For reasons both completely outrageous and totally understandable, Adedayo found it hard to concentrate in school the next day.

He had said nothing to his parents or his sisters about the creatures that had emerged from the box. He had said nothing to them about anything, in fact. His ìyá agba had told him that his sisters might develop magical abilities as they got older and, if they did, it would be his job to guide them. But, until that happened, it was safer to keep the truth from ordinary people. Safer for them, and safer for Adedayo.

He’d walked to school, met up with his friends, wearing a smile and laughing when the others laughed, but not paying one bit of attention to what anyone was saying. As he sat in class, he ignored the teachers and stared at the pages of his books and worried – for there was a lot to worry about.

The first lesson of the day was given over to debating practice, in which Adedayo performed even worse than usual. He’d joined the team because he needed at least one extracurricular activity for when he eventually applied to university, but he wasn’t very good at debating. He found it difficult to come up with a coherent argument at the best of times, and this was certainly not the best of times.

The hours passed in a confusing, hazy blur, and suddenly Adedayo was in maths, the last lesson of the day, his eyes on a long line of equations the class had to solve. There was a knock on the door.

“Hello,” a girl said, coming in without waiting for an invitation.

She was around Adedayo’s age, fifteen or so. Taller than him, with long dark hair. She was wearing the school uniform, but he didn’t recognise her.

“Yes?” said Mr Hopkins, frowning with irritation. He didn’t like his lessons being interrupted.

“Hi there,” said the girl. She had a nice confident smile. “I was wondering if I could speak to Adedayo Akinde.”

Everyone looked at Adedayo, except for Mr Hopkins, whose frown deepened. “Who?”

“Adedayo Akinde,” the girl repeated.

“No, no, who wants to speak to him? The principal? Another teacher?”

“Oh,” the girl said, and laughed. “No, only me.”

Mr Hopkins blinked at her. “Are you a student here?”

“Yes, exactly. I’m new, though. I just need Adedayo for a moment. Maybe two moments. Three at the very most.”

“I don’t know how they did things in your last school, young lady, but here we don’t have pupils calling on other pupils in the middle of classes.”

She didn’t respond right away. She just looked at him as if she couldn’t understand why he wasn’t simply doing what she wanted. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I need to speak to Adedayo. Thank you.” She turned to the class. “Adedayo, are you here?”

Once more, everyone looked at Adedayo, but he put up his hand anyway, and the girl smiled.

“A word?” she said, indicating the doorway.

Adedayo stood, but Mr Hopkins was quicker. “Adedayo, you are not to leave this room. Young lady, unless I get a full explanation—”

“What is this class?” the girl asked. “Maths? I’m a maths prodigy. I’m so far beyond genius that they don’t even have a word for what I am. People like me have a club, and we think Adedayo might belong in it.”

Mr Hopkins looked insultingly sceptical. “You think Adedayo is a maths prodigy? Adedayo, what do you think of this idea?”

“Um,” said Adedayo.

“That’s what I thought.”

“The problem with prodigies such as ourselves,” said the girl, “is that mainstream schools fail to challenge us, and, in doing so, fail to recognise our vast, vast intellects.”

Mr Hopkins folded his arms. “And do you have anything to back up these claims of yours?”

The girl walked over to the whiteboard, picked up a red marker and started writing a sequence of bracketed numbers. She wore a thick black ring on one of the fingers of her right hand. “This equation, for super-geniuses, is as easy as falling into a ditch, and, if you’ve ever fallen into a ditch, you’ll know how easy that is. If you, or anyone in this class, come even close to solving it by the time I’ve finished talking to Adedayo, that’ll be all the proof you’ll need.” She popped the lid back on the marker and tossed it to Mr Hopkins. “Adedayo, out here, please.”

Adedayo didn’t know what to do, so he hurried into the corridor.

“I’m a maths genius?” he asked once the girl had shut the door behind them.

“What?” she said, glancing at her watch. “Oh, God, no. I mean, maybe you are. Are you? I haven’t a clue. I hate maths. Always have. Too many numbers.”

“Then what was that equation you wrote on the board?”

“Complete gibberish,” she said. “In fact, your teacher will figure that out in a few seconds, so do you mind if we walk as we talk? Thanks awfully.”

She began to stride away, and Adedayo, unable to think of what else to do, followed her.