London College Of St. Lawrence.

HIGH SCHOOL CHRONICLES: The Series.

Episode Three: London College Of St. Lawrence

“Wait! We’re here already?”

My heart thudded, a wild, panicky drum in my chest as we sped past a huge signpost boldly written “ST. LAWRENCE, HORIZON CAMPUS.”

I blinked.

Horizon? Already?

I knew St. Lawrence had a fleet of campuses – five at the time – but I had no clue how far apart they really were. The ride from Horizon to wherever London was supposed to be, turned into a full-blown rollercoaster in my chest. I leaned forward, head hovering above the front seats, eyes glued to the roadside like I was looking for a hidden treasure.

Any sign. Any signal. Where’s London College?

We were now past familiar ground, moving into Nsangi proper. My heartbeat raced ahead of the car.

And then-Boom.

There it was. No signpost needed. You couldn’t miss it.

London College of St. Lawrence towered from the very top of Nsangi hill like a king watching over his kingdom. I sat back, mouth slightly open, forehead leaning on the glass. My breath fogged up the window. This wasn’t a school. This was a city. A fortress.

You could spot it from miles away – the grand pavilion sitting like a crown, the pristine science complex catching glints of sunlight, and the legendary Crystal Palace standing still like something pulled out of a dream. They weren’t just buildings. They were statements. Each one louder than the last.

It looked so clean, so big, so… different.

Even Horizon hadn’t given me this feeling.

Something shifted in me.

I didn’t say anything, but my spirit whispered,

“I think I’m finally home.”

We branched off the highway onto a patchy strip of tarmac, worn out and speckled with potholes. It led us uphill toward the main entrance, which stood framed by thick hedges and an old-school gate that looked like it had weathered both storms and time.

A uniformed gateman stepped forward, expression unreadable, and began the routine: name, luggage, quick questions about our destination. He wasn’t in a rush, but his movements were efficient, as if he’d done this a thousand times before. Once we were cleared, the gate creaked open, ushering us into what already felt like a different world.

From the moment we entered, the scale of the school began to hit me. Wide open lawns, buildings named after foreign cities, and neatly aligned flowerbeds that looked too perfect to be real. I assumed it wasn’t break-time yet, because the compound was nearly deserted – just a few students scattered here and there, walking slowly like they had nowhere to be, or maybe pretending not to.

Inside the administrative block, my dad headed straight to the reception to begin the clearance process. I stayed back, taking in the interior – shiny tiled floors, freshly painted walls, and portraits upon portraits. Framed photographs of previous students hung like relics of legacy. Some wore graduation gowns, others stood holding trophies, plaques, or wore blazers like prefects.

Something in me softened as I looked up at them. I figured at least one of them – just one – must have once felt the same way I did: unsure, scared, far from everything familiar. That thought comforted me. I wasn’t alone, not really. Someone had already walked this road. Maybe even cried on it.

Moments later, we were signaled into the headmistress’ office.

The door opened into a bright, well-organized room that smelled faintly of floor polish and printed paper. Everything inside seemed to have its exact place – not a pen out of line. Behind the desk was a framed quote that immediately caught my eye: "I am not interested in excuses to delay but only in work done.”

It hit like a cold splash of water – not intimidating exactly, but it made my posture straighten on instinct.

The woman seated behind the desk rose to greet us. She was fairly tall, with a dignified presence that came less from what she wore and more from how she wore it. A knee-length skirt, matching jacket, low heels – very corporate, very controlled.

“So, this is Ogwang?” she asked, lips curling into a warm smile as she gestured for us to take a seat.

I nodded and shyly looked up, trying not to overthink my every movement. My palms were slightly sweaty, heart racing in a quiet but steady rhythm. I’d never been in a headmistress’ office before – not like this, not for something this serious. This wasn’t punishment. This was the beginning.

After a brief discussion on what was expected of me, we were directed to ferry ourselves up to the boys’ wing to get cleared by the warden. At the warden’s office, we found several other parents who had also brought their children to this school. In that moment, I realized I wasn’t alone. Yes, we were all just a bunch of strangers then – but deep down, I knew we wouldn’t be for much longer.

At exactly 10:40 a.m., an electric bell rang out, and in no time, the compound became a beautiful jumble of colors and movement. The boys, for instance, fell into two clear categories. One group wore grey trousers and crisp white shirts, neatly ironed and paired with grey neckties. Most had the uniform white socks peeking beneath their pant bottoms, and their shoes? Perfectly polished. The girls in this category wore the same colors – white shirts, grey skirts to the knees, and high grey stockings with, of course, black shoes.

I could tell these were O’level students. They looked younger. Their A’level counterparts, on the other hand, had a completely different aura. They wore sky-blue trousers or skirts, still with white shirts and sky-blue ties. But what truly set them apart was the blazers – dark blue, clean, classy, with the school logo sitting boldly on the left chest. The A’level students exuded royalty. I knew right there and then – I wanted to stay. I wanted to belong.

And then there were the ladies… One thing I’d been told about them – and later confirmed – was that they didn’t trim their hair. But still, they looked flawless. Their hair was perfectly combed backwards into tidy puffs, and they carried themselves like queens, always appearing to float above the rest of us. You couldn’t help but look. You couldn’t help but feel small.

Yes, it was breaktime, but something odd caught my eye. Right opposite the warden’s office door were two telephone booths, and they were swarming. So many boys jostling and fighting to get a turn at the receiver. At first, I thought they were either extremely satisfied with their breakfast or just as homesick as I was – so desperate to ring home that they’d willingly skip break.

But what I later found out had nothing to do with homesickness.

At around 11:20 a.m., the bell rang again and the students dispersed in different directions, heading back to their respective classrooms. In no time, it was only the Senior One students who remained, reporting in for the day.

The warden was a short, stout man – pot-bellied but surprisingly agile for his size. His voice was a little high-pitched, and he had a gift for remembering people’s names instantly. He wore an almost-black suit, freshly pressed, with a clean trim to match. He looked genuinely excited to see us.

When my turn came, he was handed the bank slips and other documents Dad had picked from the administration, including my scholarship form. He pulled a fresh form from beneath a pile of already-used ones and began scribbling on it. Then, one by one, he started calling out items from the list while I showed them to him.

“Knife?” he asked.

I reached into the box and pulled out a real kitchen knife – sharp to the brim. His eyes widened.

“No, not that!” he said quickly. “We don’t slaughter animals here, Mr. Ogwang. Give it to Mum. She’ll take it back.”

With shaky hands, I passed it over to Mum, then dug deeper to retrieve the table knife hidden at the bottom of the box.

Once he had ticked off everything, he handed me a sky-blue accommodation card with my name and details on it. It would grant me access to the dormitory and classroom. I was also to present it later that evening to get a mattress.

With that, we made way for another nervous-looking child and their parents.

And just like that, I was officially a “Londoner,” as we liked to call ourselves. My parents gave one final pep talk – though even I could tell they were scared out of their minds too. This was new ground for all of us. I had been a day scholar my entire life. I had never spent a single night away from home in the name of school, and yet here I was – being left alone in a faraway place with nothing but the phrase “mak kwan” as a send-off. Study hard.

As I walked them back to the car, I couldn’t hold back my tears. They came freely, crawling down my cheeks, warm and uninvited. When they turned to say goodbye, they gave me one of those rare hugs – the kind we only got when they were either really proud or deeply sad. I stood there and watched as they walked away. And it hit me – I was alone now.

“Have you given him pocket money?” a friend of my dad’s asked just as they were about to drive off. That’s when it hit me – Holl up! Was I being abandoned here without a cent? Clearly, the emotions had taken over and everyone forgot the one thing that could guarantee my survival in these new wildlands.

My dad reached into his pocket and pulled out a fifty-thousand note. Just like that, my tears paused for a bit. I clutched it in my palm like gold. We called it a baboon, and this was probably the first time I had ever owned one all by myself. Yes, I was alone – but now, I had a baboon in my pocket, and for a moment, that made things a little better.

Their final words echoed behind me: “We’ll come back on Visitation Day.” 

That was four weeks away.