Chapter 3: New Beginnings and Old Shadows
Introduction: From Shadows to Stage Lights
If you’ve been following this story, then you already know… this isn’t just about “Tiny,” the quiet boy with a big imagination — it’s about every child who had to fight to exist in a home where silence was survival.
In Chapter 1, we met him as a five-year-old — small, quiet, and constantly on edge. His father’s presence turned the house into a warzone, where every step, every glance, could trigger a storm. He lived in fear, clung to the dusty attic for peace, and birthed his alter-ego, Tiny — fearless, creative, and secretly powerful. It was in that attic, surrounded by forgotten trunks and cobwebs, that his imagination soared, his hope ignited, and his resistance began to grow.
In Chapter 2, his world shifted. New school. Same fear. He faced the pressure of performance at home, the haunting belt, and strict religious expectations that choked every inch of joy. But something started to stir. He found photography, started standing taller, spoke back (once), and got a glimpse of what it felt like to not just survive — but to exist. He still walked on eggshells at home, but school became a different kind of battlefield where he learned to fight with knowledge, imagination, and just enough courage to keep moving.
Now, in Chapter 3, we're entering a new arena: Senior Secondary School — where everything feels faster, harder, and heavier. But Tiny isn’t just watching from the sidelines anymore. He’s stepping into his power — one shot, one lie, one defiant moment at a time. The belt still waits. The rules are still unfair. But this time, he’s got a little more to fight with — his dreams, his hustle, and his silent, stubborn hope.
This chapter is about beginnings that don’t feel brand new… and shadows that refuse to stay behind.
The Junior WAEC holiday had finally expired, and just like that, a new season kicked off. SS1 baby! There was this vibe about entering senior secondary school—like you’ve leveled up in life, even though it just meant tougher subjects and longer lectures.
First day in SS1? Mad. The school compound felt louder, livelier, and more intense. You could literally smell the pressure in the air. Everyone walked around like their future was watching them from behind the staff room curtains. He strolled in with his usual mix of anxiety and silent confidence. Posters about school competitions, debates, and academic records were pasted everywhere, almost whispering: "Omo, shine your eye."
Tiny, his ever-present alter ego, was still riding shotgun. Tiny no dey fear anybody. If anything, Tiny was now fully embedded in his soul. While he played it cool on the outside, inside, Tiny was doing push-ups and pep talks. Senior secondary school wasn’t a joke, but neither was he.
Academics? Still top-tier. He was grinding hard. It wasn’t even about impressing anybody anymore. This was personal. Every good grade felt like one brick closer to building his escape route. And when school stress came in heavy, the library remained his soft place to land. Books were more than knowledge—they were portals, and he was hopping through them like a pro.
Social life? Tricky but not tragic. He made a few new friends. Still kept things on the low though, because oversharing? Not his style. But even in the mix of small laughs and gist during breaks, there were moments he felt like he was on the outside looking in. Carrying all those secrets from home? That weight was real.
Then came a Friday that flipped the script. The school organized a talent show. His guys were hyping him, saying, "Bro, go show them that your photography skills na fire." Tiny echoed the same thing. So he went for it.
Standing on that stage, showing off his photos, hearing the claps? Man, it was surreal. It was the first time he felt seen without being exposed. The applause wasn’t just noise—it was healing. For a moment, he wasn’t just surviving. He was thriving.
By SS2, confidence had morphed into quiet boldness. He believed he was ready for WAEC. Real G move. He even paid for it himself with the cash he made doing photography gigs. The job gave him a taste of soft life and real-life hustle. He’d be on sets with celebrities one day, and the next he’d be under hot sun chasing kids to take pictures. It was chaotic, hilarious, but deeply satisfying.
But as usual, trouble wore a familiar face. One Friday, thinking his dad wasn’t home, he came back whistling a happy tune. He stepped into the compound, saw no car, and thought, "Freedom!" But plot twist: the man was inside, chilling like a plot device.
Instantly, his instincts kicked in. Survival mode activated. With James Bond-level acting, he created a story, passed a fake message to his mom, and she played along like a true MVP. That quick thinking? Saved him from premium beating that night. Thank you, drama club skills.
But the real thunder struck on a random Tuesday after church. He casually mentioned his uni plans—mass communication or theatre arts. Before he even finished the sentence, GBOSSS! The slap landed like judgement day. It wasn’t just loud; it echoed in his skull and rearranged his ancestors.
He was dazed. Not just from the slap, but from the realization that his dreams had just been cancelled like a failed bank transaction. His father declared, "No son of mine will chase useless ambitions." And just like that, the door to his passion slammed shut.
That night, lying in bed, his ears still ringing and soul still shaken, he made a new vow. One way or another, he would chase that dream. If not through mass comm, then through his lens. Every camera click from that day forward would be his rebellion, his escape.
The next day, he showed up at school like nothing happened. Classic mask on. His friends noticed something off, but he just dropped some dry joke and moved on. Inside though? Fire. Tiny was whispering, "Guy, we move."
Photography wasn’t just a hobby anymore. It was his weapon, his therapy, his protest.
In his secret places—the attic and the library—he cooked up visions of freedom. No father, no belt, no rules. Just light, camera, peace.
Because deep down, he knew: the world would soon know the boy they once called Tiny. And they wouldn’t just remember his name. They’d remember his story.
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