THE ROAD TO ME

Chapter 14

One day, amidst the endurance and struggles at the hotel, my director messaged me.

“Happy, why did you stop coming to rehearsals?” he asked.

Instead of telling him the truth about being overwhelmed at work, I decided to use the opportunity to get answers to some lingering questions.

“I’m no longer interested in the production,” I replied. “Ever since I joined, you haven’t linked me to any opportunities, but you send Nancy everywhere.”

His response stunned me.

“Even you? You should be happy for Nancy,” he said.

“Well, I am,” I replied. “But let’s not fool ourselves. Nancy and I both paid to be part of this production.”

He laughed mockingly. “Nancy paid what you couldn’t pay. Stingy upcomers like you—do you think I’ll ignore my woman to favor someone else just because you both paid money? I told you earlier, I liked you first, but you turned me down. If you reconsider, I’ll carry you along.”

His words felt like a slap.

“That’s unfair,” I said, my voice trembling. “Do you even love Nancy?”

“Of course not,” he said bluntly. “I’m not capable of loving anyone until I marry. Look, I’ve promoted lots of actors—male and female. Once Nancy gets the fame, I’ll move on to another girl who’s desperate for it.”

“Desperate?” I repeated, stunned. “So Nancy is desperate?”

“That’s the truth,” he said casually. “But it doesn’t matter. The goal is to gain from the desperation.”

I was disgusted. I immediately screenshotted the conversation and sent it to Nancy. She needed to see the kind of man she claimed to love.

When Nancy read the messages, her response left me even more bewildered.

“Happy,” she said, “the industry has taught me that no one truly loves you. I’m not in love with that man. I told you earlier—I’m using him to gain fame. Once I get what I want, I’ll leave him before he leaves me. I refuse to be dumped; I’ll be the one to do the dumping.”

The whole situation felt surreal. “Is this what most upcomers are going through?” I asked her. “How many directors will you fake love with just to get to the top?”

She shrugged it off. “I don’t care, as long as I get my fame. Once I’m up there, I’ll set boundaries and make them pay for what they’re doing to me. I’ll make sure they pay me to be in their films, and I’ll disappoint them after getting paid.”

“That’s wickedness,” I said, horrified. “What about innocent producers? You’ll be joking with their business.”

“You won’t understand, Happy,” she snapped. “I’ve been through so much already as his so-called girlfriend. I’ll do whatever it takes to survive and succeed.”

Her words haunted me. I couldn’t shake the feeling of despair as I thought about the lies, manipulations, and desperation running rampant in the industry. Was my father right all along? Were actors no better than prostitutes in some people’s eyes?

Then, I remembered the CEO of the movie academy. Unlike others, he had never asked any of the girls out—not openly, at least. With all the pretty ladies at the school, he carried himself with dignity. He wasn’t married, and we never saw him with any woman.

I decided I needed answers, and he seemed like the only person I could trust.

Despite my busy schedule at the hotel, I strategized and found a way to meet him. I had to know the truth about this industry before I lost myself in the chaos.

The next day, I took my time to compose myself before leaving the hotel. My decision to meet the CEO of the movie academy wasn’t one I had taken lightly. His reputation preceded him, and I hoped he could shed some light on the dark path the industry seemed to be leading me down.

The sun bore down on the cracked roads as I sat in the bus, mentally rehearsing my conversation with Mr. Obinna. But fate, it seemed, had other plans for me that day. Two young women sitting beside me were deep in discussion, their voices rising above the hum of the bus engine.

“Can you imagine?” one of them said. “They said we’re not qualified just because we can’t type fast enough or use Excel properly. I mean, who still uses Excel these days?”

“And we even have degrees!” the other one replied bitterly. “If only we knew how to type, one of us could have gotten that secretary job. Forty-five thousand naira salary!”

Their words hit me like a jolt. A secretary job? ₦45,000 salary? My heart raced as I realized this might be an opportunity for me.

I couldn’t resist joining their conversation. “Excuse me,” I said hesitantly. “I couldn’t help overhearing... What’s the nature of this job, and where’s the interview taking place?”

The girls exchanged looks, but they seemed friendly enough. “It’s a secretary job with the Secretary to the Commissioner of the Ministry of Finance,” one of them explained. “The job requires someone with excellent typing skills and knowledge of Excel. We just finished the interview, but we didn’t make it because, well…” she trailed off.

“We’re not great with computers,” the other one added.

My mind raced. I might not have my computer certificate with me, but I had the skills. Typing, Excel, CorelDRAW—I had mastered them all at the computer school I attended after secondary school. I was 16 then, full of ambition and determination. Those skills stayed sharp even after I left home at 19 and ventured into survival jobs.

“Thank you for the information,” I said, my voice filled with hope.

When the girls dropped off, I quickly asked the driver to turn back and take me to where they had mentioned the interview was being held. He agreed but doubled the fare. I didn’t argue. If this job became mine, the extra fare would be worth it. It could mean freedom from the oppressive hotel manager and a fresh start.

The driver took me back.

We arrived at the office, a modest building bustling with activity. I rushed inside, my heart pounding, only to see a man collecting his files and preparing to leave. He looked authoritative, and by the way the staff deferred to him, I guessed he was the one conducting the interviews.

I approached him with cautious confidence. “Good afternoon, sir. Are you the one conducting the secretary interviews?”

He looked at me, his face hardening. “Yes, but the interview is over. You’re just getting here?”

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said quickly. “I only heard about the job a short while ago while on the bus. I didn’t even know about it until then, but I came because I believe I have the skills you need.”

He frowned. “You’re not even prepared, and you expect me to entertain this? Do you know how many qualified candidates I’ve already dismissed today?”

His words stung, but I didn’t back down. “Sir, I may not have a degree, but I’m an excellent typist and proficient in Excel. I learned computer skills after secondary school and worked as a teacher before now. I assure you, I have what it takes to do this job.”

His secretary, a young man who seemed even more skeptical than his boss, snorted. “She doesn’t even have her certificate. Why are we wasting time?”

I took a deep breath, forcing myself to remain calm. “I understand your doubts, but I’m willing to prove myself right now. Give me a typing test or an Excel task—anything to show you what I can do.”

The man studied me for a moment, then glanced at his watch. “Fine,” he said. “I’ll give you five minutes. If you can type out this document accurately and format it in Excel, I’ll consider you.”

The secretary begrudgingly led me to a desk with a computer. My hands trembled slightly as I positioned them over the keyboard, but as soon as I started typing, muscle memory took over. The words flowed effortlessly, and I formatted the Excel sheet with precision and speed.

When I was done, I stood and handed the work to the man. He scrutinized it carefully, his expression unreadable.

“This is impressive,” he finally said, his tone softer. “You’re better than most of the candidates I interviewed today.”

Relief washed over me. “Thank you, sir. Does that mean I got the job?”

He hesitated. “You’re not the ideal candidate on paper, but your skills are undeniable. I’ll give you a chance—not because of your degree, but because of this proof and...” His eyes fell on my ankle bracelet.

I followed his gaze and realized I was wearing my Winners Chapel bangle.

“You’re from Winners Chapel?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I replied, surprised.

“Well, so am I. I’ll help you, as long as you’re as good as you say. Report here tomorrow morning at 8 a.m.,” he added.

Excitement bubbled up inside me.

“One more condition,” he continued. “You must move into the premises. We need someone who will stay here permanently because we handle large sums of money. Sometimes, the cash isn’t deposited immediately, especially if it’s for loans to be distributed the next day. Visitors aren’t allowed either. Are you okay with that?”

“I have no problem with it, sir. I’m good—so good,” I replied eagerly.

If only he knew his offer was an answered prayer. I had been wondering where I would stay after leaving the hotel.

Walking out of that office, I felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. This job wasn’t just a means of escape—it was a step closer to my dreams. It gave me a chance to continue pursuing my career. For the first time in a long while, I felt hopeful about the future.

When I checked the time, it was already late. I canceled my plan to see the CEO. “That will be a task for another day,” I said to myself as I headed back to the hotel.

The night was unusually calm as I walked back to the hotel. The events of the day replayed in my mind like a movie. I had come so close to giving up, yet fate had thrown me a lifeline. The prospect of a new job, a new place to live, and a clean slate gave me a sense of hope I hadn’t felt in months.

I didn’t bother telling the hotel manager about my plans to leave. He would find out in the morning. That night, I packed my belongings quietly, not wanting to deal with his scorn or unnecessary questions. As I packed, I prayed for strength and wisdom to handle this new phase of my life.