Chapter 30
The next few weeks passed in a haze. I don't remember much from that time—just the suffocating weight of everything that had fallen apart. I sank into a kind of numbness, where nothing felt real, and everything felt out of reach. The silence of my room, the emptiness of my future—it was all too much to bear. I didn't know what to do next. All the dreams I had clung to seemed to evaporate, and in their place was just the harshness of reality.
I couldn't stay in that place forever, though. I had to eat. I had to survive.
I found myself walking to the local market every day, barely speaking to anyone, just buying the bare minimum to get by. I'd buy whatever was cheapest—cooking oil, rice, eggs, and garri. The kind of food that would fill my stomach but leave my soul empty. But I didn't care. I just needed something to keep going. I'd eat in silence, sitting in the corner of my room, staring out the window at nothing.
It was during those days that I started to feel the weight of what had happened. The loneliness. The shame. The crushing knowledge that I was no longer on the path I had worked so hard to stay on. It was a tough pill to swallow, but I had to. There was no room for self-pity anymore. There was no time to cry over what I couldn't change.
Healing, I realized, was the only option. It wasn't just a choice—it was a necessity. I couldn't afford to fall apart. I had rent to think about. My landlord would eventually come knocking, and I still had no way of paying him. My electricity bill kept adding up, too. Even with all the chaos inside me, I knew that if I didn't get my act together, I wouldn't survive.
Two weeks of isolation and despair finally started to break. Little by little, I began to lift myself from that dark place. It wasn't easy. There were days when the weight of my decisions felt unbearable, when I would lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, questioning everything I had ever worked for. But I kept pushing forward, even when it felt pointless. I had to.
The days started to blur into each other. I made an effort to eat better, to take care of myself—even if just a little bit. I forced myself to go outside, even if it was only to sit in the yard for a while. I had to keep going. I had to find a way out.
And then, one afternoon, my phone buzzed. I wasn't expecting a call or a message. But when I looked at the screen, I saw that it was from Beth.
I hadn't spoken to her in weeks, and when I had, it had been brief—more of an exchange than a conversation. I had accepted that she was gone from my life. But when I saw her name light up my screen, something stirred in me. I didn't know if it was hope or just curiosity, but I picked up the call.
"Hello?"
"Hey, Fred. It's Beth," her voice was familiar, soft, like I'd just spoken to her yesterday. But the time apart had made everything feel distant. "I know it's been a while… but I'm in Lagos for the holidays. I thought I'd come and pay you a visit."
For a moment, I couldn't speak. My mind was a whirlwind. She wanted to visit? After everything that had happened? I didn't know what to feel.
I was still carrying the weight of my failure, the shame of everything that had gone wrong. But hearing her voice again—it was like a thread reaching out from the past, trying to pull me back. I didn't know if I was ready for that, but I also didn't want to shut her out again.
"Okay," I said, after a long pause. "I mean, sure. You can come by."
She didn't say much more, but I could hear the warmth in her voice. We hung up, and I sat there in silence for a while.
What was I supposed to do now?
I felt a mix of emotions—surprise, confusion, maybe even a little excitement. I wasn't sure where things stood between us. I wasn't sure if I wanted things to go back to the way they were. But I couldn't deny that a part of me was glad to hear from her. She had once meant a lot to me, and no matter how much time had passed, that didn't just disappear.
I tried to push those thoughts aside. I had enough to worry about. But the reality was that Beth's visit was the first piece of hope I had felt in weeks. Even if it was just a visit, it felt like a small light at the end of the tunnel.
I went about the next few days with a renewed sense of purpose, though it didn't take away the constant pressure I felt. I still had to figure out how to pay my rent, how to keep the lights on. The weight of uncertainty was always there, like a shadow that never quite left.
But for the first time in a while, I wasn't completely consumed by it. I had a reason to get out of bed now—someone was coming to see me. Someone who, even if she didn't fully understand what I was going through, still cared enough to show up.
Beth would be here soon, and for the first time in a long time, I found myself looking forward to something, no matter how small. Because sometimes, all you need is a little bit of light to help you find your way out of the darkness.