Image of Obinna above
RIVALS
The sun hung low in the sky as Obinna leaned against the brick wall of the school courtyard, scrolling through his phone. He could hear the buzz of laughter and chatter around him, but his attention was drawn to the ongoing debate among his friends about who would win the upcoming inter-school debate competition. Obinna, known for his sharp wit and confidence, was sure his team would take the trophy.
"Come on, Obinna, you know Funke's team has no chance!" his friend Tunde teased, tossing a crumpled paper ball at him.
Obinna smirked, glancing up just in time to catch sight of Funke striding across the courtyard, her long hair flowing behind her. Even from a distance, her intensity was palpable, her eyes scanning the crowd as if searching for an opponent. She exuded an air of determination that often made him both admire and infuriate her.
"Speaking of chances," he muttered, "here comes trouble."
"Don't tell me you're scared of her," Tunde laughed.
"Scared? Never," Obinna replied, crossing his arms defiantly. "I just can't stand her smug attitude."
As Funke approached, her gaze locked onto Obinna's, a smirk playing on her lips. She was flanked by her friends, who whispered and giggled, clearly enjoying the rivalry that had become a staple of their high school experience.
"Still think you can out-debate us, Obinna?" Funke challenged, stopping a few feet away. The way she stood-arms crossed, chin held high-made it clear she was ready for a fight.
"Absolutely," Obinna shot back, matching her stance. "You're going to need more than just your usual tricks to beat my team this year."
Their friends gathered around, sensing the impending clash. It was like watching a carefully choreographed dance, one they had performed many times before. The tension between them crackled in the air, charged with a mix of rivalry and unacknowledged respect.
"Tricks? Please. This is a debate, not a game of soccer," Funke replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. "But I guess it's hard for you to tell the difference."
The laughter from their friends filled the space between them, and Obinna felt a familiar rush of irritation. He was used to their banter, but today it felt particularly intense.
"Just wait," he said, his voice lowering slightly. "You'll eat those words when we win."
With a dramatic flip of her hair, Funke turned to walk away, leaving Obinna fuming yet oddly exhilarated. He knew their rivalry had roots deeper than the competition; it was a reflection of their families' long-standing feud, a legacy neither of them could escape.
As the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch, Obinna pushed himself off the wall and headed to his next class, determined to focus. But he couldn't shake the feeling that this year would be different. Something in the way Funke had looked at him stirred a strange mix of frustration and intrigue.
As Obinna settled into his desk in the classroom, he tried to push thoughts of Funke out of his mind. He focused on the teacher's voice droning on about the upcoming curriculum, but his thoughts kept drifting back to their confrontation.
"Why do I even care?" he muttered under his breath, tapping his pencil against the desk.
His friend Tunde slid into the seat beside him, glancing at Obinna with a knowing smirk. "Still thinking about Funke, huh?"
"Shut up," Obinna replied, but the hint of a smile betrayed him. "It's not like that. She just gets under my skin."
"Yeah, and you enjoy it," Tunde laughed. "You two are like fire and ice. It's entertaining to watch."
Obinna rolled his eyes but couldn't deny the thrill that came from their rivalry. There was a spark between them, one that ignited whenever they clashed, and he hated how much he craved that tension.
The class dragged on, filled with lectures and notes that Obinna barely registered. All he could think about was the debate competition looming ahead. Winning wasn't just about pride; it was a way to prove himself, to show that he could rise above the legacy of his family's rivalry with Funke's.
When the final bell rang, he practically jumped out of his seat, eager to escape the suffocating classroom. As he headed out, he spotted Funke standing at her locker, her back turned to him. He hesitated for a moment, then marched over, feeling a surge of determination.
"Funke!" he called, his voice echoing in the hallway.
She turned, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before it settled into her usual smirk. "What do you want, Obinna? Come to admit defeat already?"
"Not even close," he replied, a grin creeping onto his face. "I just wanted to say... good luck. You'll need it."
Her eyes narrowed playfully. "Oh, I'll need more than luck. But thanks for the vote of confidence."
Before he could respond, Funke turned back to her locker, rummaging through her things. Obinna felt a mix of exhilaration and frustration; their back-and-forth always left him wanting more.
As he walked away, his phone buzzed in his pocket. It was a group chat from his friends, planning a get-together to discuss debate strategies. He quickly replied, suggesting they meet at his place that weekend.
But as he walked home, he couldn't shake the feeling that this year's competition would change everything. Obinna realized that his rivalry with Funke was more than just a game; it was a tangled web of emotions and expectations, rooted deep in their families' histories.
That evening, he sat at his desk, staring at his notes but unable to focus. The shadows of their families' feud loomed large in his mind. He thought about how their parents had been enemies since childhood, dragging them into a rivalry that neither of them had chosen.
He glanced out the window, watching the sunset paint the sky in shades of orange and purple. Maybe there was a way to break the cycle. Maybe this year wasn't just about winning; it was about understanding the person behind the rivalry.
With renewed determination, he grabbed his notebook and started jotting down ideas for their debate topic, the competitive fire igniting within him once more. If he was going to take down Funke in the arena of debate, he needed to be prepared-both for the arguments and the unexpected connection that simmered just below the surface.
