By midday, forty-three people had shared the essay.
By two, three hundred and twelve.
Temi kept refreshing the page until her mother took the phone from her.
“Mummy!”
“Go and eat.”
“Give me my phone.”
“Three hundred people will still be there after rice.”
By Thursday, the essay had travelled far beyond anyone Temi knew.
Her inbox filled with messages.
This happened to me.
I thought I was the problem.
I've been working weekends for two years.
Thank you for writing this.
Some came from agency staff.
Others from bankers, teachers, lawyers, doctors and nurses.
Different jobs.
Same language.
We're a family.
Everybody needs to stretch.
This is an opportunity.
We're building something.
Then came the emails she wasn't expecting.
A freelance project from an agency in Lekki.
A Content Lead role at a Yaba startup.
Strategy work from a consultant named Adaeze.
Temi stared at the third email before calling Kunle.
“I think something is happening.”
He laughed.
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I sent the essay to the Yaba founder.”
Temi sat up.
“You did what?”
“I sent it to him.”
“Kunle!”
“What?”
“You could have told me.”
“And then what? You would overthink it.”
Temi couldn't even argue.
“Thank you.”
“You did the work.”
“You opened the door.”
“Enter first before you start giving speech.”
Temi laughed.
Six Months Later
At two on a Tuesday afternoon, Temi sat at her own desk in a one-bedroom flat in Yaba.
A small plant leaned towards the window.
Her Lagos print hung above the monitor.
Lattafa Yara sat on the shelf beside it.
She had three regular clients.
Some months were good.
Some were tight.
She still checked her account more often than necessary.
She still used spreadsheets for everything.
She wasn't rich.
She wasn't magically fearless either.
But nobody sent her a voice note at 9:47 p.m. expecting her night.
Nobody changed her pay after she had agreed to it.
Nobody called stolen time an opportunity.
Her phone rang.
Mummy.
Temi answered.
“Hello.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Temi.”
She laughed. “I'm about to eat.”
“That is different.”
“Mummy, I'll eat.”
They talked for a few minutes. Seun's semester was going well, and his school fees had been paid.
Just before ending the call, her mother asked, “Are you happy?”
Temi looked around the flat.
Her desk.
The plant.
The perfume.
Her own Tuesday afternoon.
“I think I'm something better.”
“What is better than happy?”
Temi smiled.
“I'm choosing.”
There was a pause.
“Okay, philosopher. Go and eat.”
Temi laughed.
“Yes, Mummy.”
After the call, she reached for the bottle of Yara and sprayed her wrist.
Not because she had a meeting.
Not because she needed confidence.
Not because she needed to smell expensive while suffering in traffic.
She just liked it.
Temi opened a blank document.
Outside, generators hummed. Somebody shouted downstairs, and a danfo horn sounded from the road.
Lagos continued being Lagos.
Nine months earlier, Temi had thought waking up meant finally seeing how badly she was being treated.
She knew better now.
Seeing was only the beginning.
Waking up was deciding that what she saw mattered.
Then acting like it did.
Temi placed her fingers on the keyboard.
And began to type.
END OF SEASON ONE