"Adillia, where are you?"
"Hello? Hello… are you there?"
My mother's voice echoed through the phone, sharp with worry and suspicion. I took a deep breath, bracing myself.
"Mummy, I'm on my way to Abuja," I said calmly. "I'm going to Aunt Chinelo's house for the holidays. Didn't you read the letter I left on the table?"
There was a brief silence on the other end of the line—then chaos.
"Ha! Oh Chim!" she exclaimed. "This girl will not kill me before my time. Adillia, you are only fourteen years old, o! Start coming back to this house immediately."
I smiled faintly, already knowing there was no turning back.
"Mummy, I can't," I replied. "We're already in Lokoja. Aunt Chinelo knows I'm coming, and Uncle Nnamdi dropped me at the park himself—with your consent."
That part wasn't entirely true, but it sounded convincing enough.
"Don't worry," I added quickly. "I'm in safe hands. I love you, mummy. Bye."
Before she could begin what I already anticipated—the usual sermon on the mount—I ended the call.
I knew my mother too well. The lecture would have been long, passionate, and emotionally exhausting. But this journey was bigger than fear, bigger than obedience. I had a goal firmly etched into my heart, and Abuja was the only place I could pursue it.
I had missed the deadline to register for JAMB that year, and the disappointment cut deeper than I cared to admit. It felt like the universe had slammed a door in my face just when I was ready to walk through it. Instead of wallowing in regret, I made a decision.
If I couldn't move forward academically just yet, I would grow creatively.
I had resolved to spend the year learning fashion design in Abuja while waiting for my WAEC results. I was done—completely done—with that quack tailor's shop where dreams were stifled and talent went to waste. I wanted more. I deserved more.
The journey itself was exhausting, yet strangely exhilarating. Somewhere between the bumps on the road and the loud chatter of fellow passengers, I found joy in the little things. I bought suya, meat pie, apples, Fanta, jollof rice—yes, another meat pie—and happily boarded the bus when it was time to continue the trip.
There's a saying that a foodie will always be a foodie, and I embodied that truth without shame.
And before you ask how I afforded such indulgence—Uncle Nnamdi had taken care of my transport fare and generously gave me extra money to "spoil myself." Bless his heart.
As I settled into my seat, I noticed people staring. Maybe it was my confidence, maybe my age, or maybe the sheer audacity with which I unwrapped my suya in a public bus. Either way, I didn't care. Other people's opinions had never paid my bills or shaped my destiny.
I opened the nylon and began to eat.
We hadn't gone far when discomfort struck. My bladder betrayed me at the worst possible time.
"I need to urinate," I muttered under my breath, panic rising.
I informed the driver, but his response crushed my hope.
"There's no suitable place to stop yet," he said, eyes fixed on the road.
At that moment, it felt as though the heavens themselves had conspired against me.
And that was only the beginning.