"Hmm, today shopping don enter for you," [Today's shopping was a good one for you] Favour said to Kemi. "You found your Emeka,"[You found she added, smiling.
"Na Memedoh own I neva sabi," Agnes said. "What are you even pressing since sef?" she finally inquired.
She eyed her again. "And why are you acting like you're not even with us?"
"How na?" Memedoh asked, finally joining in.
"Leanna, leave Memedoh. She no dey find love now. She dey set up her own empire. She wants to find love when she's on top of the world," Leanna teased, a tint of seriousness in her tone.
Memedoh flustered. "Leanna, which kain talk be that now? Omo, make una chill."
"No now, na the way you dey do—as if you're not interested in anything relationship," Agnes said, trying to lighten the atmosphere.
"Leanna, you're trying to calculate Memedoh?" Oferikah said humorously. "Somebody that I thought for a second didn't have money to get things this evening, now na she almost buy pass una wey don prepare since for this event."
"You'll just be there with your own thoughts; you won't even know whether she get boyfriends more than you," Oferikah said as the thought of Memedoh's transition flashed through her mind.
Agnes scoffed. "More than me how? Do you know the kind of men I have?"
"No oh, abeg. I never smell that level, let alone taste it. I don't have any guy o," Memedoh said, trying not to compete with anyone—especially not on romantic relationships.
"So when do you want to get one?" Favour nudged her.
"I've not felt the go-ahead— that thirst in my inner self," she said. "When I do, God will connect me to the right person."
"When you're 50 now," Agnes said.
"Honestly, I no really send. Marriage is to complement your completeness, not to supplement your incompleteness," Memedoh said.
"Poetic! I hear that one," Amara said.
"But no one is perfect to be complete; we all have that part that we need someone to complete us in," Kemi said.
"Everyone has completeness in them," Memedoh explained. "We just don't believe it enough to embrace it. That's why we're always focused on what others are to give to us—because we think we don't have that internal self-sufficiency."
"Professor of Psychology," Amara hailed her.
"No, it's not psychology. It's truth. Being single is good, but having a partner is only better. But the world carries this flawed stereotype that singleness is bad while partnership is good. So they try to avoid singleness like it's a disease. Meanwhile, the real disease is the self-deficiency that drives them into relationships at undeserving cost. And the bad news? Relationship of any kind can't fill it up."
They were all quiet for a while.
"You no tell me say you be professor like this," Amara said.
"So is that why you adopted children as a single woman?" Oferikah asked.
Memedoh scoffed. "Leave it, Ferry dear. You won't understand all of that tonight," she said as she noticed their ride had arrived.
"Omo, finally. Make I go house sleep better," Leanna said as she took off her wig, swinging her hip as she cat-walked toward the car, trying to shake off the weight of Memedoh's words.
They all headed toward the car.
"You're not joining us?" Amara asked Memedoh, noticing she wasn't moving at their pace.
"No, sweetheart. My house is this way— not far from here," she said, pointing in the opposite direction.
"Ok now, bye-bye," Amara said.
"Bye, dear," Memedoh replied.
They all hopped in and the driver pulled off.
As Memedoh vanished into the night, her words lingered irresistibly in the air while they all sat quietly in the car.
------
Memedoh walked down the quiet stretch leading to the next park, the night breeze brushing lightly against her arms. The chatter of the girls faded behind her until all she could hear was the soft rhythm of her own steps. She loosened her shoulders, letting the weight of their teasing slide off.
Her phone buzzed. It was NK — the woman she had left her kids with.
"Alright, talk to your mum," Memedoh heard from the background.
"Mummy…" Memeidah moaned.
"Yes, my son," Memedoh answered.
"Mu… mummy, whe… where are you na?"
"My love," she scoffed softly, "you'll see me soon. I'm very close. Are you crying? Ah-ah, aren't you a big boy?"
"Nm… Nm," Memeidah sniffled, his catarrh catching in his throat.
"Give your sister the phone," Memedoh said, a little confused. Memeidah, who rarely flinched whenever she left home, was now crying. She wondered why.
"Itara?" she called.
"Yeah," her eldest answered gently, as always.
"Baby, how are you?"
"I'm fine," she replied, softly.
"Tell your brother to stop crying. I'm coming to pick you guys up, okay?"
"Yeah… I know," she said, almost unburdened.
"And your baby girl?" Memedoh inquired about Aquilla.
"She's sleeping."
"Oh, okay. Give Aunty the phone back."
She spoke briefly with NK, gratitude softening her voice as she apologized for the inconvenience. NK had been more than helpful — more like a sister. Yet Memedoh couldn't shake the image of Memeidah crying and imagined how Aquilla might have fussed before falling asleep.
In the taxi, the weight of responsibility pressed on her chest. I can't keep disturbing people's peace with my responsibilities. How do I manage this? Lord, help me, she whispered
—————
It had just clocked 11 a.m. Memedoh exhaled, resting her weight against the counter as she admired the spacious store now swept clean—sharp, neat, and ready for the day's business. She had swept the entire place herself that morning—back aching a little, palms smelling faintly of detergent—but the sight of the clean, sharp room made the effort worth it. Everything looked ready to welcome customers.
She had returned earlier from a morning delivery, and the combination of exhaustion and triumph sat warmly in her chest.
"What next…" she murmured, clicking her tongue softly.
Despite the tiredness, a vibrant energy churned inside her. She reached for her tools and began arranging them, humming under her breath—a low, grateful melody of appreciation to God. It was her own quiet thanksgiving. Her entire batch of baobab oil—her long-researched formula, her faith-driven pursuit—had sold out.
It had all begun at the event on Sunday. She almost didn't attend—her mind had wrestled with the invitation—but she went eventually, moved by courtesy to Dr. Mrs. Anakhu, the senior colleague she had worked with during her industrial training years ago. Anakhu owned a thriving school, one now widely respected among school proprietors across the state. Memedoh knew the event would host directors of elite schools—people whose names carried weight and whose networks opened doors.
When she arrived at the venue—a glass-paneled, marble-floored event center that smelled faintly of cedar and expensive air fresheners—she paused to assess herself. Her outfit was quite elegant. A well-tailored Ankara up-and-down, lined subtly with aso-oke. Her jewelry was moderate but unmistakably quality. No makeup—just a clean face, simple gloss, and confidence. Not overdressed. Not struggling. Just balanced. It fit the environment well enough, and that reassurance steadied her.
Dr. Anakhu had always admired her boldness, admired that she built a school at a young age. It was the kind of respect you didn't squander. So she felt the need to keep in touch with such audacious mind.
Memedoh inhaled, then stepped toward the entrance. The hall shimmered from afar—gold sconces, polished chrome railings, soft orchestral music weaving through the room like a gentle ribbon.
Omo… people dey hold money o. [Damn, some people are crazily rich.]
The thought slipped out before she could restrain it. The wealth in that place was loud enough—it was effortless, settled, generational.
At the doorway stood a tall, broad-chested security man, neatly dressed.
"Your invitation card, madam," he said, voice deep and official.
Her heart tightened. She shifted aside, pretending to search her bag as though she had expected the request. In truth, she had no invitation card. The idea of being turned back here, in this setting, burned her pride a little. She tapped her phone with false busyness, praying silently for a way out.
"Excuse me," she said finally, acting like she had forgotten the card in her car.
Memedoh stepped out, shoulders slightly slumped, moping around as a soft frown tugged at her lips. She felt that small voice inside her, the one that hadn't wanted her to come, and now it seemed it had been right. She wandered slowly through the parking lot, letting her eyes trace the nearby eatery, the manicured walkways, and the sleek façades of the event facilities. Everything gleamed with a comforting sophistication that made her own modest ensemble feel… almost insufficient.
She thought of how much further she had to grow to fully reflect such repute. Jude came to mind, and she wondered if anyone she knew would ever find themselves in a situation like this — standing on the edge of belonging, unsure whether she was even supposed to be here. Speaking to anyone seemed impossible; she imagined their glances silently judging her as someone who didn't quite belong. And why hadn't Mrs. Anakhu given her a card if she needed one? Would this be the way she treated her fellow friends and official contemporaries? A pang of embarrassment tightened her chest.
After quite a while, a sleek car rolled into the lot. The door opened, and Mr. Umoiyang — one of the executives Anakhu had introduced her to earlier — stepped out, moving with quiet authority. He scanned the area until his gaze landed on her. He recognized her immediately; he already knew she was a new member of the association.
He looked at her bag, then at her face.
"Are you leaving?" he called as he approached.
"I think I left my card in the Uber I took here, so… maybe" she admitted, a faint edge of self-consciousness in her voice.
Oh the letter. He chuckled. Don't worry. Anakhu would not remember carrying around her invite letter. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"As a member now, you don't need any card. Anakhu invited you herself."
Relief slipped through her chest.
"Oh… really…..I didn't know."
"Come," he said, gesturing lightly. "Let me take you in."
The event was a celebration honoring members who had expanded their schools into multi-campus institutions and those who had achieved national recognition for academic innovation. Every table glittered with intentional elegance—fine table linen, floral centerpieces, glasses that looked too expensive to clink. Proprietors of top-tier schools were present, adorned in high fashion that made her mentally compare her outfit again… and again.
After observing for a while, calculating the right moment to greet Mrs. Anakhu, she rose and wandered toward the balcony. It overlooked a spread of green lawns, luxury apartments, and tree-lined streets. The view quieted her and fed her ambition. She drank it in—this glimpse of a future she would one day own.
"Is that not Madam… Keme Essence?" a voice said from behind.
Memedoh turned sharply and saw Mr. Merrick, one of her customers whose patronage had grown noticeably in the recent weeks.
"Ah, Mr. Merrick. You're here?" she greeted.
"Yes… and you too," he replied, his tone carrying mild surprise. He glanced briefly toward the hall, then back at her. "Are you busy?"
"....Not really," she answered, her forehead tightening in a small, curious smile.
"Please, come with me. I want to show you to someone."
"Oh—okay."
She fell into step beside him as he led her back into the hall, weaving through clusters of elegantly dressed guests. They stopped at a table near the front, where his mother sat—graceful, stylish, and radiating the kind of youthfulness that made it hard to believe she had a grown son.
Merrick leaned forward with pride.
"Mom, this is the lady whose products I told you about. The one I said you'd love."
And that was where the business deal began. The woman had compelled the interest of two of her friends at the table, strengthened by Merrick's recommendation, and the three ordered what consumed the entire available batch Memedoh had.
-------
She felt deeply fulfilled that Keme Essence had proven its credibility — that purposeful touch she had woven into her oil. What thrilled her even more was the kind of customers who loved and commended the product; their confidence poured strength into her resolve.
She moved around her little production space with the discipline of a soldier — mentally preparing herself for the precision the next batch would demand. Baobab oil was no child's play; it stretched every ounce of her sensitivity to detail.
Her friend Jesse had recently connected her to a supplier in Kano — a place where baobab grew in abundance. Jesse had been in Kano for a while, doing some freelance graphic work for a children's educational hub. Memedoh had reached out to her, and one conversation led to another until the need for a direct baobab-seed supplier became clear; the ones from the market were far too inconsistent.
Jesse was the one person who resonated with Memedoh's exceptionality. They shared the same hunger — a zeal to use their work as a platform to serve their value to the world. Jesse, a graphic artist and story writer, dreamed of working with an animation studio to create visually inspiring stories for children and young teens. She was — according to social stereotype — a nerd. Maybe that was why connecting with Memedoh had always been easy; they were wired from the same quiet fire.
"You know you'll have to purchase in bulk if you're getting the seeds directly from these suppliers," Jesse said over the phone.
"Is that so? So how would transportation down here work? Wouldn't the journey be too long for the commodity?"
Memedoh asked, her tone thoughtful.
"Well, yeah — it's a long ride. But they transport it with vehicles that can preserve the quality across the journey," Jesse explained.
"Oh… o-okay," she replied, unsure but trying to understand.
"So… it seems business is fully on board for you now?" Jesse said, half-teasing, half-checking in on her friend.
Memedoh chuckled. "What can I say? Times of difficulty and sacrifice must pay at some point."
They laughed in shared understanding.
"So how's it with you there?" Memedoh asked, returning the care.
"Hmm… well," Jesse sighed. "It's been like sixty percent challenge, forty percent breakthrough. The project I came for is demanding — mentally and financially — but the results are showing. Slowly… but they're showing."
"Don't worry. Just give it time, and stay consistent with genuine commitment. When progress starts, you'll look back and wonder what exactly you did," Memedoh said.
"And you?" Jesse asked gently. "How's school?"
"God is helping us. No pupil withdrawal all session. And the new development we're working on… honestly? It's draining. But the outcomes are counting."
She paused. "This business? I'm still nursing it. Progress is humble… but real."
"Yeah, you've got to be grateful for today's sale," Jesse said softly.
"Absolutely. Baobab batch sold out," Memedoh admitted.
"Good. I'm happy for you."
"I also published another book recently," Jesse added. "It's been… slow, but steady."
"Oh, that's great! One of those books you want to animate someday, right?"
"Yeah," Jesse chuckled. "Once I get into the right circle and platform."
A silence breathed between them — not awkward, but reflective.
It gave Memedoh a moment to decide whether to share something.
"I met this guy," she finally said. "A business man… very sound, very composed. He's the type you can't deny has depth — even though I refuse to exaggerate anything."
Jesse didn't even try to hide her amusement.
"Hm. I know that tone. This guy must be undeniably advanced and collected. You hate to admit it."
Memedoh could practically feel Jesse rolling her eyes.
"No, Jesse… please. Don't start."
"Omo, girl… person gats advance," Memedoh confessed, rare honesty slipping through. "Sometimes it feels like other people are living in fast-forward."
"Exactly!" Jesse said, too quickly. "Sometimes I ask myself — how do others do it? It feels like it's me trying too hard… like I'm punching air."
"Swears," Jesse continued. "At some point you even start wondering if any of this is worth it."
"Exactly," Memedoh breathed. "But I remind myself I've got a backing bigger than fear. And you do too."
"Yeah…" Jesse whispered.
"Sometimes when you remember the people you started with — and where they are now — you almost want to compare yourself," Memedoh added gently.
"Omo, girl… you're reading my mind already," Jesse admitted.
"If not for God and the wisdom that warns us against comparison… We're meant to compare ourselves only with who we can become — not with others," Memedoh said.
"My dear, it's you now… and the better version ahead," Jesse replied. "If not, I'd think of my friend Toheeb — he started from the same corner as me, same beginning. Now he's a full-time computer graphics consultant, earning what I once dreamed of."
Memedoh laughed softly. "What about me? That my friend Kamsy — the one who dragged me to every free business seminar — called recently. He's now on a business program with monthly fees up to five hundred thousand. He talks about international trips like it's normal. Sometimes I wonder how it happens so fast for these guys."
"Don't worry, Memey," Jesse encouraged. "Like you said — with time and faithful pursuit, we'll arrive at a feat where we'll struggle to pinpoint what exactly got us there."
"Yeah," Memedoh said, smiling. "I believe."
"Nna, get the kids on the phone for me, abeg," Jesse said.
"Itara! Memeidah! Come — Auntie Jesse wants to talk to you!"
Memedoh called out.
The moment warmed her chest. Their friendship had taken time, distance, and pressure — yet it still carried weight. It reminded both women that resilience and faith weren't just choices; they were principles — the quiet engines that kept them moving toward the lives they were building.
Memedoh felt a quiet relief settle in her chest. For once the noise around her didn't swallow her whole. Even in a crowd that rarely matched her depth, she felt relief—because she had at least one person who understood the weight she carried and shared a vision shaped by similar truths.
Back at the store, the day eased into its final stretch.
Memedoh sifted through the last bowl of baobab seeds, separating the good from the badly stored ones — the kind that crumbled at a touch. The rejected pile had grown embarrassingly large, but she refused to compromise the standard her oil demanded.
Midway through the process, her phone rang.
A parent — concerned about the Friday extracurricular activity she and her management team had planned.
She responded with her usual calm precision, clarifying details, guiding expectations, then slipped back into her work before the timing of the filtering stage lost its rhythm.
Once the filtration setup was finally arranged — a task that would keep working till the next day — she allowed herself a breath. She sat for a moment, letting her shoulders fall, palms still faintly dusty from the seeds.
Two message alerts popped up — client inquiries.
A subtle warmth rose in her chest as she read them. She began typing a reply, her fingers slow and thoughtful, when another notification slid across her screen.
An email from Jude.
She stilled.
It was a reminder about the event he had invited her to weeks ago — the one she had quietly held in one corner of her expectations, even amidst the chaos of work and responsibility.
She leaned back slightly, eyes lingering on the screen.
Another outing… another room full of measuring eyes… another space she had to enter with composure sharpened.
I hope I'm ready for whatever waits in that event, she thought.
With that quiet admission, the day settled — not with exhaustion alone, but with the faint stirrings of something shifting beneath the surface.