I remember the loud chatter at the office that morning. The slightest sound of fingers tapping restlessly against keyboards was as if I had a band group playing in my head. The fluorescent lights above felt too bright on my eyes. At every blink, I felt this sting in my eyes. Yet, on the right side of my desk, where files were stacked I still had to work on. And on the left, stacked like little towers, were products of my long nights, my effort.
For weeks, it was as if I were living in this office more than in my own house. And whenever I had the chance to go home on time, I still carried the stress home. There were pains in my body and fatigue in my bones. At that point, I was like a fragile egg that might break if I was held too tightly. But I still craved to be held, touched, and told that I was okay while I slept in the bulgy arms of a man.
I had one slice of happiness in mind though, that the project was mine and maybe, just maybe, it might be the stepping stone to the promotion I so much wanted.
Had pulled figures from thin air, corrected careless mistakes my colleagues left behind. Every chart, every line, every careful word had my print, my handwriting in it, even if my name was not visibly written there.
And I trusted my boss. He had promised to give me the chance to present it to the Board of Directors. I was too innocent to realize that trusting him would be my first mistake.
You wouldn't blame me, though. My boss at that time was the kind of man who liked a good laugh, who patted shoulders and called people “my star” when they did something right. He knew the right ingredients to hype and motivate you to do a job. To believe him.
I believed him when he said he would look at me with a proud smile and say, “This young woman saved this project.”
Maybe because it was my impatience to be seen after many years of being invisible in that office that made me trust him that much.
On the D day, I walked into the air-conditioned conference room that smelled faintly of dust. Sitting there in my corner, I watched the directors match in their expensive blazers, well-polished shoes, and costly perfumes. My boss, who stood right in front of me, turned to me and smiled as they all sat, his grey suit pressed sharply. But when I thought he would formally introduce me to speak, he spoke instead.
“This project,” he said, his voice smooth, “was a challenge. But I pulled my team together, and with my experience, I led us here. These results are proof of leadership and vision.”
My heart squeezed. My chest tightened. Maybe I needed to be patient, I thought. Maybe he'll still call me. Maybe he'll nod or anything. Anything at all.
But none of that ever came.
He went on and on. Pacing the room, gesturing with his hands, at the slides. Actually, my slides.
He told the story of the work as if he had done it, as if he had worked through pains and fatigue in sleepless nights, as if his hands had typed until they hurt.
And when he was done. The directors clapped for him. Smiling, he complimented his brilliance as if it were his work.
I sat there, numbed. Hot, although the air conditioning was on. I felt restless. I needed some air. To get out of that conference room. To go home and soak my pillows with tears.
Finally, the meeting ended, without waiting to shake hands, I gathered my files and pressed them to my chest like a shield, and slipped out of the room.
I got outside the building. The Lagos sun didn't even care to pity me. It shone brightly and hot without care against my skin like another punishment.
I took a deep breath. And walked towards the bus stop. I couldn't wait to get home.
I bumped into Mama Chinedu in my compound watering my garden. I mumbled some greetings and walked past her. I need to bury myself in my bed.
It wasn't long. I heard footsteps in my house, then in my room, I opened my eyes to see Mama Chinedu standing by the door, her eyes narrowing at me the way only she could.
“Zee,” she said, voice soft but firm. “What is it this time?"
I smiled, but it wasn't real. Then I let the tears stream down my cheeks
Slowly, the words came out, the meeting, the clapping, my boss, the silence where my name should have been. She listened attentively, her hands folded against her chest, her face dark with disapproval.
When I was done. She gave a loud sigh in solidarity with me. “It hurts when people steal your work. But the truth is, they can steal your credit but not your truth,” she said. “It's still your work, no matter who announces it. Console yourself with that. That you're smart and intelligent. At least that's what your directors said. Listen, if you go about depending on others to crown you, you will always wait forever.” Then she pushed me close and let me lean my head on her chest.
It didn't really sit right with me but I was glad I had someone to lean on.