The day I decided to say yes to the BBC extension, I didn't feel triumphant. I felt... still. Like the kind of stillness that comes just before the sunrise — not silent, not loud — just full of potential.
Six more months in London. It sounded big on paper. It was big. And yet, it didn't feel like I was running away from home or turning my back on Ajegunle. It felt like I was carrying it with me — stitched into every word I broadcast, every story I told.
"Congratulations," my supervisor said, shaking my hand. "They don't just offer extensions to anyone."
"Thank you," I said, nodding. But my mind was already on something else.
I stepped outside the building into the crisp winter air. The sky was a dull grey, but it didn't matter. I had made peace with grey skies. They reminded me that beauty could still be found in muted places — like hope inside hardship
Two days later, I booked a ticket home.
Just for a week.
Not because I was uncertain, but because I needed to breathe my roots again. Before another chapter began.
Tunde picked me up at the airport.
"You look... international," he joked, eyeing my fitted coat and sleek suitcase.
I laughed. "You look... exactly the same."
He raised an eyebrow. "Should I be offended or flattered?"
"Flattered," I said, linking my arm through his.
On the ride home, I couldn't stop staring out the window. Lagos hadn't changed much — still loud, still chaotic, still alive in ways London would never understand.
We passed Ajegunle's market. Same women with headscarves, same boys hawking gala and bottled water. But it wasn't exactly the same. Maybe it was me who had changed.
"Mama's waiting for you," Tunde said, his voice soft.
I turned to him. "Thank you for holding things down."
He shrugged. "We all move forward in our own ways."
Mama hugged me like I'd been gone for years.
"You've lost weight," she said, running her hands over my arms.
"I gained clarity," I teased.
She shook her head, smiling. "You and your big grammar."
We sat in the living room, the same one that used to leak when it rained. Now, the roof had been patched, and there were new curtains. Tunde had helped with that.
"You've become a big woman now," Mama said, sipping her tea. "BBC, awards, London... Ah!"
I grinned. "I've just begun, Mama."
She looked at me then, not as her daughter, but as a woman. "I see that."
I spent the week reconnecting. Not just with family, but with the ground beneath my feet.
I visited the old community station. It was now bigger, better equipped — thanks to some donors who had heard my story. They invited me to speak to a new group of interns.
One girl, about seventeen, raised her hand timidly after my talk.
"How did you not give up?" she asked. "When everything seemed impossible?"
I thought about that.
"I did give up," I said honestly. "More than once. But I also got back up. Because the stories I wanted to tell... they wouldn't let me rest."
The room went quiet. Then the girl smiled. And I saw myself in her.
Tunde and I spent most evenings on the rooftop of the building next to ours. We talked about everything and nothing.
"Are you happy?" he asked one night, as we watched the moon fight through smog and clouds.
"I'm getting there."
He nodded. "You inspire people, Mercy. Even when you don't mean to."
"Do I inspire you?" I asked, not looking at him.
"You always have."
There it was.
Truth, raw and uncomplicated.
I turned to him. "Then why didn't you say something before?"
"Because I didn't want to clip your wings," he replied. "You were meant to fly."
"And now?"
He smiled. "Now I just want to be the wind beneath them."
The night before I left, Mama cooked jollof rice with too much pepper — just the way I liked it. We sat as a family again. Me, her, Tunde. Even Aunty Bisola came over with her loud laugh and gossipy stories.
It felt like home.
When I packed my bag, I placed a small sachet of Ajegunle soil inside. I wanted to carry it with me — a reminder of where everything began.
At the airport, Tunde walked me to the gate.
"No tears," I warned, trying to lighten the moment.
"No promises," he said, voice thick.
I hugged him tight.
"Six months," I whispered. "Maybe more."
"I'll be here," he said. "Whether you stay or come back — just know you're never alone."
Back in London, things moved fast.
New shows. Bigger audiences. Interviews in rooms I used to dream about.
But every time the pressure started to build, I'd open the sachet of soil and breathe it in. And just like that, I was grounded.
One night, after a live recording, my producer approached me.
"Mercy, there's talk about syndicating your show across Africa. You're becoming a voice people want to follow."
I smiled, remembering the girl with the fake mic made from foil and cardboard.
"I'm just telling stories," I replied. "Ones that matter."
And I meant it.
Tunde sent a voice note a few days later.
"Hey Mercy. I finally bought that old printing press I told you about. I'm starting a local publication. Community news, real voices. Maybe we'll be partners in different countries, huh?"
I played it twice. Then recorded my response.
"You'll do great. And who knows? One day, we might build something together. Across oceans. Under the same sky."
He replied with just three words.
"I'm counting on it."
And so, life continued. Not perfect. Not predictable. But purposeful.
I was still learning how to balance ambition and identity, progress and memory.
But for the first time, I wasn't scared of the future.
Because I knew exactly where I came from.
And that made all the difference.