Chapter 4: Trying to Fix What She Can’t Name
728 Words
Ama didn’t sleep well that night.
Her mind kept replaying the meeting, Kojo’s words, Mensah’s easy smile, the way “support where needed” had landed like a small, invisible weight on her chest. She had imagined it differently: a conversation that mattered, acknowledgment that felt alive, recognition that didn’t carry an asterisk.
Instead, she had received polite words and a nod of the head.
By the time she reached her desk the next morning, she was already tired from hours she hadn’t yet lived. She logged into her computer with mechanical precision, arranged her notes, and opened emails, but none of it felt like work. It felt like preparation for an invisible test she hadn’t signed up for.
“Morning,” Esi said, spinning into view like she always did. Her energy was loud, relentless. “You’re quiet. Spill.”
“I’m fine,” Ama said automatically. Her hands shook slightly as she clicked through tabs, double-checking things that were already correct.
Esi didn’t buy it. “You’re fine like a storm behind closed curtains, calm on the outside, everything moving in chaos underneath.”
Ama smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Just busy.”
She didn’t tell Esi that she had spent the night drafting emails she would never send, rehearsing sentences for conversations that would never happen, and imagining scenarios where she could prove she mattered, proof that didn’t exist but that her heart insisted on demanding.
By mid-morning, Ama found herself in Kojo’s office. She had no real reason to be there, but something in her chest had tightened so persistently that sitting at her desk felt like betrayal.
“Kojo,” she began, words practiced in her head a dozen times. “I wanted to discuss the meeting yesterday.”
He looked up, surprised but polite. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”
Ama paused. She wanted to be firm, direct, and acknowledged. She wanted him to see what she had built without asking permission.
Instead, she said: “I just… want to make sure I understand my role. I don’t want to...”
“Ama, you’ll support where needed,” he interrupted gently. “I thought we agreed.”
“Yes, yes,” she said quickly, cheeks burning. “I just…” She stopped herself. Too many words. Not enough impact. She forced a small smile. “I’ll manage.”
He smiled, satisfied, and returned to his work.
Ama left his office feeling smaller than when she had entered.
The rest of the day was a series of micro-adjustments. She overexplained emails to colleagues. She reread the reports, correcting minor details that weren’t incorrect. She offered help in meetings she didn’t need to attend, just so her presence would be noticed.
By the time she left the office, her notebook was full, her posture rigid, her heart exhausted. Esi caught her at the elevator.
“You’re working too hard,” Esi said. “And it’s not for anyone but you.”
Ama frowned. “I have to make sure it’s right. If I don’t…”
“If you don’t, nothing will change, right?” Esi finished for her.
Ama’s throat tightened. Esi had said it aloud: the truth she hadn’t wanted to name. She wasn’t fixing anything. She was spinning herself in circles, thinking action would change perception.
She walked home slowly, clutching her bag, letting the city hum around her. People laughed, argued, rushed, paused, but Ama felt like she was moving through invisible glass. Every step was an effort. Every word she rehearsed in her mind was already outdated by the time it left her lips.
She stopped at the corner shop, bought water, and lingered outside.
Her reflection in the glass window startled her. The woman staring back looked competent. Calm. Collected. And yet, the eyes… the eyes said something else. Frustration. Fatigue. Waiting.
Ama pressed her palm to the window and whispered to herself, almost ashamed:
Why does it feel like I’m always chasing something I can’t name?
For the first time, she wondered if the problem wasn’t other people. Maybe it was her. Maybe the ache she felt, the quiet, persistent ache, wasn’t going to be fixed by approval, recognition, or reassurance from anyone.
She didn’t know how to sit with that thought yet. So she kept moving.
And for now, movement was enough.
- Writer
