The air in London smelled like something new. Not necessarily better, just different—crisp, cold, tinged with roasted chestnuts and distant train tracks. The sky was a washed-out grey when I arrived, like a half-finished painting. Nothing like the bold sun back home in Nigeria.
But I didn't have time to compare skies. My head was spinning with airport signs, luggage, immigration lines, and the overwhelming thought that somehow, I was really here. Me. Mercy Ajayi from Ajegunle.
A driver holding a placard with my name greeted me at arrivals. He was a soft-spoken Ghanaian man named Kwame who helped me load my luggage into a black sedan that looked too expensive for someone like me.
As we drove through the heart of London, I pressed my forehead against the window and watched everything flash by. Big buses. Clean streets. Buildings that looked like museums. People in coats and scarves walking dogs. It was surreal.
When we arrived at the guest apartment provided by the BBC fellowship, I stared at the door for a long time before opening it. The room was beautiful. Warm lighting. Wooden floors. A window view of a canal. On the bed lay a welcome note with a chocolate bar and an envelope containing my fellowship ID and orientation schedule.
That night, I unpacked slowly, placing my few belongings carefully in drawers. My phone buzzed with messages from Mama, from my boss at the station, from my roommates back in school. But not from Tunde.
I didn't know what I was expecting. We had said goodbye. Or maybe we hadn't. Maybe it was just a pause—an ellipsis waiting to become either a full stop or a continuation.
I sent him a photo of the canal view with the caption: Made it.
He read it. No reply.
The next day began early. Orientation was held at the BBC headquarters, a massive building with spinning glass doors and people who looked like they had stories in their pockets. My palms were sweaty the whole time.
There were eight of us selected from across Africa: two from Kenya, one from Ghana, one from South Africa, a Senegalese woman with bright pink hair, and me. When I introduced myself, I stumbled.
"I'm Mercy Ajayi from Lagos, Nigeria. I, um, used to work at a community radio station."
The program director, a white woman with glasses named Harriet, smiled kindly. "Used to? Are you not still a journalist?"
I blinked. "I guess I am."
She nodded. "Then say it with your chest."
The other fellows laughed, and so did I. It was the first time I felt like maybe I belonged.
After orientation, we were taken on a tour of the facilities. Recording booths with soundproof glass, editing bays, podcast studios, newsrooms buzzing with energy. I felt like a child in a candy store.
That night, I video-called Mama.
"You dey eat well?" she asked.
"Yes, Mama. But the rice here is somehow."
She laughed. "Oya, come back home. Make I cook better jollof for you."
We talked about London weather, the people, and how I missed pepper.
But underneath it all, I could tell she was proud. Her voice held something close to tears when she said, "You carry our name well."
Weeks passed.
I grew more confident. My first piece aired on BBC Africa Radio—a feature about African street food across diasporas. I interviewed a Nigerian woman in Peckham who made suya from her garage and a Ghanaian man who owned a jollof food truck.
The piece went viral.
"Fresh, raw, and authentic," Harriet said. "You tell stories like you live inside them."
I felt alive again.
But even as I climbed professionally, something inside me remained unsteady.
Tunde hadn't replied to any of my messages.
I told myself it was okay. That we were living different lives now. That maybe this was the version of the story where the girl rises alone.
But some nights, I lay awake wondering if he still thought about me. If he listened to my broadcasts. If he whispered my name under his breath when no one was watching.
One Saturday morning, I got an email.
Subject: "We Heard You."
It was from a senior producer at BBC World News. They wanted me to pitch a TV segment.
"Something fresh. Something personal. Tell us a story the world doesn't know it needs."
I stared at the screen for a long time.
And then I knew.
I pitched a story called Voices From the Bottom.
A documentary about young women from low-income areas using community radio to change their narratives.
It would feature stories from Nigeria, Kenya, and South Africa. But I knew the heart of it would begin where mine did.
Ajegunle.
I called my old station. They screamed when they heard my voice.
"Mercy! Our international champion! Come and carry us go BBC!"
I laughed until I cried.
Going back wasn't easy. The crew and I landed in Lagos on a humid Wednesday. The air was thick, and the traffic welcomed us like a joke with no punchline.
But it felt like home.
We filmed everything: the tiny booths, the girls who ran late-night talk shows, the market women who tuned in during lunch breaks.
When we reached my old hostel, I stood outside the bathroom door where I once cried over a boy who stopped texting.
I smiled.
Growth is a funny thing. You don't notice it until you revisit the places where your pain once lived.
On our last day, I saw him.
Tunde.
He was standing outside the station. As if he knew I'd come.
He looked different. Not older. Just... still. Like life had taught him to stand taller.
"You came back," he said.
"Just for the story," I replied, pretending.
He smiled. "You always were the story."
We sat on the same bench where we once ate suya. This time, no pretense. Just the quiet comfort of shared history.
"I listened," he said. "To every episode. I just didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound selfish."
"You could've said you missed me."
"I did. I do."
I looked at him, and for a second, I felt the old ache return. But it didn't hurt the same way anymore.
"We're different now," I said.
"Yeah. But maybe... still under the same sky."
I nodded.
Sometimes, that was enough.
Back in London, the documentary aired.
People cried. People wrote in. A girl from Kibera messaged me, saying, "Now I know I can be heard too."
And just like that, I knew.
My story wasn't just mine anymore.
It belonged to every girl who ever felt small. Every dreamer who thought the world had no room for them.
I wasn't just Mercy from Ajegunle.
I was a voice.
A light.
And no matter what sky I stood under, I would always rise.