The alarm hadn't even rung before her eyes parted reluctantly. She lay still for a moment, swallowed by the weight of another day thick with expectations — some spoken, many silent. Her body ached from last night's late-hour research on a new oil formulation she hoped would boost sales, and the early rise demanded again today.
Early mornings and late nights… Lord, this is all worth it, she breathed inwardly, a small prayer rising from a heart learning to trust God beyond what her eyes could see.
Confusion had sat heavily on her chest all week. She had smiled through it, worked through it, prayed through it. Still, the uncertainty lingered — about the timing, about the resources, about the next right move.
But she reminded herself she had a backing bigger than fear. And that reassurance — fragile yet unwavering — carried her feet to the floor.
She turned toward the smaller bed beside hers. There lay Itara-Oluwa, Memeidah, and Aquilla — bundled into one another like a single heartbeat. Three young, street-born children she had adopted during her youth service days as a volunteer with a nonprofit organization. Every one considered her too young for such decision. She exhales slowly, the peaceful breathing of her little pearls filled the room with a kind of hope only innocence could offer.
A soft smile warmed her face.
Every inconvenience…
every sacrifice…
every mocking laugh from those who didn't understand…
would one day become a reward no one could take from her.
She walked into the kitchen and quietly opened the worn cupboard. The faded wood creaked, revealing what remained of the cooking oils and grains — barely enough to stretch through the new week if she was careful.
Lord, fill this week with Your favor. I need to restock our food, her heart whispered without sound.
Just a month ago, Memedoh had finally begun official production of her natural skin oils — after mentally draining hustles, negotiations, and sleepless nights to secure the needed equipment. The turnout wasn't grand yet, but it wasn't insignificant either. Some neighbors had purchased. A few teachers had recommended her products. Three parents from the school placed small orders last weekend.
But the real storm clouding her mind lingered…
The unfinished development project at Diamond Path Academy.
Her school.
Her heart's territory.
She had drawn up plans long ago — a new learning block, supportive learning materials and equipment, better sanitation units, a stronger foundation for the children society had already counted out. A mission she held so dearly that she would rather starve than abandon it.
And as though that wasn't weighty enough, another truth tugged at her conscience — family. In her society, adulthood wasn't independence; it was expanded responsibility. Her growing siblings needed school fees and better opportunities. Her parents were aging and deserved a softer life. If she prospered — they must rise too.
Still, she pressed forward.
It was a start — slow, steady, and quietly promising.
One step placed faithfully in front of the other.
---
Memedoh moved through the small hallway with a familiar sense of purpose, observing the activities in each of the six classrooms under her care.
Diamond Path Academy stood in a slowly developing suburb — the only place she could afford to plant her dream. With years of careful saving, she purchased one small plot and rented the adjoining one from its owner — trusting that, soon, her school would grow strong enough to claim it completely.. The building was modest— simple, but deliberately arranged. Though only six classrooms stood where nine were needed, each one was bright and welcoming.
To make up for what she yet lacked in luxury, she invested in orderliness and nature — hiring horticulturists to frame the compound and classroom fronts with lively flowers and shrubs. Clean paths, cheerful paint, and thoughtfully tended greenery gave the children a sense of pride the environment around them rarely offered. A tiny reception, her compact office, a small bookstore, three toilets, and a washing corner incorporating the space — organized simplicity, built with integrity and vision.
She reviewed lesson plans, checked class exercises to ensure they aligned with the curriculum, offered her teachers quick tips on coordination, and collected invoices from parents purchasing textbooks. She paused occasionally to confirm that supplies were intact and the rooms remained orderly — while little Itara and Memeidah settled quietly into their nursery classes.
By late morning she had completed every task on her schedule. A soft sigh of accomplishment escaped her lips. Confident that the lead teacher could oversee the rest of the day, she handed over responsibility and stepped out, reassured that her school would run smoothly in her absence.
Next stop: her store.
The store was where Memedoh produced and sold her organic oils and soaps — her long-planned business finally taking visible form. She had only recently secured the place.
Mr. Okama had just completed a beautiful plaza and was preparing to hand it over to his lawyer to list the spaces for rent. Fortunately, Memedoh managed to meet him directly under a very favorable circumstance. He seemed to take a liking to her and offered her one of the prime ground-floor units at a price quite lower than what others would pay later.
The space was neat, fitted with mirrored shelves, and its L-shaped layout was perfect — allowing her to separate the production area from the sampling space. The plaza itself sat in a rapidly urbanizing area, one that naturally attracted customers hungry for lifestyle and beauty.
Agnes and Amara were already in the area and decided to drop in. They were exactly the kind of friends who appreciated fashion and beauty — the very type of customers Memedoh wished to have.
"The place is nice and its big," Amara said, admiration clear in her tone.
"For real," Agnes added, confirming emphatically.
"But Memedoh, you neva tell us the bank you robbed to get this place," Agnes continued dramatically, striking poses as she cat-walked around, admiring her reflection on the mirrored shelves, flipping her hair and adjusting her bodycon gown. "The place is muah!" she said, giving an air kiss.
"So… is this everything you're selling?" Amara asked, curiosity creeping into her voice as she scanned the shelves.
"No, not yet. I haven't moved in completely," Memedoh replied, her mind momentarily drifting to the list of tasks needed to be done before the place would fully come alive.
Agnes kept scanning the shelves. "So… you mean you now do business like this? Fine plaza, stylish shelves… Memedoh, you get luxury taste o! Who would have thought?" She chuckled, but there was a thin layer of disbelief beneath her tone.
Memedoh smiled. For the first time, something about her genuinely marveled these friends of hers. So achievement truly commands a different kind of respect, she thought. When it comes to business investment… even I sometimes don't believe what I can afford.
"Hmm. No be small thing," Amara said, pacing toward the corner where freshly labeled oils sat. She picked one up. "So tell us… which one is this?"
Memedoh stepped closer, that one? Her voice switching into her element—calm, assured, passionate.
"That is my Sunshine Glow Oil. Cold-pressed lemon for uniform skin glow, turmeric extract for fading stubborn marks, and niacinamide for barrier repair. Zero chemicals that harm the skin. It nourishes deeply, restores elasticity, and with consistent use…"
She smiled with quiet certainty, "you won't need filters again."
Agnes blinked. "Na so, Omo talk."(a yoruba term that means child of words)
She folded her arms. "So if person rub this your oil, she go turn Cleopatra overnight?"
Memedoh held her chuckled. "I said consistent use, not magic. But my products deliver what they promise." she smiled.
Amara nodded but still looked unsure. "So you're trying to say this oil is competing with my brand - - No now… you can't compare this your product yet to the ones we're already using. Do you know how much we spend on skin oil?"
Agnes snapped her fingers like she just remembered something big.
"We wey dey buy La Roche-Posay, babe. International standard!"
She lifted another bottle from the shelf. "Your own just dey start.
She twirled the bottle of Memedoh's lemon oil in her hand and dropped into the rotating customer chair near the counter — the one Memedoh designed to match the mirror shelves.
"Baby girl, no vex oh," Agnes continued, amusement dancing in her eyes. "But your own just dey come up. Even the price wey you dey call sef fit make person doubt all this your grammar."
Amara laughed lightly, crossing her legs. "It's true sha. No offense but we're too used to brands that have already made name."
Memedoh leaned against the counter — not offended, not shaken.
Just determined.
"That's fine," she said with composed warmth. "Every established brand started from somewhere. But what I produce?" She tapped gently on the bottle Agnes held. "It's natural, safe, and crafted with actual skin health in mind. And the results will speak — just give them time."
Agnes and Amara exchanged a look — playful, yet grudgingly impressed that she didn't shrink.
After putting one and two things in place. She came back and took her position in the counter leaned a little closer to the counter, her voice soft but persuasive. "Don't judge a book by its cover, na. Give it a chance—judge it by its content."
"Mn," Agnes hummed, her lips curving into a sarcastic nod.
"You'll never know until you know," Memedoh added, the words slipping out with a bruised sort of confidence. It stung that they didn't believe her—not in her product, not in her potential.
Amara, sensing the shift, adjusted her tone. "Don't vex, jare. We'll plan to patronize you, but not now—maybe when I want to buy for someone."
Memedoh smiled faintly, masking the dull ache of disappointment. "No wahala," she said, turning back to arrange the bottles on the shelf. After chatting a little longer about other things, they finally drifted out—leaving behind a faint trace of perfume and laughter.
Moments later, two neatly dressed men stepped in—civil, polished, and curious. They examined her display, asking precise questions about ingredients, preservation, and shelf life. She answered each one carefully, though she could feel a nervous heat rising beneath her calm exterior. The encounter exposed the gaps in her technical articulation; it reminded her how much she still needed to learn.
After a few minutes of conversation, one of them smiled. "We'll take this—your six-in-one soap pack."
"Thank you," she replied, grateful for the small victory.
That was all she sold that day. But as she watched them leave, her mind stayed behind—turning, analyzing, learning. The questions they asked had opened a quiet urgency within her. If she was going to stand before anyone—friends or strangers—and speak about her products with unshakable conviction, she needed to know more, refine more, be more.
By evening, she already knew where to go next.
The city's Science Library—where ideas stretched their roots, and resilience found light.
------
The Science Library was nothing short of majestic — towering shelves, glass-panelled walkways, and study lamps glowing like quiet guardians of knowledge. It was a place where builders of opportunity and initiators of strategy found new sparks.
For Memedoh, coming here felt like rediscovering oxygen. Her first day, she wanted to read every science book on food she could lay her hands on. It all came naturally to her — she was, after all, a graduate of Food Science and Engineering. The decision to make the library a regular part of her routine wasn't easy, though. She had no one to leave the children with, and her eldest, Itara, was only five — far too young to watch the others alone.
Then she remembered Mama IB, the kind elderly woman who ran a small provision store on their street — the same woman whose shop she had helped renovate months earlier. When Memedoh explained her need, Mama IB gladly agreed to care for the children after school. Grateful, Memedoh arranged with one of her teachers to drop them off there whenever she had to visit the library, promising Mama IB that they won't disturb..
With that settled, she threw herself fully into study — researching, reading, and taking notes until the lamps dimmed. Each visit felt like another seed planted for the future she envisioned.
And it was there — between the quiet hum of pages turning and the soft rhythm of purpose — that she met someone new.
Someone whose path would soon cross hers in ways she couldn't yet imagine.
His name was Jude.
A business lawyer with a growing portfolio — primarily a business consulting and contract brokerage firm he built from the ground up — he believed in results that could be seen. His networks were intentional. His ambitions, structured. His reputation, clean.
Men like Jude were architects of possibility — the kind who understood that success was not only earned, but displayed. He thought in strategy, spoke in opportunity, and walked with the kind of confidence that made others adjust their posture.
People often said Jude didn't chase opportunities…
He positioned himself where they came to find him.
It was rare for him to be intrigued by anyone outside his circle. But this quiet young woman with research papers for company had caught his attention without trying.
And in Jude's world — that was new.
The first time he noticed her, she was buried in research articles, eyebrows slightly furrowed, lips moving silently as she read. She looked like she was a student— dedicated, unseen, different. He noticed the seriousness first. Then the calm.
Focused, he thought.
Very focused.
He brushed the impression aside and returned to his usual errands — book rentals and sourcing reading materials for his business development projects.
He wasn't trying to observe her — she simply had a presence that didn't demand attention, but earned it.
But weeks later, he noticed something…
She was always there.
Late evenings.
Quiet corners.
Stacks of journals around her like shields.
One particular evening, he and a colleague were on their way out when a voice caught his attention — hers. She stood with two elderly professors who had paused near the research counter to pick research publication, confidently analyzing the link between food insecurity, diseases, and market vulnerabilities in the society —Their conversation sparked by a news broadcast playing on a nearby screen.
"…food insecurity isn't merely a symptom of poverty," she argued.
"It's a cycle — disease weakens communities, and the market system exploits that weakness. If public health fails, the food sector bleeds."
One professor countered, "But the market responds to supply and demand. The health sector cannot carry that burden alone."
"Yes sir, but supply and demand are manipulated when sickness becomes profitable. Heal the people — and exploitation loses leverage." She asserted.
A moment of silence followed. The professors exchanged glance — that rare kind reserved for unexpected brilliance. When they replied again, their tone had shifted from authority to curiosity.
Who is this girl? Jude wondered.
Her clothing was modest, practical — nothing that begged attention.
Her face, youthful enough to pass for a student.
She blended easily into the background.
But her intellect…
That stood out like light through glass.
He paused, listening longer than he intended, and for the first time in a while, something genuine stirred his interest.
____________________
Few days later, Memedoh at the library, she had her shoulders pinned with fatigue — school responsibilities in the morning, business management in the afternoon. By evening, she stopped at the library's small snack stand for bottled water.
Her phone rang.
She answered quickly, voice lowered, distracted.
In that moment, she walked away — leaving her receipt, face towel, and pen on the counter.
"Madam! Excuse me — you forgot—!" the attendant called
Jude had just stepped into the library and decided to grab something to eat too. Walking with his usual unhurried stride, eyes briefly on his phone, he looked up instinctively as he entered the snack store — just in time to notice the attendant calling after the young woman who seemed not to hear. He didn't rush forward — just a brief pause, then that subtle sense of order that guided him in everything else.
"Don't worry, I'll get it to her," he said, his tone calm, collected — as if doing what was right required no deliberation.
He followed her toward the car park, not hurriedly, but with that quiet deliberateness that marked his every move.
"Hello — hello, dear," he called gently.
She turned, still with the phone pressed to her ear.
He held out her things. "You forgot these."
"Oh, my God… what is wrong with me today?" she muttered, trying to balance the phone, a file, and the bottle of water.
Jude smiled and walked beside her to a nearby car where she could set everything down. Up close, he caught the quiet distinction in her aura — that rare blend of grace and composure that needed no performance.
"Thanks a lot, dear. I appreciate," she said in her polished, professional accent — quick, courteous, already turning to leave.
"Don't mention," he replied, still smiling — which, for him, was rare. Words hovered between them, unspoken, before she walked away, leaving him oddly aware of the silence that followed.
Jude — who never struggled to start a conversation — suddenly found himself… hesitant.
And that alone told him there was something different here.