Source
I once chased a dream that sparkled too bright. A dream which looked like a lot of freedom on the outside but it turned out to be a slow, silent death sentence which almost took my up to meet the Ghost.
When I got the job offer from company through my email, saying you have been selected. It felt like the answer to my every seconds, minute, days tear prayer soaked from my shouting I need a job which I whispered into my pillow. The pay was loud, let me not say. It spoke in numbers I had never touched. Everyone around me was so happy, they even smiled like I finally made it for all us. I also gave way to smile too, but I just didn’t have an idea I was trying to get myself into because it was all a trap. A beautiful one made of polished lies and fake promises.
The cost of my daily transportation swallowed more than half of my salary like a basket where I kept pouring in a lot jar of water into it, that could never be filled. Many days, before heading to work I have to begged family and neighbors for change to get a bus, or strangers for change at the bus station just so I could be able to get to work. I would be trembling and silently pray while holding on the Lagos BRT handle, hoping the bus conductor wouldn’t have to embarrass me for not having a full fare.
Food became a memory. I would drink water and tell myself I was fasting. I lost weight. My cheeks sank. My spirit shrunk.
And yet, the job wanted more.
I worked around the clock. After hours in the office, I would drag my body home only to sit again in front of my laptop. More reports. More deadlines. More stress. Sleep? What was that? I barely got one hour and thirty minutes each night. I would close my eyes and my alarm would go off. Another day. Another curse.
One morning, I collapsed. Right there in the hallway at work. My body gave up before I could.
I woke up in the hospital. A blurry ceiling. Beeping machines. Tubes in my arm. Pain in my chest. I had worked myself into the grave, and the only thing keeping me out of it was an oxygen mask and silence.
My boss texted me while I was still struggling to speak.
Can you send the report before 5?
I typed with trembling fingers. I am in the hospital. I passed out.
His reply came instantly, "if you miss any more days, your pay will be deducted and i don't care how you will do it". I stared at my phone screen, and for the very first time in years i opened way to tears. Silent, desperate tears. How did I get here? Working myself to death for people who did not care whether I lived or died.
The doctor came in later with eyes full of worry.
Your condition is serious. If we do not operate soon, you could lose your life.
I blinked slowly. I had no money. No savings. I had not even been paid in full for the last month. I was barely surviving, and now I had to choose between death and a hospital bill I could not afford.
I was alone. Truly alone.
Or so I thought.
Word reached my congregation. The brothers and sisters I had distanced myself from in the name of being too busy for meetings, too busy for Jehovah, too busy chasing salary. They showed up. One by one. They came with fruit, with water, with kind words, with envelopes of money. People who earned far less than I did were the ones saving my life.
One of them held my hand and said gently, Jehovah does not forget his own.
They paid the bills. They prayed for me. They stood in the gap when I had nothing left to give. I could not stop crying. Not from pain. From shame. I had never tried to be close to them, i even walked out when they needed my help, but it didn't stop them from running to my aid when i was drowning.
I was discharged weeks later, weak but alive. I emailed my resignation letter. I was done with the job that almost killed me.
But before they could reply, I got another message.
We are letting you go.
They fired me. No gratitude. No apology. Just silence and a cold goodbye.
No work came after that. For months, I was jobless. I sat at home with nothing but an old camera and my thoughts. But strangely, I was eating better than I did while working. The same congregation kept showing up. They would call and say, We are passing by, and they would leave behind yams, bread, sometimes a little money.
It did not make sense. I had no salary, yet I felt more cared for than I ever had. I clearly started to see things they way it should be. One night i had to bring out my camera, wiped dust off it and whispered a prayer. Maybe I could try. One client became two. Then five. I took passport photos, baby photos, wedding portraits. Anything. I was not rich. But I had peace.
Now i could be myself, breathe again, sleep like a baby at night, walk without shaking. I could help in the Kingdom Hall again. I could speak to people about the God who saved me when I had given up on everyone.
And then it happened. Slowly, month by month, my photography business grew. Not fast. Not loud. But steady. I had time. I had rest. I had purpose.
I earned more than that glittering job ever paid me. And I was not dying for it. I was living.
Now, whenever I see someone chasing a job because it shines, I want to hold them and say, Be careful. Some gold will buy your life. Some will bury it.
Not every salary thats huge is great for work, because it might glitter but it isn't gold. It might even be well polished to look like a great kings crown. And most of the time what we all need might be very close to us, staring like an owl waiting for us to find it.
PLEASE THIS IS NOT A TRUE LIFE STORY. I JUST HAD TO GET CREATIVE WITH WHAT GOES AROUND IN THE WORLD. I HAVE FOUND MYSELF WRITING AND THINKING OF WHAT CONTENT I NEED TO WRITE NEXT, ALL THANKS TO HIVE COMMUNITY AND INKWELL FOR BRINGING OUT THE BEST IN ALL OF US.
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YOUR AUTHOR
LARE AIYELA
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STOPHello @lareaiyela,
We are going to curate this story, because it is effective. However, you must change the tags. This is not creative nonfiction. Nonfiction means it really did happen. As you state, this is not a true life story. That's fiction. Please use the fiction tag.
If you ever want to write for the week but the prompt does not fit your inspiration, you can look at previous prompts in the fiction prompt blog. I just perused the list and found two right away that might fit this story: #18 is Change and #26 is The Winding Road. There are 226 previous prompts to choose from. You can easily find one to suit just about any story idea you have.
Thank you so much. I had to say the truth so I won't have comments thinking I was in the situation.
It's good that you told the truth. In the future, try to keep the tags consistent with the nature of the story. Fiction means it's made up. It may be based on your experience, but it didn't really happen. Creative nonfiction means it happened. You may use narrative techniques to tell the story, but the story itself has to be real.
Sometimes this seems confusing but I'm pretty sure you can sort it out. Remember the long list of prompts in the fiction post every week. I'm about to use one of them myself to write a story.
Also, please change the tag on the post. You still have a nonfiction tag on the post. It doesn't belong there because this is fiction.
Happy writing :)
Thank you so much