One morning, you wake up to notice all your fantasies as a child were really fantasies because reality had just hit you so badly.
I honestly used to think that life after school was supposed to be smooth. Like I just have to graduate, get a job, buy a few fancy clothes, post about my soft life, and let the world applaud me for a job well done.
And for sure, reality had no such plans for me.
Two years after I had left school, I lost my first job. It happened on a day that started out as an ordinary day just to fool you.
My boss had just called me into his office, offered me a chair that I didn’t need and with that rehearsed corporate smile, said the company was “restructuring.”
Restructuring was of course the polite word for you are no longer useful to us.
I left the office with my dignity stuffed into a brown envelope along with my termination letter.
By the time I got home, my chest felt so empty, like someone had just scooped out all my insides. My house rent was already due in a month and my debts were such stubborn, uninvited visitors. They came knocking so fast.
But if there’s one thing I’ve always been, it’s being as stubborn as an Ox.
“If life won’t hand me opportunities,” I told myself one sleepless night, “I’ll create them. myself.”
That’s how I signed up for a brand identity class for three months.
It wasn’t actually cheap. Like, it took almost everything I had left but I thought of it as my last shot. It was my only way out anyway.
When I met Mr. Joshua, the tutor, during our first class, I had so much hope. He wasn’t young, not too old either, but he had that polished, confident air of someone who had really made it in life. He smiled so easily, gestured like a man who was used to being listened to and of course his voice carried a sense of calm authority that made me really want to trust him.
“In three months,” he said during that first class, “you’ll be shocked to see that you now know how to build brands that people can’t ignore. You’ll be able to design identities that speak for businesses, that make people stop scrolling and take notice.”
I held on to those words like they were a lifeline.
But after that first class, everything went so quiet.
Week one passed and then week two. No Zoom link, no class notes, just my mind filled with unanswered questions.
When he finally replied, it was always something like, “Sorry, I’ve been so busy. We will reschedule soon.”
At first, I was understanding. Like, life happens, right? Maybe he had a family emergency or maybe he was traveling. But by the fifth consecutive missed session, I stopped making excuses for him and started begging for what I had paid for.
“Good evening, sir, just checking if we have class tomorrow?”
“Good Morning sir, please, any update on the schedule?”
Sometimes, the blue ticks stayed gray for hours. Other times, he would reply, “Let’s do it next week.” And next week would come and pass with nothing to show for it.
Each time I sent a message, I felt a little bit smaller.
By the second month, my patience was already worn out. The class that was supposed to be my fresh start was now a source of daily anxiety. I kept thinking of the money I had spent, of the debts waiting for me, of the meals I had skipped just to make this work.
One fateful day, I got so fed up. This was the day I finally broke.
The day started with a power outage, as usual. The generator across the street was humming, the neighbor’s baby was crying, and my stomach was growling, reminding me that garri and groundnut wasn’t really breakfast but survival food.
By evening, I called Mr. Akin again, praying he would at least pick.
“Good evening, sir,” I said when he answered. I could hear chatter in the background, music playing faintly. At the sound of his voice, I knew he was relaxed, like he was at a lounge.
“Ah, yes,” he said casually. “Sorry, I’ve been swamped with work. We’ll fix another date soon.”
Something inside me snapped.
“With all due respect, sir,” I said, my voice trembling, “I can’t keep doing this.”
He went silent.
“You don’t know what it took me to pay for this class,” I continued. The words spilled out like a dam breaking. “I lost my job. I used my last savings because I believed in this. For two months I’ve been waiting, begging, just to learn what I already paid for. Do you know how humiliating that feels?”
There was a lump in my throat, but I pushed through it.
“You treat this like it’s nothing, but for me, this is everything. If you were in my shoes…like, if you had to choose between paying for knowledge or paying for food, and you chose knowledge, then maybe you would take this more seriously.”
I didn’t even realize that I was already crying until I heard my own shaky breathing.
The line stayed quiet for a long moment. Then he cleared his throat.
“Dinma,” he said softly, his tone stripped of that casual arrogance, “you’re right.”
I blinked, unsure I had heard him right.
“I indeed owe you an apology,” he said. “You’re not the only student I’ve been disappointing, but clearly, your situation is really different. I didn’t know what you were going through. I should have asked and I should have been more professional.”
His voice was way calmer and gentler now. “I started this program because I wanted to help people who were just starting out. But somewhere along the line, I got really distracted by other projects. That’s not your fault at all. From now on, you’ll get priority scheduling and we will even extend the class by an extra month to make up for what you lost.”
I sat in the dark, with my phone pressed to my ear, feeling so stunned.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
When we hung up, I just sat there for a while, listening to the night sounds around me the distant honk of the moving vehicles and the rustle of wind through the curtain.
I felt so much lighter, like someone had lifted a stone from my chest. My problems hadn’t magically disappeared anyway, because obviously the rent was still due, the debts were still unpaid but I no longer felt invisible.
Someone had actually seen me, heard me, and maybe understood me.
And that, I think, is what walking a mile in someone’s shoes really means. Not living their whole life, not solving their problems but just pausing long enough to feel the weight they carry, and respecting the strength it takes for them to keep walking.
Thanks for Reading me 💜
