THE ROAD TO ME

chapter 5

When I returned home, my parents greeted me with their usual frown, but I didn’t mind. My heart was still full of the excitement and energy I had felt on set. A mixture of pride and uncertainty weighed on me—I had taken a bold step, but I knew the journey ahead would be anything but easy.

That night, Dad called me into the sitting room.

He didn’t raise his voice, but the way he gestured for me to sit across from him told me everything I needed to know. The air in the room felt heavier than usual. My palms were sweating, and I knew this wasn’t just a casual conversation.

He cleared his throat and leaned back in the chair.

“So, Happy… how was the teacher’s training and conference you traveled for?”

I swallowed hard and nodded quickly, trying to smile. “It went well, sir.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, as if studying my face. “Where exactly was it held?”

“Uyo, sir. At the Teacher’s Resource Development Centre,” I replied, recalling the name I had memorized just in case.

“How many people attended? What kind of teachers did you meet?” His tone was casual, but the way he looked at me wasn’t.

“Over a hundred participants, sir. Most were from public and private secondary schools. I met a few from other states too—Cross River, Rivers, and even one from Ekiti,” I answered quickly, adding just enough to sound believable.

“What were the main topics they covered?” he asked, still holding my gaze.

I paused for a second, then said, “They focused on digital teaching aids, classroom management, and how to handle students with special needs. One of the facilitators talked a lot about emotional intelligence in teaching.”

Dad nodded slowly, his fingers tapping the armrest. “Did they give you any materials? Notes, handouts?”

“Oh yes, sir,” I replied, thinking fast. “They shared soft copies through a w******p group, and I also have some handwritten notes. I can show you if you want.”

He gave a faint smile—not the comforting kind. “You were gone for three days, Happy. What was the schedule like?”

I kept my voice steady. “It was packed. Sessions started at 8 a.m. and ended around 5 p.m., then we had breakout discussions. The second day had a panel session on innovation in education.”

“Did you stay in a hotel?”

“Yes, sir. They arranged accommodation nearby. Nothing fancy, but it was fine.”

“Who did you share a room with?”

“A lady named Linda from Abia State. She teaches English too,” I said, inventing quickly. “We didn’t talk much, but she was nice.”

He leaned forward slightly. “And all that time, not even one message to say you arrived safely?”

I bit my lip. “I’m sorry, Dad. The network was really poor at the venue. I should’ve found a way to reach out.”

He was silent for a while, just staring. Then, calmly, he asked, “Happy, is there anything you’re not telling me?”

My heartbeat quickened. I smiled again—too quickly. “No, sir. That’s everything.”

He nodded, but his eyes told a different story. He wasn’t fully convinced. I had given him answers, but not peace of mind.

He may not have proof, but I could feel it—he suspected I didn’t go for just a teacher’s training.

And in truth…

He was right.

But that wasn’t my business.

One day soon, he’ll see me on the big screen.

Only then will the truth come out—

clearly, loudly, and in lights.

The next day at school, the headteacher called me aside. “How was the experience?” she asked, her eyes gleaming with curiosity.

“It was… enlightening,” I replied carefully. “I learned a lot.”

Her smile widened. “I’m glad. You’ve found your way on the first trial, Happy. Whatever you’ve learned, use it to inspire others here. I would love my pupils to be active in entertainment.”

I nodded, guilt quietly gnawing at me. She had covered for me during my absence, and I owed her more than words could express. “Thank you so much, ma. I truly appreciate what you did.”

“Don’t worry, Happy,” she said softly. “I pray you make it.”

Resuming my duties, I was welcomed by the bright smiles of my pupils. They eagerly shared their small victories and challenges from the days I had been away. While their excitement warmed my heart, I knew deep inside that teaching wasn’t my final destination. My dreams stretched far beyond the classroom walls.

During break time, my friends slipped into my classroom, their faces full of anticipation. “Tell us everything!” they urged eagerly.

I recounted my experience on set and told them about the academy I had discovered. “To grow in this career, I need proper training and a certificate,” I explained, my voice trailing off. “But, sadly, I can’t afford that.”

“Why don’t you find out how much the fees actually are before you give up?” one of them suggested. “Something might work in your favor.”

Their words struck a chord. Maybe they’re right, I thought. Something might change. But the bigger problem loomed in my mind: even if I could afford it, how would I attend classes and training without my father’s approval? The thought left me restless.

After a few days of overthinking, I gathered the courage to approach my headteacher again. This time, I wouldn’t need to be gone for days—I just needed help finding out more about the school.

“I’m traveling to Uyo next weekend,” she said. “Let me make inquiries for you, so you won’t have to tell another lie.”

Gratitude washed over me. “Thank you so much, ma.”

The following Monday, I arrived at school earlier than usual, eager to hear what she had found out. We had a quick chat before classes began.

“I didn’t have time to visit the academy,” she admitted, “but I collected the phone number of someone who works there as an editor. He can give you all the details.”

I wasn’t thrilled, but it was better than nothing. “Can I have the number, ma?” I asked, trying to mask my excitement.

“I’ll give it to you after school,” she said firmly. “I don’t want you getting distracted in class.”

She was right, of course. If I had the number, I would spend the day daydreaming, imagining myself already at the academy.

After school hours, she handed me the contact. I dialed the number later, with my friends huddled around me for support. The editor, a calm and approachable man, explained the process: “To enroll, you need to buy the form for ₦36,000. After that, you’ll get more details about tuition and the academy’s schedule.”

His words hit me like a brick. ₦36,000? I didn’t even have ₦5,000 to my name. And who knew how much the tuition would cost? My dreams suddenly felt impossibly far away.

“This school isn’t for me,” I told my friends, my voice heavy with defeat. “I’d better stick to teaching.”

Over the following days, I carried the weight of disappointment. My mother noticed something was off. “Happy, what’s wrong?” she asked.

I shook my head, unable to tell her the truth. Explaining it would only stir trouble with my father. I kept my worries to myself and tried to convince myself that maybe this acting dream wasn’t meant for me after all.

What I didn’t know was that my friends had other plans.

One weekend, they showed up at my father’s house with urgency written all over their faces.

“The headteacher needs all the teachers at her house immediately for an urgent meeting,” one of them said convincingly.

“Ah! I’m not prepared!” I protested. “I haven’t even told my father yet. You know I can’t go anywhere without his approval.”

“Don’t worry, you can go,” my mother intervened. “I’ll explain to your father when he returns. Just make sure you’re back early.”

Reluctantly, I dressed up and followed them. My headteacher lived in a nearby city called Abak, close to Uyo. It was far enough from my village that no one would know whether or not we actually went to her place.

When we reached the bus stop, my friends turned to me with mischievous grins. “Happy,” one of them said, “we’re not going to the headteacher’s house. We’re going to Uyo to meet that editor. We need to enroll in this academy and start pursuing this career now.”

I stood there, stunned. “What? You planned this?”

“Yes!” they chorused. “We can’t waste time. This is our chance.”

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. Finally, I broke into a smile. “You three are unbelievable.”

“That’s why we’re your guys,” they said with a laugh.

As we boarded the bus to Uyo, a small spark of hope rekindled in my heart. My friends believed in me, and for the first time in a long while, I dared to believe in myself again.

When we arrived in Uyo, the city’s energy was infectious. For a brief moment, I forgot my worries and let the buzz of activity around me lift my spirits. We called Mr. Andrew, the editor, who gave us directions to meet him—not at the academy, but at a bar. Without hesitation, we headed to the location.

Mr. Andrew greeted us warmly. “You must be Happy,” he said with a kind smile. “Mrs. Ben spoke highly of you. She says you’re passionate and driven, and that’s a great foundation.”

I thanked him as he offered us something to drink. His welcoming demeanor helped ease my nervousness. As we settled into the conversation, I opened up about my situation. “Sir, I genuinely want to join the academy, but I can’t afford the form fee, let alone the tuition. My family is struggling, and my father doesn’t support my acting dreams.”

He listened attentively, nodding as I spoke. When I finished, he leaned forward with a reassuring smile. “You remind me of myself when I started out. I didn’t have much, but I had a burning passion to succeed. Here’s what I’ll do: I’ll speak with the director of admissions. We might be able to arrange for you to pay the tuition fees in installments. However, the form fee is non-negotiable—it’s a commitment, proof that you’re serious.”

“What else do I need to do?” I asked, eager for guidance.

“You’ll need to prepare a monologue for the admissions process. The director will evaluate your performance. Be prepared to impress him because he doesn’t admit just anyone. This isn’t for people chasing fame—it’s for those who are truly meant for the screen. Show him that acting is your calling.”

“I’ll give it my best, sir,” I replied earnestly, though I knew the form fee was still an obstacle. “I’ll start saving up and let you know when I have the money.”

“That’s fine,” he said with a nod. “It was nice meeting you, Happy.”

As we prepared to leave, one of my friends, Chima, spoke up. “Excuse me, sir. What if we don’t have the full ₦36,000? Can we pay a part of it now?”

“Of course,” Mr. Andrew replied. “You can pay in parts, as long as the full amount is settled before the application is processed.”

Chima exchanged a glance with the others, then they pulled me aside.

“Happy,” Chima began, “we came here to get information for ourselves too. We also want to pursue this career. But after hearing everything, we’ve realized something: you have more passion, talent, and drive than any of us. We believe in you.”

Godwin chimed in, “We trust that you’ll succeed. And when you do, you’ll help us get there too. That’s why we’ve decided to give you the money for the form.”

Without hesitation, they each brought out ₦12,000, handing me the full ₦36,000.

I was overwhelmed with emotion, tears streaming down my face. “We’re not even family, but you trust me this much? I’ll never forget this. Thank you so much.”

(And I’ll still say this: when I make it to the top, even if their English isn’t perfect—Israel, Chima, and Godwin—I’ll pull them up with me. They believed in me when no one else did, and I’ll never forget their kindness.)

We returned to Mr. Andrew and handed him the money. He assured us the academy was on break but promised to contact me as soon as they resumed.

On the way home, my friends couldn’t stop talking about how lucky I was. “Give it your all, Happy,” they said. “We’re behind you.”

Their words reignited a spark of determination in me.