Schoolgirl’s Secret
Chapter Four – Secrets Begin
The days that followed were a blur of assignments, prep tests, and debate rehearsals. But beneath Brenda’s polished speeches and sharp rebuttals, something had shifted.
Her once clear schedule had new entries—brief visits to the Hilltop Centre, phone chats held in whispers, and excuses told to Mercy that didn’t quite add up.
Brenda had learned to be discreet. Her phone had a new password. Her texts were brief. And when Brian asked to meet—not in public halls, but in quiet corners—she didn’t always say no.
One Tuesday afternoon, after an extra debate session, Brian offered her a ride home. It was raining hard, and boda bodas had become unreliable.
“I don’t think my dad would like this,” Brenda said as she slid into the passenger seat of his borrowed car.
“He doesn’t have to know,” Brian replied gently, glancing at her. “We’re just talking.”
And they did talk—about law, about growing up with expectations, about the pressure of being a ‘star student’. Brian made her feel seen, not just praised. With him, she didn’t have to argue for space. She already had it.
By the time he dropped her a few meters from her gate, she felt guilty—but also light. Conflicted.
Back at school, Mercy’s eyes were sharp.
“You’ve changed,” she said bluntly one lunch break. “You zone out. You laugh at nothing. And you’re way too happy for someone with a Chemistry test tomorrow.”
Brenda kept her voice cool. “I’m just managing stress better.”
Mercy narrowed her eyes. “Does this ‘stress management’ have a name that starts with B and ends in trouble?”
Brenda sighed. “It’s nothing serious.”
“Brenda, you’re sixteen. Every small thing is serious at sixteen.”
“I can handle it, Mercy.”
“I’m not doubting your strength. I’m doubting his intentions.”
That night, Brenda didn’t sleep well.
On Saturday, Brian messaged her:
“Can we talk? Not a lecture. Just me and you. My cousin’s place. It’s quiet.”
Brenda stared at the message for several minutes. She knew what Mercy would say. She knew what her father would do if he found out. But something in her craved the escape—the privacy.
She typed back:
“Okay. One hour.”
The small flat where Brian led her smelled of old books and cologne. It was modest, with a single couch, a desk, and a mattress in the corner. He made tea and asked about her upcoming mock exams. He listened, nodded, leaned in. He touched her hand.
“Sometimes I wish we weren’t so far apart in age,” he murmured.
Brenda looked at him. “It’s just six years.”
“Feels like more. You’re still in school. I’m… already thinking about jobs, the future. But when I talk to you—it’s like we’re the same.”
For a moment, Brenda’s heart thudded against her chest.
And in that quiet room, with no debate crowd, no trophies, no Mercy—just Brian and a secret—that line between attention and affection began to blur.
She returned home before dark, her hair damp from rain, her heart conflicted.
Mercy called that evening. Brenda ignored it.
Her father asked why she was quiet at dinner. She shrugged it off.
No one knew. And that made it easier to pretend that everything was still perfect.
But deep down, something told her:
This secret won’t stay quiet for long.