The Empty Chair

The Empty Chair

‎The first time I noticed the chair, it was only because it was empty.
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‎It sat at the second row from the back of Mr. Bello's math class against the wall. The seat was scratched, while the desk tried to balance on one leg. Most days, Aisha normally occupies it. She was fond of carrying more books than her slim arms could carry. She had this habit of chewing the cover of her pen when Mr. Bello was solving equations on the board.
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‎But that Monday morning, the seat was empty.
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‎At first, I thought it was nothing serious. Students skipped school all the time due to one reason or the other like falling sick, family stuff, or maybe just needing to take a break. But by Wednesday, her seat was still empty which got everyone wondering. By Friday, speculations began to arise.
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‎“She's sick.”
‎“No, my cousin said she travelled.”
‎“Maybe she transferred.”
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‎No one really knew exactly what was going on. Mr. Bello would just sigh when someone asked. “Focus on your work. That's not your concern.”
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‎But it was my concern.
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‎Because Aisha wasn't just some random classmate. She was to only person I could reach out to when I had difficulty understanding equations being taught in the class and she will be like, “Don’t worry. I'll explain it later.” The only one in class I could share some personal stuff with.
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‎So, one hot afternoon, I decided to go and look for her.
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‎Her family lived at the edge of the neighborhood. I pushed the compound gate open and entered inside. Aisha's younger brother, Umar, sat on the steps. With the look on his face, he didn't seem very happy.
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‎“Umar,” I called on him. “Where’s your sister?”
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‎He didn't answer immediately. We faced down for a few seconds. Then he answered reluctantly, “She’s inside. She... she's not going back to school.”
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‎I didn't quite understand. “What do you mean she's not going back to school?”
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‎“She’s sick,” he said. But from his tone, I could tell that it was a lot more than just sickness.
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‎Unable to hide the truth any longer, he finally spoke up. “They want her to get married. To one of Baba's friends.”
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‎At this point, I wasn't completely sure of what I just heard, or were my ears playing tricks on me? She was just seventeen. All these dreams and plan to study medicine now put on hold because of a marriage she wasn't even ready for.
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‎“Can I see her?” I asked.
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‎Umar nodded and directed me to the back room.
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‎I saw Aisha sitting on a mattress, with her books piled up neatly on one side. She was looking like she has shedded some weight. When she saw me, she tried to force out a smile.
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‎“You found out,” she whispered.
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‎I didn't know what to say. So, I just sat beside her, staring at the pile of books.
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‎“Don’t look like that,” she said after a while. “It’s already decided.”
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‎“No,” I responded immediately. “You want to be a doctor. Remember when we walked past the hospital last term? You said one day you'd wear that white coat.”
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‎She shook her head. “Dreams don't always win.”
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‎We sat in silence. I couldn't help but think how it was unfair that she was about to experience a future she didn't choose. I've heard of cases like this but this was the first time I was seeing it happen to someone that is close to me.
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‎The wedding happened two months later.
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‎I didn't go. I couldn't. But I heard. The sound of the drums, the laughter. Students couldn't stop talking about it, it's like they didn't talk about anything else.
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‎And just like that, her chair in the math class stayed empty. Permanently.
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‎Years passed since then.
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‎I walk into the classroom now as a teacher, and I see rows filled with students. Sometimes when I see an empty chair, it brings back memories of Aisha. How she put me through the equations I had challenges with and how she loved to line up her books on her desk.
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‎Sometimes, I wonder what would have happened if I had spoken louder. Or maybe report it to someone that was in the right position to do something about it. But other times, I know it wouldn't have mattered. After all, we were only seventeen. Our voices didn't really count.
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‎Now, when I see any student who hesitates, who thinks they're not good enough, who feels unseen—I push a little harder. I remind them that their dreams are valid, regardless of what other people may think or feel.
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