THE ROAD TO ME

I grew up loving entertainment with all my heart. Everything that happened in the industry—the films, the actors, the behind-the-scenes work—it all made perfect sense to me. Even as a child, I felt connected to it in a way I couldn’t fully explain. By the time I was about nine years old, I was already acting in school dramas, and I was doing pretty well. I didn’t take it too seriously at the time—it was just something fun. But every time I stepped into a character, it felt like I was slipping into another world. I mimicked the actors I watched in movies, studying the way they moved, spoke, and carried emotions. Whenever I performed, my goal was to make the audience feel something. I gave every role my all, and strangely, the names of those characters often stuck with me long after the play ended. People started calling me by those names—sometimes for weeks, sometimes for months. I doubt some people even knew my real name back then. Even the teachers would call me by one of the character names I had played. It was like I had become the roles I portrayed, and I didn’t mind. I felt seen. I felt alive. In my third year of secondary school, I found myself deeply drawn to one subject in particular—English Studies. It all started when a new teacher, Mrs. Uyai, walked into our classroom. The way she spoke, the way she taught, and how she explained things so clearly made me fall in love—not just with the subject, but with her as well. I remember praying silently, I want to speak like her when I grow up. It wasn’t just her intelligence that captivated me. She had a graceful charm—always smiling, always neatly dressed, and carrying herself with elegance. As if that wasn’t enough, she began telling us stories in class and soon introduced us to drama activities. That was when she noticed something in me. One day, after a classroom performance, she said, “Happy, if you stay consistent, you’re going to be a great actor.” Slowly, we became close. I looked forward to her classes more than anything. One afternoon, I discovered something new about her—Mrs. Uyai was also a writer. Interesting, I thought. “I would love to write too,” I told her one day. She smiled warmly and replied, “That’s the best wish to make, Happy. I’ll help you—if you’re serious.” “I’m serious,” I said with conviction. I attended a boarding school, which meant that after school hours, I had all the time I needed to write—especially during prep classes. Everything just seemed to align perfectly. Mrs. Uyai, my English teacher and writing mentor, was also our boarding mistress, so she lived just a few steps away from the hostel. Since we were both within the school premises, access to her was easy. After prep most evenings, I’d go to her apartment where she gave me extra writing lessons. It wasn’t long before an opportunity came my way. When it was time to work on the school magazine, her assistant recommended me to the senior students in the media and entertainment club. I was brought in—even though I was still in the junior class—to contribute as a writer. The reaction was mixed. Many of the senior students were amazed. They had never seen someone from the junior school match their energy and creativity. But not everyone was impressed. Some of them were envious and tried to push me out of the club. They saw me as a threat, a small girl stepping into what they believed was their territory. But thankfully, I wasn’t alone. Mrs. Uyai was not just present—she was active, supportive, and intentional. She made sure I got all the information I needed, corrected my mistakes with love, and guided me like a true mentor. When the school magazine was finally published, one of my stories became the most read piece. Suddenly, my name was on everyone’s lips. I became known across the school—not just as “Happy,” but as Happy Mkpa Mkpa (which means “Smallest Happy”) and sometimes, Happy De_writer. It felt incredible. Those names weren’t just nicknames; they were badges of honor—reminders of how far I had come and how much I had grown. Soon, it was time to choose subjects in senior secondary school, which also meant choosing a career path. In the Nigerian education system, students at the senior level typically choose one of three areas: Science, Commercial, or Arts. I already knew where I belonged—Commercial, of course. It felt like the best fit for someone like me who wanted to explore communication, media, and creative industries. But then something happened that shook my confidence. One afternoon, my dad called me in for a conversation. He sat me down and asked, “What area are you choosing for senior secondary?” Without hesitation, I replied, “Commercial.” He nodded, then asked, “Why Commercial? What career are you hoping to pursue?” With a proud smile, I said, “I want to be an actor and a writer.” He stared at me in silence for a moment, then leaned forward and asked, “Is that what you want to do with your life? Act and write stories? What kind of future do you think that will give you?” My heart sank. I tried to explain. I told him about how passionate I was, how I felt alive whenever I was on stage or when I held a pen. I talked about how much Mrs. Uyai had helped me, how I had already started building a voice for myself. But he wasn’t convinced. He told me I was too young to know what I wanted, that acting wasn’t a “real career,” and writing wouldn’t feed me. He insisted that I switch to Science. “Be a doctor or a pharmacist,” he said. “Those are careers with a future.” That conversation left me torn. On one side was the path I loved. On the other was the path my father wanted. And in the middle was me—confused, frustrated, and forced to make a decision that didn’t feel like mine. “You’re going into Science,” my dad said firmly. “I want you to become a medical doctor or a nurse.” That realization shattered something inside me. In that moment, it felt like my voice, my dreams, and everything that made me who I was had just been dismissed—erased with a single command. I tried to reason with him, to explain that Science wasn’t for me. I reminded him how well I’d been doing in Commercial subjects. I told him how little interest I’d ever had in Physics, Chemistry, or Biology, even back in junior classes. I had poured myself into storytelling, writing, drama—not chemical equations or anatomical diagrams. “But I’ve never been good at Science,” I said, my voice trembling. “It would be really hard for me to catch up.” My dad didn’t budge. “It’s not too late, Happy,” he replied. “You still have three more years in secondary school. In three years, you’ll understand Science.” He made it sound so simple. Like dreams were things you could abandon and pick up again at will. Like passion didn’t matter as long as the job had a white coat and a steady paycheck. But to me, it wasn’t that simple. I wasn’t just choosing a subject—I was fighting for my future. A future where I could wake up every day doing what I loved. A future where my name would be attached to stories that touched lives. That night, I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering how I’d ever find the courage to follow the path I truly wanted—when the one person whose approval I craved most couldn’t see the dream burning inside me. When the new term began and I showed up in the Science class, everything felt wrong. The subjects, the faces, even the energy in the classroom—it was like I’d walked into someone else’s life. I tried to hold my head high, but inside, I felt like a stranger in my own story. It didn’t take long for someone to notice. Mrs. Uyai spotted me on the first day and her confusion was immediate. After class, she pulled me aside gently and said, “Happy, what are you doing in the Science block?” I couldn’t hold back the truth. I told her everything—about the conversation with my dad, about how I tried to explain myself but couldn’t change his mind. I shared the helplessness, the frustration, the quiet heartbreak of being forced to abandon something that made me feel alive. She listened carefully, her face growing more serious with each word. Then she said something I didn’t expect. “I want to speak with your father.” I blinked in surprise. “Ma?” “Yes,” she said firmly. “This isn’t just about school subjects, Happy. This is about your life. And if he won’t listen to you, maybe he’ll listen to someone who sees your potential.” For the first time in weeks, I felt a flicker of hope. They gave me an urgent travel permit to go home, along with a letter addressed to my dad—a letter of invitation. When I got home, he was visibly shocked. My school doesn’t send students home unless it’s something really serious. I could only imagine what was going through his mind as I handed him the letter. “Happy, hope you didn’t do anything wrong?” he asked, looking at me closely. “Ah! Me? I'm a very good girl, Daddy. I didn’t do anything,” I replied quickly. “It’s nothing to panic about, Dad,” I added, trying to ease the tension. We both laughed. He didn’t open the letter immediately. It was after dinner that evening that he finally sat down to read it. “Your teachers want to see me,” he said, looking up after reading. “Yes, Daddy,” I responded. “What’s the case?” he asked. “I don’t know, Dad. They didn’t tell me,” I answered honestly. He nodded and said, “Okay.” It was already the weekend, so we had to wait till Monday. Early that Monday morning, Dad woke me up. We got ready and left together for my school. Mrs. Uyai, along with a few other teachers who had watched me grow, tried their best to reason with my father. They called him in for a meeting and spoke with deep conviction. They told him about my talent, how I had already found my path in writing and acting, and how rare it was to see a student so young with such clarity and passion. But my father remained unmoved. He sat silently through most of it, his arms folded tightly across his chest. And when he finally spoke, his words landed like heavy stones in my chest. “I already decided her path long before she was born,” he said. “It has always been my dream that my first child becomes a doctor.” His voice was calm, but final—like a closed door. No one could change his mind. And so, they let me be. That day, something shifted in me. I realized that waiting for permission to live your truth can sometimes mean never living it at all. That was the beginning of my silent war—one I would have to fight alone. A war between duty and desire, fear and courage. A war to claim the life I truly knew was mine.