IN ANOTHER LIFETIME

The Job Offer

When I think about how everything changed, it always comes back to that email. The one that said “Congratulations! You’ve been selected for a position in our London office.”

I remember staring at the screen, frozen, my heart racing. It was everything I’d been working toward — the dream job, the big break. It was the kind of news that was supposed to make you jump and scream. But all I did was sit there, feeling this strange mix of excitement and fear.

Dami was the first person I wanted to tell. He’d been my biggest cheerleader through the entire application process. He was the one who’d helped me prepare for the interview, made flashcards with questions, and even stayed up late quizzing me when I was too nervous to think straight.

So, naturally, I called him right away.

He picked up on the second ring, sounding half-asleep. “T, what’s up?”

“I got it,” I said quietly, almost in disbelief.

It took him a second to process. “Wait—got what?”

“The job, Dami. I got the job in London.”

There was a pause, then I heard him laugh — that loud, happy kind of laugh that fills a room even through a phone speaker. “You’re joking.”

“I swear I’m not. I just got the email.”

He started shouting. “Tara, oh my God! You did it! I told you they’d be stupid not to hire you!”

I smiled so wide my cheeks hurt. “I can’t believe it.”

“I can,” he said softly. “I’ve always believed you’d make it.”

We talked for almost two hours that night — about how it would feel living abroad, about how cold London probably was, about how I’d definitely miss Nigerian food. He kept teasing me about becoming a “big girl” who’d forget all her old friends.

But there was something in his voice that night — something quiet, almost heavy. I noticed it, but I ignored it. I didn’t want to ruin my excitement with overthinking.

When I hung up, I felt happy — the kind of happiness that feels like your life is finally falling into place. But underneath that joy, there was a small ache I couldn’t name.

The following weeks were a blur of preparations — visa applications, medical tests, packing, and a million errands. Dami was there through it all. He helped me shop for winter clothes (even though we were both sweating in the heat), printed my documents when my printer broke, and came over almost every evening just to “help” pack, though he mostly sat on the bed and teased me about overpacking.

One evening, as I was folding clothes, he said, “You’re really leaving, huh?”

I looked up. “Yeah. Can you believe it?”

He nodded, eyes fixed on the suitcase. “I can’t decide if I’m proud or sad.”

“Be proud,” I said, smiling. “You’re the one who pushed me to do this.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “Just… feels weird, you know? You not being around.”

I sat beside him. “Hey, it’s not like I’m disappearing. We’ll still talk every day. There’s video calls, texts, social media—”

He interrupted, laughing. “Tara, you can barely reply to messages even when you’re in the same city.”

“Okay, fair,” I said, rolling my eyes. “But this time I’ll actually try.”

He nodded and smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. I could tell he was trying to be happy for me, even though a part of him was breaking. I didn’t realize how deep that sadness ran until later.

The night before my flight, we sat in his car, parked outside my house. The air felt thick, like there were too many words we weren’t saying.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small bracelet — simple, black, with tiny silver beads.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“So you don’t forget me when you become all international and fancy.”

I laughed. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Just wear it,” he said, smiling softly. “It’ll remind you that someone back home still believes in you.”

I didn’t know why that made my chest tighten a little. “Thank you,” I whispered.

We sat there in silence for a while, watching people walk past. Every now and then, I’d glance at him, trying to memorize his face — the way his jaw clenched when he was deep in thought, the tiny scar on his chin from when he fell off his bike as a kid, the tired kindness in his eyes.

He suddenly said, “Promise me something.”

“What?”

“That you’ll actually live. Don’t go there and just work yourself to death. Explore. Meet people. Laugh. Be happy.”

I smiled. “I promise.”

“And call me,” he added. “Not text — call.”

“I will,” I said, crossing my heart.

He nodded slowly, like he didn’t quite believe me but wanted to.

When it was time for him to go, he looked at me for a long second, like he was trying to say something but couldn’t find the words. Then he just said, “Take care of yourself, T.”

“I will,” I said, forcing a smile.

He hesitated, then leaned in and hugged me — tight, like he was holding on for both of us. When he let go, he whispered, “I’m proud of you.”

And just like that, he left.

I stood there, watching his car disappear down the street, and for the first time, I felt the weight of what was coming. I was stepping into a new life, but something inside me already missed the old one.

When I finally boarded the plane the next day, I touched the bracelet he gave me and smiled. “I’ll call you as soon as I land,” I said to myself.

I meant it. I really did.

But promises are easy to make when you still think there’s time.