The afternoon sun blazed mercilessly over Lagos, pouring its golden heat down on the crowded streets. Traffic honked in frustration, traders shouted prices of their goods, and buses packed with sweaty passengers moved sluggishly. In the midst of the chaos walked Zahra.
Her black shoes, scuffed from months of wear, dragged against the dusty road. The file she clutched in her hand hung limply at her side, its once-crisp papers now wrinkled and stained by the sweat of her palms. She walked slowly, as if every step drained more hope out of her.
Another rejection.
Her eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears fall in public. She had practiced this routine too many times: the bright smile she wore as she entered interview halls, the confident answers she gave, the way she prayed silently beneath her breath before the panel. But always, the polite, sharp words followed:
"We're sorry, Miss Zahra, but you're not what we're looking for."
Sometimes they softened the blow with fake smiles. Sometimes they didn't even bother. Today had been one of the harsher ones. A man on the panel had smirked when she spoke of her background, the university she graduated from—one they clearly considered inferior. Another woman had looked her over, her plain gown, her modest hijab, and seemed to judge her in silence.
She didn't need to hear the final words to know she had already lost.
Now, as Zahra trudged back toward the small street she called home, her heart was heavy with the weight of dreams unfulfilled. Around her, life went on—hawkers sang their sales, young women laughed in groups, and children ran barefoot along the roadside. To Zahra, it all blurred together, muted by the echo of her own failure.
She whispered under her breath:
"Ya Allah… how much longer?"
Her street was narrow, the kind where neighbors' doors almost touched across from each other. The houses were painted once upon a time, but now the walls were cracked, faded, and decorated with old posters peeling in the sun. When Zahra reached the small wooden door to her family's single-room home, she paused. She didn't want her mother to see her face just yet. Her mother always noticed—the faintest quiver in Zahra's voice, the tiniest tremble in her hands.
But Zahra had no strength to hide it today.
She pushed the door open. The room smelled faintly of kerosene from the old stove and the soap her mother used to wash clothes. A thin curtain separated the sleeping area from the rest of the room. Her mother wasn't around—probably out selling vegetables at the roadside stall. Zahra felt both relieved and empty at the same time.
She dropped her file on the plastic chair, its loud thud echoing through the silence. Then, with trembling hands, she reached for her prayer mat. It was worn at the edges, the fabric thinning, but to Zahra it was her most precious possession. She spread it across the cement floor and sank to her knees.
The tears came now, hot and unrestrained.
She raised her hands and let her heart spill out in whispers only Allah could hear.
"Ya Allah, You know I have tried. You know the nights I have stayed awake, the times I have studied, the times I have hoped. You know how people laugh at us, how they call us cursed, how they say nothing good will ever come from my family. Ya Allah… is this my destiny? To always be rejected? To always beg for opportunities?"
Her voice broke. She pressed her forehead to the mat, sobbing quietly.
It wasn't just about her. Zahra carried the weight of her family. She remembered her late father, a man of dignity who had died too early, leaving them with nothing but his good name and prayers. She remembered her mother, who still bent her back every day under the sun, selling vegetables to keep food on their table. She remembered her younger brother, Faruq, who often came home from school hungry, pretending he wasn't just so Zahra wouldn't feel guilty.
"Ya Allah, give me strength," she whispered, her tears soaking the mat. "I don't know how much longer I can take this."
For a long while, she stayed there in silence, letting the calm of prayer settle her storm. Slowly, her sobs turned into sniffles, then into deep breaths. She rose to sit on her heels, wiped her swollen eyes, and allowed her thoughts to drift back—to the life that had made her who she was.
Zahra's Background
Zahra had been born into hardship, though she didn't see it as hardship at first. As a little girl, she only knew joy—the joy of running barefoot in the compound, laughing with neighborhood children, and falling asleep to the sound of her father's deep voice reciting Qur'an.
But poverty has a way of making itself known quickly.
Her father was a schoolteacher, paid little and often late. Her mother sold vegetables to support the family. Together, they struggled but always wore their dignity like a crown. Zahra admired them both deeply.
When her father died after a sudden illness, Zahra was barely fifteen. That was when life turned upside down. Neighbors pitied them at first, then grew distant, whispering behind their backs. Relatives offered words but little help. Zahra had to grow up quickly—helping her mother sell at the stall, tutoring younger children for a few naira, doing odd jobs to make ends meet.
Through it all, Zahra held on to two things: her faith and her dream.
Her dream was simple yet vast—she wanted to rise above her circumstances, to build a life that would silence those who mocked her family, to lift her mother and brother out of poverty. She wanted to be proof that background was not destiny.
Her faith gave her the strength to keep going, even when every door slammed in her face.
Back to the Present
Zahra wiped her tears and rose from the mat. She went to the small mirror hanging on the wall and studied her face. Her eyes were swollen, her scarf slightly out of place, but behind the exhaustion she saw something else—a quiet fire.
She wouldn't give up.
Even if she was rejected a hundred times, Zahra believed that one day, one door would open.
As she adjusted the scarf around her head, a sudden knock rattled the wooden door. It startled her—her mother never knocked, and her brother wasn't home yet.
The knock came again, louder this time.
Zahra hesitated, her heart thumping. She wiped her face quickly, not wanting anyone to see she had been crying, and went to the door.
When she opened it, she froze.
Standing there was someone she hadn't expected to see—someone who, with just a few words, was about to change the direction of her life forever.