By the time they finished closing the shop, her palms were dusty, and her feet felt as if they had been standing since dawn. The pay wasn't substantial—Madam Tayo had been upfront about that from the very beginning.
"Two thousand naira per day," the woman reiterated as she locked up. "It may not be enough for big dreams, but at least your hands won't be idle."
"I understand," she replied, and she genuinely did.
She wasn't expecting miracles or comfort; she simply needed a starting point—something to shatter the cycle of fear, regret, and waiting for help that never arrived.
Even if the money was modest, it signified progress. It signified direction. It meant she wasn't trapped in the same situation life had dealt her.
As they walked home, she mentally mapped out her earnings.
Two thousand a day.
Six days a week.
Twelve thousand a week.
Forty-eight thousand a month.
It wasn't enough to transform her entire life.
But it was enough to supplement her online work.
Enough to save little by little.
Enough to sustain her until something bigger came along.
She clung to that thought like it was essential for her survival.
---
Later that evening, while Aunty Grace discussed politics on TV, she perched on the edge of her mattress and opened the small notebook she had purchased with her last 500 naira.
The first page was blank, but her mind was anything but.
She began to write slowly:
"Entrance exam—in 2 months.
I must return to school.
I must save for fees.
I must change my life."
Her handwriting trembled slightly, and her chest tightened.
Her parents were aging—too old to bear the burden of school fees once more. They had already sacrificed so much, working tirelessly and sending every bit of money they could because they believed she was still in school…
She couldn't reveal the truth to them.
Not yet.
Not when it would shatter their hearts.
They would blame themselves.
They would think they had failed her.
They would attempt to borrow money they didn't have.
Her father already coughed too often.
Her mother's eyesight had diminished this year.
And every time they called, asking,
"Have you applied for the student loan yet? Things are tough. Just apply; it might help with your fees,"
her stomach twisted in knots.
She didn't want loans.
She didn't want additional burdens.
She didn't want to drag her already struggling parents into more debt.
She needed to advocate for herself.
She needed to earn her own money.
She needed to save, work, and sweat—anything that would offer her a second chance.
Even if the job was small.
Even if the income barely made a difference.
Even if she had to hustle both online and offline every single day.
She would do it.
She had no other option.
She whispered into the quiet room:
"I will make this work. I don't care how long it takes."
Her voice no longer sounded frail.
It resonated with determination.
It was sharper.
It was tougher.
This wasn't the girl who pleaded for a boy to return her calls.
This wasn't the girl who wept over lost school fees.
This wasn't the girl who waited for someone to rescue her.
This was someone new.
Someone rising from scars and survival.
And she wasn't going to stop now.
Not when she had two months to rewrite her entire future.