London's streets were quiet that Sunday morning. Fog clung low to the ground, and the city seemed to hold its breath as if waiting for something unseen to begin.
I pulled my coat tighter around me and stared at the Thames, its grey waters reflecting the blurred skyline. There were moments the city felt like a stranger, cold and distant — but other times, like today, it felt like a blank page. A place where stories like mine could be rewritten.
Tunde's voice echoed in my thoughts, from the documentary he'd sent me days ago. I hadn't stopped thinking about it. His words, his cadence, the way he spoke of Ajegunle — like it was still alive inside him. Like it hadn't been left behind.
That's when I realized something.
I missed him.
Not the memory of him, not the idea of him, but the real, flesh-and-blood Tunde — the boy who'd believed in me before I believed in myself, the one who made me laugh when I had nothing.
And maybe... I was tired of pretending I didn't feel that pull anymore.
That evening, I did something impulsive.
I booked a flight home.
Two weeks. Just two. Enough to remind myself where I came from — and maybe enough to see if there was still something between us.
I didn't tell anyone. Not Mama, not Tunde. I needed it to be just mine for a moment. A secret I could savor.
Landing in Lagos was like walking into a memory — thick, warm air wrapping around me, the scent of roasted corn and exhaust, the music spilling from every open stall and window. My chest tightened with emotion the moment I stepped off the plane.
Ajegunle hadn't changed much. The streets were still uneven. Kids still chased after keke napeps. And the radio station still had the same flaking blue paint.
But I had changed.
And that scared me.
I wore jeans from Zara. A coat that cost more than my Mama's monthly salary. My accent had shifted, slightly softened. I felt both foreign and familiar — like a girl in translation.
I walked straight to Mama's shop. She was slicing plantain and humming an old Ebenezer Obey song. When she saw me, the knife clattered to the floor.
"Jesus! Mercy!"
I laughed as she grabbed me, tears soaking her wrapper. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming?"
"I wanted to surprise you."
She held my face in her hands. "You've added weight. You look... good. London is feeding you well."
"London is feeding me stories," I said, smiling.
We talked for hours — about home, about BBC, about the youth center. She told me Mr. Dapo from the community radio had retired. That my old classroom had been turned into a clinic. That kids now quoted my interviews like scripture.
I didn't know how to carry that kind of pride. It felt too big.
The next day, I walked to the radio station. Not as a guest. Just as a girl revisiting a chapter.
I passed by the rusty gate and knocked.
To my surprise, it was Idris who answered.
"Mercy?" he grinned. "How long are you around?"
"Two weeks."
He looked over his shoulder. "You're just in time. We have a youth panel tonight. Want to join?"
I hesitated.
Then nodded.
It felt right.
When I walked into the small studio later that evening, I wasn't expecting Tunde to be there.
But he was — seated in the corner, headphones around his neck, scribbling notes into a battered journal.
Our eyes met.
Something shifted.
He stood slowly. "You came back."
I swallowed. "For a little while."
He didn't smile. Just stared at me like he was trying to decide if I was real.
"I saw your work," I said. "The documentary. It was... beautiful."
His voice was softer when he spoke. "It was for you."
I blinked. "What?"
He stepped closer. "Everything I've done since you left was a way to keep the part of you that lived here alive. I thought if I documented our world, our people, our pain — maybe you'd remember."
"I never forgot."
"You disappeared."
"I had to survive."
"I know," he said. "But I didn't stop waiting."
That was when I realized we were standing inches apart, breaths tangled, hearts heavy.
"I don't know if I can stay," I whispered.
"You don't have to," he said. "Just don't leave without saying goodbye again."
That night, after the panel, we sat on the station roof like we used to.
The city pulsed below us, distant yet familiar.
"Do you ever think we rushed it?" I asked him.
He shook his head. "No. We were just young. And you were meant for more. I always knew that."
I turned to him. "Then why did it feel like I had to choose — between becoming something or being with you?"
"Because love felt like a luxury back then," he said. "When you're poor, love is sometimes a casualty of survival."
I leaned back, staring at the stars. "But now?"
"Now…" he paused. "Now I think love is the one thing we can't afford to lose."
I looked at him.
And in that moment, under the Ajegunle night sky, I kissed him.
Soft.
Certain.
Not a goodbye.
But a beginning.
The next week passed in a blur of reconnections and rediscoveries. I spent mornings with Mama at the market, afternoons at the station, and evenings walking through streets where every corner told a story.
Tunde and I didn't define what we were. We didn't need to.
He held my hand like he was learning it all over again.
We spoke less about the past, more about the future.
One night, as we watched a group of children rehearse a street play, he asked, "Do you think you'll come back for good one day?"
"I don't know," I said honestly. "But I know I'll never really leave again."
He nodded. "That's enough."
The day of my flight came too quickly.
Tunde didn't go with me to the airport. We both agreed it would hurt too much.
Instead, he handed me a letter.
"Open it when you land," he said.
I cried in Mama's arms one more time. Hugged Idris. Promised to return.
And then I was gone again — back to London, back to the whirlwind.
On the plane, somewhere over the Atlantic, I opened the letter.
"Mercy,
This time, I won't wait in silence. I'll live, and I'll grow, and I'll keep telling our stories — but I'll also keep space for you.
Because some people don't just pass through your life.
Some people stay.
No matter how far.
I closed my eyes and let the tears fall freely.
This wasn't the end.
It never was.