I woke up the next morning with my heart still warm from the way Tunde had held me last night. His arms had been an anchor, steadying me in a sea that had been threatening to swallow me whole these past weeks. The hum of the ceiling fan spun lazily above my head, and for a moment, I lay still, staring at the blades, thinking about how different life felt now.
I had gone from struggling to find my place in the community journalism space to actually being heard—by people who mattered. But what mattered more than all the recognition was the fact that my story, my voice, was reaching girls like me—girls from the dusty streets of Ajegunle who thought their dreams were too big to fit into their world.
My phone buzzed beside me, snapping me from my thoughts. It was a message from Tunde.
Tunde: Good morning, Sunshine. Hope you slept well. Breakfast?
I chuckled to myself. He was probably already on his way. I typed back quickly.
Me: Morning. And yes, but only if you're cooking.
He sent back a laughing emoji and then, Be ready in twenty minutes.
Twenty minutes later, he was standing in the small kitchen, sleeves rolled up, frying plantain like his life depended on it.
"Mercy, you can't just eat noodles and bread all the time," he said without looking up.
"I don't," I protested weakly, leaning on the counter. "Sometimes I add egg."
He gave me that look—the one that said he wasn't buying it. "Egg doesn't count as balance, Mercy."
We both laughed, and for a while, we just existed in the quiet rhythm of morning. The sizzling of the oil, the faint smell of coffee, the sound of plates clinking—it felt like home.
After breakfast, I told him about the email I had received the night before—a proposal to collaborate with a national television station on a youth-focused program. My hands still trembled when I thought about it.
"Mercy, that's huge!" Tunde's eyes lit up. "Do you know what this means for your career? For your story?"
I bit my lip. "It's overwhelming, Tunde. What if I'm not ready?"
He leaned forward, his voice steady. "You've been ready for a long time. You just needed the world to notice."
His faith in me made my chest ache in the best way possible.
The rest of the day was a blur of activity. I had interviews to attend, calls to return, and a community meeting scheduled for the evening. Ever since I'd won the national broadcasting award, people had been treating me differently. There was a new kind of respect in their eyes—one I didn't quite know how to carry yet.
But the meeting that night brought me back to earth. The community hall was filled with familiar faces—market women, mechanics, young students. They were all here to talk about issues in Ajegunle, and I had been invited to speak.
When I stepped to the front, my knees felt weak, but I reminded myself of something Tunde had once told me: Nervousness just means you care.
"Good evening, everyone," I began, my voice carrying across the hall. "I grew up here. I've walked these streets barefoot, played in the gutters after rain, and fetched water from the same well as many of you. This place raised me. And I'm here to say—your stories matter. Our voices matter."
As I spoke, I could see heads nodding, eyes brightening. I talked about using media to shed light on the challenges we faced, from poor infrastructure to lack of access to quality education. By the time I finished, the applause was loud enough to make my eyes sting with tears.
Later that night, Tunde was waiting outside the hall.
"You were incredible," he said as we walked together under the dim streetlights. "I swear, you were born for this."
I smiled, but my heart felt heavy. "Tunde, sometimes I wonder if I can balance it all—my dreams, my responsibilities, my… feelings for you."
He stopped walking, turned to face me. "Mercy, I don't need you to choose between me and your dreams. I just want to be part of the journey."
Something about the way he said it—the sincerity in his voice—broke through the wall of fear I'd been holding up. I realized then that love didn't have to be a chain. It could be wings.
Two days later, I was back at the TV station for a meeting about the new program. The studio buzzed with energy—lights, cameras, people running around with headsets. The producer, a tall woman with a commanding presence, laid out the vision for the show.
"We want something fresh, something that speaks to young Nigerians in a real way," she said. "And Mercy, your story—your authenticity—fits perfectly."
I tried to listen, but a part of me was still in disbelief. Just a year ago, I'd been recording interviews on a borrowed phone, using a cracked earpiece as a makeshift microphone.
Now, I was sitting in a boardroom with people who could shape national conversations.
That night, as I sat in my tiny apartment with the city lights flickering outside, I wrote in my journal:
"If this is a dream, I don't want to wake up. But if this is real, then I want to keep fighting for the girl I used to be—the one who thought no one would ever listen to her story."
And deep down, I knew Tunde would be there, cheering me on every step of the way.
The week ended with a surprise. I came home to find a package on my doorstep. Inside was a small silver necklace with a delicate microphone charm.
The note attached simply read:
"For the voice that changes everything. —T."
I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. It wasn't just a gift—it was a reminder of who I was becoming, and of the love that was growing alongside my dreams.
That night, I fell asleep wearing it, the cool metal resting against my skin, whispering promises of tomorrow.