Chapter 2
687 Words
I’ve always believed stories begin with people.Maybe that’s why I’ve been hiding from both.
The publishing house occupied the fourth floor of a modest glass building tucked between a law firm and a café that smelled permanently of cinnamon and espresso. Every morning, the lobby filled with authors carrying hope in backpacks, editors balancing impossible deadlines, and couriers delivering boxes of freshly printed books that still smelled of ink.
It was Bami’s favourite smell in the world.
Freshly printed pages.
Possibility.
For six years, walking through those glass doors had felt like coming home.
Lately…
It felt like walking into a room full of people waiting for answers she no longer had.
The receptionist looked up as she hurried in.
“Morning, Bami.”
“Morning, Ada.”
Ada glanced at the clock hanging behind the reception desk before smiling knowingly.
“You’ve got exactly…”
She looked back at the clock.
“…thirty seconds before Mrs. Williams starts asking questions.”
Bami winced.
“I choose hope.”
“I’ll pray for you.”
They both laughed.
The laughter followed her all the way to the elevator.
For a moment…
She almost believed today would be easy.
The conference room door was already closed.
Not a good sign.
Bami took a slow breath before knocking gently.
“Come in.”
Every head turned.
“Good morning…”
Her voice was quieter than she’d intended.
“…our bestselling author has finally decided to honour us with her presence.”
Laughter rolled around the room.
Not cruel laughter.
The familiar kind shared by people who had become family through deadlines, missed lunches and too many cups of coffee.
Bami smiled apologetically.
“Traffic.”
Someone at the back coughed dramatically.
“Lagos traffic or manuscript traffic?”
More laughter.
She shook her head, unable to hide her smile this time.
“I’d like legal representation.”
“You won’t find it here,” another editor teased.
The only empty seat waited beside a towering stack of manuscripts.
She slipped into it quietly, smoothing the creases in her blazer as though that might somehow make her less conspicuous.
It didn’t.
Mrs. Williams looked up from her notes.
She was a woman in her late fifties whose silver-streaked locs and colourful Ankara jackets had become as much a part of the publishing house as the shelves of books lining its corridors. She possessed the rare ability to critique a manuscript so thoroughly that writers left her office determined to improve rather than defeated.
There was a reason almost every successful author who had passed through the publishing house called her Mama Williams behind her back.
Not because she was soft.
Because she cared enough to tell the truth.
“We’ll forgive your lateness,” she said, removing her glasses.
“…on one condition.”
Bami already knew.
“The manuscript.”
The room grew quieter.
Not awkwardly.
Curiously.
Everyone knew Bami had been wrestling with her latest novel for months.
No one quite knew why.
The smile on Bami’s face faded.
“I…”
Her fingers instinctively tightened around the strap of her laptop bag.
“I’ve been rewriting it.”
It wasn’t exactly a lie.
She had rewritten the first page thirty-seven times.
Deleted Chapter Two six different ways.
Started three new endings for a story that hadn’t even found its middle.
Mrs. Williams studied her for a long moment.
Then she nodded once.
“Come and see me after the meeting.”
Those words never meant anything good.
The meeting continued.
Marketing discussed upcoming book tours.
The design team debated three different covers for a debut novel.
Someone passionately argued that deckled page edges were making an unnecessary comeback.
Normally, Bami would have joined in.
Today, the conversation drifted past her like background music.
Her eyes wandered to the window.
Outside, Lagos shimmered beneath the afternoon sun.
People crossed busy roads with effortless confidence.
Street vendors negotiated prices with practiced smiles.
A woman hurried past carrying flowers wrapped in brown paper.
Everyone looked like they had somewhere to be.
Bami wondered when she had stopped feeling that way.
- Writer
