the undefined

The Day It All Begin's

Chapter 1

I stared at the ceiling, not just staring but really staring, like it held the answers to all the questions I hadn’t dared to ask out loud. The brown fan spun in slow, steady circles, humming like a lullaby I was too restless to fall asleep to. It was already morning, and my body ached with tiredness, but sleep hadn’t come easy. Lately, it rarely did.

The bed felt too big, the room too quiet. I wrapped myself tighter in the thin bedsheet, a weak attempt to block out the silence that had started to sound like screaming. Maybe if I lay still enough, I could disappear into the mattress. But eventually, the light creeping through the curtains reminded me that I couldn’t hide forever.

I rolled out of bed reluctantly and walked to the bathroom. I splashed cold water on my face, not because I wanted to wake up, but because it gave me something to do. I looked at myself in the mirror, the girl staring back looking tired, even though the day hadn’t really started. My eyes held stories, but I didn’t feel like telling any.

In the kitchen, I made a quick breakfast—Indomie, of course. The sizzling sound of the noodles in the pot filled the silence like a poor man’s jazz. I didn’t bother to dish it out. I ate standing, straight from the pot, staring out the kitchen window at the compound across from ours. The neighbor’s kids were already playing outside, chasing each other barefoot, yelling and laughing.

I missed being that carefree.

After eating, I walked back to my room and sat at the edge of the bed. My phone buzzed. A reminder from my to-do list app: “IT work – 9:00 a.m.” I sighed. I had to go. It wasn’t even about being passionate anymore. It was just… routine.

I dressed slowly. A basic black top, faded jeans, and a headscarf. I looked at myself again in the mirror. “You’ll be fine,” I whispered, not really believing it. I grabbed my bag and left the house.

Outside, the sun was already harsh, burning down on the dusty streets. I made my way to the bus stop. The danfo that stopped had a cracked windshield and seats that squeaked, but I got in anyway. It was survival, not luxury.

The ride was bumpy. Lagos roads were never smooth. I stared out the window, watching life pass me by. Women selling plantain chips. Men yelling over car parts. Hawkers weaving through traffic like it was a game. Lagos was loud and alive, and I felt like I was slowly fading.

At work, the building buzzed with the usual morning energy. Some staff were gathered around the TV, watching the news. Others rushed past, files in hand. I clocked in and made my way to the intern desk. Floral was already there.

“Angel!” she smiled brightly. “You look like you fought with sleep and lost.”

I laughed weakly. “I barely slept.”

We chatted a bit before the supervisors came around. I was assigned to assist with scripting for the radio segment. I liked writing, but doing it under pressure made it feel like work—not the good kind. As I typed, Raymond walked past.

He greeted us with a polite nod. Floral raised her brows at me.

“Tell me you didn’t see that look,” she whispered.

“Stop,” I said, but I smiled.

Raymond had joined the team just a few weeks earlier, but everyone liked him. He was calm, observant, and always respectful. I liked that about him. I liked people who made silence feel safe.

Hours passed. We had lunch—jollof rice and meat pie from the staff vendor. The food was average, but the company made it better. We sat under the tree outside, chatting.

“So what are your plans after school?” Raymond asked me out of nowhere.

I blinked. “Um… maybe travel. I’ve always wanted to see the world.”

“Same,” he said. “But I think I want to build something first. Something that matters.”

I nodded. “That’s deep.”

He smiled, looking down at his food. “I just don’t want to be forgettable.”

That line hit me. Deep. Because I’d been feeling invisible lately. Like I could disappear and no one would really notice.

After work, Floral left early, so I was alone at the bus stop. Raymond came out a few minutes later.

“You heading home?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Let me wait with you.”

We stood side by side, watching the yellow buses drive past. The sky was turning orange. I felt oddly calm.

“You ever feel like you’re just… floating through life?” I asked.

He looked at me. “More often than I’d admit.”

It felt good to hear someone say that. To know I wasn’t the only one pretending to be okay.

When my bus came, I hesitated.

“Thanks,” I said.

“For what?”

“For waiting.”

He nodded. “Text me when you get home.”

I did. And that night, I slept. Not deeply, but better than the night before.

The next morning, the ceiling didn’t feel so heavy. I got up earlier, made oatmeal instead of noodles. I even played music while getting ready. Small wins.

I got to work early and surprised everyone. Floral clapped dramatically. “Who is this punctual woman?!”

I rolled my eyes. “New me.”

Raymond smiled when I walked in. I felt it.

That day, we worked on a jingle together. We had to write something catchy for a soap brand. It was silly work, but we made it fun.

“You ever think of going into creative writing full-time?” he asked.

“Sometimes. But I don’t think I’m good enough.”

He looked at me. “You are.”

That was all he said. But it stayed with me.

Later that week, I had a panic moment. My supervisor called me into his office and questioned one of my scripts. Said it sounded “too emotional.” I felt embarrassed.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll do better.”

Outside the office, I nearly cried. I sat behind the building where no one could see me. My phone buzzed. Raymond again.

“You okay?”

I didn’t reply immediately. But a few minutes later, I sent:

“Yeah. Just needed some air.”

He didn’t say anything else, but when I walked back in, he gave me a soft look that said, I see you.

I needed that more than I realized.

That weekend, I stayed in bed most of the time. I read through old journals, rewatched childhood cartoons, and even helped my mum make akara on Saturday morning. It felt nice to be still.

On Sunday evening, I sat outside and watched the sunset. Steven passed by and greeted me.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said.

I shrugged. “Just tired.”

“You still writing those poems?”

I smiled faintly. “Sometimes.”

“Good. Don’t stop.”

After he left, I scribbled in my notebook. A poem about ceilings, silence, and the beauty of stillness.

“I stare at the ceiling not because I’m lost,

But because I hope something will find me there.”

And maybe something already had.