17th July, 2026

I walked out of an examination hall
already knowing how the story would end.
I had barely ten minutes to write.
I didn’t need prophecy to tell me I’d done poorly.
The paper had already said enough.

As I left campus, I plugged in my earphones
and played “Intentional” by Travis Greene.
I wanted to feel better. Wanted borrowed hope.
Something to interrupt the thoughts I had already started rehearsing.

To distract myself, I opened Whot on my phone.
I even hoped the computer would beat me as usual.
Misery, after all, loves company.
Unfortunately, it didn’t. I won. Imagine that.
I couldn’t even lose where it didn’t matter.
That somehow irritated me more.

Then Travis Greene began singing,
“All things are working for my good.”
I almost laughed. Working where? Which network?
Because wherever this “good” was downloading itself,
I was clearly outside the coverage area.
What good could possibly come from me?

Then another voice interrupted my complaints.
Not audible. Just… familiar.
“As usual, you will blame God for the mistakes you make.”

Silence.
I hated that thought because it sounded true.
I wanted to cry. Not because of the exam alone.
Everything. Money. The future. The questions with no answers.
Where would anything come from? Where was I supposed to begin?

But crying felt expensive. Besides, I didn’t have the energy for it.
So I swallowed it like I usually do.

On the journey home, it started raining. Heavy.
The kind of rain that reminds you how poorly some roads are built.
Water gathered in every depression. Drainages overflowed.
The bus moved through it anyway.

I sat near the open door watching the tyres
slice through pools of water.
Something about it held my attention.
The water resisted. Then surrendered.
It burst apart on both sides as though the bus
had forced a path through something impossible.
It was beautiful.

I couldn’t stop thinking about whoever designed that machine.
How does someone imagine something like this?
How does an idea become metal?
How do you think of every tiny detail? The tyres. The balance. The weight. Even the splash.

Someone understood that water would fight back.
Someone anticipated where it would fly and built accordingly.
Despite sitting beside an open door, I barely felt a drop.
That level of thought amazed me. I became jealous.
Not of the bus. Of the mind behind it.

Then I thought about music. About Travis Greene.
About how someone writes a song that can carry another person’s faith.
Later that evening I listened to “Dandelions” by Ruth B.
Again the same question. How?

How do people make beautiful things?
How do they reach into the air and pull out
something the rest of us never noticed?

Somewhere between the bus ride and the music, I prayed.
Perhaps “prayed” is too polite a word. I complained.
“God… Give me one. Just one masterpiece.
Something people can look at and marvel over.”

The answer arrived almost immediately.
“What have you done with the ones I already gave you?”

I felt my frustration rise.
“What masterpiece? What exactly have You given me?”

The bus kept moving. The rain kept falling.
To anyone watching, I probably looked perfectly calm.
It is strange how violent a conversation can become
without a single word leaving your mouth.

Looking back, I think that was the real examination.
Not the one I sat that morning. The one I carried home.

Maybe failure sharpened my eyesight.
Because for the first time I wasn’t looking at a bus.
I was looking at engineering.
I wasn’t listening to a song. I was listening to craftsmanship.
I wasn’t envying success. I was envying creation.

Perhaps that is what bad days do.
They strip away the noise and force you to notice
the quiet masterpieces that have been surrounding you all along.

I’m still thinking about that question.
I don’t have an answer yet.
But maybe that’s where every masterpiece begins.
Not with certainty. With a question that refuses to leave you alone.

-END-

From the table of the "Friendly Poet", Chinonso Achugbu