The first time anyone called Ada special, she was sitting under the mango tree behind her mother's kitchen.
Her fingers were stained with blue dye.
Ankara pieces surrounded her like broken rainbows. Red. Gold. Indigo. Green with tiny white flowers. She didn't follow patterns from magazines. She didn't need to. The designs came to her the way harmattan wind came—quietly but confidently.
Her younger brother, Chibueze, watched her work.
"Ada," he said, chewing sugarcane, "when you become rich, will you buy me PS5?"
Ada didn't look up.
"I go first buy you sense ."she replied in pidgin
He hissed. "Lagos has already entered your head."
Lagos.
She had never been.
But she dreamed about it sometimes. Tall buildings. Bright lights. Big fashion shows she had only seen once on a borrowed phone.
In the village, fashion meant church uniform and burial ceremony aso-ebi.
But in Ada's hands, Ankara became art.
That afternoon, everything changed.
A black SUV entered the village.
Not the type that visits often.
The children ran first.
"Big man don come!"
The elders adjusted their wrappers. The women whispered. Ada didn't even notice until her mother rushed outside.
It was Chief kanayo.
He had come for a burial ceremony. He was known. Rich. Powerful. A Lagos businessman who returned once in a while to show he had not forgotten home.
He noticed Ada's outfit before he noticed her.
She had designed it herself.
Fitted high-waist Ankara trousers. Cropped structured top. Bold sleeves. Clean finishing.
Village girls didn't dress like that.
"ònye mere ya?"(Who made this?) he asked.
Ada thought she was in trouble.
"m mere ya,sir"(I did, sir).
He studied her. Not like a village uncle. Like a man calculating profit.
"You made it yourself?"in English
"Yes, sir."
"Without training?"
"Yes."
The way he looked at her then—it was not kindness.
It was opportunity.
That evening, he sat in Ada's family compound.
Her father's plastic chair looked embarrassed under him.
"I have a fashion brand in Lagos," Chief Kanayo said calmly. "She has raw talent. I can train her."
Her mother's eyes widened.
Her father coughed. "Train… as in school?"
"In my company. Ikeja."
The word landed like thunder.
Ikeja.
Lagos.
Opportunity.
Escape.
Risk.
Her family didn't have money. Farming barely fed them. Ada knew this. Every time her mother stretched soup with extra water, she knew.
"How long, Chief?" her father asked.
"As long as it takes. I will sponsor her. Accommodation. Training."
Silence.
Ada's heart pounded.
She wanted this.
But leaving the village meant leaving safety.
Her mother looked at her.
"This is your destiny knocking."
Destiny didn't knock gently.
It arrived in black SUVs.
That night, Ada lay awake listening to crickets.
She imagined Lagos traffic.
She imagined failure.
She imagined becoming somebody.
Then she imagined her family depending on her success.
That part scared her the most.
Three days later, she stood by the same mango tree.
But this time, she was leaving.
Her bag was small.
Her dreams were not.
As the SUV drove out of the village, Ada looked back.
The dust rose behind them like a curtain closing on her old life.
Having no idea of what's ahead
She only knew one thing.
She was no longer just the village girl with Ankara fingers.
She was entering Lagos.
And Lagos does not play.
😊