I never thought success could feel this heavy.
The plaque from the National Broadcasting Award still sat on my desk, its gold edges catching the sunlight sneaking in through my thin curtains. Every time I looked at it, I was reminded of how far I had come from the dusty streets of Ajegunle. Yet, lately, the same streets whispered in my dreams, pulling me back to a past I wasn't sure I had truly left behind.
It had been two weeks since the award ceremony, two weeks since I saw Tunde again. Two weeks of unanswered calls.
The night after we met at the ceremony, I had stared at my phone for hours, scrolling through our old chats — the silly voice notes, the pictures of roasted corn and suya we shared under the bridge, the "good morning" texts that always came before sunrise. But now, it was silent. Completely silent.
I told myself he was probably busy. But deep down, I knew something wasn't right.
The station had given me more work since the award — more interviews, more field reports. Everyone wanted the "girl from Ajegunle" to be their voice. It felt good, but it also meant I barely had time to breathe.
One afternoon, I was in the editing room, cutting a segment on a local hospital strike, when my boss, Mr. Akin, stepped in.
"Mercy, you've got another assignment," he said, sliding a file onto the table.
I raised an eyebrow. "I'm still working on—"
"This one is urgent," he cut in. "High-profile. The Minister of Urban Development is visiting Lagos to discuss housing reforms. You'll be covering it."
I exhaled slowly. Government coverage wasn't my comfort zone — too many suits, too many staged smiles. But I nodded anyway. "Alright, sir."
He gave me a faint smile. "Also… wear something formal. The cameras will be on you too."
The morning of the event, I stood in front of my mirror in the only blazer I owned, paired with a borrowed pencil skirt from Kemi. My braids were pulled into a neat bun, and I wore light makeup, just enough to look like I belonged among the crowd of polished reporters.
The conference hall was buzzing with journalists, aides, and TV crews. I positioned myself at the front, mic in hand, trying to focus on my notes. That's when I saw him.
Tunde.
He was standing at the far side of the hall, not in his usual jeans and T-shirt, but in a crisp navy suit. His hair was neatly trimmed, and there was a badge clipped to his pocket — Special Assistant to the Minister.
My breath caught.
He saw me too. Our eyes locked for a moment, and it was like time folded in on itself. All the words I wanted to say swirled in my mind, but he looked away first, focusing on the man beside him.
I told myself to stay professional, to do my job. But my hands trembled as I scribbled notes. Every few minutes, my eyes betrayed me, drifting back to him. He didn't come over. He didn't even smile.
When the press briefing ended, I saw him heading toward the exit. My feet moved before my brain could catch up.
"Tunde," I called, my voice louder than I intended.
He stopped. Turned. For a second, there was something in his eyes — warmth, maybe — but it was gone almost instantly.
"Mercy," he said, his tone flat. "It's been a while."
I swallowed. "Yeah. I… I tried calling."
"I've been busy," he replied. "Work is… different now."
"Too busy to pick up the phone?" I asked softly.
His jaw tightened. "Things have changed, Mercy. I can't… I can't just be the same person I was."
The words stung more than I wanted to admit. "And who are you now?"
He glanced around, lowering his voice. "Someone who can't afford distractions."
I almost laughed, though nothing was funny. "Is that what I am now? A distraction?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he nodded stiffly and walked away, disappearing into the crowd.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. I filed my report, smiled for the cameras, and answered my boss's congratulations with automatic "thank yous." But inside, I was cracking.
That night, Kemi found me sitting on the floor of our room, still in my work clothes, staring at nothing.
"Mercy, talk to me," she said, kneeling beside me.
I shook my head. "He's changed, Kemi. He's not… he's not the Tunde I knew."
"People change when money and power enter the picture," she said gently. "But sometimes, it's not really change — it's just who they always were, finally showing."
Her words hurt because they felt true.
Days turned into a week. I threw myself into work, avoiding any place I thought I might run into him. Then, on Friday evening, while covering a community protest in Surulere, I saw him again — but this time, he wasn't in a suit.
He was arguing with a group of protesters, telling them to disperse. The same hands that once held mine were now raised in warning, his voice carrying authority I had never heard before.
When he caught sight of me among the reporters, his expression flickered — surprise, maybe regret — but he didn't speak to me. Not even when the protest ended and people started leaving.
That night, I couldn't sleep. My mind was a storm of questions. Was this distance his choice, or was someone forcing it? And if it was his choice… why?
The answer came sooner than I expected.
Two days later, I received an anonymous tip. A voice over the phone told me the Minister's office was involved in a shady housing contract deal — the same office Tunde worked for. My instincts screamed that it was dangerous, but my heart whispered something else: maybe this was why he was pushing me away.
If I followed this story, I could uncover something huge… but I could also destroy whatever fragile connection we still had.
I stared at my phone for hours, torn between the journalist in me and the girl who still loved him.
Finally, I picked up my recorder and whispered to myself, "If I don't tell the truth, who will?"
The decision was made.
But deep inside, I knew — the moment I started digging, nothing between Tunde and me would ever be the same again.