There is a particular silence that comes with waiting. It sounds a lot like abandonment.
My landlord knocked like a man chasing demons out of a possessed room. I knew it was him even before I heard the voice. That knock had rhythm—three short, two long, then rage. "Davida! Davida!!"
I stayed still. Maybe if I didn't move, he'd think I wasn't home. Maybe if I disappeared hard enough, my debt would vanish too.
"Davida Okeke! It's the 7th o! I never see alert!" His voice was rising, but I didn't care. I lay on my mattress, staring at the cracked ceiling, watching a brown gecko do better at climbing than I ever had. He knocked again, cursed in Yoruba, then gave up. His footsteps faded. The silence that followed felt like shame. ₦75,000. That's how much I owed.
Six months' rent and counting. He'd been patient—more patient than most landlords in this God-forsaken city—but even pity has limits. I checked my phone, 9% battery. No new messages. No callbacks. No miracle alerts from God or GTBank.
I scrolled to my WhatsApp chats and hovered on one name: Ifunanya. Old roommate. Kind, loud, one of the few who'd stuck with me through the chaos. She had a job in tech now—real tech, not that "remote internship" scam that ruined my 2023. I hadn't spoken to her in a while. Pride does that. But hunger is a pride killer. It took me a long while before I finally tapped and typed: "Hey Nanya, long time, hope you are good, Nanya please can you lend me 10k? I'll pay back as soon as I can. I'm really stuck." The ticks turned blue almost immediately. No reply. Minutes passed. Ten. Fifteen. Thirty. Still nothing.
I stared at the screen like it would blink back with mercy. But it didn't. Eventually, I tossed the phone across the room. Not hard enough to break it. Just enough to make it feel like a decision. I sat in the corner of the room, knees to my chest. The familiar thoughts came crawling in:
You're a failure.
You should have married Chuka when you had the chance.
You should have studied Accounting.
You should have left this country.
You should have died with your mother.
I swallowed them like pills. Bitterness is a medication. Dangerous, but numbing.
By noon, I had no plan. No food. No money. No response. So I walked. No direction. No goal. Just movement. I walked through the noise of Oshodi, past tired faces and restless hustlers, past market women calling strangers sugar, past boys selling fake iPhones and original regrets. I walked like someone trying to outrun her own reflection.
Everywhere I looked, someone was surviving. That's what Lagos was. Not a city. A cage where survival wore different outfits. Tailors. Teachers. Traders. Cleaners. Even beggars in wheelchairs had AirPods now. Everyone hustling. Everyone hurting. Everyone pretending they weren't.
I sat on a gutter edge, letting my legs dangle over stale water. A madman danced near the BRT bus stop, shouting scriptures like he was the only prophet left. A woman beside me sold oranges with hands that looked like tree bark. No one is coming, I thought.
Not Nanya.
Not God.
Not fate.
Not hope.
No one is coming.
And yet… I was still here.
Breathing. Angry. Empty.
But here.