The autumn wind in London had teeth. It bit into your bones and stayed there, no matter how many layers you wore. I was wrapped in a thick coat, scarf tucked around my neck, gloves snug on my fingers, but I still shivered. Not just from the cold, but from everything else I was holding in.
It had been three months since I arrived. Three months since I traded Lagos heat and peppered suya for cobblestone streets, tea breaks, and accents that felt like music I hadn't yet learned the rhythm to.
Professionally, things were going well — more than well. I was producing short segments for the BBC's Africa Focus team, pitching my own story ideas, even anchoring a weekly podcast on African youth innovations. Each time I heard my voice in studio playback, crisp and clear, I felt a strange mix of awe and fear. Awe that it was me. Fear that somehow, I didn't belong.
Impostor syndrome had become my quiet companion.
But I buried those thoughts in work. I had something to prove, not just to the world, but to myself. And I didn't want to disappoint those who believed in me. My mum, who still called every Sunday with her small radio playing gospel in the background. My old station manager in Lagos, who now proudly referred to me as "Our BBC girl". Even Tunde — especially Tunde.
He had been nothing but supportive. Messages every week, voice notes filled with laughter and teasing, check-ins before every segment went live. But still, something had shifted. Maybe it was the distance. Maybe it was the silence between our words.
I hadn't said it out loud, but I felt it.
One evening in late November, I received an unexpected message on WhatsApp.
Tunde: Hey. You awake?
I stared at the message for a moment, then typed back.
Me: Yes. What's up?
His reply came almost instantly.
Tunde: I'm outside.
My heart skipped. I read it again. Outside?
I rushed to my window. And there he was. Standing under the orange glow of the streetlamp, hands in his jacket pockets, suitcase beside him.
I didn't remember grabbing my keys or running down the stairs, but suddenly, I was in front of him, breath clouding in the cold air.
"Tunde?" I whispered.
He grinned, eyes tired but warm. "Surprise."
I hugged him before my mind could catch up.
He was real. Here. In London.
We walked back to my flat, arms brushing, laughter spilling over like we hadn't missed a beat. He told me he had applied for a short-term media exchange program linked to my fellowship. And he got in.
"I wanted to tell you earlier," he said as we sipped tea in my small kitchen, "but I wasn't sure if… you'd want me here."
I looked at him — truly looked. He seemed older somehow. Not in a tired way, but in a grounded one. His presence filled the room like warmth after a long, bitter cold.
"I always want you," I whispered.
He reached across the table and took my hand. "I'm here now."
And just like that, something that had been off-balance in me began to settle.
The following weeks were golden. We explored London like tourists — museums, cafes, bookstores where we spent hours pretending to look for gifts but secretly reading chapters aloud. We talked about our dreams, our fears, what Lagos still meant to us, and how this new world both thrilled and intimidated us.
We made a habit of sitting by the Thames on Friday evenings, watching the water flow as streetlights painted silver paths across it.
"I'm scared," I admitted one evening. "That I'll love this too much. That I won't want to come back."
Tunde nodded slowly. "It's okay to grow. To want more. That doesn't mean you're abandoning where you came from."
"But what if the people there think I did?"
He gave me a long look. "Then they never really understood what you were trying to become."
December came fast. So did deadlines. And homesickness.
Christmas lights lit up Oxford Street, but I missed Ajegunle's noise. I missed Mama's pepper soup and gospel music blaring from neighbors' speakers. I missed the chaos that somehow felt like love.
Tunde suggested we host a small Christmas dinner for the African fellows and a few of our neighbors. It was his way of bringing home to me.
We cooked jollof rice, grilled chicken, fried plantain, and made zobo in my tiny kitchen. The flat smelled like Lagos for the first time. People laughed, danced, and sang along to Burna Boy and Tiwa Savage as if the cold outside didn't exist.
At the end of the night, after the last guest left, I found Tunde standing by the window, watching snow fall in soft spirals.
"I never thought I'd say this," he murmured, "but this feels like home."
I leaned into him. "Me too."
And in that moment, I realized — home wasn't just a place. It was people. Memories. Love that followed you across oceans.
The new year brought new challenges.
I was given a lead role in a special documentary about African diaspora youth. It was huge — demanding, thrilling, and incredibly stressful. Tunde, on the other hand, was struggling to adjust to the pace of the London newsroom. He didn't say much, but I could see it in his eyes. He was losing confidence.
One night, I found him still awake, laptop open, fingers paused over the keyboard.
"Talk to me," I said gently.
He sighed. "I thought I was ready for this. But everything moves too fast here. And everyone seems… ahead."
I touched his cheek. "You're not behind. You're building. That takes time."
He looked at me, eyes filled with quiet frustration. "But you make it look easy."
That cut deep. Because it wasn't easy. I had cried in bathroom stalls, questioned my worth, fought against the voice that kept saying I didn't belong.
"I struggle too, Tunde," I said softly. "Every day. But we can't afford to stop showing up. Not when we've come this far."
He nodded slowly, the wall between us softening.
That night, we stayed up late — not talking about work or dreams or fear. Just watching old Nollywood movies on YouTube, laughing until we cried.
As January slipped into February, something changed again.
I started getting invites — conferences, speaking engagements, even a book deal proposal. My face was showing up in places I never imagined. And with it came pressure. Jealousy. Whispers.
Some fellows began keeping their distance. A few accused me — indirectly — of being a favorite, of playing into Western media's "African success story" trope.
It hurt. More than I expected.
I told Tunde about it over breakfast one morning.
He frowned. "You don't have to explain your light to anyone. You earned this."
"I know," I said. "But I don't want to be a token. I want to be taken seriously — because of my work, not my story."
He reached across the table. "You are more than a story, Mercy. You are a voice. And they can't silence that."
In his eyes, I saw the truth I needed.
And it gave me strength.
Toward the end of February, the documentary aired.
It was everything I had hoped — raw, honest, moving. Messages poured in from around the world. Young Africans saying they felt seen. Heard. Inspired.
Mama called, crying. My old station in Lagos did a tribute broadcast. Even people I hadn't spoken to in years reached out.
But what stayed with me most was a single message from a girl in Ajegunle.
She wrote: "I used to think dreams like yours were for people born with more. But now I believe I can try too. Thank you for showing me that."
I read it over and over.
And I cried.
Because that had always been the goal.
To show that even a girl from the rough parts of Lagos, with secondhand dreams and borrowed courage, could make something beautiful.
Could matter.
Could fly.
And in the arms of the boy who had once met me with suya in hand and laughter in his eyes, I whispered:
"We're just getting started."