the undefined

Becoming

Chapter 5:Becoming

The morning after my internship ended, I woke up later than usual. No need to rush. No script to write. No Raymond teasing me about my handwriting. Just me and the ceiling above my bed, white and still.

But there was something different in the air—like an invisible shift. Like I had walked through a door and it had quietly closed behind me.

I sat up slowly, pulled my journal close, and flipped to a fresh page. I didn’t feel like writing about the past. For once, I wanted to write about the future.

“What next?” I scribbled. “Who am I becoming?”

My sister barged in, breaking the silence. “Mummy said you should warm the soup.”

Back to reality.

I tied my scarf, went to the kitchen, and moved with more calm than usual. I wasn’t in a hurry anymore. Maybe I was still carrying some of the radio station’s calm—the way voices came and went, the way stories were told without screaming.

Later that day, Floral called me. “I got the job,” she said, almost in tears.

“What job?”

“The studio down in Warri. They want me to start next week. Full-time!”

I felt a rush of joy. “You deserve it.”

“And you?” she asked.

“I’m… writing.”

There was silence, but the good kind.

Floral understood.

Two days later, Raymond texted.

Raymond: So… what’s the plan?

Me: Survive. Write. Maybe breathe more deeply.

Raymond: Sounds poetic. You’ll do fine.

Me: And you?

Raymond: Gonna try freelancing. Maybe produce indie shows. Maybe miss you a bit too.

I stared at the screen for a long time.

Me: I’ll miss you too.

And I meant it.

The next week, I took a walk to the library on my street. I hadn’t been there in months. The dusty smell of old books felt familiar and kind. I found a novel I once loved and read it cover to cover in two days.

It reminded me of who I had been before everything—before IT, before heartbreak, before long silent days of pretending I was okay.

And then came the email.

“Call for Writers: Young Voices in Nigerian Literature.”

I hesitated.

Then I sent in an essay I had written in secret.

Three weeks later, I got shortlisted.

My mother didn’t understand the noise I made when I read the email. She came rushing into the room, half expecting to see a lizard.

“What happened?”

“I think I’m going to be published.”

She blinked. “Published where?”

“Online. It’s a literary magazine.”

She nodded slowly. “Is there money?”

“No,” I said, smiling.

She rolled her eyes and left.

But I stayed smiling.

That night, I wrote again.

Letter to the girl I used to be: You were afraid of so much. But you walked through it anyway. Thank you.

I didn’t know what the next year would bring. School would resume soon. The chaos of lectures, noisy classrooms, unpredictable lecturers. But I wasn’t the same girl walking into that Mass Communication hall.

I had tasted stillness. I had held stories in my hands. And I wasn’t afraid of silence anymore.

Sometimes, I still missed Raymond.

Sometimes, I still dreamed about the studio.

But mostly, I was here. Present. Breathing. Becoming.

And that was enough.

---

The harmattan arrived early that year, painting everything in white dust. I walked down the street wrapped in my mother’s faded scarf, the fabric smelling faintly of camphor and dried hibiscus.

At the junction, I met Mr. Tony, the retired teacher who ran the bookstore.

“You look taller,” he said.

I laughed. “Maybe it’s the shoes.”

“Or the confidence,” he added, eyes twinkling.

I walked into his store and found a blank notebook. I didn’t need more stories from others—I needed space to write my own.

Every morning after that, I carved out an hour just for myself. Tea. Pen. Silence. Words.

I wrote about everything: my father’s quiet hands, the voices on radio, the boy who never asked me to stay, the friend who never needed to ask.

On the 14th of February, I wrote a letter to nobody:

> “Dear You, If you find me in this story, forgive the mess. I am still learning how to love gently. Still learning how not to disappear when things get quiet. But I am here. I stayed. Love, Me.”

I tucked it inside the notebook and smiled.

---

Weeks passed. School reopened. I walked into class with less fear and more curiosity.

People noticed.

“You’ve changed,” someone whispered.

Maybe. Maybe I had grown into my own skin. Maybe I had stopped apologizing for taking up space.

I found new friends—quiet girls who laughed like soft wind and boys who didn’t shout over your thoughts.

And I found time. Time to rest. Time to heal.

One afternoon, under the shade of the mango tree behind our department, I sat with Floral.

“I’m proud of you,” she said.

“For what?”

“For choosing yourself.”

I looked up. The sun was warm against my cheeks.

“I’m still scared,” I admitted.

“You can be scared and still move forward.”

I nodded. The mango leaves rustled like an old woman whispering blessings.

---

I started a blog.

I named it Still Becoming.

I shared essays, letters, poems I once hid. People responded. Slowly. Gently. Like waves touching a shore.

Some wrote to say they saw themselves in my words.

One girl wrote: “I read your piece about silence. I’ve never felt so understood.”

I cried after reading that.

Because sometimes, we write to be heard. But sometimes, we write so others don’t feel alone.

And that was enough.

---

One day, Raymond called.

“Guess who just got accepted into a podcast fellowship?”

“You!”

We laughed. For the first time in weeks.

“You’re doing okay?” he asked.

“I’m doing… better than okay.”

There was a pause.

“I knew you would,” he said.

We talked for hours that night. Not about love. Not about the past. Just about where we were. And it was enough.

---

On the last day of the semester, I stood outside the school gate, wind in my face, eyes on the sky.

The future wasn’t some big door waiting to open. It was here—in every small step, in every choice to stay, in every moment I wrote instead of ran.

I had become something. Not everything. But something.

And I was still becoming.