The following Monday arrived with a weight Amina couldn't shake off. She had barely slept; her mind replayed Mrs. Bello's sigh, her sharp tone, and the sinking disappointment she felt after being reassigned. Still, she forced herself out of bed before dawn, praying quietly beside her grandmother who was already awake, humming a soft Yoruba hymn under her breath. It was the only sound that steadied Amina's heart.
By the time she arrived at the office, the sky was still a pale, sleepy blue. The building stood tall and polished, everything inside it cold, efficient, indifferent — very unlike her grandmother's home, where everything had a place but also a heartbeat. Here, her footsteps echoed down the wide hallway as if reminding her that she did not quite belong. Not yet.
She reached the monitoring and documentation room and paused. Light spilled from the windows, and she heard the shuffle of papers inside. She took a slow breath and stepped in.
Mrs. Bello was already seated, glasses perched on her nose, flipping through a thick folder. She didn't acknowledge Amina at first. Not with a nod. Not with a glance. Amina stood there for a few seconds that felt like minutes.
Finally, without looking up, the woman said, "You're late."
Amina glanced at her wristwatch. It was 7:56 a.m.
Her resumption time was 8:00 a.m.
"I'm… four minutes early, ma'am."
Mrs. Bello's eyes lifted, cold and unimpressed. "Then you should have been here at 7:30. Early enough to settle down before work begins."
Amina lowered her gaze. "Yes, ma."
"Sit. We have a lot to cover today."
The day dragged on with tasks that were both draining and strangely monotonous — data logging, report sorting, field verification preparation, and endless follow-up calls to field officers who sounded half-asleep or half-annoyed. Several times, Amina's hands trembled with fatigue, but she kept pushing.
At noon, when other interns gathered in small cheerful groups for lunch, Amina sat quietly at a corner table with her food flask — rice and stew her grandmother packed for her — but her appetite refused to come. She stirred the food absent-mindedly until the rice turned cold.
A few familiar faces from earlier orientation days walked past her. Some waved politely but didn't stop. Others didn't notice her at all. She felt invisible, sitting among people but not with them.
Still, she reminded herself of something her grandmother always said: "A seed grows in silence first before anyone sees the tree."
And so she stayed quiet, even when her silence felt like swallowing stones.
Later that week, the real storm came.
On Thursday afternoon, the entire unit received a call from the operations center: an urgent inspection was needed at a rural site where equipment failures had been reported. Most senior staff were unavailable — either on leave, off-site, or tied up in meetings. The responsibility landed on a small team.
And, unfortunately for her, on Mrs. Bello.
"Amina!" her supervisor snapped, poking her head into the office. "Get your bag. You're following me."
Amina froze. "Ma? Me?"
"Yes, you! Did you hear another Amina here?" She rolled her eyes. "Hurry!"
Amina grabbed her notebook, her power bank, and her ID card. Her heart was thudding, but a small flame of determination flickered inside her. This was field experience — the kind she wanted. The kind she prayed for. Even if it came packaged as stress.
They were assigned an official vehicle, along with two technicians — both men who barely spoke except to complain about traffic. The journey stretched longer than expected. Dusty roads, potholes deep enough to hold rainwater for months, and the hot sun beating down like it had a grudge.
Inside the car, the silence between her and Mrs. Bello felt heavier than the heat.
At some point, Amina cleared her throat softly. "Ma… do you need me to review the earlier reports before we get there?"
Mrs. Bello didn't look at her. "If you were capable, you would have done it without asking."
Amina turned her face to the window. The scenery blurred. She held her breath and swallowed the sting of those words. It was easier than trying to defend herself.
When they arrived at the site, the situation was worse than expected. Some equipment was malfunctioning due to poor maintenance, and a section of the monitoring cables had been damaged by erosion. Amina moved around with cautious steps, taking pictures, writing notes, and following instructions.
But trouble came fast.
While walking along a narrow, uneven path beside the equipment area, Amina slipped. Her notebook flew out of her hand. Pain shot through her ankle as her foot twisted sharply.
She gasped and jerked forward, grabbing a rusty rail for support.
One of the technicians rushed to her side. "Young lady, easy. Are you hurt?"
Amina forced a tight smile. "I'm fine. It's nothing."
It wasn't nothing. Her ankle throbbed with each breath.
From a distance, Mrs. Bello stared at her with something between irritation and disbelief. "Is this why I hate bringing interns?" she muttered. "You people come here to slow us down."
Amina clenched her jaw. She blinked away the wetness in her eyes and kept moving, limping slightly. But she didn't stop.
She refused to stop.
By the time they were done recording samples, checking the readings, and confirming the equipment status, evening had crept in. The sun dipped behind the trees, and the air grew cooler.
Everyone was exhausted.
On the drive back, she shifted quietly in her seat, hiding her limp. She didn't want to give Mrs. Bello any more reason to ridicule her.
And she thought that was the worst part of the day.
She was wrong.
When they reached the office compound, Amina stepped out carefully. Her ankle nearly gave way, and she held onto the door for balance.
Her phone buzzed immediately.
She checked the screen.
Twenty missed calls.
All from her grandmother.
Her heart tightened. She dialed back instantly.
"Amina…" her grandmother's trembling voice answered. "Where have you been, my child? I have been calling and calling… I was worried."
"I'm sorry, Mama. We went for field inspection. I just got back."
There was a pause. A long, heavy one.
Then: "Armed robbers came again."
Amina stopped breathing.
Her grandmother continued, voice shaking, "They broke into two houses in our street… everyone ran, and I hid in the small store room—just like last time. They didn't enter ours, but people were screaming, Amina. It was terrible."
Amina pressed her forehead against the car door. Her chest tightened painfully. Flashbacks of past nights — hiding under leaking roofs, clutching her schoolbag, praying silently — flooded her mind.
She whispered, "Are you safe now?"
"Yes, my child. But the police came very late. People are scared they might return tonight."
Amina closed her eyes.
How many times would life remind her of the thin thread she was hanging on? How many times would fear follow her home?
"Okay, Mama," she said softly. "I'm coming home now."
But as she turned, Mrs. Bello stepped directly in her path.
"Where do you think you're going? We still need to finish the daily report for the ministry."
Amina swallowed. "Ma… please. There was an incident at home. My grandmother—"
"Is she in the hospital?"
"No, but—"
"Is she dying?"
Amina froze. "No."
"Then get inside and finish your work. This is a government office, not a market square for excuses."
Her voice was hard. Sharp. Unyielding.
Amina felt her throat close, but she nodded. "Yes, ma."
Her ankle burned, her heart ached, and her thoughts felt like shards of glass, but she walked in anyway.
She worked until everyone else left.
She worked long after her supervisor slammed her office door and went home.
She typed the report with trembling hands, blinking away tears she refused to let fall. Not in this building.
When she finally left at past 9:30 p.m., the compound was dark. She couldn't afford a ride, so she boarded two buses and walked the last stretch of the road, limping slightly.
Her grandmother was waiting outside, worry etched deep into her face. She hugged Amina tightly.
"My child… what happened to your leg?"
Amina forced a smile. "It's nothing, Mama. I'm okay."
The old woman touched her cheek gently. "You are strong like your mother. But even the strongest people need rest."
Amina leaned into her warmth.
She didn't say anything.
She just breathed.
Because if she spoke, she might break.
Later that night, as they lay in the dark, the roof leaking small drops from the earlier evening drizzle, her grandmother whispered:
"One day, Amina, all this pain will be a story. A strong one. A victorious one."
Amina looked up at the dark ceiling.
"I hope so, Mama."
"No," the old woman replied with certainty. "I know so."
Outside, a dog barked. Far away, a siren wailed. The world was loud, chaotic, and frightening.
But beside her, her grandmother's hand found hers.
And somehow… that made survival feel possible.
Amina closed her eyes and allowed herself one silent promise:
No matter how dark the night gets, she will rise.
Slowly. Painfully. But surely.
The chapter ends where her strength is bruised but not broken — a quiet calm before the next storm.