The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the sprawling campus of the University of Deraken, turning the wide concrete walkways into shimmering rivers of heat. Stephanie tightened her grip on the brown envelope until her knuckles whitened, the crisp paper crinkling like dry leaves under her fingers. Her heart pounded so violently she could feel it in her throat, each beat drowning out the chaotic symphony of hundreds of fresh students laughing, shouting, and rushing past her. This was the day she had dreamed about since she finished WAEC with flying colors and conquered the rigorous JAMB examinations that had felt like climbing a mountain barefoot. The admission letter inside the envelope was her golden ticket to a new chapter, yet standing here in the middle of the bustling courtyard, she felt more lost than she had ever felt in her life.

She was new to this world in ways that went deeper than just being a fresher. Though she had lived in Nigeria since she was a small child—following her mother Rita’s marriage to a warm, steady Nigerian man—Stephanie still carried the subtle foreignness of her mixed heritage like a second skin. Her biological father was Ethiopian, her mother German; the blend had gifted her with fair, glowing “Latina” skin that made her stand out in any crowd, a complexion that caught the sunlight and turned heads without effort. Her eyes were a rich, expressive brown, framed by long dark lashes. Her hair fell in thick, glossy waves down her back, always neatly brushed and decent. She was gorgeous in the way that made people pause—extremely beautiful, with a body that was thick and curvy in all the right places: full hips that swayed naturally when she walked, a narrow waist that accentuated the generous roundness of her backside, and breasts that filled her modest tops without apology. Yet she always chose decent clothes. Today it was a long, flowing skirt that brushed her ankles, soft cotton that allowed her to sit, cross her legs, or bend freely without the constant fear of exposure or insecurity. A simple fitted blouse completed the look—nothing trending, nothing revealing, just comfortable and safe. She was a Christian girl through and through, raised with values that prized modesty, respect, and faith above the flashing lights of campus fashion.

Hundreds of students filled the space around her. Some already had friends, arms linked, voices loud with inside jokes as if they had known each other for years. Others laughed with the easy confidence of people who belonged. Stephanie knew no one. The envelope in her hand felt like both lifeline and weight. She had chosen Deraken University deliberately—spelled D-E-R-A-K-E-E-N, a place her stepfather had spoken of with quiet pride, a Nigerian institution that felt like a bridge between the German discipline her mother had instilled and the vibrant, chaotic energy of the country she now called home. From nursery through secondary school she had studied here, living mostly with her mother’s sister, her aunt, who had become a second mother after Rita’s marriage brought stability. Yet today, stepping onto this campus as a university student, she felt like a foreigner all over again. The noise, the heat, the sheer size of everything overwhelmed her senses—the distant smell of roasted corn from a roadside vendor, the sharp tang of dust kicked up by running feet, the underlying hum of youthful energy mixed with something sharper, something she couldn’t yet name.

“Excuse me.”

The voice was calm, smooth, and came from directly behind her. Stephanie turned slowly, the noisy courtyard seeming to tilt and blur for a brief, disorienting moment. Standing there was a girl about her age, pretty in a bold, street-smart way. Flora had sharp cheekbones, full lips painted a subtle gloss, and eyes that missed nothing. Her own outfit was tighter, more form-fitting—a short top that hugged her figure and jeans that sat low on her hips, the kind of look that screamed confidence and experience. She carried herself with the easy swagger of someone who already knew the campus rhythms, a lodge key dangling casually from one finger.

“Are you looking for your department?”

Stephanie’s reply came out softer than she meant, her accent carrying the careful cadence of someone still adjusting to the raw energy of Nigerian university life. “Yes… I’m new to this university.”

Flora’s smile was quick and welcoming, though something flickered behind it—curiosity, perhaps calculation. “Welcome to the University of Deraken. Since you’re lost, come with me. Let’s take a walk.”

They fell into step along the wide walkway that stretched between browning lawns and clusters of palm trees. The heat pressed against Stephanie’s skin, making the long skirt cling slightly to her thighs with every step. She could feel the subtle sway of her own body—the way her thick hips moved naturally beneath the modest fabric, the gentle bounce of her curves that she tried so hard to keep decent. Flora walked beside her, close enough that their arms occasionally brushed. As they moved, Flora’s fingers “accidentally” loosened around the lodge key. It clattered onto the warm concrete a few paces ahead.

“Oh—my bad,” Flora said lightly, slowing her pace. She bent at the waist to retrieve it, her own jeans tightening across her figure as she reached down. But her real purpose was clear in the way her eyes lifted and lingered while Stephanie continued walking forward a step or two. Flora’s gaze traced the line of Stephanie’s waist, the generous flare of her hips, the way the long skirt hugged and then released the full, rounded shape of her backside with each natural step. Thick, Flora thought, a slow heat uncoiling in her chest. Extremely thick. That innocent walk… she has no idea how she moves. The glance lasted only seconds, but it was deliberate, hungry in a way Flora quickly masked when she straightened and caught up. “Got it. These keys are slippery today.”

They continued strolling, the conversation flowing in the easy rhythm of new acquaintances. “So what department are you trying to find?” Flora asked, her voice casual but her eyes still occasionally flicking sideways, drinking in the way Stephanie’s body filled out her modest clothes.

“Theater Arts,” Stephanie answered, touching the envelope again as if for reassurance. “My faculty is Arts, I think. But I don’t know where to go. This place is so big. I just got admission and I want to complete everything—meet my lecturers, get my clearance sorted, start lectures properly. I don’t know the process at all.”

Flora nodded, but inside she smiled again, that private, knowing smile. New to the world. What a foolish, sheltered girl. Aloud she said, “I can help with that. I’m in the same faculty—Music, actually. We’ll take some courses together. But first, let’s get you to the HOD. He’s a friend of mine. He can sort you out fast.”

As they walked, Flora’s earlier compliment surfaced again. “I kind of love your dressing, you know. It looks good on you—clean, decent. But don’t you ever want to switch it up? Something more Gen-Z? Trending fits, band tees, clothes that actually show you’re a young, fine girl? Something that reveals a little of that body you’re hiding under all that fabric?”

Stephanie’s fingers brushed the soft material of her skirt, feeling its length, its safety. She shook her head firmly, the movement making her long dark hair sway. “Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah. I prefer this kind of clothes. It’s long, so I can sit any way I want without worrying about closing my legs or feeling insecure if my body gets exposed. I just want to be free and decent. That’s all.”

Flora’s internal whisper was sharper this time. Seems this Stephanie is brand new to everything. What a foolish girl. But she kept her expression light, nodding as if she understood. Around them, the campus pulsed. Students rushed past—some sprinting toward lecture halls with bags bouncing, others clustered in groups laughing too loudly. The passage ahead opened into the Theater Arts section of the Faculty of Arts building, a grand three-story structure of cream walls and tall windows that gleamed in the sun. Stephanie’s eyes widened at the sight of it.

“Wow… so this is where we’ll be learning?”

Flora pointed as they climbed the stairs to the first floor. “This is the Faculty of Arts. Not just Theater Arts—there’s film production, screen arts, movie acting, music, and more. You pick your department, get your course rep, and he introduces you to the lecturers. For now, the HOD is the one who handles freshers like you—clearance, certificates, that kind of thing. You’re lucky I know him. He’s just a friend, nothing more.”