Chapter 1: Tunde

Ibadan, Nigeria — June 2024

The heat came off the concrete like a slap. Tunde stood in his graduation gown, the polyester clinging to his back, sweat pooling at the collar of his white shirt. Around him, the noise was unbearable—shouting, laughing, someone's baby wailing, a woman screaming for her son who was already twenty feet away. The photographer was waving his arms, trying to organize a group of graduates who kept drifting apart.

Tunde's mother found him because she practically collided with him. Her head tie was bright yellow, slightly askew, and her face was wet. She grabbed his arm, not his face, her grip tight enough to leave marks.

"My son!" she shouted, because she had to shout over the noise. "My graduate!"

"Mummy—"

"Your father—God rest his soul—he would—"

"Excuse me, ma, please move!" The photographer was pushing past them. "We're trying to take a picture!"

His mother ignored him completely. She was crying, but also looking around for someone else, waving at a neighbor she'd spotted in the crowd. Tunde stood there, half-hugged, half-dragged, while his mother tried to hug him and wave at the same time.

The twins appeared. Tobi and Kunle. They were grinning, but not at him. They were looking at a girl in a yellow dress across the lawn.

"Did you see her?" Kunle whispered to Tobi.

"See who? Tunde just graduated."

"I can see both things at the same time."

"You're useless."

"Shut up, both of you," Funke said, shoving between them. She was out of breath. "Tunde, the photographer said if we don't come now, we have to pay extra. Mummy, please stop crying and come."

"I'm not crying, I'm—"

"You're crying."

"Of course I'm crying. My son graduated."

Tunde let himself be pulled toward the photographer. His gown felt like a blanket, heavy and suffocating. He tried to smile. The photographer told him to stand straighter. His mother straightened his collar. The twins kept whispering to each other. Funke rolled her eyes.

"Everyone, look here. Yes, smile."

Tunde smiled. The camera clicked.

---

Uncle Femi found him afterward, near the edge of the crowd. His suit was old but pressed, his tie knotted with military precision. He extended his hand, and they shook.

"Tunde Adebayo," Uncle Femi said.

"Thank you, Uncle."

"I was just telling your mother—" He paused, looked around, lowered his voice. "The system is broken. Half the lecturers were on strike for months. But you persevered. You should be proud."

"I am proud."

"What's next?"

Tunde opened his mouth. "I have an interview next week. At a newspaper—"

"The industry is dead, my boy."

"—The Compass. It's small, but—"

"You think I don't know The Compass? That woman, Bimbo, she's been running it for years. She's a good journalist. But the industry is dead. People read phones now. And even that is controlled. They arrest journalists, Tunde. Some disappear. Do you know that?"

Tunde nodded. He tried to find his next words, but Uncle Femi was already shaking his head.

"I'm just saying. Be careful. When you're young, you think—"

"Femi!" His mother appeared, pulling Tunde away. "Leave the boy alone. We're celebrating. Let him breathe."

Uncle Femi sighed. "I'm just saying—"

"You've said enough." His mother's tone left no room for argument. She turned to Tunde and smiled, but her eyes were exhausted. "Come, people are waiting. Mrs. Adeyemi brought pepper soup."

They walked back to the car. The twins were arguing about something. Funke was on her phone, ignoring everyone. The sun was brutal. Tunde's gown was soaking wet.

---

The celebration at home was chaos.

The living room was packed. Mrs. Adeyemi from next door was shouting about the pepper soup. Mr. Olaniyi was arguing with Uncle Femi about the government, their voices rising. Someone's child was running in circles, nearly knocking over a pot of jollof rice.

Tunde shook hands, accepted hugs, smiled. A man he barely knew clapped him on the back too hard. "Ah, your father would be proud!" Everyone said that. It was the only thing anyone could say. His mother's face crumpled every time she heard it, but she kept smiling.

The twins were in the corner with a PlayStation someone had brought. Funke was stealing plantains from the kitchen. Tunde tried to sit down, but another neighbor grabbed him.

"Ah, Tunde! Mass comm, right? So, what is the plan now? You'll write for the newspapers? Expose the corruption?"

"I'll try."

"Try? You're a graduate! You don't try. You do!"

"I—"

"Chidi! Come here!" The neighbor was already distracted, waving at someone else. Tunde stood there, his mouth half-open, the conversation just gone.

He found his way to the veranda, away from the noise. The air was slightly cooler. He sat on the old plastic chair and watched the sky turn orange. The sounds of the party filtered through the door—laughter, shouting, the clatter of plates.

Funke came out, chewing. "Why are you hiding?"

"I'm not hiding. I'm breathing."

"You got the job? The interview went well?"

"I haven't gone yet. It's next week."

"But you'll get it. You always get what you want." She said it matter-of-factly, without malice. She sat beside him. "Mummy's been crying in the kitchen."

"I know."

"She's happy, though. She's just scared."

"Scared of what?"

Funke shrugged. "Everything. The way the world is. You know." She stood up. "The twins are eating all the chicken. I have to stop them."

She left. Tunde sat alone. The veranda was quiet. He heard the generator hum from Mr. Olaniyi's house. A dog barked. He thought about Uncle Femi's warnings and felt something heavy in his chest.

---

His mother found him an hour later. The guests were gone. The living room was a mess—plates, cups, plastic chairs everywhere. Funke was sweeping. The twins had disappeared.

His mother sat beside him. She'd removed her head tie. Her hair was flat, greying at the temples. She looked exhausted.

"Mummy, you should rest."

"I'll rest later. How are you feeling?"

"Fine."

"Tunde."

"I'm worried, okay? I don't know what comes next. The interview—it's a newspaper, but everyone says journalism is dead. Uncle Femi—"

"Your uncle talks too much."

"Mummy—"

"You're scared. That's normal. When your father died, I was scared too. I didn't know how I would feed you. I went to the market. I sold beans. People said I would fail. I didn't listen."

She stopped. The dogs were barking again. A car horn blared in the distance.

"Mummy?"

"What?"

"You were saying—"

"Never mind. I'm tired. You'll find a job. You'll survive. That's what we do."

She stood up. Her knees cracked. She went inside. Tunde sat there, the conversation just ending, unfinished.

---

The bus to Lagos was hell. Two hours of traffic turned into four. Tunde stood because there were no seats, his hand gripping a sticky overhead bar, his back aching. A man next to him was yelling at the bus conductor about his change. A woman was crying quietly on her phone. A child was vomiting into a plastic bag.

Tunde closed his eyes and tried to focus. The interview. The answers he'd prepared. But the man kept yelling. The woman kept crying. The smell of vomit filled the bus.

When he finally reached Yaba, his shirt was soaked. His head was pounding. He'd forgotten half his answers.

---

The Compass office was above a printing press. The stairs were narrow, the paint peeling. He climbed to the top and found a woman sitting behind a wooden desk. She looked at him without interest.

"Tunde Adebayo? Take a seat. The editor will see you shortly."

He sat. The plastic chair creaked. The walls were covered with yellowed newspapers. Fifty Killed in Plateau Clash. President Vows to End Insecurity. Why Are Our Children Dying?

The door opened. A woman stepped out—late forties, sharp eyes, silver streaks in her hair. She looked at him like he'd already annoyed her.

"You're Tunde?"

"Yes, ma."

"Bimbo. Come in."

Her office was smaller than the reception. Files everywhere. She sat behind the desk, shuffled some papers, and sighed.

"UI. Mass comm. What did you learn?"

"I learned how to ask questions."

"And?"

"And how to write."

"Everyone thinks they can write. Tell me something true."

Tunde paused. "I don't know what's true yet. But I want to find out."

She looked at him. She didn't smile. "Are you scared of politicians?"

"Yes."

"Good. You should be. They'll try to kill you if you get too close. Are you scared of dying?"

"Yes."

"Also good. But are you scared enough to stop?"

"No."

She laughed, short and sharp. "You're either brave or stupid. Probably both. We have no money. The owners are shutting us down. I'm the only one left. If you take this job, you'll be paid almost nothing. You'll work all the time. And you'll probably get a bullet in the head."

"I understand."

"You understand nothing. But you'll learn." She stood up, shuffling more papers. "Monday. Eight a.m. Don't be late."

He was walking out, his heart pounding, when she called after him.

"Tunde."

"Yes, ma?"

"Why journalism?"

He turned. She was looking at him with something like curiosity.

"Because people need to know," he said. "Because if no one tells the stories, then nothing changes."

Auntie Bimbo stared at him for a long moment. Her phone started ringing. She waved him away without another word. He was dismissed.

---

The bus ride back to Ibadan was worse. The conductor made him pay extra because he'd brought a bag. The driver drove like a madman. Tunde sat near a window that wouldn't close, and exhaust fumes filled his nostrils.

He called his mother, but the line was bad. She kept cutting out.

"Mummy? I got it. Mummy? Hello?"

"—what? Tunde? I can't—"

"I got the job! I'm a journalist!"

"—son? The line is—"

"It's fine! I'll tell you when I get—"

The line went dead. He stared at his phone. He didn't know if she'd heard him.

He leaned his head against the window. The glass was hot. He looked at the passing buildings, the hawkers selling water and biscuits, the broken roads. He was a journalist now. He had no money. He had a job that paid almost nothing. He had a mother who was scared. He had an uncle who thought he was making a mistake.

The bus hit a pothole. Everyone jolted. Someone swore loudly. Tunde gripped the seat in front of him.

For the first time in a long time, he didn't know if he felt hope or dread. Maybe both. Maybe neither. He couldn't tell the difference anymore.

---

That night, he sat in his room and tried to write.

The room was hot. The fan was broken. The twins were arguing in the next room, their voices loud through the thin walls.

"There are places in this country where the government has stopped existing."

He read it back. It was terrible. Clumsy. Trying too hard.

He crossed it out. He wrote something else.

"In these places, people—"

The twins started yelling again. Kunle slammed a door. Tunde sat there, pen in hand, thinking about the crying woman on the bus, the vomiting child, the old yellowed newspapers in the office.

He wanted to tell a real story. He wanted to find the truth. He didn't know if he would. He didn't know if the truth would matter even if he found it.

He closed his notebook. The generator in the compound next door came on, rattling loudly. Tunde lay on his bed, staring at the dark ceiling.

He had a job. He had a dream. He still had no money, his mother was worried, and everything felt uncertain.

He listened to the rattling generator and the distant barking of dogs.

He waited for sleep to come. It took a long time.

Hi, everyone! 👋🏾

Welcome to the beginning of Tunde's story.

This is about the cost of chasing a dream when the system is working against you. Tunde is fresh out of university—hopeful, scared, and carrying the weight of his family's expectations. I wanted to capture those quiet moments after the celebration fades, when you're left wondering: what comes next?

The heat, the chaos, the noise—it's all part of his world. Let me know if you felt it. Your comments and votes keep me going! Drop your thoughts on Tunde's family, especially his mother and Uncle Femi. 🙏🏾

Let's find out what happens next.