Three weeks after the award, the email came.
Subject: BBC Africa – International Fellowship Offer
I blinked at the screen for almost a full minute. The sender address looked legit — no typos, no sketchy domain. But still, my heart refused to believe it.
I clicked it.
"Dear Miss Ajayi,
We are pleased to offer you a place in the 2025 BBC Africa Media Fellowship Program, a one-year fully funded opportunity in London…"
My mouth went dry.
I stood from the café table, the old plastic chair scraping against the floor, and paced like someone whose body no longer understood how to sit still.
It was real.
A one-year, all-expense-paid media fellowship in London. Not just a workshop — a full-blown opportunity. Studios, editors, mentors, and access to platforms I'd only admired from afar. The BBC wanted me. Mercy Ajayi. Girl from Ajegunle. Daughter of a food seller and an absent father.
I stared at my name on the letter like it had been borrowed.
Me?
I called Mama first.
She screamed so loudly I had to pull the phone away. Then she started praying in tongues.
"You go fly, Mercy. Fly far. Fly loud. Fly like thunder wey no dey ask permission!"
I laughed through my tears. "Mama, calm down. It's not even final yet…"
"Sharrap!" she cut in. "No spoil dis miracle with doubt!"
Then she added, quieter, "Na your Papa voice I hear for inside my head just now. Him go proud, I swear."
I didn't know what to say to that. So I let the silence stretch, both of us clinging to it like a prayer.
I told my boss next. He grinned ear to ear and immediately began talking about press releases, farewell broadcasts, even a mini documentary for the station's Instagram page. I'd be the first person from our radio to receive such a global opportunity.
Only one person remained.
Tunde.
We hadn't spoken deeply since the award night. Life had blurred us again — me with media appearances, campus interviews, departmental projects. Him with his final year thesis and family expectations. But I needed to tell him face-to-face.
So I messaged him.
Can we meet?
Same suya place? 6pm
He replied with a thumbs-up emoji and a heart.
It felt both comforting and distant.
When I arrived, he was already there — his back turned, legs crossed, eyes watching the road like he was hoping I wouldn't come.
The familiar scent of grilled suya, fried onions, and dusty Lagos air surrounded us.
He turned as I approached and smiled softly.
"You've got that I'm-about-to-drop-a-bombshell look."
I handed him the printed email.
He read it slowly. Then again.
When he looked up, his expression wasn't angry. It wasn't even shocked. Just… still.
"Wow."
"That's all?" I asked, half-laughing, half-nervous.
"Wow, as in… incredible. This is everything."
I nodded. "Yeah."
"You going?"
I hesitated. "That's the question, isn't it?"
He raised an eyebrow. "What's holding you back?"
"You."
It came out before I could edit it.
He looked stunned for a moment. Then smiled — not the playful one I loved. This one carried weight.
"Mercy. You think I'm the reason to stay?"
I swallowed. "I think… I'm scared that if I go, we'll lose this. Again."
He was quiet.
Cars passed. Someone shouted about recharge cards. A baby cried from somewhere behind the stalls.
Then he reached out and held my hand — gently, like he was cradling glass.
"Mercy, what we have now… it's strong. If it can't survive distance, it wouldn't survive life anyway."
I bit my lip. "I just got you back."
"And you'll still have me. Maybe not the way you want right now, but… I'll always be on your side."
"Tunde—"
"I'm not going to be the reason you clip your wings. Don't you see that you're bigger than this city? Bigger than me, even?"
That made me tear up.
He pulled out a napkin from the suya tray and wiped my cheek.
"Look," he added. "I'll write. I'll call. I'll be your number-one fan. If the story of us is real, distance won't erase it."
My throat was thick. "Why do you always say the right thing?"
"I practice in the mirror," he teased.
We both laughed.
But underneath it, we both knew something was shifting — and no amount of jokes could stop it.
The next few weeks flew by.
Visa application. Medicals. Travel prep. BBC virtual onboarding.
I barely slept.
Mama came to visit and helped me fold and refold my clothes — even tried to sneak in ogbono seeds wrapped in nylon.
"African girl no go forget her roots," she said.
My boss arranged a going-away segment on the station's Saturday show. People called in from different states, thanking me, blessing me.
"I dey tell my pikin say make she be like Mercy," one woman said.
I cried again.
People I didn't know believed in me.
People who only knew my voice, my grit.
But behind the strength was a knot of anxiety. Leaving meant starting from scratch. Again. In a place where I might be invisible.
The night before my flight, I went to the station.
It was empty — just the security man at the gate and the faint sound of reggae from his transistor radio.
I walked into Studio B, the one I'd started in — small, soundproof, full of ghosts.
I sat at the mic.
No audience. No jingle. Just me.
I turned on the red light.
"This is Mercy Ajayi," I said, voice steady. "Your voice of the streets. Tonight's message? Sometimes the street you come from isn't the one you're meant to stay on. But it'll always be part of your journey. Thank you for listening, for believing. For reminding me that stories like mine matter. This isn't goodbye. Just a new chapter."
I turned off the mic.
And wept.
Not out of fear.
But from gratitude.
Because even broken roads can lead to bright futures.
At the airport the next morning, Mama clutched my arm like she was memorizing my bones.
"Don't forget who you are," she whispered.
"I won't."
"And no dey chop all those oyibo food. E fit spoil your belle."
I laughed through my tears.
Tunde didn't come. But he sent me a voice note.
"I didn't come to say goodbye. Because this isn't goodbye. It's 'see you soon.'
Keep shining, Mercy. And when you doubt yourself, remember this:
You were always meant to rise."
I played that voice note three times before the plane took off.
As the plane ascended and Lagos disappeared beneath the clouds, I whispered into the window:
"I'm not running. I'm rising."
And for the first time in my life, I fully believed it.