Before the joblessness, before the bitterness, Adaobi had been someone else, someone bright, someone who still believed.
I used to be the kind of girl teachers called "promising." The kind whose report cards were lined with A's, the kind adults pointed to and said, "She'll go far." And I believed them.
I believed I'd grow up, graduate, get a good job, buy my mother a house, travel the world, change the system. You know, all those things poor kids think they'll do when they finally escape the trap. I was wrong about most of it. But especially the escape part.
UNN, second class upper in Mass Communication. I graduated at twenty-one with eyes full of fire and no idea how fast it would die. Back then, I had dreams with sharp edges, I wanted to be a writer, not a content girl on Social Media, but a real one—someone who made people feel seen. Who told stories that moved rooms. Stories that mattered, but dreams are expensive, and Lagos doesn't take credit.
I remember the last good day of my life like it was a movie. Harmattan sun, the sky pale and wide. My final year thesis bound and printed, still warm from the press. I ran home to Mom like a child, waving it in the air. She laughed—her whole body laughed—and called me Ada m, my daughter. My pride.
But she didn't live to see me graduate.
It happened so fast. A cough, then fever, then hospital, then debt. Then gone.
Then funeral, a quick, painful burial in our village and the long silence afterward. Grief sat on me like a second skin. I didn't cry at first. Not because I was strong, but because I was stunned. Numb. It was church that broke me open. The pastor was shouting about glory and joy and breakthrough, but the choir was singing that hymn—"It is well with my soul." And I remember thinking: it is not.
It is not well. It is not well with my soul.
It was never well. And no amount of clapping or dancing could change that. But I stayed. Every Sunday. For months. Not because I believed in God. But because I needed to believe in something. Faith was my last currency. My mother had it. She prayed every morning like God was her landlord and she had rent to pay. So I held onto her God. Not out of love, but out of obligation. If He was real, He owed me something. I fasted. I sowed seeds I couldn't afford. I scrubbed church floors. Joined the drama unit. Spoke in tongues that tasted like doubt. I did everything they said to do. Everything. And still, I ended up here. Broke. Bitter. Begging for interviews from people who hadn't even read my CV. I don't blame God. But if He exists, He's been watching in silence for far too long.