The soft glow of my laptop screen was the only light in the room, casting harsh shadows across the mess on my desk. Job listing sites blurred together as I scrolled, eyes burning from too many hours of staring at disappointment. Bills were scattered everywhere—some open, most unopened. Their due dates were underlined in thick, angry red. My final year project proposal was buried underneath them, untouched for days now. Guilt throbbed behind my eyes.
"God, why is everything so expensive?" I muttered, pressing my fingers against my eyelids. I dragged my hands away from my tired eyes, then fumbled for the plantain chips on the plate beside my laptop. A few crumbs scattered as I tossed them into my mouth. The sweet, salty richness of the plantain chips bloomed on my tongue—but before I could grab another handful, My phone buzzed beside the laptop, breaking the silence. I didn't need to check to know who it was. Sandra. Her name flashed on the screen like a lifeline I wasn't sure I wanted to grab.
"Teni baby! Any luck with the job hunt?" Her voice was too bright for the heaviness I carried.
I leaned back in my plastic chair, the back creaking in protest. "Nothing yet. Everything either pays trash or wants full-time hours. I can't afford to mess up this project, Sandy. It's literally all I have left."
There was a pause before she responded. I could already hear the shift in her voice—the tone she used when she was about to suggest something reckless.
"Okay, hear me out. I know something. It's not exactly what you're looking for, but just… listen."
I rolled my eyes. "Different how?"
"It's a house helper job."
I blinked. "Sandra—"
"Wait. Just hear me out. It's for this tech CEO in VI. The guy is insanely rich. The pay is fantastic, and the hours are flexible enough for you to still work on your project."
I frowned. "Are you sure I'll be hired? 'Cause most rich people hire from cleaning agencies, not randomly ."
"I know. That's the weird part," she said. "A friend of mine knows someone who works for him—like, his personal assistant. And apparently, they're looking for someone who's educated and reliable. Not some random from an agency."
That made me pause.
"Wait," I said slowly. "So they don't want someone from an agency, and they're asking for a total stranger instead? Who specifically has to be educated and reliable? That's kind of sketchy, Sandy. Why wouldn't they go through a vetted system? Why are they trying to avoid structure?"
"I knew you'd overthink it," she groaned. "They just want someone lowkey, maybe someone they can trust without too much drama."
"But that's the thing," I said. "It sounds too… convenient. Why not go through the normal channels unless they're trying to avoid accountability?"
"Look," she said, her tone softening, "you don't have to say yes. I just thought of you because I know how hard things have been lately."
I looked around my room—at the cracked paint on the walls, the electricity bill peeking out from under my notebook, the blinking red light on my MiFi signaling the last megabytes of data.
I hated how tired I felt.
"Send me the details," I murmured, swallowing the knot in my throat.
The next morning, I woke up before my alarm. My room was still wrapped in half-darkness, that sleepy grey light of early dawn pressing against the curtains. For a moment, I just lay there—chest rising and falling, brain half-humming with dread. I hadn't even opened my eyes fully when my phone started ringing.
Mum.
I groaned quietly, already knowing what this call was going to be about. It was too early for casual chit-chat. She only ever called this early if she had a dream or just wanted to "check in" with prayer and suspicion wrapped in love.
I answered, my voice rough. "Good morning, Mummy."
"Teni baby, how are you? You just woke up?"
"Yes ma. Just now now."
"Okay. I said let me call you and pray with you before you step out today. Your spirit has been on my heart since last night."
I swallowed. Her intuition always creeped me out a bit.
"I'm listening."
She sighed. That heavy, mother-sigh.
"Teniola, I don't know what you're planning or where you're going this morning, but I want you to know that God will go before you. Any door you knock on will open. You will not be disgraced in Jesus' name."
"Amen," I whispered, eyes stinging.
"You are not alone. You are not forgotten. I know things are hard right now. But don't let desperation push you to accept what is beneath you. Don't let the devil make you think this is the end."
"I know, Mummy."
She started to pray in Yoruba then—fast, intense, the way she always did when she felt something in her chest. I lay back and let the words wash over me:
"Oluwa, jọwọ tọ́ ọmọ mi s'ọna. Ṣí ilẹ̀kùn rere fun un. Gbe orí rẹ ga. Má jẹ́ kó ṣubu, má jẹ́ kó fọ́. Amin."
Translation: "Lord, please guide my child. Open good doors for her. Lift her up. Don't let her fall, don't let her break. Amen."
Tears gathered at the corners of my eyes. Maybe it was the way she still believed I would rise, even when I felt like I was sinking.
"Amen," I said again, firmer this time.
There was a pause. "Are you eating well?"
I smiled faintly. "Trying."
"You're not still drinking Coke first thing in the morning?"
"Ah. Mummy."
"I'm serious o."
"I know. I'll eat something before I go."
She sighed again, softer this time. "God bless you, Omoteniola. I'm proud of you, okay?"
My throat tightened. "Thank you, Mummy. I'll call you later."
"You better," she said, and the call ended.
I sat there in silence for a moment, letting her words settle like dust. Then I got up and reached for my dress.
The dress I picked out the night before still hung on the wall. A modest navy blue one I'd worn to a scholarship dinner two years ago. It was a bit tighter now, clung more around my hips and arms, but it would do. I pulled my braids into a neat bun, added lip balm, and dusted some powder under my eyes.
Enough to look "put together," not enough to look like I was trying too hard. I stared at myself in the mirror for a few seconds longer than necessary.
"It's just temporary," I whispered. "You're still you."
I packed my documents—just in case they asked—grabbed my tote bag, and locked my door. Outside, the compound was already alive with generator noise, sweeping sounds, and that distinct Lagos smell: early morning heat mixed with dust and faint smoke. My Uber driver was parked right outside. A clean Toyota Corolla. The kind that made you feel like you had options.
The ride was silent at first, except for the radio playing quietly—some old 90s gospel. The bridge into VI stretched ahead like a promise I wasn't sure I trusted.
When we reached Walter Carrington Crescent, my heart started hammering. The buildings were massive—glass, steel, money. I kept my face neutral, like someone used to this life.
My phone buzzed.
Sandra: You got this, babe. Text me after 😘
I didn't respond. I just clutched my tote tighter and got out.
The building towered above me. I walked in, greeted the security guard, and forced my voice to sound steady.
"I'm here for an interview with Mr. Ayeni."
He made a call, nodded. "Thirty-fourth floor."
Inside the elevator, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes.
You are Omoteniola Adewale, I reminded myself. You are tired, but you are still worthy.
Whatever waits behind that door… face it head high.