The newsroom was quiet, save for the soft humming of computers and the occasional tap of keys. It had been three months since I landed in London, and every morning still felt surreal. The BBC headquarters was a maze of glass walls and brilliant minds, where coffee was a language and deadlines were gospel. Yet somehow, I had carved out a space—my own tiny orbit in a galaxy of global storytellers.
I was seated near the window, my eyes drawn to the cloudy skyline beyond. The view had become familiar, but never old. There was something about the way the sun struggled to peek through the fog that reminded me of home—of Ajegunle mornings, of waking to Mama's prayers and the scent of frying akara.
"Mercy?"
I turned to find Janelle, my editor-mentor, standing beside my desk with a printed sheet in her hand. She wore her usual sharp pantsuit and a half-smile that often meant either a compliment or constructive critique—or both.
"I read your pitch for the African Youth Climate Voices project," she said, waving the sheet slightly. "It's powerful. You've got a way of making voices carry."
A blush crept up my neck. "Thank you."
She leaned against the edge of my desk. "But there's one thing. I want you to actually go to Lagos for the feature. You've got a better sense of the people than most of our team. And… you speak their language. Not just Yoruba—their pain, their humor, their hunger."
The words hit me like music and memory all at once.
"You mean... I'd go back?"
She nodded. "Only if you want to. All expenses covered. You'd be gone three weeks, maybe four. We'd schedule interviews, community sessions. The full experience."
Home. The word tugged at something soft in me.
"Yeah," I said slowly. "I think I'd like that."
The flight to Lagos was less terrifying this time. Maybe because I knew I'd return to London. Maybe because something in me had changed—grown tougher, yet tender in the right places. I spent the flight watching documentaries and rewriting my questions.
Stepping out of the airport felt like inhaling sunlight. Heat wrapped itself around me like an old friend. The noise, the chaos, the color—it was all too much and yet, just right.
I stayed at a modest hotel on the Island, close enough to the sea that I could hear waves at night. Every morning, I crossed the bridge into the Mainland with a camera crew and a translator, though I barely needed him.
My first interview was with a girl named Zainab, just seventeen, but already organizing waste recycling drives in Mushin. She spoke with the fire of someone who knew her voice mattered. When I asked what kept her going, she said, "Because nobody ever asked us what we wanted. Now they have to listen."
I met boys building solar panels from scraps, widows farming rooftop gardens, teenagers hosting climate podcasts with nothing but borrowed phones and pure drive. Every story poured into me like oil into a lamp, reigniting the fire I thought London had dulled.
But it wasn't just the project that pulled at me.
It was Ajegunle.
I visited Mama on the second Sunday of my trip. She had grown thinner but carried the same sharp eyes and soft heart. We hugged for a long time.
"You dey chop oyinbo rice now, abi? See as you fresh," she teased, brushing my cheek.
"London rice no sweet like your jollof," I smiled.
She fed me till I couldn't breathe, then sat me down with her famous warm stare. "You look happy, Mercy. Not just on the face—but inside. You dey shine."
I told her everything. The award. The move. The cold mornings. The quiet ache. And then… I asked the question that had simmered in my chest for weeks.
"Have you heard from Tunde?"
Mama looked away briefly, then back at me. "He comes to check on me sometimes. Na good boy. But... he misses you."
A pause.
"Do you think I made the right choice?"
She chuckled. "Na only you fit answer that. But I know say your wings no go fit grow if you lock them for cage."
I ran into Tunde by accident.
Three days before my return flight, I was walking through UNILAG's campus, filming background footage when I heard someone call my name.
"Mercy?"
I turned—and there he was.
Same eyes. Same calm presence. But something was different. He looked… fuller. Wiser. Like life had carved new shapes into him.
"Tunde?"
We both stood there, unsure of what came next.
"You're really here," he said finally.
"I am."
A silence stretched. Not awkward, but weighty.
"You look good," I said.
"You look... Londoned," he teased. "Fine girl."
We both laughed, and somehow that cracked the ice.
We walked. Talked. He told me about a business he was building—an app for student mental health. He'd partnered with the university and had plans to expand.
"Guess you're not the only one chasing dreams," he said.
"Guess not."
That evening, we sat on the old steps near the student center, sharing roasted corn and groundnuts. The same way we used to.
"I missed you," he said, quietly.
"I missed you too."
He looked at me. "So... what now?"
I didn't have an answer.
Instead, I leaned my head against his shoulder.
That was our answer—for now.
On my last day in Lagos, I recorded a short monologue for the project.
Standing at the edge of the stream where Tunde once took me, I faced the camera.
"My name is Mercy Ajayi. I'm from Ajegunle, but I belong to everywhere people dare to dream. This is more than a report—it's a return. To my roots. To the voices that made me. This is for the girls with cracked phones but whole hearts. For the boys with no microphones but mighty voices. For the people who keep fighting, not because it's easy, but because they must. I see you. I carry you. And the world will hear you."
I paused, swallowed emotion, and whispered,
"And I will keep coming back. Not because I have to. But because I want to."