The grandmother lived at the front of the street, while the school was tucked quietly at the back.

They were young, bright, innocent, and surprisingly intelligent. Despite joining late, they adapted quickly and caught up with their classmates. The boy was placed in JSS2, and the girl in JSS1.

Not long after, I learned that their mother had died during childbirth a few months prior. Their father, overwhelmed by the responsibility of caring for them alone, placed them with their maternal grandmother, who then enrolled them in school.

I eventually left that school and lost touch with the siblings. Over the years, I ran into many former students, but never these two.

Then, one day on my way back from work, I stopped by my tailor’s shop to pick up a dress. Not in a rush, I decided to take the long route home. When I passed the area where the school once stood, nostalgia hit me but nothing prepared me for what came next.

Just as I was about to leave the street, I saw a familiar face. The boy. He was taller and thinner now, but unmistakably the same. Only, his appearance had changed in ways I wished I didn’t have to see.

He looked unkempt, his eyes bloodshot, and there was a strong stench as he walked past. He didn’t recognize me and moved on casually, but the memory of his face as my student stayed with me.

His lips were dry and cracked, and he was sipping directly from a sachet of Gordon’s dry gin. It was heartbreaking. The signs pointed to substance abuse, and I couldn’t help but feel the weight of how environment can shape a life.