The invitation came in a thick white
envelope, hand-delivered to the front desk at the station.
I almost didn't open it.
It looked too elegant, too official — like something meant for someone more important than me. But Temi, the receptionist, grinned and pushed it toward me. "Open am here, Mercy," she said, eyes wide with excitement. "E fit be wetin we dey wait for."
So I did.
Inside was a cream-colored card, bordered with gold foil and printed in crisp, serif lettering:
"The National Broadcasters' Guild cordially invites Miss Mercy Ajayi to the Annual Rising Voices Award Gala."
I blinked.
At first, I thought it was a prank. Something the morning show hosts set up to mess with me again. But as I read further — and saw my name printed in golden letters under the category Best Emerging Voice in Community Journalism — my hands started to tremble.
Me.
A girl from Ajegunle. The girl who washed neighbor's clothes for fifty naira. The girl who collected scraps of notebooks from church to piece together her first news report. The girl who spoke into a broken phone, pretending to anchor a radio segment.
Now, I was being recognized on a national level.
I didn't cry. I just sat there in stunned silence, clutching the invitation like it might disappear if I breathed too hard.
That was how my producer found me — frozen at my desk. He took one glance at the card and screamed, "Ah! Our Mercy don blow! Omo, make una bring Malt o!"
The station erupted into cheers. My boss even offered to cover transportation. I'd never felt more seen.
The day of the gala came like a wave I wasn't ready for.
I had no dress. No shoes. No clue how to walk in heels, let alone pose for cameras. The invite said "Black Tie Event" — two words that belonged to a world far removed from my own.
But as always, Ajegunle came through.
Aunty Ifeoma down the street brought out a gown she wore only once to a wedding — midnight blue, with tiny silver sparkles like scattered stardust. It was slightly too long, but Mama helped me pin it up neatly. The borrowed heels squeezed my toes, and I had to practice walking like a cat, but I didn't care.
Mama took out the earrings she wore at her wedding. Gold-plated hoops, slightly faded but still beautiful. "Let them know where you're coming from," she said, fastening them gently to my ears. "But don't let that stop where you're going."
When we arrived at the venue — a hotel that looked like a palace — the scent of perfume, expensive wine, and quiet money filled the air. I stepped out of the cab and instantly froze. Flashbulbs popped. Cameramen shouted names I didn't recognize. Women floated past me in gowns worth more than our entire rent for the year.
But I kept walking. One step after another. My heels wobbled slightly, but my back stayed straight. I repeated Mama's words in my head like a prayer: You are not less. You are not less.
The ceremony was dazzling — chandeliers dripping with crystals, orchestras playing soft classical music, celebrities seated at candle-lit tables.
I sat near the back, among other nominees. Some were older, some more polished. I smiled when spoken to but didn't say much. I couldn't. My heart was galloping.
They announced winners one by one. Some gave long speeches, others just said thank you and left the stage. I barely heard any of it.
Until I heard my name.
"And the winner for Best Emerging Voice in Community Journalism is… Mercy Ajayi — Street Diaries, City 105.9 FM!"
I stopped breathing.
Applause erupted, but it sounded distant — like it was coming from underwater. Someone tapped my arm and motioned for me to stand. I did, legs shaking. People were clapping. Some stood. I caught a glimpse of my producer giving me a double thumbs-up from across the room.
I made my way to the stage. The spotlight was so bright it blurred everything else. My heels clicked too loudly. My palms were sweaty. My chest tight.
The host smiled warmly and handed me a small, clear plaque shaped like a microphone. It glittered under the lights.
Then came the microphone.
I looked out — a sea of strangers in glittering dresses, tailored suits, eyes fixed on me.
And then I saw him.
Tunde.
Standing quietly by the exit, half-shrouded in shadow, but undeniably him. He wore a charcoal blazer, no tie. His hands were in his pockets. But his face — it held a smile that made me forget the crowd.
Not the kind of smile that said "look at you now".
But the kind that said "I always believed this version of you was real."
And in that moment, I knew exactly what to say.
"My name is Mercy Ajayi," I began, voice steady despite the storm inside me. "I'm eighteen years old, and I come from a place people don't usually look twice at."
A soft murmur rippled across the room.
"When I was fourteen, someone told me girls like me don't get very far. That we were built to survive, not to shine. But I learned something growing up in Ajegunle — where there's pain, there's also power. Where there's silence, there's always a voice waiting to rise."
I paused. My eyes flicked briefly to the far corner. Tunde was still there.
"This award isn't just for me. It's for the girls who wash clothes in the gutter. Who hawk bread at the bus stop. Who read by candlelight after fetching water all evening. The ones everyone calls invisible."
I breathed in deeply.
"You're not invisible. You're not forgotten. You are the story. And the world needs your voice — even when it trembles."
There was silence — just for a second.
Then came the standing ovation.
Clapping. Cheering. Even a few people wiping their eyes. I bowed my head slightly, mouthed "Thank you," and walked off stage.
I came on stage as Mercy from the radio. I left it as Mercy from everywhere.
Later, after the ceremony, I needed air. The buzz, the lights, the congratulations — it was too much. I slipped away into the garden courtyard, where the night was quiet and scented with jasmine.
And there he was.
Tunde.
Leaning against a column, watching the stars.
"I didn't know you were coming," I said softly.
"I didn't want to make it about me," he replied. "I just… wanted to see you win."
I smiled, a quiet, genuine smile. "You did."
He laughed, that same warm laugh that used to fill our walks home after lectures.
"I meant what I said at the café," he added, his eyes searching mine. "I'm not here to fix what's broken. I'm here to celebrate what's grown."
"You're still dramatic," I teased.
"And you're still glowing," he whispered. "More than ever."
He looked older — not in the tired way, but in the wise way. Like someone who had wrestled with his own mistakes and come out softer.
I didn't ask if he still loved me. I didn't need to.
And yet, something unspoken danced in the space between us.
"You coming to the after-party?" I asked. "As a friend."
He raised a brow. "Will there be jollof rice?"
"Of course."
"Then yes — as long as I get to dance badly beside you."
I laughed. "Deal."
The after-party felt like magic.
The hall had transformed. Fairy lights floated above us. The music was soft and jazzy. People were dancing, hugging, sharing stories.
I let myself be part of it. Not as an outsider. Not as a girl pretending to belong. But as someone who finally did.
I danced barefoot — my heels abandoned under the table. Tunde danced beside me, completely off-beat, but with the confidence of someone who didn't care.
We laughed, twirled, bumped into people.
And at one point, he caught my hand.
He spun me around — clumsily, and I fell against his chest, breathless.
And something shifted.
Not a promise.
Not a guarantee.
Just… a possibility.
That maybe — just maybe — love could begin again.
Not from the ashes.
But from the growth.