Dave sat behind his glass desk, his posture rigid, still scanning through reports, meticulously reviewing every number, every document, every tiny detail as if the day's work could never truly end. The office had been a battlefield all day, filled with tension, whispered fears, and obedience borne of respect and terror. Yet Dave remained impervious—unshaken, unyielding, flawless in focus.
Finally, after what felt like hours, he leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, and let out a single, controlled exhale. The clock ticked toward the late afternoon, and a subtle shift passed through the office—the unspoken cue that the day was ending.
Dave pressed a button on his intercom."Omar," he said, voice calm but authoritative, "tell the driver to be ready in ten minutes."
"Yes, sir," came the hurried reply. Omar's voice trembled slightly, though he tried to mask it.
The staff began filing out as Dave rose from his chair, adjusting his tailored suit, the fabric smooth and precise, without a wrinkle. His gaze swept across the room, eyes calculating, sharp, as if noting every detail of every person he passed. No one dared speak; the silence was complete, only the faint clack of polished shoes against the marble floor echoing through the office.
The receptionist straightened her posture instinctively as he passed, and employees felt the familiar chill of his gaze following them to the door. The fear and respect in the air were palpable. Dave was the storm in their midst, the king who never lowered his crown, and none dared forget it.
He exited the building through the main glass doors, the afternoon sun glinting off his dark suit, his presence commanding as ever. Outside, a sleek black Mercedes-Benz waited, engine humming, ready to obey the slightest movement of its master.
"Drive," he instructed the chauffeur with a single word, no hint of inflection. The driver, already alert, slid into the driver's seat and began navigating through the streets of Banjul with practiced precision, steering through the late traffic with care as Dave sat rigidly in the back seat, eyes scanning the city through the tinted windows.
Even in motion, even amidst the calm streets bathed in golden light, Dave radiated control. His jaw was set, his posture immovable, his mind already running ahead to the next problem, the next report, the next inefficiency that demanded correction.
The Danso residence loomed ahead, the grand estate perched like a sentinel on the hill, a fortress of wealth and influence. As the car pulled up along the long, marble driveway, Dave stepped out with precise efficiency, every movement deliberate, commanding attention even in solitude. The staff who saw him pass on the grounds instinctively straightened, aware that the master of the house was present.
Inside the mansion, silence reigned. The polished floors reflected the evening sun, and the scent of fresh flowers mingled with the faint aroma of imported teas. Dave walked through the wide hallway, his steps echoing, each one a statement: here is a man who demands order, control, perfection.
Reaching his study, he closed the door behind him, seating himself in a high-backed leather chair. A moment passed—silence, precise, purposeful—before he picked up his phone and dialed.
The phone rang twice before Aminata answered, her voice calm yet bright, carrying just enough warmth to balance the tension Dave exuded even through a line.
"Aminata," he began, his voice deep, measured, controlled. There was no hint of emotion, yet the weight of command was unmistakable. "I want Ruthie to resume work tomorrow morning. At nine am. Inform her. And ensure she understands this is not optional."
"Yes, Dave," Aminata replied, her voice steady, carrying both surprise and respect. "I will inform her immediately. Nine o'clock, tomorrow morning. Understood."
"Good," Dave said. Short, definitive. "No excuses. She must be ready, punctual, and prepared."
Aminata paused briefly, sensing the undercurrent beneath his tone—the cold authority that made even the word prepared carry weight heavier than most people could bear. "Understood. I'll make sure she is aware. She will be here, on time."
Dave's eyes narrowed slightly, though no one could see them. "Do not fail me," he said, each word deliberate, carrying the precision of a man who demanded results, not promises.
"I won't," Aminata said softly, yet firmly.
Dave ended the call with a simple, measured press of a button. He leaned back in his chair, hands steepled, eyes staring at the city through the tall windows. The faint glow of evening light cast long shadows across the room, reflecting the meticulous order and calculated power that defined every corner of his life.
Even as he rested, there was no softness in his posture, no relaxation in his expression. Dave's mind already raced ahead to tomorrow—plans, operations, decisions, expectations. Yet somewhere beneath the surface, a faint awareness had stirred. A small, precise possibility of disruption.The evening sky had already begun to fold itself into hues of deep orange and violet when Ruthie sat on the edge of her narrow bed, a phone pressed tightly to her ear. Aminata's voice, calm and urgent, carried across the line, bringing news that made Ruthie's heartbeat hammer against her ribs like a frantic drum.
"Ruthie," Aminata said softly, but firmly, "I spoke with my cousin. Everything is ready for you to start tomorrow morning. Dave has agreed—you're to report at nine o'clock sharp. Be prepared."
Ruthie's grip on the phone tightened. Her mind struggled to catch up. Prepared? The word felt distant, almost impossible. Her hair was rough, a tangle of strands she hadn't had the time to tame; her hands still bore the faint traces of flour from the small snack she had made for herself earlier; her clothes were simple and worn, with no shoes fit for an office setting. The reality of the opportunity hit her like a sudden wave, shocking her system with both fear and exhilaration.
"A-am I… ready?" Ruthie stammered, voice small.
"You will be," Aminata said, her tone comforting yet insistent. "I know it's sudden, but trust me—you have what it takes. Just do your best. That's all anyone can ask."
Ruthie ended the call with a trembling hand, her chest tight with anticipation. She stared at herself in the small mirror, the reflection of a young woman caught between hope and panic. The opportunity had come unexpectedly, as if the universe had decided to place her entire future within the hands of a single day.
She rushed to her wardrobe, fingers fumbling through hangers and drawers. Blouses, skirts, old dresses—nothing seemed appropriate. The office dress codes, the polished appearance, the shoes that clicked against tile—all foreign concepts to someone who had spent years making do with what she could find.
Her hands shook as she pulled out garment after garment. A faded dress that once held promise now seemed too small; a blouse torn at the seam, a skirt frayed at the hem. Each attempt ended in frustration, the weight of reality pressing down on her shoulders.
"Anything is better than nothing," she muttered to herself, voice trembling but determined. She could not waste this chance—not after years of searching for work, scraping by, trying to survive. Her dreams of stability, of providing for her family, of proving herself, demanded action now.
Finally, Ruthie chose a modest, slightly worn dress and paired it with the only shoes that were even remotely suitable—scuffed, but clean. Her hair remained rough, hastily brushed into a loose ponytail, but it would have to do. There was no time for perfection. There was only preparation, raw and urgent.
Ruthie turned to her family, who were gathered around the small living area, finishing up their evening tasks. The quiet rustle of papers, the soft clinking of cups, and the faint hum of the radio filled the room. Her siblings looked up as she approached, noticing the determined fire in her eyes, the energy that seemed to vibrate with the promise of change.
"I… I have to tell you something," Ruthie began, voice shaking but steadying with each word. "Tomorrow… I have a chance to start a job. Aminata spoke to someone—her cousin—and they want me to begin at nine in the morning."
Her mother's eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and disbelief painting her expression. Then a small smile crept across her face, fragile but warm.
Ruthie's siblings blinked, the tension of their shared struggles lifting slightly in that moment. The years of watching Ruthie toil to support them, the small sacrifices, the endless balancing of survival and care—they all understood the gravity of this opportunity.
"You… really?" her mother whispered, voice trembling.
Ruthie nodded, biting her lip to hold back tears. "Yes. It's… it's sudden. I… I didn't have anything ready. No proper dress, no shoes… I'll make do with what I have. I have to. After all these years of trying… I can't let this slip."
Her mother reached out, placing a hand on Ruthie's cheek, warmth radiating despite the fatigue that years of struggle had left behind. "I'm so proud of you," she said softly, voice thick with emotion.
Her siblings rushed forward, hugging her in a small, tight cluster, their joy spilling over. In that simple, modest home, the air seemed to shift, the years of struggle momentarily forgotten. This small victory—this single glimmer of opportunity—brought with it a wave of hope, fragile but undeniable.
Ruthie moved quickly, arranging her chosen outfit by the bed, brushing what could be brushed of her hair, inspecting her shoes with a critical eye. She checked the small bag she would carry, tucking in a few essentials: a notebook, a pen, and a clean handkerchief. Each item was a small act of preparation, a declaration of readiness despite the chaos of her wardrobe.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, Ruthie allowed herself a single deep breath. The reality of tomorrow loomed like a storm on the horizon—daunting, unfamiliar, and full of possibility. She had waited for this moment for years, had searched for work, had struggled for survival, had endured poverty and uncertainty. And now, at last, the opportunity was here, unshaped and unexpected, demanding courage she had not yet tested.
She whispered softly to herself, a prayer and a promise intertwined:"Tomorrow… I will not fail. I will do whatever it takes. I will make this work—for me, for us."
Her family hovered nearby, watching her with quiet pride and hope. The house, small and modest, seemed to hold its breath with her, the dim evening light casting shadows that danced across walls worn by years of hardship.
And for the first time in many long years, Ruthie felt the possibility of change.
The chance had come, unannounced and sudden, and she would face it with whatever strength she could summon.
The night stretched ahead, filled with anticipation and nerves. Yet in that modest home, amid the worn furniture and the echoes of past struggles, a spark of hope ignited, small but steady, ready to grow with the rising sun.
Tomorrow, she would step into a new world.And tomorrow, everything could begin to The first whisper of dawn had barely brushed the horizon when Ruthie's eyes fluttered open. The sky outside her small, modest window was painted with the soft hues of pale gold and faint lavender, a quiet prelude to the day that would change her life. Inside the modest home, silence reigned, broken only by the low hum of the ceiling fan and the faint rustle of sheets as her siblings began to stir in their sleep.
Ruthie swung her legs over the side of the bed, bare feet touching the cool floor. Her chest rose and fell with measured breaths as she steadied herself for the day ahead. Today was no ordinary day—it was the day she would step into the world she had dreamed of for years, yet the weight of uncertainty pressed heavily on her shoulders.
She moved quietly, as she always did, mindful of her mother, who had been weak since her stroke, and of her siblings, who depended on her. By four a.m., Ruthie had already begun preparing the morning meal—simple porridge and eggs, arranged carefully for her mother's fragile appetite and her siblings' hurried breakfast before school. The small stove hissed and spat tiny flames, steam curling into the air as she stirred with careful attention, each motion deliberate, precise, trained over years of daily survival.
Outside the small kitchen, the siblings scurried about. The youngest, still half-asleep, splashed cold water onto their face, while the other helped with small tasks, trying to steady their movements. The room smelled faintly of soap and damp clothes as they prepared themselves for school. Ruthie called out gently over the clatter of bowls and the low hum of the ceiling fan.
"Quickly now," she said, voice calm but insistent. "Finish your bath, eat, and get ready. We don't have time to dawdle."
Her mother watched from the corner of the room, a weak smile on her face. Though she could no longer move as freely, her eyes gleamed with pride as she observed Ruthie, the eldest, who had carried the weight of the family for so many years.
Ruthie smiled faintly at her mother, though the worry behind her eyes remained. "Don't worry, Mama. Today is going to be a good day. I promise."
Her siblings nodded, carrying out her instructions with careful precision. Today, everything depended on her—and Ruthie had no intention of failing.
After sending the younger ones off to school, Ruthie turned her attention to herself. She had been up before the sun, preparing her family, yet she had barely had time to think about her own appearance. Her hair, rough and untamed from the rush of waking early, framed her face like a halo of chaos. Her dress, carefully chosen the night before from the limited wardrobe she possessed, now lay on the bed, ready but imperfect.
A sudden realization struck her—she didn't know the company's exact address. Panic flared in her chest like a sudden flame. She fumbled for her phone, dialing Aminata's number with trembling hands.
The call rang once, twice… then thrice. Finally, a sleepy voice answered.
"Ruthie?" Aminata's voice was groggy, but warm.
"It's me," Ruthie said hurriedly, cutting through the small greeting with urgency. "Please… can you send me the address of the company? I need to get there quickly, before I'm late."
Aminata, still half asleep, laughed softly, a sound that reminded Ruthie of calmer times. "You're calling early," she murmured. "I'll send it now. Don't worry, it's just a few streets away—follow the directions and you'll be there."
Moments later, a text message buzzed on Ruthie's phone. She read it quickly, memorizing the landmarks, the turns, the subtle directions that would lead her to her first day of work. Her heart raced with a mixture of excitement, fear, and determination.
Time did not wait. Ruthie moved quickly to the bathroom, water cascading over her body as she washed away the sleep and the remnants of yesterday's worries. She dressed in the modest yet beautiful dress she had chosen, brushing her teeth hurriedly, tying her hair back as best as she could. It remained rough, untamed, but she had no time for perfection.
She grabbed her small bag, tucking in a notebook, pen, and a few essentials, then dashed outside. The streets of the city were still quiet, the golden light of morning spilling across the pavement as the city slowly awakened. Ruthie knew that buses would take too long; every second mattered. She called a bike man, a familiar rider who knew the paths through the bustling roads like the back of his hand.
Mounting the bike, the wind whipped against her face, tousling her rough hair, but she hardly noticed. Her mind was fixed on the destination, the future, the opportunity that had come suddenly and unexpectedly.
The company gates loomed ahead, tall and imposing, yet locked. Ruthie's heart skipped a beat as she realized she had arrived far too early. She looked around—the parking lot was empty, not a single staff member in sight. The office doors remained closed, and the silence of the morning felt heavy, almost accusing.
Ruthie dismounted from the bike, clutching her file tightly against her chest. The papers inside were her first shield in the new world she was about to enter—the record of her preparation, her determination, her hope. She glanced around and saw a mango tree near the entrance, its leaves rustling softly in the early breeze. It would have to be her waiting spot.
Sitting under the tree, Ruthie arranged her file carefully on her lap, smoothing the papers, ensuring they were neat despite the chaos of the morning. She tugged at her rough hair, brushed it with trembling fingers, but the wild strands resisted her efforts. Her shoes were slightly scuffed, her dress not perfectly pressed, yet none of that mattered. She had waited years for this moment. She could not allow minor imperfections to shake her resolve.
Ruthie's chest rose and fell steadily, her eyes scanning the locked gates, waiting patiently, knowing that soon, the doors would open, and her life could change forever.
Under the mango tree, clutching her file, Ruthie allowed herself a single thought:This is it. The moment I've been waiting for. No turning back now.
The breeze shifted, carrying with it the scent of possibility, the faint tang of opportunity, and the quiet whisper of a new beginning. Tomorrow's sun would rise over her future—and she was ready, in heart if not in polish, to meet it.