Dignity is not in the job. It's in surviving without apology. The job came from a neighbor's cousin's friend. One of those word-of-mouth gigs passed around like chewing gum. One day you're jobless, the next day someone's handing you a mop.
"Just clean small," the woman had said over the phone. "Five hours. One-time thing. ₦15,000." I didn't ask for details.
Because when you're broke, dignity is a luxury. And ₦15,000 is salvation.
The house was in Victoria Garden City. The kind of place where the air is filtered, the streets are quiet, and even the dogs wear class. Big gate. Big house. Big silence.
The madam opened the door herself. She didn't greet me. Just nodded once, the kind of nod you give furniture or weather. Not rude. Just indifferent. She was pretty. In that soft, frozen way rich women often are—smooth-skinned, sharp-nosed, wearing a silk robe that probably cost more than my rent. She handed me a bucket and gloves.
"You're here to clean the guest wing," she said. "Don't touch anything that isn't dusty."
She turned and walked away. I nodded at her back. The house was too quiet. The kind of quiet that amplifies your own breath. Marble floors. Art on the walls. Books arranged like museum pieces. Everything smelled like eucalyptus and distance. I started with the guest room. Changed the sheets. Scrubbed the toilet. Polished the mirror. Tried not to look too hard at my reflection. I didn't recognize that girl in rubber gloves and cheap slippers anymore. Two hours in, I was wiping down a windowsill when I felt someone behind me. I turned. It was an old woman. Thin, slow, eyes sharp as razors. She was wearing a faded lace wrapper and a shawl over her head. She looked like someone who had lived through ten wars and didn't fear the next one. We stared at each other. "You're the new girl?" she asked. I nodded. She walked closer. No sound in her step. Like air. Then she looked at me—looked at me. Not past me. Not through me. "You look tired," she said. I almost laughed. But instead I said, "Yes, ma." She nodded slowly. "But you're still here." That sentence. So simple. So devastating. I froze. The rag in my hand fell. I picked it up with shaking fingers. She turned to leave, then stopped and added, without looking back, "Don't confuse delay with denial. Even God sometimes takes His time."
I didn't reply, because I didn't know if she was wise or mad or both. But the words clung to me like perfume. After she left, I kept cleaning. Finished the windows. Dusted the bookshelf. Washed my hands five times to get the bleach smell off. Before I left, the madam handed me the envelope. "You can go." No thank you. No eye contact. Just money and dismissal. Still, I left with a quiet in my chest that didn't feel like defeat. On the bus ride home, I thought of the old woman.
You're still here. Maybe that was the real job. The real battle. Not just surviving.
But staying.
Remaining.
Existing out loud.