The Edge
1230 Words
I never imagined I’d be the one saying goodbye.
Not like this.
Not with my heart full and my hands empty.
The Empathy Lab was never supposed to be permanent. It was a spark—something to ignite others, not to hold onto. But watching the cohort grow, watching them shed their silence and step into their voices, I forgot that the flame was meant to spread.
Now it’s time.
---
The decision came quietly.
No boardroom. No strategy deck. Just a conversation with myself on the rooftop, the city breathing below me like a living thing.
We’d received invitations—from Nairobi, Accra, Kigali, even São Paulo. People wanted to replicate the Lab. Not the brand. The soul.
And I knew I had to go.
Not to lead.
To listen.
To learn.
To pass the flame.
---
I told the cohort during our final circle.
They sat in the garden, eyes wide, shoulders tense. I could feel their fear. I remembered it. I carried it once.
“I’m leaving Lagos,” I said. “The Lab will continue. But I won’t be here.”
Silence.
Then Halima spoke.
“Are we ready?”
I smiled.
“You were ready before you walked through the door.”
Chuka nodded. “Then go. We’ll hold the fire.”
I didn’t cry.
Not then.
---
The farewell was quiet.
No speeches. No banners. Just hugs, letters, and a mural painted overnight—twenty flames rising from a single spark.
I stood in front of it alone, fingers tracing the brushstrokes.
Then I felt him behind me.
Korede.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t need to.
I turned.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
“I know.”
“I want you to come.”
He looked at me—really looked.
“I don’t know if I belong out there,” he said.
“You belong wherever you choose to be.”
He was quiet.
Then: “You don’t need me anymore.”
I stepped closer.
“I never needed you,” I said. “But I wanted you. Still do.”
He exhaled.
“I’ll think about it.”
---
That night, I packed lightly.
A journal.
A sketch from Chuka.
A letter from Halima.
And a photo—me, laughing, the one Korede left behind when he walked away.
I didn’t know where I’d land.
But I knew I wasn’t falling.
I was flying.
---
Before I left, I wrote one last entry.
> I used to lead from fear. Now I lead from fire.
> I used to chase control. Now I chase connection.
> I used to be the empire. Now I am the echo.
I closed the journal.
Then I stepped into the unknown.
Not as a CEO.
Not as a product.
As Zara.
Just Zara.
I didn’t sleep the night before I left.
Not because I was afraid. Not even because I was uncertain. But because I could feel the weight of every goodbye pressing against my chest like a tide that wouldn’t recede.
I walked through the Lab in the early hours, barefoot, silent. The walls held echoes—laughter, tears, breakthroughs. I touched the mural one last time. The flames. The mirror. The gold.
They had painted me into it.
Not as a queen.
As a spark.
---
The cohort arrived just after sunrise.
No one spoke at first.
Then Halima handed me a small box.
Inside was a bracelet—woven from copper wire and thread, each strand representing a member of the cohort.
“We made it together,” she said. “So you don’t forget us.”
I smiled.
“I couldn’t if I tried.”
Chuka stepped forward.
“You taught us how to lead,” he said. “Now go show the world how to follow.”
I laughed. It cracked something open in me.
---
We sat in a circle one last time.
I didn’t give a speech.
I asked a question.
“What will you do with your flame?”
They answered.
“I’ll teach girls to code.”
“I’ll build a school in my village.”
“I’ll speak, even when my voice shakes.”
I listened.
Then I stood.
“You don’t need me anymore,” I said. “And that’s the greatest gift you could give me.”
They hugged me, one by one.
No tears.
Just warmth.
---
Outside, the car waited.
I turned to Korede.
He stood beside the gate, hands in his pockets, eyes steady.
“You’re really going,” he said.
“I am.”
He nodded.
“I booked a flight,” he said.
I blinked.
“To Nairobi.”
I didn’t speak.
He stepped closer.
“I don’t know what we are,” he said. “But I know I want to find out.”
I exhaled.
“Then let’s go find out.”
---
As we drove away, I looked back at the Lab.
The mural shimmered in the morning light.
The flames didn’t flicker.
They burned.
The airport was loud in all the wrong ways.
Announcements echoed overhead, families clung to tearful goodbyes, and the scent of jet fuel clung to the air like memory. I sat by the window, watching the planes rise and vanish into the clouds. I wasn’t nervous. I wasn’t excited. I was still.
Stillness used to scare me.
Now I understood it.
Stillness is where truth waits.
---
My phone buzzed.
A message from Halima.
> We started a morning circle without you. Chuka led. We’re okay.
I smiled.
Then another message.
From Korede.
> Gate D12. I’m here.
I didn’t move right away.
I just stared at the screen, letting the weight of those words settle into me. He hadn’t promised anything. He hadn’t declared love. He had simply shown up.
Sometimes, that’s everything.
---
I found him near the gate, backpack slung over one shoulder, eyes calm.
“You came,” I said.
“I said I’d think about it,” he replied.
“And?”
“I thought about what it means to build something and walk away. I’ve done that too many times.”
I nodded.
He looked at me.
“I’m not here to follow you,” he said. “I’m here to walk beside you.”
I didn’t reply.
I just reached for his hand.
He let me.
---
On the plane, I stared out the window as Lagos shrank beneath us.
The city that made me.
The city that broke me.
The city that taught me how to burn and how to rebuild.
I didn’t cry.
I didn’t smile.
I just breathed.
---
Somewhere over the Atlantic, I opened my journal.
> I used to be the storm. Now I am the sky.
> I used to lead alone. Now I lead with light.
> I used to chase legacy. Now I live it.
I closed the book.
Then I turned to Korede.
He was asleep.
Peaceful.
Unburdened.
I watched him for a moment, remembering the man who once stood behind me, silent and unseen.
Now he sat beside me.
And I saw him.
Fully.
---
We landed in Nairobi just after sunset.
The air was different—cool, earthy, alive.
We stepped into the terminal together.
No press.
No entourage.
Just two people carrying a flame.
And the world waiting to be lit.
- Writer
