Under The Umbrella

Chapter Two: The Umbrella

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It was Saturday morning. The kind where the dorm smelled like Omo and burnt eggs, and someone’s Bluetooth speaker was blasting Asake through the walls by 8am. No Dr. Iro. No lectures.

No twenty pairs of eyes deciding if she was brilliant or broken.

Josie was supposed to be studying. Thermo was open on her desk, pages drowning in yellow highlighter. Past questions stack

ed like punishment. A pen, dead in her hand.

She wasn’t studying.

She was staring.

The black umbrella leaned against her wardrobe like it paid rent. Frayed edges. Scuffed handle. Still damp from Thursday, even though it was Saturday, even though the sun had been out since 7am and Lagos heat could dry a river. Some things stayed wet when you wanted them to.

Josie sat cross-legged on her bed, chin in her palm. Not crying. Not pacing. Not fretting. Just _thinking_. The dangerous kind.

_How do you give an umbrella back to a guy who looks at you like he knows your expiration date?_

_Do you knock? Dump it at the department? Yeet it and run?_

_Does he even want it?_

The umbrella said nothing. Just stood there, judging her life choices.

The door creaked open at 9:13am — right when Cassie usually rolled out of bed to cause problems.

Cassie walked in with two apples and zero chill. She lobbed one at Josie. Josie didn’t catch it. It bounced off her knee and rolled under the bed to die with the dust bunnies.

“You gonna return it or marry it?” Cassie asked, crunching her apple. “Cause the way you’re staring, I’m about to plan the wedding. Vintage emo umbrella meets dying engineering girl. Tragic.”

Josie blinked. “It’s not mine.”

“Duh. It’s Orwell Ferguson’s. Course rep. Trust fund baby cosplaying as a broke mechanic.” Cassie flopped onto her bed. _Thwack._ The rubber ball was back, hitting the wall on schedule. “So? You giving it back? Or should I post it on Jiji? _Slightly haunted umbrella. One careful owner. Will ruin your life._”

Josie picked up the floor apple. Didn’t bite it. “I don’t know how.”

“You use your mouth,” Cassie said. “Like this: ‘Hey Orwell, here’s your umbrella. Thanks for not letting me rust.’ Boom. Done.”

_Boom. Done._ Like it was that easy. Like Josie could face him again and not short-circuit under _that look_. The one that would be the death of her.

“I’ll return it,” Josie said. It sounded like a promise. To the umbrella. To herself. To nobody. “Monday.”

Cassie snorted. “Right. And I’m Beyoncé.” _Thwack. Thwack._

---

Monday came with 8am traffic and students running for 9am classes. Josie didn’t go to school.

Tuesday rolled in with Thermo by 10am, when the lecture hall still smelled like detergent and ambition. She sat through it. Didn’t see him.

Wednesday hit with the 2pm lab, when the sun turned the workshop into an oven. No Orwell.

By Thursday evening, around 6pm when the mosquitoes started their shift, the umbrella was a roommate. It had vibes. Judgy vibes.

_This is stupid_, Josie thought, slamming Thermo shut at 7:42pm. _You’re dying. You don’t have time to be scared of tall guys with savior complexes._

So Friday, during the 1pm rush between classes when everyone was buying gala and Coke, she went hunting.

Problem? Nobody knew Orwell Ferguson.

“Course rep?” The girl at the front desk didn’t look up from her acrylics. “Oh. Yeah. He exists. I think.”

“Where’s his next class?” Josie asked.

Shrug. “He doesn’t do class. He just submits assignments and fixes the printer when it eats someone’s project.”

_Fixes the printer. Fixed my circuit. Fixes everything except himself._

She asked three more people. Got four answers before 3pm. _He’s always in the library. He’s never in the library. He sleeps in the workshop. He has zero friends._

That last one stuck. _Zero friends._

Nobody knew anything about Orwell Ferguson except his name. Full stop. A few girls in 300-level had clocked that he was good looking — like, stupidly good looking — but none of them actually crushed on him. Because he dressed like a hobo who lost a fight with a laundry basket. And girls, as a general rule, don’t write love letters to hobos. Even hot ones.

So at 4pm, when the admin left for break and the student records office was empty, Josie did something dumb. Or brave. Thin line.

The computer was unlocked. _God bless lazy civil servants._

Her hands shook at 4:03pm as she typed: _Ferguson, Orwell_.

His file popped up. ID photo. 21. Engineering. GPA: criminally high. Address: No. 14 Ikenegbu Extension,...