It is hard to believe Sharon is dead. If her rose flowers haven’t wilted yet, and continue to get mysteriously watered at night, she’s sending a message to someone.

And the more I think about the narratives circulating her disappearance, the more mysterious I find that former classmate of ours.

The last time I saw her, she was seated in a tree along  a forest I was hurrying through after  a visit to my Aunt Portia’s home last Christmas. I didn’t know what came over me to look up the tree when I got to it. There was Sharon, seated up there!

“Sharon!” I exclaimed, trying to sound unafraid.

“I am not a witch.” She said, after a long period of silence. As if she were reading my thoughts. She sat up there with a mirror in one hand starring at her genitals through the mirror. She threw the mirror away as she climbed down to me.

“Baloumba did this.” She said, showing me a scar on her left arm.

“Who is Baloumba?” I asked.

“Never mind.” She said, disappearing into the darkness of the forest. “This Sharon is strange.” I thought, as I hurried home.

Sharon Waters. She’s responsible for the closing down of the school after bombarding  it with waves of scandals.

It is hard to believe who was telling the truth. Sharon claims Baldwin wanted to rape her in his office. The director of the school took a rush decision against Baldwin. The police would not have come in if the school found an amicable way to resolve its conflicts.

And while the police were trying to investigate the matter, they discovered there was more going on at the school than just that rape allegation.

For some strange reasons, the police wouldn’t investigate the case any further, the abrupt halt in the interrogations inciting riots among the town folks.

A report was sent to the Metropolitan Police to intervene in the matter. It was taking longer than usual for feedback until one morning, we came to school to find a long letter nailed to the Mahogany tree just before the school gate.

The letter stretched from the tree into our school compound. It actually looked like a long fabric and detailed all the secret acts within the school walls since its inception. What fascinated the observers most was that a talented artist seemed to have been employed by the spy to draw the culprits in the very acts in which they had committed.

Big names popped up in that long list and gave plenty of meaning to the deafening silence mailed to the inquisitive fellows who appealed to a higher authority to intervene.

Martin Fisher School. A small place. Big secrets.

When some officers from the district education office came to lock up the school and placed a notice on its gate, it was obvious to all of us that an axe had been placed at the roots of our great Babylon and it would soon tumble.

True, the things that happened in the school were scary and shameful and should never have happened. But sometimes the cure to a disease can be far devastating than the disease itself. The aftermath of the scandals that hit the school said it all.

Till this day, if you mailed any enquiry regarding the scandal to the address “18XX”, a detailed reply came, making us wonder who was behind the replies.