Chapter 9:
The days began to blur together.
Kola stopped counting them somewhere between exhaustion and routine. Morning came, work followed, night returned — and then it all repeated. The room behind the shop had no sense of time. No clear difference between yesterday and today.
He woke up before the alarm again.
His body protested as he sat up, every muscle tight from the previous day's labor. The mattress had not softened with use. If anything, it felt harder. He stood slowly, washed his face, and stared at his reflection in the small cracked mirror by the wall.
He looked older.
Not by years, but by weight. The kind of weight no one else could see.
Outside, the shop was quiet. Kola opened it early, as he had made a habit of doing. He cleaned, arranged tools, and prepared for customers. The routine steadied him, but it no longer distracted him.
Work was no longer new.
It was necessary.
By mid-morning, customers filled the space. Orders piled up. Complaints came alongside praise. Kola worked without pause, hands moving almost on their own. He barely noticed when Mr. Chuks left for an errand or when Timi disappeared for lunch.
It wasn't until his stomach tightened painfully that he realized he hadn't eaten.
He ignored it.
There was a job to finish.
Later, a mistake happened.
Small. Almost invisible. A misalignment that would have gone unnoticed if not for the customer's sharp eye.
"What is this?" the man asked, frowning.
Kola's chest tightened. He looked, saw it immediately, and felt his heart sink.
"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I'll fix it."
The customer sighed loudly. "You people rush too much."
Kola didn't argue. He corrected the work carefully, hands steady despite the tension. When the customer left, Mr. Chuks said nothing — but his silence felt heavier than words.
That night, alone in the room, doubt crept in like a familiar enemy.
One mistake is all it takes.
He sat on the mattress, staring at his hands. They trembled slightly. Fatigue had finally caught up with him.
His phone buzzed.
A message from Amara.
You've been quiet today.
He typed a reply, erased it, then typed again.
Just tired.
Seconds passed. Then:
You can't keep carrying everything alone.
Kola leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. He wanted to tell her everything — the hunger, the fear, the pressure to prove himself every single day. But he didn't want to sound weak. Or worse, like someone regretting his choices.
I'll be fine, he replied instead.
The lie felt heavier than the truth would have.
As the night deepened, sleep refused to come. His mind replayed the mistake over and over, twisting it into something larger than it was. He wondered how many chances a man like him truly had.
How many mistakes were allowed before the door closed.
Morning arrived too soon.
Kola dragged himself up and stepped into the shop, eyes burning, body aching. The smell of oil made his stomach turn. He swallowed and kept moving.
Halfway through the morning, Mr. Chuks called him aside.
"You're pushing too hard," he said quietly.
Kola blinked. "I can handle it."
Mr. Chuks studied him for a long moment. "Strength isn't only about endurance," he said. "It's about knowing when to pause."
Kola nodded, but inside, he felt conflicted. Pausing felt dangerous. Slowing down felt like falling behind.
That afternoon, Timi spoke again.
"You won't last like this," he said, almost casually.
Kola looked at him. "Maybe."
Timi shrugged. "Just saying."
The words stayed with him longer than they should have.
That evening, Kola skipped dinner again. He lay on the mattress, staring at the ceiling, the city noise washing over him. He thought of home. Of the expectations placed on him. Of the promise he had made to himself when he first arrived.
He had believed hard work alone would be enough.
Now he wasn't so sure.
His phone buzzed once more.
Amara.
"I miss you," she said softly.
"I know."
There was silence between them — the kind that carried meaning.
"You don't sound okay," she said.
"I'm just tired."
"You've said that before."
He exhaled slowly. "I don't want to fail."
Her voice softened. "Failing doesn't mean stopping. Sometimes it means resting."
After the call, Kola lay still for a long time.
Strength had carried him this far. But now it was fading — replaced by something quieter, more dangerous.
Exhaustion.
As sleep finally took him, one thought pressed itself into his mind, heavy and unavoidable:
Dreams don't only test how strong you are.
They test how long you can remain standing when strength begins to fade.