The list - by Chidinma Emilia

The List‎‎The letter arrived on a humid Tuesday morning, its edges crisp despite the Lagos heat. Amara Okeke, 23, tore it open with the casual confidence of a first-class graduate expecting her NYSC call-up. Instead, her eyes scanned words that felt like a punch to the gut: Accused of exam malpractice. Blacklisted from the National Youth Service Corps. Her name, her signature, was on a list of culprits submitted to the university senate. But Amara had never cheated. Not once.‎She sat on the edge of her bed in her cramped off-campus apartment, the letter trembling in her hands. Her phone buzzed—her mother, probably calling to celebrate her posting. Amara ignored it. Her future—law school, a career at a top firm—was slipping away. She had one month before the NYSC camp closed registrations. One month to clear her name.‎Amara started at the university’s exam office. The clerk, a wiry man with a permanent scowl, barely looked up from his ledger. “Your name’s on the list. Senate doesn’t make mistakes,” he said, waving her off. But Amara caught a flicker in his eyes—nervousness, maybe. She pressed, “Who submitted the list?” He shrugged. “Anonymous tip. Evidence was airtight.”‎Back in her room, she pored over the letter again. The signature was hers, down to the sharp loop of the A. A forgery, but a good one. She needed to know who had access to her records. Her first suspect was Chidi, her course rival. He’d always resented her topping the class, his smug grin faltering every time she outscored him. But Chidi was lazy, not cunning. Forging a signature and framing her seemed beyond him.‎She visited the faculty server room next, where exam records were digitized. The IT guy, Tunde, was a friend from her coding club days. Over a bottle of Malt, he agreed to poke around—off the books. “Someone accessed the exam database three months ago,” he whispered, glancing over his shoulder. “They downloaded your answer sheet and signature scan. IP address was masked, but it came from the library.”‎The library. Amara’s stomach churned. She’d spent hours there, her laptop open, her notes scattered. Someone could’ve watched her, maybe even hacked her device. She remembered Kemi, the quiet girl from her study group, always lingering, always asking to borrow her notes. Kemi worked part-time at the library, didn’t she?‎Amara confronted Kemi at the library’s back entrance, where she was sneaking a cigarette. “Why’d you do it?” Amara asked, voice low but firm. Kemi’s eyes widened, but she recovered fast, flicking ash. “Do what? You’re paranoid.”‎“I know someone used a library computer to frame me. You had access, Kemi. And you’ve been weirdly nice lately.” Amara stepped closer. “What’s in it for you?”‎Kemi’s cool facade cracked. “You think you’re so perfect, Amara. First-class, golden girl. Some people don’t get breaks like you.” Her voice dripped with bitterness. “I didn’t forge anything. But yeah, I heard rumors. Someone paid big money to make sure you didn’t graduate clean.”‎“Who?” Amara grabbed Kemi’s arm, not caring about the stares from passing students.‎Kemi yanked free. “Ask your precious professor.”‎Professor Adebayo, Amara’s project supervisor, was the last person she’d suspect. He’d mentored her, written glowing recommendation letters. But Kemi’s words gnawed at her. She found him in his office, grading papers. “Amara,” he said warmly, then faltered at her expression. “What’s wrong?”‎“Someone forged my signature to blacklist me from NYSC. Was it you?” Her voice shook, but she held his gaze.‎His face crumpled, not with guilt but with pity. “Amara, I’d never. But…” He hesitated, then pulled a folder from his drawer. “Two months ago, someone offered me money to alter your records. I refused. They must’ve gone another route.”‎“Who was it?” she demanded.‎He sighed. “Dr. Nwosu. He’s on the senate committee. I didn’t report him because I had no proof.”‎Dr. Nwosu, the stern head of the exam board, had always seemed untouchable. Amara didn’t confront him directly—she knew better. Instead, she enlisted Tunde again. They set up a sting: Tunde sent an encrypted email from a dummy account, posing as the anonymous tipster, claiming to have more “evidence” to sell. Nwosu took the bait, agreeing to meet at a quiet café off-campus.‎Amara hid nearby, recording everything. Nwosu arrived, nervous, clutching a briefcase. When Tunde pressed for why he’d targeted Amara, Nwosu snapped, “Her father’s company outbid mine for a government contract. She was collateral damage.”‎Amara’s heart sank. Her father, a small-time contractor, had no idea his business deals could ruin her. She stepped out, phone still recording. “It’s over, Dr. Nwosu.”‎His face paled. “You don’t understand the stakes, girl.”‎“I understand enough,” she said, uploading the video to the cloud for safekeeping.‎The next week was a blur. Amara presented the recording to the vice-chancellor, who launched an investigation. Nwosu was suspended, the blacklist overturned. Her NYSC call-up arrived just in time. As she packed for camp, her phone buzzed—her father, apologetic, promising to be more careful.‎Amara smiled faintly. She’d cleared her name, but the betrayal lingered. Trust was a luxury she couldn’t afford anymore. At camp, she’d keep her eyes open. The list was gone, but the game wasn’t over.‎‎

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