Midnight Strokes

Ms. Adeyemi though pretty much everyone still called her Miss A, even now at thirty one clicked the staff-room door shut at 4:17 on a Friday. Outside, the Lagos sun had turned that heavy, over-ripe pawpaw orange, but inside it was all old books, leftover whiteboard marker, and the low metallic drone of the standing fan.

Khalid was already in the front row of empty desks. Tie tugged loose, sleeves rolled exactly twice like always. Eighteen, final year, top of Literature every time and usually second in everything else. He never slouched. That used to bug her. These days it did… something else entirely.

“You really sure about this?” she asked. Her voice came out quieter than she’d planned.

He looked straight at her, no blink. “Been sure since that day you had on the navy wrap dress and bent down for the chalk. You knew my eyes were on you.”

Heat crept up behind her knees. Not embarrassment more like relief mixed with a thrill that somebody had finally just said it.

“And the others?” she asked.

That small, private smile of his appeared the one that always made her press her thighs together under the desk in the middle of class. “They’ve been sure even longer than me. Just didn’t have the nerve to speak up first.”

He pushed his phone across the table toward her. The group chat name stared back: Lit Seminar 😈. Seventeen messages since yesterday afternoon. Zero of them about Achebe or Soyinka.

• Chidi: she locked the door again

• Tobi: bro I’m already hard just thinking about it

• Yusuf: if she says yes I’m ditching football practice

• Khalid: she’s asking right now. Behave till I text “green”.

She stared at the screen until the letters started to swim, then lifted her eyes back to him.

“Ground rules first,” she said.

He nodded once and pulled out his own phone, thumbs already moving.

1. Everyone says “green” out loud when they get here. No green, no coming in.

2. “Yellow” means slow down, check in. “Red” means everything stops, no arguments.

3. Phones go in the basket by the door, screen up, Do Not Disturb.

4. Nothing that leaves marks past the weekend.

5. Come Monday morning we’re back to teacher and students. Nothing changes in class unless I say different.

She watched him type every line. Watched the little “seen” ticks pop up one after another.

Seven minutes later the first three showed up.

Chidi did their secret knock shave and a half tap, something they must’ve come up with together. Khalid cracked the door, looked each one in the face, and asked the same thing.

“Green?”

“Green.”

“Green.”

“Green.”

They stepped inside, quiet, eyes big, trying and failing to play it cool like this was just another day. Door shut behind them and the whole room suddenly felt half its size.

Miss A got up from the teacher’s chair and walked right into the middle of the half circle of desks they’d already dragged into place without even thinking. Still in the charcoal pencil skirt and cream blouse from teaching all day. Top two buttons undone she’d done that herself while he was typing the rules.

She looked at the four of them Khalid closest, the rest fanned out behind like edgy bodyguards and felt something warm and liquid slide low in her stomach.

“Shirts off,” she said. “Then trousers. Keep everything else on till I say.”

They moved quick almost funny how eager but nobody laughed. Zippers and belt buckles clinked like some weird drumbeat filling the room. Soon they were down to boxers and bare skin.

Khalid first. Always Khalid first.

She hooked one finger inside the waistband of his briefs and tugged just enough to see the tip already slick and dark.

“You’ve been thinking about this all week?” she murmured.

“Every single period,” he said. “Every time you said ‘symbolism’ I pictured your mouth on me instead.”

She gave him a slow, hungry smile and sank to her knees.

The others watched, breaths short and shallow, until she lifted her head and said the four words they’d probably been replaying in their heads for days:

“All of you. Come here.”