CHAPTER FOURTEEN

**Bummi's Perspective**

The following Tuesday morning, I remain unemployed.

Mom and I are in the kitchen making breakfast. She's preparing Nifemi's favorite (Egusi soup and eba), while I'm helping her make chips—small chops—for a Netflix movie later.

My fingers ache from slicing so many ripe plantains into small pieces.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and sigh. I wish Nifemi would help out in this hot kitchen.

But no, he's too busy with his PlayStation again. The thought of going to knock some sense into him is tempting.

"What are you doing about finding a new job?" Mom interrupts my thoughts.

I haven't felt like myself since losing my job.

It's been frustrating. Only God knows how we're getting by each day. You wouldn't believe how much more Nifemi eats during these times.

I've nearly drained my bank account. If Mom wasn't a trader, we'd probably be bankrupt or in debt, maybe even begging on the streets by now.

And I swear to God, I'll make sure the person behind my job loss pays dearly for it.

Thankfully, I haven't lost my friends—Lola and Ojo. They've stood by me since we all became unemployed. Although, I still feel responsible for their joblessness.

"Mom, there's no new update yet," I say as I rinse another plantain.

She seems interested in my response, now staring at me with one hand on her waist and the other leaning against the counter.

"So, you're just going to sit around until you get an update from who knows where?" She crosses her arms. "Bummi, you know you can't compare us with Lola and Ojo, right?"

"Of course, I do," I say, exasperated.

Lola and Ojo come from wealthy families with excellent backgrounds.

"Then use your brain, Bummi." She almost sounds angry. "Kiloshele? {What is it?}" she snaps in Yoruba.

"Mom," I try to calm her down because she has high blood pressure. "We're not so poor that we can't eat three meals a day, so relax."

"Haven't I relaxed enough? Watching my educated daughter be jobless for almost two weeks? Yes, it's been two weeks or more since you lost your job, and it seems like you're not doing anything about it."

I roll my eyes. "You know I'm trying my best, Mom. I'm not lazy."

She seems to be calming down. She exhales, relieved, and places a hand on my shoulder.

"I'm counting on you, and I'm not calling you lazy, hmm? It's just, I'm not happy seeing you home every day—jobless when I return. Think about it. I know getting a job in Lagos isn't easy, so I suggest we move back to Ekiti, and you can do your handwork there."

"What?!" My eyes widen.

"Yes, my daughter. You're not lazy. Remember you went to a vocational school—a technical school during your secondary school days? You can keep busy with that. I don't mind moving my business back there."

"Mom, as a makeup artist and hairstylist—beautician? Hell no!" Is Mom thinking clearly?

Someone please call a doctor to check her temperature, sugar level, and blood pressure because I don't think she's alright.

As if fed up with the discussion, she shrugs and returns to her cooking. "You know? That's what most youths do these days. I heard handwork in a week can earn more than a month's salary. So, my dear, think about it."

There's nothing to think about, Mom. Absolutely...

NOTHING!!!

All I want is to get my job back. I'm a journalist, not just a beautician.

My phone beeps from the counter. I check it.

It's a group chat message from my two friends.

"HAS HE REPLIED YET?"

I type back, "NOT YET."

They instantly respond with one text in unison, "OKAY."