Chapter 7:
Kola didn't sleep well that night.
The money the customer had pressed into his palm was still in his pocket. He had taken it out twice already, smoothed the notes, folded them again, then returned them where they belonged. It wasn't a large amount, but it carried weight — the kind that settled quietly on the chest.
For the first time since coming to the city, someone had trusted him with something important. And for the first time, he hadn't disappointed anyone.
Yet sleep refused to come.
By dawn, he was already awake, staring at the cracked ceiling of the lodge room. The fan above him rattled weakly, doing little more than pushing warm air around. He rose before the alarm rang, washed his face with cold water, and left while the city was still half-asleep.
The shop was quiet when he arrived. Mr. Chuks hadn't come yet. Kola stood outside for a moment, breathing in the early morning air, then unlocked the door with the spare key he had been given weeks ago.
Inside, the machines rested like tired animals. He cleaned the counters, arranged the tools, and swept the floor without being told. It felt good to move with purpose, even if the future remained uncertain.
When customers began to arrive, something felt different.
A man walked in, glanced around, then looked straight at Kola.
"Are you the one who handled the other job yesterday?" he asked.
Kola hesitated. "Yes, sir."
"Good work," the man said simply, handing him a file.
That small moment stayed with him longer than it should have.
Even Timi seemed less sharp-tongued that day. Not friendly — never that — but quieter. Observing. Measuring.
Around midday, Mr. Chuks called him aside.
"You can't keep staying at that lodge forever," the man said, his voice flat but not unkind. "It's draining your money."
Kola nodded. He had known this conversation would come.
"There's a room behind the shop," Mr. Chuks continued. "It's small. Old. No fan. No privacy. But it's cheap."
Kola didn't answer immediately.
Living behind the shop meant no clear end to the day. No real rest. Work would follow him into the night. The sounds, the smells, the pressure — all of it would be waiting when he woke up.
But the lodge was slowly swallowing his earnings. And pride wouldn't feed him.
"I'll take it," he said at last.
Mr. Chuks studied him for a moment, then nodded. "You're learning," he said, as if that explained everything.
That evening, Kola packed his belongings into one small bag. There wasn't much — two shirts, a pair of trousers, some notebooks, his phone charger, and the worn photograph of home he always carried.
The room behind the shop was smaller than he imagined.
The walls were stained with age. The window barely opened, and when he switched on the bulb, it flickered as if unsure it wanted to stay alive. There was a mattress on the floor and a wooden stool that wobbled when he sat on it.
He sat anyway.
This was it.
A roof. A chance. A sacrifice wrapped as opportunity.
Later that night, his phone rang.
Amara.
He hesitated before answering. "Hello."
"You sound tired," she said almost immediately.
"I am," he admitted.
There was a pause on the line. "You didn't tell me you moved again."
"I didn't want to worry you."
Silence. Then, softer, "Kola… don't disappear into that place."
He leaned back against the wall, staring at the dim bulb above him. "I'm trying," he said. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the full truth either.
"Just remember why you started," Amara added.
After the call ended, the room felt quieter than before. He lay back on the mattress, hands folded on his chest, listening to the distant hum of the city beyond the walls.
Staying meant giving something up. Comfort. Space. Time.
Leaving meant giving up the dream itself.
As sleep finally crept in, one thought stayed with him, heavy and unrelenting:
Some dreams don't just ask for effort.
They ask for everything you're willing to lose.