The Day I Learned to Trust Myself

The Weight of Dreams

Dreams have a way of shaping us, pulling us toward what we’re meant to be. But chasing them? That’s where the battle lies. For me, dreams were never just fantasies. They were woven into the fabric of my being—stories whispered under mango trees, scribbled in the margins of old notebooks, or told to my younger siblings during rainy nights when the power was out.

Yet, as I stood at the edge of adulthood, the weight of those dreams felt heavier than I imagined. The voices in my head whispered what-ifs louder than the quietness of the night. What if I wasn’t good enough? What if the stories I loved so much were just a child’s play?

This story isn’t just about an interview. It’s about learning to believe in yourself, in a world that often demands too much. And like most things in Lagos, the journey wasn’t without its own twists, turns, and traffic.

…The smell of freshly roasted corn wafted through the air as I walked past the vendor by the roadside. It was a typical Lagos afternoon, the sun blazing above, the city buzzing with its chaotic rhythm. I was on my way to an important job interview, but my thoughts were clouded with self-doubt.

Earlier that morning, I had woken up with the familiar ache of uncertainty. My reflection in the mirror stared back with a question:

“What if I’m not good enough?”

The interview was for a writing position, something I’d always dreamed of. But that dream had seemed so far-fetched lately, like a kite slipping from my grip in a strong wind.

I reached the office building, my palms clammy and my heart racing. The receptionist smiled warmly, but I could barely muster a response. “You’ll be fine,” she said, almost as if she could read my mind. I nodded, more for her benefit than mine.

When I was called in, the interviewer, a middle-aged man with kind eyes, asked me to introduce myself. My voice wavered as I spoke, but something inside me shifted as I mentioned my love for storytelling. I began sharing an anecdote about the stories I used to write as a child—tales of adventurous kids in my village who climbed guava trees and crossed imaginary rivers. For a moment, I forgot I was in an interview. I was simply telling a story, my story.

By the end of the interview, I wasn’t sure if I’d gotten the job, but I walked out with a renewed sense of confidence. I realized that day that trusting myself and my voice was the key—not just to landing a job, but to living fully. The world may not always agree, but my stories matter. And so do yours.

Episode 1: The Doubt Within

The alarm sound jolted me awake. I squinted at the clock—5:30 a.m. NEPA had struck again during the night, and my fan had gone off, leaving the room hotter than a pot of freshly cooked jollof. Today wasn’t just any day; it was the day I’d been preparing for, the day I’d prove to myself that my dreams were worth chasing.

But as I lay there, staring at the ceiling, the doubt crept in like Lagos traffic on a Monday morning. What if I embarrass myself? What if they ask questions I can’t answer? The questions buzzed in my head louder than the mosquitoes circling my ear.

I sat up, pushing away the feelings threatening to swallow me whole. Mama’s voice echoed in my mind,

“Mba, Muna! Nobody climbs the palm tree from the top. You start from the ground. You will do well.” I smiled faintly, her wisdom like balm on my frayed nerves.

The sun was already blazing as I stepped out of my tiny flat, armed with my bag— my best attempt at a corporate look. The air smelled of roasted plantain and exhaust fumes, a typical Lagos morning.

I squeezed into a keke napep heading towards Obalende. My skirt stuck to my thighs in the heat, and I clutched my folder like my life depended on it. Inside the keke, the passengers were arguing about politics.

“See eh, if we no fix this country now, forget am.” The man beside me said, gesticulating wildly.

I smiled faintly but kept quiet, my mind replaying the scenario I imagined in the interview room. As I stepped out and flagged down another bus, a hawker shoved a sachet of pure water towards me. 

“Pure water pure water! Heat dey o the water cold well well.” he said with a grin. 

I shook my head politely and hurried on. The day was too important to lose focus.

Facing the Interview

By the time I reached the office building, sweat had glued my shirt to my back. The air conditioning in the lobby was heaven-sent. The receptionist smiled as she handed me a visitor’s badge.

I sat in the waiting area, gripping my folder tightly. The other candidates looked polished, their shoes shiny like new coins. My heart raced as I glanced at them. What am I doing here? I was the only one looking like I missed my way.

When my name was called, I took a deep breath and stood up. My legs felt like cooked spaghetti.

Inside the room, the interviewer—a man with kind eyes—greeted me warmly. His Pidgin-laced comment broke the ice: 

“Hope say traffic no show you pepper today?” I chuckled nervously.

“Ah, no sir. I managed to dodge the hold-up.”

The first few questions were tough, but when he asked why I wanted the job, something clicked. I found myself telling him about my childhood.

“Growing up in my village, we used to gather under the mango tree in the evenings. I was the storyteller. I’d spin tales about the river spirits and the farmer who tricked the gods. Everyone laughed, but they always wanted more.”

He leaned forward, interested.

“So you’ve always been a storyteller?”

I nodded. “Yes. I believe stories connect us. They carry our history, our joy, even our struggles.”

By the time I finished, his expression was soft. For the first time that day, I felt confident.

Stepping out of the building, I inhaled deeply. The Lagos air wasn’t fresh, but today, it felt like victory. Did I get the job? I didn’t know. But I had walked into that room, faced my fears, and shared a piece of myself.

I hopped on another bus, my head leaning against the window as I watched the city rush by. Mama’s words floated back to me: “You start from the ground.” And I had.

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