It had been exactly seventy-two days since I left Nigeria, and not a single day passed without a whisper of home. The tea was different here. The air was too cold. People didn't look at you when they walked past—as though eye contact was some sort of forbidden intimacy. Yet, in the swirl of tall buildings and polished buses, I was becoming something new. Someone new.
Every day at the BBC felt like I was borrowing a dream. Sitting in the control rooms, learning how to frame a story, watching editors with eyes sharper than scalpels. But the real moment that shook me happened during a fellowship workshop on storytelling from conflict zones. We watched a clip of a young girl reporting from the streets of Maiduguri during the height of the insurgency.
She couldn't have been older than sixteen. Skinny. Bright eyes. Standing firm in chaos.
My throat tightened. That could've been me. That was me—not in a war zone, but in my own kind of battlefield back in Ajegunle, telling the stories people wanted to forget.
After the workshop, my mentor, Angela, pulled me aside.
"Mercy, your voice matters. I've seen your reports. You have the rare gift of empathy and clarity. But you're still holding back. Why?"
I didn't know how to answer.
Because sometimes, even after crossing oceans, the weight of where you came from clings to your skin.
That night, I couldn't sleep. So I opened my laptop and watched old videos of my broadcasts from the community radio station. My voice then was raw, full of fire and nerve. The Mercy who didn't know if anyone was listening, but spoke anyway.
Then, almost like a ghost from the past, a message blinked on WhatsApp.
Tunde: Hey. I know it's been a while. I hope London hasn't stolen your smile.
I stared at it for a long time. Then another came.
Also, I saw your BBC fellowship article. I printed it and stuck it on my mum's fridge. She brags about you now.
A small smile cracked through my insomnia.
Me: London has cold weather. But I'm still warm. Thanks for the fridge space.
He replied instantly.
Always got room for you.
I didn't respond. I didn't want to stir up what we had too soon. But it lingered. Like perfume after someone has left the room.
A few days later, Angela gave me my first solo assignment: a profile on African immigrants rebuilding life in the UK.
I chose to start in Peckham. It reminded me faintly of Ajegunle—not because it was poor, but because it was alive. Markets spilled onto sidewalks. Afrobeat hummed from barbershops. Mothers yelled in Yoruba while dragging toddlers behind them.
I interviewed a Ghanaian woman who ran a small food store. She shared how she arrived in the UK twenty years ago with nothing but hope and two suitcases.
"I scrubbed floors and worked night shifts. But I never forgot who I was. That's the key, my dear. You can adapt to the cold, but don't freeze your roots."
Her words haunted me in a good way.
When the piece aired, my inbox exploded with messages from first-generation immigrants. Some shared their stories. Others simply said thank you.
Angela forwarded me a review from a senior producer.
"This is the kind of storytelling that changes perspectives. Raw. Compassionate. Unapologetic."
I wanted to call Mama, but the time difference was wild. I texted instead.
Me: Guess who just got praise from top BBC staff?
She replied a few hours later.
Mama: Omo mi! This is how eagles fly. I dey pray for you every night. Just don't forget your God or your ground.
I wouldn't. I couldn't.
The next weekend, I decided to record a personal journal entry for myself.
I sat on the balcony of my small flat, wrapped in a blanket, phone camera propped up by a flower pot.
"This is Mercy Ajayi, formerly of Ajegunle FM, now reporting from a freezing balcony in South London. Today, I learned that your past isn't something to run from. It's your foundation. Your accent, your scars, your slang—they're your superpower. So to anyone back home wondering if a poor girl can matter…yes. She can. And she will."
I paused, took a deep breath.
"To Mercy from five years ago…you're not dreaming. You're finally living."
That night, I dreamed of Ajegunle.
Not the chaos, but the colors.
Not the hunger, but the laughter.
Not the pain, but the possibility.
And somewhere in that dream, Tunde was there—waiting at our old suya spot, holding out a plate, smiling like we'd never said goodbye.
Maybe one day, I'd go back.
But for now, the future was calling.
And I was ready to answer.