Chapter 3: Hope Dey Fade Like Sticky Note

Even as I reach house, the WhatsApp updates no gree stop.

I enter our small parlour, drop bag, try rest but those status update dey parade for my mind like landlord dey collect rent. Even as I try chop, the taste for mouth no sweet.

Dem dey talk say for this world, Seyi na main oga, Zainab na madam, me I just be supporting tool-girl. All the grammar dey pain me. Who write the script, sef? My own just be extra for background.

Main oga and madam, na dem suppose end up together. Na so dem write am for all the stories. The poor girl na stepping stone.

But me, I always believe say Seyi go turn look my side. I dey pray for night, even dream sometimes say e go happen. But now, I dey doubt everything.

I even drop out from school, go dey work, just to gather money for am to go university. Na pure hustle. I dey do small small job—run errands, wash clothes, help market women—just make money reach.

I stare my notebook wey full with wrong answers for long, no fit believe say all this na reality. Tears dey my eye as I dey look all the red ink. The thing dey pain me, but I force myself continue.

The sticky note for wall na for my dream school—University of Ibadan. The pink sticky note dey fade, but I still dey press am every morning, dey pray say the dream go come true.

I stretch hand, wan press am well. My hand shake, but the hope still dey strong. E be like the only thing wey remain for me.

But the wall old, just dey scatter as I touch am. The cement dey crack, dust fall my hand. Poverty nor dey hide, e dey shout.

Me and Seyi dey live for this kind old house. Our compound na one of those ones wey every family get own kettle, own pako door. Rain fit leak for ceiling if thunder dey vex. Mosquito coil dey burn for corner, the smell mix with old palm oil and kerosene.

Years back, my papa and him papa die together for quarry collapse. The story dey make old women for street always shake head any time dem see me and Seyi.

After that, na only suffering remain. No be movie, na real life. Hunger, wahala, bills—everything just dey press us.

The pain of losing papa don fade, na just poverty dey remain. Grief no dey sharp again, but the wahala e leave behind still dey strong.

My mama always dey talk: She go hold my hand, talk for night, voice low so neighbours nor go hear the sadness.

"Morayo, you gats make am. If you enter better school, life go better for us."

Na daily prayer be that. Na wetin dey push me every morning.

So me and Seyi dey read like say tomorrow no dey. Our books get sweat mark, even candle wax scatter for the side. We dey hustle hope from textbook.

By final year, we dey always top ten for class. The list dey our wall. Any day my name fall, my mama go dey ask question.

I dey always ask Seyi: At least once a week, na the same question. We dey share dream, even when hope small.

True say if we enter university, life go better?

"Me sef no sure."

He no dey lie, but the small smile wey dey his face dey give me courage.

The old house dey always lose light, so we dey do homework for candle. Sometimes, the candle go finish half-way. We go use phone torch press last line.

He go look up from candle, him eyes dey shine. Him voice dey soft, like say na secret. I go dey pretend say I nor dey notice, but my chest dey jump.

"But Morayo, e go sweet if we fit enter same school."

He go tap my hand, the way only old friend dey do.

"Wetn dey sweet for there?"

I go form, but deep down I dey happy say e want me around.

He smile. "Just to dey with you dey sweet me."

That one dey make me blush like tomato wey sun dry.

Candle light make my face dey hot. Even as I dey hide face, Seyi go dey laugh small. Our shadows dey play for wall, e dey give me small joy.

I no know wetin to talk, I just go back to my book. Na so I dey swallow joy, dey pretend say book dey more important.

Everyday just dey pass, I dey always reason: e fit be say Seyi like me too?

The hope dey scratch my chest. Sometimes, na only that thought dey keep me going.

Truth be say, na book and Seyi be the two most important thing for my nineteen years. I no even know which one important pass.

My life dey balance for that edge—love and future, both dey strong.

But all these WhatsApp updates dey talk—

Their voice loud, dem no let me rest.

For Seyi, I go just throw away book wey I don read for more than ten years, abandon my mama, forget all my future?

The question heavy, e dey press my chest. Tears dey my eye, but I no wan make mama see.

"Morayo."

My mama call me. Her voice always carry that hope and wahala join body.

"Your aunty dey come collect Seyi school uniform."

That one na our style for compound. We dey share cloth, borrow as e go.

She enter, see me, shout: "Ah ah, this pikin, why you no change cloth after rain beat you?"

She rush enter, begin pull my wet uniform, worry full her face.

I ask, still dey confuse: My voice weak, the confusion still dey press me.

"Na Seyi talk say I catch rain?"

She look me, eyebrow raise. "You nor go talk true? Seyi say you catch rain for junction, say make I help you dry cloth."

"Yes now."

The bitterness for my heart just full. My mouth dey bitter, my eyes dey hot. E be like the world just dey spin against me.

I try hold myself. The tears dey try show, but I dey fight am with all my strength.

"I no carry him school uniform. I put am back for his seat."

I talk am, no look my mama eye. E pain me, but I no fit explain the real story.

The moment those WhatsApp updates show, I believe them. I don begin dey agree with the script. My own just dey do background waka.

Since I believe, No need to hope again. Hope na small thing for inside this kain wahala. But as I press my palm for that faded sticky note, small voice inside dey whisper—maybe, just maybe, my own story never finish.