu, the stories his grandmother told. The trickster at the crossroads who breaks things so you can see what’s real. Maybe this was his crossroad. Quit and wait another year, or find another way.

He walked to the other CBT centre across the road, the one with the generator that never stopped. Inside, an older woman was arguing with the operator. Her daughter’s result was missing from CAPS.

“Calm down, Mama,” the operator said. “System dey do anyhow. We re-upload am now.”

Chidi waited his turn. When it came, he placed the slip on the counter.
“My name small difference,” he said. “Can you check if it’s on your system?”

The operator typed. Paused. “E dey here. But e go vanish again if we no correct am.”
“Then correct am,” Chidi said.

The machine hummed. Outside, the rain eased.

Two days later, “My O’Level” showed 5 credits. Under it, the name read “Chidi.”

He didn’t know how they did it. He didn’t ask. Some crossroads you just thank and pass.