It's one thing to dream of breaking a big story. It's another thing to actually hold it in your hands — knowing it could shatter more than just reputations.
The anonymous tip kept replaying in my mind. The voice had been low, deliberate.
"They're giving housing contracts to shell companies. Inflated budgets. Fake beneficiaries. Start with the files from last month's tenders."
I didn't ask the caller's name. I didn't ask why they chose me. I just wrote down every detail.
But as soon as the call ended, I thought of Tunde. His face at the conference, his voice when he told me he couldn't "afford distractions." I remembered the way he looked away when I asked who he was now. If this story was real, he might already be neck-deep in it.
And if I exposed it… I'd be exposing him too.
I didn't go straight to my boss. Instead, I started quietly. I knew if I made the wrong move, the whole thing could vanish — or worse, blow back on me.
Kemi noticed my unusual late nights.
"You're acting like you're hiding gold under your bed," she teased one evening. "What's going on?"
I hesitated. "Let's just say… I might have stumbled on something big. Too big."
Her eyes widened. "Mercy… this isn't another hospital strike or flood coverage, is it?"
I shook my head. "No. This is different. Dangerous."
"Then be careful," she said. "I don't want to see your name in the papers for the wrong reasons."
Over the next few days, I dug in. I visited the Ministry's procurement office under the pretense of doing a feature on housing developments. I smiled at the clerks, asked harmless questions, and took mental notes.
The files weren't easy to access, but I managed to see enough to know the tip was real. The contracts were inflated — some triple the real cost. And the "construction companies" that got them? Ghosts. No offices. No workers. Just names on paper.
And in the margin of one file, I saw it — Tunde's signature.
My stomach dropped.
I told myself maybe he was just signing as part of his job. Maybe he didn't know. But the neat curve of his handwriting felt like a brand on my conscience.
I kept my distance from him, but fate had other plans.
One afternoon, as I left the Ministry building with a stack of public records, I heard his voice behind me.
"Mercy."
I froze before turning. He was in a grey suit this time, looking tired but still carrying that air of control.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Working," I replied flatly.
"On what?"
"On something you probably don't want to know about."
His eyes narrowed. "Mercy, I told you before — this job isn't like what we used to talk about. You don't understand the kind of people—"
"I understand enough," I cut in. "I understand that money meant to house people is vanishing into thin air. And I understand your name is on the papers."
His face went still. "You've been digging."
"Yes."
For a moment, there was only silence between us, the sounds of Lagos traffic filling the space. Then he stepped closer.
"You need to stop." His voice was low, urgent. "This isn't just politics, Mercy. These people… they don't forgive. If you publish anything—"
"If I keep quiet, I'm part of it," I said.
He clenched his jaw. "I'm trying to protect you."
"By staying silent while people lose their homes?" I shook my head. "That's not the Tunde I knew."
He exhaled slowly, looking away. "The Tunde you knew didn't have this much to lose."
That night, I couldn't sleep. My recorder sat on the table, the little red light winking at me. I knew I had enough for a story — the documents, the signatures, the timelines. But I also knew that publishing it could ruin him.
The girl in me wanted to believe there was still some good left in him. The journalist in me knew the truth didn't wait for anyone's feelings.
By morning, I had made up my mind.
I walked into my boss's office with the file in my hands. "Sir, I have a story. A big one."
He read through the first few pages, his eyes widening. "Mercy… do you know what this means?"
"Yes," I said. "And I'm ready."
The days that followed were a blur of fact-checking, legal reviews, and sleepless nights. The station's legal team went over every detail to make sure we wouldn't get sued into oblivion. My name was going to be on the byline. My voice would be in the exposé.
The night before the broadcast, I got a call from an unknown number.
"You think you're smart," a man's voice said. "But smart girls can disappear too."
The line went dead.
My hands shook as I set the phone down. I thought about telling Kemi, but she'd only panic. Instead, I locked the door and stayed up till dawn.
When the exposé aired, the city exploded.
Social media caught fire. "Housing Scam" trended for hours. People shared clips of my report, tagging the Ministry and demanding answers. The Minister called a press conference to deny everything, but by then, the evidence was already too loud to ignore.
And Tunde…
I didn't hear from him for three days.
On the fourth day, I found him waiting outside the station. He looked different — not the confident aide I saw in the conference hall, but a man carrying something heavy.
"Can we talk?" he asked quietly.
I hesitated, then nodded. We walked to a quiet corner by the car park.
"You didn't have to do it like this," he said.
"I didn't have a choice," I replied.
"You always have a choice," he said bitterly. "And you chose to burn everything."
"I chose to tell the truth."
He stared at me for a long time. "You've made enemies, Mercy. Dangerous ones. They won't forget this."
"I'm not afraid," I said, though my voice trembled.
"You should be."
For a moment, I thought he might walk away again. But instead, he stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"They're going to come for me first," he said. "And if they think you're still connected to me…"
His words trailed off.
"Then maybe we shouldn't be connected at all," I finished.
He didn't argue. He just gave me a look I couldn't read — something between pride and sorrow — and walked away.
That night, as I sat alone in my room, the city outside still buzzing over the scandal, I realised something: I had finally become the kind of journalist I dreamed of being. But in the process, I had lost the only person who once made that dream feel possible.
And maybe… that was the real price of the truth.