Fired at 9:07 AM
1034 Words
The bus brakes screeched at 9:04 AM.
Daniel Wade ran.
His tie was crooked. His shirt had coffee on the cuff. The folder in his hand had his reports for the Wade Empire branch meeting — reports he’d stayed up till 2 AM finishing.
“Late again, Mr. Wade,” the security guard at the lobby said. Not unkind. Just tired. Like he’d said it twice before this month.
Daniel didn’t answer. He just swiped his ID. The red light blinked.
He tried again. Green.
Third floor. Marketing Department.
The elevator dinged at 9:07 AM.
And that’s when he saw them.
Three of his coworkers standing by the printer. The moment the doors opened, their conversation died. But their eyes didn’t.
They looked at his coffee stain. At his late time. At the folder shaking in his hand.
Then they looked at each other.
Daniel walked past them. His shoes sounded too loud on the tile.
“Daniel.”
His boss’s voice cut through the office. Mr. Cole. Head of Marketing.
The office went quiet. Not the normal quiet. The _bad_ quiet.
“My office. Now.”
Daniel followed him. The glass door to the conference room closed with a soft click that felt like a door shutting on his life.
Mr. Cole didn’t sit. He stood at the head of the table with Daniel’s attendance sheet printed out. Red circles around three dates.
March 2nd. 9:15 AM.
March 19th. 9:22 AM.
April 4th. 9:07 AM.
“This is your third time, Daniel,” Mr. Cole said. He didn’t yell. That was worse. “Company policy. Three lates in 90 days.”
Daniel opened his mouth. “Sir, my bus—”
“Your bus was late last month too.” Mr. Cole slid a small cardboard box across the table. “You know the rules. Pack your things.”
The words didn’t land at first.
Pack.
Things.
Three years.
Three years of coming in by 6 AM to set up the presentation slides. Three years of staying till 9 PM to fix Mr. Cole’s reports. Three years of skipping lunch to save for his family’s rent.
Gone.
For three late days.
Daniel nodded. His throat was dry. “Yes, sir.”
He went back to his desk. The whispers started the second he pulled out the box.
“Three years…”
“All gone for nothing…”
“His dad works construction, right? How’s he gonna—”
He didn’t hear the rest. He put his mug in the box. His notebook. The small photo of him, his mom, and his dad in front of their old apartment.
He walked out at 9:22 AM.
The same time he was supposed to be clocking in.
The bus ride home was empty. Daniel sat by the window and watched Lagos pass by. Traffic. Billboards for Dreame novels. A man selling water in the heat.
His key turned in the door at 11:30 AM.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
Then footsteps.
“Daniel?” His mom came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her wrapper. “What are you doing home? Is it break?”
He couldn’t say it. Not yet.
“Just… came to get something, Ma.”
She frowned but didn’t push. She went back to cooking. The smell of stew filled the small house.
Evening came fast.
His dad’s boots were heavy on the doorstep at 7:10 PM. Construction dust on his shirt. Lines on his face that weren’t there three years ago.
He dropped his bag. Looked at Daniel sitting at the table. No laptop. No tie.
“Daniel.”
“Pa.”
His dad sighed and sat down. The chair creaked.
“The landlord called today,” he said. No preamble. “Rent is due on the 30th. 250k.”
Daniel’s stomach dropped.
“We don’t have it,” his dad continued. “Not with my last job cutting hours. I was hoping… with your salary…”
The words hung in the air.
Daniel looked down at his hands. Calluses from helping his dad on weekends. A small scar from when he was 12 and they couldn’t afford new shoes so he wore sandals to school in the rain.
He remembered.
Remembered his mom selling akara by the roadside to buy his WAEC form.
Remembered sharing one textbook with 3 people in uni.
Remembered promising them three years ago: _“I got a job at Wade Empire. We’re going to be okay. I promise.”_
And now?
Fired.
Because of a bus. Because of 7 minutes.
The shame was hot in his chest. But under it, something else.
Anger.
Not at Mr. Cole. Not at the bus.
At himself. For being in a position where 7 minutes could break his family.
His dad’s voice was low. “You have to find something, son. Anything. We can’t lose this house.”
Daniel looked up. His eyes were clear now.
“I will,” he said. “I’ll get a job. A better one.”
His mom came and put a hand on his shoulder. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.
That night, Daniel didn’t sleep.
He sat by the window with his phone. Scrolling. Job sites. LinkedIn. Nothing.
Then he saw it. A forum post.
“New romance authors wanted. Dreame. g*******l. $50 per 100k words.”
He laughed. Bitter.
Write novels? He barely had time to read them in the bookshop on his lunch break.
But then he thought of the bookshop.
Of the girl who worked there. The one with the glasses who always recommended him CEO novels and said, “You look like you’d be good at this.”
He thought of his dad’s boots. His mom’s hands. The rent.
He thought: _I have stories in me. Stories about men who start with nothing and become something._
Daniel closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he’d go to the bookshop. Not to read.
To start writing.
Because if he couldn’t be CEO of a company…
Maybe he could become CEO by marriage in a story.
And maybe, just maybe, that story could pay his family’s rent.
Outside, Lagos was quiet. But inside him, something had started.
- Writer
