Chapter 02

Chapter 02

First Contact

Morning came too quickly.

The Accra sun poured through the hostel window like it had something to prove, dragging Kofi out of a shallow sleep filled with engines, fire, and a girl’s half-remembered smile. His roommates were already awake—one brushing his teeth in the sink, another arguing on the phone, the third playing rap music low but aggressive, like a warning.

Kofi dressed quietly and pulled on his hoodie again. It wasn’t about the heat. It was like armour.

The first class meeting for the pre-med students was held in a large lecture hall that smelled of fresh paint, new plastic chairs, and nervous ambition. Hundreds of students filled the seats, flipping notebooks open, whispering names and high school bragging rights.

Kofi sat somewhere in the middle.

The lecturer arrived late—tall, sharp-eyed, already tired of excuses. He spoke about discipline, competition, and sacrifice. Medicine, he said, would break anyone who treated it casually.

Then came the announcement everyone half-cared about.

“Before we begin properly,” the lecturer said, “we need to elect a course representative.”

Hands shot up. Voices competed.

A tall, well-spoken guy stood and delivered a polished speech about unity, communication, and academic excellence. Applause followed.

Then, unexpectedly, a voice from the back called out, “What about him?”

Kofi looked up.

Several heads turned toward him.

He shook his head quickly. “No, no—”

But it was too late.

Someone mentioned his grades. Another said he looked serious. A third laughed and said he seemed too calm to be useless.

The lecturer raised an eyebrow. “Young man, your name?”

“Kofi… Kofi Tanka, sir.”

“Come forward.”

His legs felt heavier with each step. He spoke briefly—honestly. He said he believed in fairness, in sharing information, in helping where he could. No big promises.

When the votes were counted, Kofi Tanka was elected Course Rep.

He sat back down, stunned.

So much for keeping a low profile.

After lectures, campus buzzed with lunchtime noise. Kofi crossed the courtyard when a large screen near the cafeteria flickered to life.

Breaking news.

A racing motor accident on the N1 Motorway.

The footage showed twisted metal, shattered glass, and black smoke rising into the sky. A car lay upside down, its frame unrecognizable. Onlookers filmed with trembling hands.

“Illegal street race,” the reporter said. “Two vehicles involved. One driver in critical condition. Authorities are calling for stricter enforcement.”

Kofi felt his chest tighten.

The N1.

The same road his father used to fly down with him sitting on his lap as a child.

Around him, students reacted differently. Some shook their heads. Some cursed the drivers. Others laughed nervously, calling them fools.

Kofi didn’t move.

The screen cut to a still image of burning wreckage—and for a split second, he swore he saw his father’s silhouette standing in the smoke.

That night, he said nothing.

But sleep refused to come.

And somewhere deep inside him, the old question returned—louder now, heavier:

Was speed a curse… or a calling?