The letter came on a Monday morning, tucked under the door of my London flat.
There was no sender's name. Just my name written in looping handwriting across the envelope. I stared at it for a long time before sliding my thumb under the flap.
Inside, a single sheet. One sentence:
"Don't forget who you were before the world noticed you."
No signature. No explanation.
It rattled me more than I expected.
Because I had just come from a whirlwind weekend — my face on BBC panels, interviews with African diplomats, and even an invitation to a black-tie dinner at Parliament. My calendar was filled, my inbox overflowing. I had never been more visible in my life.
But that letter? It was like someone pulled back the curtain and reminded me of Mercy from Ajegunle — the girl who used to record radio voice notes under her mother's zinc roof with an old Nokia phone.
I sat on the couch, fingers tracing the words again.
It wasn't Tunde's handwriting, I was sure of that.
But it felt… familiar.
Later that day, I found myself scrolling through my gallery, past filtered press photos, until I reached the ones from before — blurry, sunlit pictures with crooked smiles and dusty streets. Mama sitting on a bench outside, laughing. Me in my first radio T-shirt, holding a fake mic made from cardboard and foil.
I missed that girl.
Not because London had changed me — but because success had.
That night, I sat in front of the window, watching the London rain paint silver lines down the glass. The sky was dark, the city lit with ambition and anonymity.
My phone buzzed.
Tunde: "You okay? You went quiet."
I smiled faintly. We still texted, though not as often. The time difference and our schedules made connection a bit harder, but we made space where we could.
Me: "Just got reminded of home."
Tunde: "Ajegunle or me?"
Me: "Both."
A few days later, I met someone who cracked the mystery.
During a BBC networking brunch, a woman introduced herself to me with a smile.
"You're Mercy, right? The Nigerian voice shaking the airwaves?"
I laughed, slightly embarrassed. "Something like that."
She leaned in. "I have someone who's been talking about you nonstop. A young intern. Your story inspired him to apply."
My curiosity rose. "What's his name?"
"Idris. Idris Ogundele."
I froze.
That name.
He was the boy who used to hang around the community station. Always asking questions. Always watching.
"He's here?"
She nodded. "Would you like to meet him?"
"Yes," I said without hesitation.
Idris was taller now. More confident. But the moment he saw me, he reverted into that wide-eyed boy with a dream too big for his own shoes.
"Mercy Ajayi," he said like it was a sacred chant. "You have no idea what you've done for people like me."
I smiled. "Is that your handwriting?"
He blinked. "Huh?"
"The letter."
He chuckled sheepishly. "Maybe. Maybe not. Just… figured you needed reminding. Because sometimes success makes people forget who they are. But you… you were real. You made people believe in the power of their voice."
My throat tightened.
"Thank you," I whispered.
I started volunteering at a local African youth center every Saturday after that. Teaching kids podcasting, recording, and how to tell their stories with truth. It wasn't in the press releases. It didn't earn me a badge. But it made me feel alive.
One evening, after a class, I sat under the streetlamp outside the center and called Mama.
"Mercy!" she said, breathless. "I just watched you on TV yesterday. You're becoming something o."
I laughed. "I'm trying, Mama."
"You've already succeeded. But don't forget that you carry us with you — all of us. Don't let that weight scare you. Let it root you."
Her words settled like an anchor.
As winter approached, London grew colder. But something inside me warmed. Like I was finding balance between who I was and who I was becoming.
Tunde sent me a video one night — a short documentary he'd made with his students. It was about the disappearing culture of Ajegunle's marketplaces.
He narrated it.
His voice still carried weight.
"Before these walls were replaced by glass and steel, stories lived here. Laughter echoed here. And the sound of struggle was also the sound of survival."
I watched it three times.
Then I called him.
"Tunde, you're brilliant."
"Thank you. Coming from you, that's major."
We stayed on the phone for hours. No flirting. No pressure. Just two people bound by a past too rich to ignore.
At the end of that week, my supervisor at the BBC handed me a document.
"Mercy, they want to extend your fellowship. Another six months. Possibly full-time afterward. Think about it."
I stared at the offer.
Then at the raindrops outside.
And I wondered:
Can you chase your dream and still return home?
Or does chasing it… mean learning to carry your home within you?
I folded the paper slowly.
Smiling.
Ready to find out.