The surprise 

Chapter 41: The surprise 

Ms. Anderson's gaze lingered on Mrs. Christian, her brow furrowing slightly. She shook her head, almost imperceptibly, deciding to let the matter of Mrs. Christian's behavior slide. Her eyes flicked briefly to Bayo, a fleeting thought crossing her mind before she dismissed it with a small sigh.

Dr. John's fingers drummed on the desk, his voice cutting through the tense silence. "Well?" The single word carried the weight of his waning patience.

Bayo nodded, his jaw set as he pulled the chair closer to the table. The scratch of paper against wood filled the air as the academic quartet laid out their challenge. His eyes widened momentarily at the array of problems before him, his shoulders tensing visibly.

From his seat, Dr. John watched, his face a mask of practiced indifference. Only the slight tightening around his eyes betrayed his inner turmoil, a mix of fading hope and growing resignation.

Dr. Harold leaned back in his chair, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. "Well, well," he murmured, his voice low enough to be almost inaudible. His gaze flicked between Bayo and Dr. John, a hint of irony in his smile.

Mrs. Christian stood quietly to the side, her usual effusive energy noticeably subdued. Her hands clasped and unclasped in front of her, a silent indicator of her inner tension. Behind her carefully crafted mask of concern, her mind raced with calculations. Each gesture, each worried glance, was a deliberate performance. She was laying the groundwork for her own grand reveal, savoring the anticipation of the moment when she would shatter their expectations.

Ms. Anderson's fingers curled into a fist at her side, her knuckles whitening. She bit her lip, her gaze darting between Bayo and the stack of papers on the desk. The weight of her familial obligations seemed to press down on her shoulders, visible in the slight hunch of her posture.

Bayo took a deep breath, his hand hovering over the first page. A bead of sweat traced its way down his temple, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. His left hand twitched slightly, a ghost of childhood memory passing through him. He flexed his fingers once, twice, then picked up his pen, the familiar weight of it grounding him in the present moment.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the soft scratching of Bayo's pen against paper and the muted ticking of the wall clock. Each person remained still, as if frozen in a tableau, waiting for the outcome that would shape their collective futures.

Bayo's fingers moved with a frenetic energy, his pens scratching across the paper in an almost rhythmic dance. The room fell silent save for the soft rustle of pages turning and the muted ticking of the wall clock. Fifteen minutes passed in a blur, and the stack of completed problems grew steadily higher.

Dr. John's eyes flicked between Bayo and the clock, his fingers absently tapping a staccato beat on the arm of his chair. A faint crease appeared between his brows as he watched, his expression a mixture of skepticism and grudging curiosity.

Dr. Harold leaned against the edge of a nearby desk, arms folded across his chest. His lips curled into a smirk, ready to dismiss the display as mere theatrics. But as Bayo reached for a second pen, continuing his work with both hands, Dr. Harold's eyebrows shot up, the smirk fading from his face.

The room stirred, a collective intake of breath as the educators moved closer, drawn by the unexpected sight. Their shadows fell across Bayo's desk, but he seemed oblivious to their presence, lost in his own world of numbers and equations.

Bayo's pens slowed, then stopped. He blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and looked up at the circle of faces surrounding him. His expression wavered between uncertainty and a flicker of pride.

Dr. John cleared his throat, his voice gruff. "We'll review these over the weekend." He paused, his gaze locking with Bayo's. "Monday morning, we'll have our decision." The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.

As Bayo rose to leave, Mrs. Christian stepped forward, her arms outstretched. "Oh, my dear boy, that was quite something!" she exclaimed, her voice pitched high with excitement. Bayo sidestepped her attempted embrace, his movements fluid but deliberate.

The door closed behind Bayo with a soft click, leaving the room in a state of stunned silence. Dr. Harold's earlier cynicism had given way to a reluctant curiosity, while Ms. Anderson's expression remained unreadable, her fingers absently twisting a strand of hair.

In the corridor outside, Bayo leaned against the wall for a moment, his heart racing. He flexed his fingers, marveling at the lingering sensation of Aroni's gift. With a deep breath, he straightened and walked away, leaving the weight of expectation behind him for now.

Dr. Harold's hand froze on the doorknob as Dr. John's voice cut through the air. "Arthur." The single word carried the weight of authority, leaving the rest unsaid.

The room seemed to shrink, the air growing thick with unspoken tension. Dr. Harold's shoulders stiffened imperceptibly, his fingers tightening on the cool metal of the handle. He turned slowly, meeting Dr. John's steely gaze.

Dr. John's eyes flicked meaningfully to the stack of papers on the desk, then back to Dr. Harold. The message was clear without a word being spoken: no one leaves, and nothing goes.

A muscle twitched in Dr. Harold's jaw, his expression carefully neutral. His eyes, however, betrayed a flicker of defiance. He released the doorknob and moved back into the room, his movements deliberately casual.

"Of course," Dr. Harold said, his tone light but edged with something harder. "We have much to discuss." He settled into a chair, his posture relaxed but his eyes never leaving Dr. John.

The clock on the wall ticked steadily, marking the passage of time as the group prepared for a long night ahead. Outside, the streets of Cambridge grew quiet as curfew approached, but within the laboratory, the work continued unabated.

Ms. Anderson sighed softly, rubbing her temples. Mrs. Christian fidgeted with a pen, her usual chatter subdued by the tense atmosphere. But behind her carefully constructed facade of nervous energy, her mind whirred with possibilities. Each moment of silence was an opportunity to refine her strategy, to perfect the act that would soon upend their carefully ordered world.

Dr. John began organizing the papers, his movements precise and purposeful. The rustle of paper seemed to echo in the quiet room, a reminder of the monumental task that lay before them.

As the night deepened, Dr. Harold's gaze occasionally drifted to the window, his thoughts momentarily straying to a future where he might be the one giving orders. But for now, he turned back to the task at hand, aware that their work here could shape the course of scientific progress - and perhaps his own career trajectory.

The laboratory hummed with quiet activity, the outside world fading away as they delved into the mysteries of Bayo's unexpected performance, each lost in their own thoughts about what it might mean for their project and their futures.

Bayo's footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell as he climbed to his apartment. The key turned with a familiar resistance, and he stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a soft click. The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he surveyed the modest space, its familiar imperfections a comfort after the scrutiny of the laboratory.

In the kitchen, the rhythmic chopping of onions and the sizzle of oil in the pan filled the air. The aroma of spices wafted through the small space as Bayo stirred the jollof rice, his movements automatic, honed by years of necessity. He ate straight from the pot, savoring the warmth and familiar flavors, a rare moment of simple pleasure.

As he ate, Bayo's mind wandered back to the events of the day. The faces of Dr. John, Dr. Harold, and the others flashed before his eyes, their expressions of disbelief and grudging respect replaying in his memory. A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, quickly replaced by a frown as he considered the challenges that still lay ahead.

Of course, he didn't eat from the pot because he loved it, but because it was necessary. Èsù had learned to drag his food with him. Or to put it more bluntly, to steal his food. So he had to learn to outsmart him the hard way. After all, who would dare to eat from the pot of fire?

As twilight settled outside, Bayo moved to the center of his living room. He lowered himself to the floor, wincing slightly at the creak of his joints. Closing his eyes, he focused on his breath, letting the cacophony of the day's events fade into the background.

When he opened his eyes again, the room seemed different somehow, charged with an energy he couldn't quite name. With a slight tremor in his hands, Bayo reached for his notebook, tearing out pages with deliberate care. His fingers moved across the paper, sketching Èsù's visage with practiced strokes.