Morning came too quickly. Amina woke to the soft rustle of her grandmother sweeping the front yard — a routine that never changed, no matter how tired or worried the old woman felt. The sky was still dim, painted in muted grey-blue. Amina tried stretching her leg, but her ankle protested sharply, reminding her of the fall from the day before.
She winced as she sat up.
Her grandmother turned. "Still hurting?"
"A little," Amina lied, even though the pain throbbed steadily.
"Don't force it, my child," the old woman said softly. "Let me boil hot water. We'll press it before you go."
Amina sighed. "Mama, I can't be late today."
"You won't. Sit."
That tone — gentle but firm — was one Amina knew she could never argue with. She sat quietly as her grandmother prepared a bowl of warm water and a thick cloth. When the hot compress touched her ankle, Amina almost cried out. The pain shot upward, but then eased slightly as the warmth settled in.
Her grandmother watched her closely. "You push yourself too much."
Amina looked down. "I don't think I have a choice."
"You always have a choice," the old woman whispered, brushing a strand of hair from Amina's face. "But I know… life has made your choices smaller."
Amina blinked back tears she didn't want to shed. Not at dawn.
Not before facing another battle at work.
When she finally left the house, her grandmother packed extra food — something she rarely did unless she sensed Amina wasn't okay.
"Eat well today. Your body needs it," she said.
Amina nodded and hugged her before stepping out.
The office building looked taller than usual when she arrived, almost intimidating. She walked with a noticeable limp, but she straightened her shoulders, gripping her notebook tightly. She was determined not to give anyone a reason to doubt her commitment — especially Mrs. Bello.
Inside, the hallway buzzed with Monday-like energy even though it was Friday: ringing phones, hurried footsteps, murmured conversations. Before she could reach her desk, two interns approached her — Kemi and Dapo — the only ones who occasionally checked in on her.
Kemi gave her a worried once-over. "Amina, what happened to your leg?"
"Just a small fall," she said, forcing a smile.
"Ah! These field inspections," Dapo muttered. "They're always stressful. You should rest today."
Amina laughed lightly. "Tell that to my supervisor."
They exchanged a look she pretended not to notice — a look that said they both understood exactly what she was dealing with.
A few minutes later, Mrs. Bello strode into the room, heels clicking aggressively. Her eyes scanned the interns, then landed on Amina.
"You," she said sharply. "Follow me."
Amina felt her stomach tighten as she stood and trailed behind her. They entered a small conference room filled with files and a laptop already open. The air smelled of old paper and industrial cleaning liquid.
"Sit," Mrs. Bello ordered.
Amina obeyed.
Without looking up from her screen, the woman said, "You caused delays yesterday."
Amina inhaled slowly. "I slipped, ma. It wasn't intentional."
"One thing you must learn," her supervisor said coldly, still typing, "is that the ministry doesn't care about your intentions. Only your results."
Amina nodded silently.
"And today," the woman continued, "we have a backlog of reports from the field teams. You'll be helping me sort and input them."
"Yes, ma."
"For your sake," Mrs. Bello added, finally glancing at her, "try not to make another mistake."
That one landed heavier than the others.
Amina lowered her gaze. "Yes, ma."
The day dragged unbearably. Amina worked through bundles of printed sheets — numbers, dates, coordinates, equipment readings — data that blurred together after hours of staring. Every time she shifted her foot, her ankle pulsed sharply.
By noon, she couldn't take the pain anymore. She excused herself quietly and stepped outside to breathe. The sun was high, heat simmering on the pavement. She found a small concrete bench under a tree and sat carefully.
She had barely taken two deep breaths when she heard footsteps.
It was Mr. Kareem — a senior staff member from another department. He wasn't someone she knew well, but he had helped her with an office login issue once and seemed kinder than most.
"You look tired," he said gently.
Amina straightened. "I'm fine, sir."
"That is the most common lie in this building," he said with a small smile. "How's your ankle?"
Amina froze. "Sir? How did you—?"
"I saw you limping when you arrived," he said. "And the whole unit heard about the site inspection yesterday. Word travels fast here."
Amina looked away, suddenly feeling exposed.
"Listen," he continued softly, "don't let the pressure break you. Everyone starts this journey with pain. What matters is what you learn from it."
She nodded slightly. "Thank you, sir."
"And if you ever need help," he added, "my door is open."
Amina felt something warm flicker inside her chest — gratitude, maybe. A reminder that not everyone in this place wanted to see her fail.
When she returned to the conference room, the atmosphere had shifted. Papers were scattered everywhere, and Mrs. Bello's face was tight with frustration.
"What happened?" Amina asked cautiously.
"Our submission portal has closed earlier than expected," the woman snapped. "Now we must send the summaries manually before 4 p.m."
Amina checked the time: 2:47 p.m.
That wasn't much time.
Mrs. Bello shoved a stack of files at her. "Sort these into categories and extract the key entries. Quickly."
Amina took a deep breath and began.
She flipped through each page, scanning lines rapidly, pulling out essential details like she was racing against her own heartbeat. Her ankle ached, her fingers trembled, but her mind sharpened. For the first time that day, she lost herself fully in the work — organizing, analyzing, compiling.
At one point, she noticed Mrs. Bello watching her quietly, almost surprised by her efficiency. But the woman said nothing.
At 3:52 p.m., Amina placed the last summarized file on the desk.
"Done, ma."
Her supervisor grabbed it and scanned the contents. A flicker — a quick one — passed through her eyes. Something like acknowledgment. But she quickly hid it.
"Send them," she said. "We're almost out of time."
They worked side-by-side for the next five minutes, uploading and emailing each summary. At exactly 3:59 p.m., the final report was sent.
Mrs. Bello exhaled sharply, leaning back. "That was close."
Amina simply nodded, too exhausted to speak.
A long silence settled in the room, broken only by the hum of the air conditioner.
Then, unexpectedly, her supervisor said, "You… worked well today."
Amina looked up, unsure she heard correctly.
"It doesn't mean you're perfect," the woman added quickly, "but you… tried."
It wasn't praise. Not really. But it wasn't an insult either.
For someone like Mrs. Bello, it was almost a compliment.
Amina allowed herself a tiny, quiet smile. "Thank you, ma."
She thought her day was finally easing into calm, but life had other plans.
As she walked toward the office gate after closing hours, she noticed two men leaning on a parked motorcycle near the fence. They stared at her — not with curiosity, but with the kind of interest that made her skin crawl.
She quickened her pace.
They exchanged a look.
One of them stepped forward.
Amina's heart pounded.
"Hey," the man called out. "Fine girl, come here."
She didn't answer. Didn't look. She kept walking, gripping her bag tighter.
"Come here, I said!" the man called again, louder this time.
A security officer nearby turned, noticing the interaction. He walked toward Amina immediately. "Madam, go inside. I'll handle them."
Relief washed through her. She nodded and stepped back into the compound until the men moved away, riding off with a loud rev of their motorcycle.
She stood still for a long moment, trying to steady her breathing.
This world didn't give her peace at home.
It didn't give her peace at work.
And now, not even on the road.
But she refused to break.
Not now.
Not ever.
Amina finally reached home after dark. The air smelled like kerosene and rainwater. Her grandmother was outside again, waiting anxiously.
"You're home late. I was worried."
Amina collapsed into her arms. "I'm tired, Mama."
"I know, my child," the woman whispered, stroking her back. "But each day you survive is one step closer to the life you are building."
Amina swallowed hard. "I hope so."
"No," her grandmother said firmly, the same certainty she had voiced the night before. "I know so."
Amina closed her eyes.
For the first time in days, she allowed herself to breathe deeply — the kind of breath that comes from knowing that even if the world is heavy, home is still a soft place to land.
And as she drifted to sleep later that night, ankle wrapped carefully, heart still sore, she didn't realize something:
This exhausting, painful week was the beginning of the chapter that would change her life forever.
Slowly. Quietly. One test at a time.