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Chapter 11: Career
Ifa learned early that stillness was dangerous.
Idle minutes stretched into memories she didn’t want to revisit, so she packed her days tight, like bricks laid end to end with no space for cracks. Interviews filled her mornings—formal blouses, polite smiles, rehearsed confidence, and when the afternoons came with no calls, no emails, she tied on a different uniform and reported to the 7-11 down the street.
Ifa liked that job. She stocked shelves, rang up cigarettes and instant noodles, nodded at strangers who didn’t ask questions. In between customers, she stood behind the counter and reminded herself this was temporary. Everything was temporary.
Weeks passed like that. Interview, rejection, silence... Until one afternoon, she checked her email through her computer before she went to work for her shift. Structural Technician. The words felt unreal at first, like she was reading someone else’s email. She read it twice, then a third time, before allowing herself to smile. Not wide. Not yet. Just enough.
The job gave her more than a salary. It gave her direction. She learned how steel bore weight, how calculations translated into buildings that stood because someone had done the math right. There was comfort in that logic, in knowing that if you followed the rules, things held together.
Purpose crept back into her life quietly. She began planning again, not for anyone else, just for herself. Nights once spent staring at the ceiling were replaced with course catalogs and application forms. Management degree. Part-time. Challenging. Necessary.
Soon her days ran on a schedule that left no room for drifting. Work from nine to six. Classes from seven to ten. She ate dinner out of containers, studied on crowded buses, memorized concepts while half-asleep. Exhaustion became a constant companion, but it was better than emptiness.
She told herself she was fine. And mostly, she was.
There were moments - standing at a red light, washing dishes, lying awake at night - when something old stirred beneath the surface. A memory. A name she didn’t say. She learned to redirect quickly, the way one corrects a skid before it becomes a crash.
A year passed that way. She graduated with second upper class honours, the certificate heavier in her hands than she expected. It wasn’t just paper. It was proof. She had survived herself.
After that, she leaned into growth with an almost aggressive determination. Networking events. Seminars. Coffee meetings. She collected business cards like talismans, convinced that staying in motion was the only way forward.
Then came the licenses. Riding first. Then driving. Riding however was what truly interest her and got her heart.
The motorcycle was reckless, some said. Too expensive. Too loud. Too fast. Ifa didn’t argue. She took a loan, signed the papers, and brought the bike home anyway. It was sleek and unapologetic, the kind of machine that demanded attention and respect. The first time she rode it, wind tore past her helmet, and for the first time in years, her thoughts went completely silent.
On the road, there was no room for the past. No space for doubt. Just throttle, balance, and the immediate present.
She trained harder. Faster. Found herself at the racetrack one weekend, then another. Timing her laps. Shaving seconds. Chasing a feeling she couldn’t quite name. Freedom, maybe. Control. Or simply the relief of not being anyone’s version of who she should be.
Through riding, she found people - others drawn to speed and night roads. They gathered after rides, helmets on tables, drinks sweating under neon lights. Laughter spilled into early mornings. Stories grew louder, bolder. Ifa didn’t talk much about herself, but no one pressed. She was one of them boys. Her presence alone seemed to be enough for these new friends she made.
For a while, life felt balanced. Busy, loud, full. She had work, friends, ambition, and a machine that carried her forward whenever she needed to escape.
Then the economy shifted.
The word “recession” began appearing in emails, in meetings, in cautious conversations that ended too quickly. Projects stalled. Budgets tightened. One morning, Ifa was called into a room she’d never been in before, sat across from faces from various departments, including her superior. She knew this wasn't going to be good news, then a paper slide to her hands.
Retrenched.
The word landed harder than she expected. Not because she hadn’t prepared for setbacks - she always had - but because she’d believed momentum would protect her. That as long as she kept moving, nothing could catch up.
Suddenly, there were no nine-to-six hours. No meetings. No classes to rush to. Just silence again, creeping in at the edges. Bills didn’t pause for grief or shock. The loan payments. Insurance. Fuel. The lifestyle she’d built in self-defense now demanded to be maintained.
Ifa stood in her apartment one evening, helmet resting on the table, degree certificate framed on the wall, phone silent in her hand. For the first time in a long while, she didn’t know what the next step was. She wasn't going to tell her parents, for she didn't want to worry them.
Stillness loomed.
And she wondered—briefly, dangerously - whether motion alone was enough to save her.
//--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)
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