Chapter one: The Fall and the System
In a world twisted by injustice and convenience, where money could rewrite failure and connections could override merit, Gideon learned early that brilliance wasn't always enough.
Born in a small, noisy town in the heart of Nigeria, Gideon grew up surrounded by noise—of people, traffic, and expectations. His parents were decent, hardworking people. His father, a civil servant, spent most of his life serving a system that barely acknowledged him, while his mother ran a kiosk in front of their compound, selling provisions to schoolchildren and passerby. They didn't have much, but they had hope.
From a young age, Gideon showed signs of unusual intelligence. He solved arithmetic puzzles meant for older students and had a curious habit of dismantling gadgets to understand how they worked. While most children played outside in the dirt, Gideon sat under the mango tree in their yard with his father's broken radio, pulling it apart and making diagrams in his schoolbook.
His teachers took notice. "Your son is special," they told his mother. "He could be a great scientist… or an engineer."Compliments like those filled his mother with pride. She began calling him "Doctor Giddy," even though he had no interest in medicine.
But genius, as it turns out, is a lonely gift.
Though he had friends, Gideon often felt like he existed on a different plane of thought. His jokes were sometimes too complex. His interests too "weird." He preferred books to banter, silence to small talk. And while others played football after school, he stayed indoors, drawing mind maps and solving logic puzzles.
By the time he reached senior secondary school, his reputation as the "math wizard" was well established. Teachers relied on him to help weaker students. His classmates trusted him during group assignments. He was the go-to guy for last-minute tutoring.
But nobody asked how he was doing. Nobody saw past the answers.
At night, Gideon lay in bed staring at the ceiling, wondering why he couldn't connect with people the way they connected with each other. He often imagined conversations that never happened, friendships that felt whole, and a version of himself that didn't always have to pretend he was fine.
Still, he endured. He was used to being misunderstood. He believed university would be different — a place where his mind would be an asset, not a burden.
In SS3, he set his sights on a top federal university — one known for its academic rigor. It wasn't the easiest school to get into, but he was confident. He spent months preparing for the UTME (Unified Tertiary Matriculation Examination), burning candles late into the night, solving past questions with military discipline. His routine was simple: wake up, read, eat, revise, sleep — repeat.
On the day of the exam, his pen barely stopped moving. He was calm. Focused. Every question was a challenge he welcomed.
When the results came out, he scored 204.
His heart sank.
The cutoff mark for his chosen course, Computer Science, was 220. Sixteen points. Just sixteen.
The next few days were a blur. Relatives called to ask, "How was your score?" Their voices always carried a trace of judgment when he answered. "Ah. Try again next year," they'd say, like it was easy.
He didn't cry. He didn't shout. He just… disappeared.
That year at home was one of the longest in his life. While his peers updated their WhatsApp statuses with campus selfies and matric pictures, Gideon deleted his account. He withdrew — not just from social media, but from the world. He rarely left his room. His books gathered dust. The future he had envisioned seemed to be slipping further away.
His father tried to encourage him. "You're smart. Next time, you'll make it."
But Gideon wasn't sure if he believed in 'next time' anymore.
Then one night, he sat alone on the rooftop of their house. The stars were out — clear and cold. He thought about his life. Not just the rejection, but everything: the loneliness, the weight of expectations, the dreams he couldn't seem to reach. He asked himself a question he had never asked before:
What if I'm not meant to be anything?
The thought terrified him.
But somehow, it also gave him a strange kind of peace.
The next morning, he began studying again.
He locked himself into a brutal schedule. No distractions. No rest. Just books and pain. He took the exam the following year and scored 255.
When the result loaded on the screen, he felt the joy swell in his chest. It was happening. Finally, something was going right.
Until it didn't.
He received the email a week later: Rejected.
Reason: Second Sitting.
Apparently, the department now prioritized students who passed in one sitting. Gideon stared at the message for hours, numb.
That was the moment the final string snapped.
The sun was unusually bright that afternoon, mocking the mood in Gideon's chest. He left home without telling anyone, walking through town with slow, deliberate steps. His mind wasn't racing — it was eerily calm. That scared him more than any sadness ever had.
People passed him, going about their day. Market women yelled out prices. Hawkers chased after moving buses. A small boy tugged on his mother's wrapper and pointed at a phone in a store window. Life continued. Oblivious.
Gideon walked through all of it like a ghost.
He made his way to the center of town, where the old four-story hotel stood — the tallest building in the area. It had once been a tourist destination in the '80s, but was now a decaying structure with cracked walls and moss-stained balconies. No one went there except for drunkards and forgotten memories.
He walked past the receptionist desk, which was unstaffed, and took the stairs up — one floor, two, three. The air got thinner. His legs trembled, but not from exhaustion. He reached the rooftop door, pushed it open, and stepped into the light.
The town stretched out before him like a dusty diorama. Tin roofs gleamed. Palm trees swayed in the wind. Honking cars formed an unending stream of noise. For a moment, Gideon forgot why he was there.
Then it came back.
He stepped to the edge. The ledge was narrow, barely a foot wide. His sneakers gripped the crumbling cement. One wrong move…
Below, someone screamed.
Within seconds, a small crowd gathered. Phones came out. Shouts filled the air.
"Guy, abeg no try am!"
"You fit still make am, bro!"
"Call police! Somebody call—"
But none of it touched him. He was inside himself now, buried so deep that the world felt like a faraway radio station, crackling in the distance.
He looked up at the sky.
"I just wanted a chance," he said to no one.
He closed his eyes.
Then — a voice.
"Please…"
It was soft. Raw.
He opened his eyes and turned slightly. Behind him stood a girl. She was his age, maybe younger. A plain yellow top clung to her frame, tears streamed freely down her cheeks, and her eyes —God, her eyes — held more pain than his own.
"Don't," she whispered. "Please… don't go."
He hadn't expected to see anyone there, especially not someone like her. There was a purity in her sorrow, like she felt something for him — not pity, not curiosity, but real grief. And that broke him more than the rejection ever could.
He took a step toward her.
And slipped.
His foot lost its grip. Gravity snatched him like a jealous god. The world flipped upside down. The wind screamed past his ears. The girl's cry vanished into silence.
In that final moment, regret hit him like a truck.
I didn't get to live. I didn't kiss anyone. I didn't make love. I didn't matter. I never mattered…
He saw himself as a boy again — solving puzzles in his father's room, smiling because he thought the world was fair.
He saw his mother carrying hot water to his room during late-night study sessions. His father counting coins in a dish. His siblings dancing to loud music downstairs.
They'll miss me, he thought. Maybe.
He closed his eyes.
And then —
FLASH.
A blinding white light consumed him.
Time stopped. Or maybe he stopped existing.