I try to write stories depicting the realities of people, some have elements of my story, while some are reflections of peoples realities where i'm from. So here goes.
Some days I wake up and let out a huge sigh, sometimes I can be sitting, thinking, zoned out and just let out a huge sigh, I sometimes zone out and I could be looking you dead in your eyes and I don’t understand a single thing being said, not because I’m not disciplined or mean to be rude, but Life can just be a lot, a lot of struggles, and hurdles to cross and so begs this question, Does it ever get any easier?.
Im in my twenties and I don’t know if I'm in competition with anybody but I always envisioned more for myself. I hear the call to prayer and I stand up and go to pray. Another day. Another chance, MAYBE. I push myself up, reach for my phone, check the time, its around 5:23 a.m. My data subscription has expired again. No alerts, no messages, just silence and the faint battery icon blinking red, I look at my phone and keep hoping for the text from my significant other, sometimes i see the text and i let out a huge smile, my day is brightened a little bit, and sometimes it isn’t. I sit for a while, palms pressed together, eyes unfocused. I pray. Sometimes I just think. Most times, I just exist. I step outside. The air smells of wet dust, it rained last night. Children in worn out uniforms are already heading to school, jumping over puddles, laughing like nothing in the world is wrong. I envy them, when I was their age I used to envy the older ones, thinking they had it easier and they never had to go through the stress of school, foolish me!!. That kind of joy untouched by responsibility is a luxury adulthood can’t afford. The road to work is chaos. The bus I enter smells of sweat already, and this is still early in the morning. The conductor, a boy who can’t be older than twenty, shouts destinations in that mega city rhythm that sounds more like music than speech. We’re packed like sardines, bodies pressed together, everyone pretending not to notice the discomfort, maybe we are just used to it. A woman beside me whispers into her phone: “Yes, tell Madam I’m on the way, please beg her not to cut my salary.” I turn away. We’re all begging someone, God, bosses, destiny, just to let us breathe a little easier.
The bus stops abruptly, and a passenger shouts at the conductor. A small fight breaks out words fly, tempers flare, and blow fly all around. Nobody has the energy for violence before 8 a.m, so i thought at least. At work, I’m just another body in a small office a customer service assistant for a microfinance company. My salary barely lasts two weeks, this is with me managing and spending on a tight budget, but I’m grateful to even have one and im reminded everyday by my bosses. People come in every day, desperate for loans, single mothers needing money for hospital bills, young men trying to start small businesses, old traders clinging to hope. We give them money we both know they might never pay back and so we collect collateral, their last ditch of hope. During lunch, I sit outside and scroll through social media, the only escape I can afford, after im paid for the month. Everyone online looks rich, happy, successful. I scroll faster, jealous and ashamed at once. Then I stop at a video a man in the U.K. who left this country for a better life, talking about how “discipline and hard work are the keys to success. I laugh bitterly and hiss. If only it were that simple.
In the evening, I take the same bus home, im the last to alight the bus. The streetlights flicker like dying stars. I walk past rows of houses, because the bus does not get to my home and I cant afford the taxi. By the time I reach home, my shirt is soaked with sweat, their is no electricity, mosquitoes already buzzing. The landlord’s voice echoes from somewhere inside the compound, reminding tenants about “the increase in rent.” I avoid him. My own rent is two months overdue, every time I hear his voice my heart beat increases. Inside, the room is hot again. I light a candle and eat bread with sardine, I know right, still using candles in 2025 is crazy. I check my phone 3% battery, no light still. I sigh. It’s strange how routine hopelessness can become. I think of my mother in the village. She calls once a week, always cheerful, asking if I’ve eaten. I lie, tell her yes. She prays for me every time, her voice trembling with faith I no longer have. After eating, I sit by the window, watching the darkness outside, I talk to my significant other and she re-assures me, their is no crime in trying she says but giving up is unforgiveable, i ask he “when will it get better?”, “Soon” she says.
Sometimes, I imagine leaving moving abroad, starting fresh. But then I remember the stories people washing plates, doing two, three jobs, sleeping max five hours a day. The truth is, suffering wears different clothes in different places. Maybe the problem isn’t geography. Maybe it’s life itself, i dont know what life looks like for the average joe in other climes, does it get better? Still, something in me refuses to die. Maybe it’s foolishness. Maybe it’s hope. Maybe they’re the same thing, depending how successful you later become. Last week, I helped a young girl open her first savings account. She came in slippers , carrying scrumbled naira notes wrapped in a piece of nylon. “I want to save sir , I want to save for my future,” she said. I smiled, printed her receipt, and as she walked away, I felt something shift inside me, a tiny flicker, like a match in a storm. Tomorrow I’ll wake up again, buy bread and egg for breakfast again, go to work again. I’ll smile at strangers, make jokes with colleagues, send my mother ₦5,000 even when I cant afford to. And somehow, in between all that, I’ll find a reason to keep going. Until then, I’ll keep asking “ does it get any easier” not out of despair, but out of faith.
