People say you can't fall in love when your belly is empty — but I think that's a lie.
I was eighteen and broke, with dreams tied together like old shoelaces. I lived with my mother in a small, zinc-roofed house on the edge of town. Our windows didn't close during the rainy season, and we fetched water from a borehole two streets away.
Still, I had hope.
Hope was free — and it was all I could afford.
My name is Mercy, and this is how I learned that love can grow in the poorest soil.
It started on a Tuesday. The air smelled like dust and fried akara. I had just returned from Mrs. Daniel's corner shop, where I helped write price tags and sweep the floor for a little change. Mama was boiling yam peels for the goats when she handed me a wrinkled envelope.
"This one na from the school," she said, squinting. "Na real admission letter be that?"
My heart leapt. I tore it open with shaking fingers.
> "Dear Mercy Ajayi,
We are pleased to inform you of your admission into BrightFuture Polytechnic to study Mass Communication…"
I screamed. Mama dropped the pot lid in shock. We danced around the compound like two mad women.
That night, I didn't sleep. Not because I was excited — but because I was scared.
The tuition was ₦110,000. Where would we find that? Our savings couldn't even cover the registration form, talk less of accommodation and textbooks.
But the next morning, life surprised me.
"Come here," Mama said, pressing her small black purse into my hands. "Your uncle send money from Lagos. He say make you go school. He even add something for upkeep."
I blinked. "Mama, you serious?"
She smiled through tears. "You think say your struggle no get witnesses? God dey watch."
That's how I found myself in a new town, clutching my nylon bag and stepping onto a campus that looked like heaven. Tall buildings. Bright-colored classrooms. Laughter everywhere, like life wasn't heavy.
I felt out of place — like a stray chicken inside ShopRite.
Then I saw him.
He stood under a tree, holding a Coke and laughing with some boys. His smile caught the sunlight like glass.
Tall. Skin like roasted cashew. Eyes that looked like they could read your silence. He laughed easily, touched people when he spoke, and moved like someone who had never lacked anything.
Later, I learned his name was Tunde.
But that day, he was just that fine boy under the mango tree.
Classes started fast. I sat in front, took notes like my life depended on it — because it did. I avoided trouble. I avoided attention.
Until one day… attention found me.
My biro stopped working in the middle of class. I tapped it. Blew inside. Nothing.
"Here," a voice said behind me.
I turned.
Tunde.
He passed me a blue pen. "Keep it. That one's probably dead."
"Thank you," I said quietly.
"You're Mercy, right?"
I nodded.
"You always sit like you're trying to memorize the lecturer's soul," he joked.
I laughed before I could stop myself. "I need to. I didn't come here to waste time."
"I respect that," he said, sitting back. "I'm Tunde."
Like I didn't already know.
From that day, he started saying hi. Then he started sitting next to me. Then one day, he walked with me to the hostel gate.
"You always walk so fast," he said.
"That's what happens when you're used to chasing things," I replied without thinking.
He stopped walking. "And what are you chasing, Mercy?"
I looked at him. "A better life."
His face grew quiet, like I'd opened a door he didn't expect.
"Same," he said. "Just from a different starting point."
From then on, we talked more.
He was nothing like I expected. His father was a retired army colonel. His mother ran a travel agency. But he wasn't arrogant. No loud phone flashing. No whispering insults at lecturers.
He was kind.
Curious.
And when he looked at me, it felt like I mattered.
One evening, we were studying together in the library. The lights were flickering. The fan buzzed overhead. It was almost 6 p.m.
"You know what I admire about you?" he asked suddenly.
"What?"
"You don't pretend. You're just… you."
I looked at my feet. "Because pretending is expensive."
He laughed softly. "I like that."
Silence wrapped around us like a blanket. Then he touched my hand. Just lightly.
"Mercy," he said, "I think I like you. Not just study-partner kind of like. I mean real-like."
My heart paused.
No boy had ever said that to me. I wasn't the girl boys noticed. I was the one in faded jeans and ₦200 slippers.
I opened my mouth. Nothing came out.
"I'm not expecting an answer," he said. "Just wanted to say it. You can think about it."
That night, I cried under my hostel bed-sheet.
Not because I was sad.
But because, for the first time in my life, someone saw me — not as a charity case. Not as the poor girl with big dreams.
But as a girl worthy of love.
And that… was the beginning of everything.