THE PRICE OF BECOMING

The air in Victoria Island was different. It wasn't cooler, not really. It was just thinner, like it had been filtered through money. Tolu stood in front of the glass tower that housed Aurelia Capital and felt his own shirt sticking to his back. He had taken a danfo from Mushin to CMS, then walked the last stretch because he didn't want to arrive sweaty, which was stupid because walking under VI sun at 10am was how you arrived sweaty. His suit was navy blue. Second-hand from Yaba market, but the tailor had done a good job adjusting it. His shoes were black, polished that morning with candle wax and an old toothbrush. If you looked closely, you could see where the sole had been stitched. So he told himself not to let anyone look closely. The receptionist didn't look up when he said his name. "Toluwani Bankole. 10am interview." "15th floor," she said. The elevator was glass. Lagos spread out beneath him as he rose and he had the absurd thought that from here, Mushin didn't look so bad. It just looked brown. There were three of them in the interview room. Mr. Davies, white, mid-fifties, who looked like he was thinking about lunch. Ms. Thompson, also white, who smiled too much. And Yemi. Nigerian woman, maybe thirty-five, no ring, natural hair cut low, a watch that cost more than his father's danfo. She was the one who actually looked at him. "First Class in Economics from UNILAG," Yemi read from his CV. "Impressive. Your project on informal sector inflation was... surprisingly original." "Thank you," Tolu said. He had practiced this accent. Not oyinbo, just... Lekki. The vowels flatter. The 'r's not too heavy. "Most students write about CBN," she continued. "You wrote about danfo drivers and market women. Why?" Because his father was one. Because his mother was the other. Because he had grown up watching his mother add ₦20 to akara when fuel price went up before the news said anything. "Because formal data misses a lot of Nigeria," he said instead. It was the line he had rehearsed. "The real economy is on the streets." Mr. Davies nodded, pleased with the sound of it. Like it was a discovery, not someone's life. The questions continued. Technical. He answered them all. He had been ready for a year for this. What he wasn't ready for was the last question. Yemi leaned forward, closed his CV. "Tell us about yourself, Toluwani. Outside the books. Where did you grow up? Your family?" It was a casual question. The kind that decides everything. He could see his address on the CV in front of her. 12, Olosha Street, Mushin. It was like a stain. If he said Mushin, they would hear noise, they would hear fight, they would hear area boy. They would hear risk. They would put him in the "diversity hire" box and watch him to see if he would steal. His mouth opened before his brain gave permission. "I grew up in Yaba," he said. "My dad works in logistics. Transport and logistics. My mum... she used to do catering, but now she's retired." Logistics. A fine word for a man who has driven the same route from Oshodi to CMS for twenty-three years and knows every pothole by name. Catering. A fine word for a woman who wakes at 4am to fry akara in front of a house where water only runs twice a week. Yemi's eyes didn't move. She held his gaze for one second too long. Then she wrote something down. Ms. Thompson beamed. "Lovely. Very grounded." Twenty minutes later, they shook his hand. "We'll be in touch soon." He knew what that meant. It meant no. He was already rehearsing how he would tell his mother that he didn't get it, when his phone vibrated in the elevator on the way down. Unknown number. He picked up. "Toluwani? It's Yemi, from Aurelia. Can you start Monday? Graduate Trainee, six hundred thousand monthly. HR will send the offer letter." The elevator doors opened to the lobby. The same receptionist was there. Tolu walked out of the glass tower into the thin, filtered air. A danfo was passing, blasting Fuji music, his father's route. For a second, he wanted to wave it down. Instead, he opened his phone, opened Bolt for the first time in his life, and typed "Yaba." The car that came was air-conditioned. He sat in the back seat and watched VI pass. He had lied for twelve seconds and it had bought him a new life. The price didn't feel high at all. Not yet.