THE ROAD TO ME

Chapter 7

The academy required me to attend lectures three times a week—Mondays, Wednesdays, and Saturdays. On paper, it sounded manageable. But in reality, it posed a serious challenge—not just at home, where I still hadn’t fully explained what I was doing, but also at the school where I was teaching.

Balancing both worlds felt like walking a tightrope. My teaching job demanded my full attention, and I couldn’t exactly tell my Headteacher". She's supportive but, this was too much to ask.

I missed my very first lecture.

Not because I didn’t want to be there—God knows I did—but because I hadn’t figured out how to navigate all the moving pieces of my double life. I couldn’t get permission from school on time, I didn’t have a believable excuse for home, and the guilt of lying weighed heavy on me.

Missing that class taught me something important: if I was going to make this work, I’d have to fight harder, plan smarter, and own my dream—completely.

I decided to call the academy’s CEO, Prince JTT, to explain my situation. He was kind and understanding, agreeing to let me start the following week so I could sort things out. His support gave me some relief, but I knew I had a mountain to climb.

I resolved to be honest with everyone about my decision. If anyone, including my father, had an issue with it, they would have to deal with it.

First, I approached my headteacher . She had always been supportive, and this time was no different.

“I’m happy for you,” she said warmly. “But we’ll need to hire another teacher to replace you. You can work as my assistant, coming in on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays.”

I agreed, even though it meant my salary would be reduced to ₦4,000 a month. It was a small price to pay for chasing my dream, and I was grateful for her understanding.

That night, I gathered the courage to speak to my parents. I couldn’t keep lying to my father every time I had a lecture at the academy. The weight of deception had grown too heavy to carry, and deep down, I knew this conversation was inevitable.

As I sat them down in the sitting room, my hands trembled and my throat felt dry. My heart pounded so loudly I could hear it echoing in my ears.

“I have something to tell you,” I began, barely above a whisper.

Then I poured out everything—about the audition, the scholarship, the academy, and the dream I had nursed for years. I told them how it all began, how I got in, and where it could lead me. My voice wavered at times, but I didn’t stop. I needed them to understand this wasn’t just a whim—it was my calling.

My mother stayed quiet, her eyes wide with shock, but my father’s reaction was exactly what I feared.

He looked at me like I had betrayed him.

“How could your headteacher betray my trust like this?” he asked sharply, his voice laced with disappointment and disbelief.

I shook my head, desperate for him to see it differently. “It’s not betrayal, Dad,” I said, trying to steady my voice. “This is God using her to help me. If this career wasn’t truly meant for me, would I have come this far?”

But my words seemed to bounce off a wall. His expression hardened.

“I will never allow you to attend that school,” he declared. “Not under my roof.”

The finality in his voice crushed something inside me.

Tears welled in my eyes, and before I could stop them, they spilled over. I dropped to my knees, begging him—pleading with every fiber of my being—but he remained unmoved. He sent me to my room like a disobedient child, and I rose slowly, my legs weak beneath me.

As I turned to leave, I paused at the doorway, swallowed the lump in my throat, and asked the question that had been burning in my heart for years:

“Why do you hate this career so much?”

There was a long silence.

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t even look at me.

And that silence told me everything.

That night, sleep eluded me. I lay in bed, replaying the conversation over and over in my mind. My father’s refusal had only strengthened my resolve.

With tears in my eyes, I made a vow to myself: I will reach the peak of this career, no matter what it takes. God has brought me this far, and I won’t give up now.

I resolved to attend Saturday’s class—the first Saturday of the week—and let my actions speak louder than my father’s words.

The next morning, I woke up early. I assisted my mum with the house chores as usual, all while preparing secretly for my class. My father was getting ready to leave for work when he looked at me sharply.

“I don’t know what you’re up to,” he said, “but don’t dare me.”

Ah, this man! Was he a mind reader? How did he know I was planning something?

I stayed calm, waiting until he left for work. The moment he was out of sight, I grabbed my bag and left for my class. My heart pounded with a mix of fear and excitement.

Arriving at Creative Media Arts Academy felt surreal. The lecture hall was alive with energy. Students exchanged scripts, practiced lines, and discussed their dreams with passion. For the first time, I felt like I was exactly where I belonged.

As class was about to begin, Prince JTT walked in. When he spotted me, his face lit up.

“Happy!” he called out. “I thought you said next week?”

“I checked in at your office earlier, but you weren’t there,” I replied, beaming with excitement.

He smiled and addressed the class. “Everyone, meet Happy. She’s joining us on a scholarship program. Let’s give her a warm welcome.”

The room erupted in applause. A girl named Nancy waved me over to sit next to her.

“I’m Nancy,” she whispered. “Don’t worry; you’ll love it here.”

Her kindness eased my nerves.

The first class was on Character Building, taught by Benedict Obi. Her passion was infectious.

“Acting isn’t about pretending,” she said. “It’s about becoming. You must embody the character’s emotions, motivations, and struggles.”

Her words resonated deeply. During the practical session, we were asked to perform short scenes. Though my performance was shaky, Benedict Obi noticed my effort.

“Good try, Happy,” she said with a smile. “Keep pushing. You’ll get there.”

That day, I learned that even the way an actor walks matters.

“You don’t just walk anyhow,” Benedict Obi explained. “You must carry yourself like a star. And don’t forget your diet—maintaining a fit, attractive body is essential for the roles you’ll pursue.”

I was stunned. Me? Learn to catwalk? And diet? Ah! This was too much for someone who loves food as much as life itself!

But I knew I had to adapt. If this was the price of chasing my dreams, I was ready to pay it.

My first class was a whirlwind of emotions. The Creative Media Arts Academy became my escape—a place where I could let go of my fears and embrace my aspirations. Every lecture brought new lessons, challenges, and opportunities to grow, but the battle at home was far from over.

After that first Saturday class, I returned home feeling a mix of triumph and trepidation. My father hadn’t noticed my absence—at least not yet. I rushed back before he got home that day, immediately continuing with my chores. When my mum asked where I had been, I told her I went to see a friend.

“A friend?” she questioned. “Since when?”

I said nothing. Growing up in an African home back then was chaotic. As a female child, you weren’t even allowed to visit anyone—not even family members. They’d suspect you were either with a boy or doing something else unacceptable. Despite my worries, I was relieved he didn’t return before I did, hoping to avoid his wrath for as long as possible. Deep down, though, I knew the storm was coming.

That evening, my cousin—who stayed with us—cornered me in my room.

“Where did you go today?” he asked, his eyes wide with curiosity.

I hesitated before replying, “To my academy.”

He was my closest confidant and knew about the lies we had been telling my father.

His face lit up. “You’re really doing this! I’m proud of you, but be careful. Dad won’t let this go if he finds out. You know the kind of person he is.”

His words were both comforting and a stark reminder of the reality I faced.