CHAPTER 14 - Joy is a Fragile Thing
"Joy is a fragile thing; it arrives boldly, but it never promises to stay."
The Sunday sun was still warm on Liliana's skin when she walked through the door. Emmanuel's laughter still lingered around her like perfume soft, pleasant, unexpected. For once, she felt light… like maybe this week wouldn't choke her the way life usually did.
She barely stepped into the sitting room before the sound reached her. Her mother's voice was loud, bright, and floating from the kitchen.
Liliana blinked. Who stole this woman's sadness and replaced it with joy?
She dropped her bag and walked in to see her mother dancing. Not just humming full-chest dancing, wrapper tied on her waist, spoon in one hand like a microphone.
"Mummy, what is it?" Liliana asked, amused despite herself.
Her mother paused mid-spin, smiling suspiciously. "Me? Nothing o. A woman cannot be happy again?"
The African-mother-I'm-about-to-mention-a-man tone.
"Which one is this, your happiness?" Liliana folded her arms.
Her mother tried to act innocent. "Is it not the church we went to? The word was sweet. Even that fine boy who sat at the right side, what's his name again?"
"Mummy, please." Liliana turned away immediately. "Not today."
Her mother hissed like someone wrongfully accused. "Better hold that one well. Eagles don't perch twice."
"Mummy!" Liliana groaned, snatching the knife from her hand so she could chop onions instead.
Her mother only clicked her tongue and smiled knowingly. "Stay there. Don't let joy locate you. Be forming tough girl."
"Mummy, abeg, let's cook."
And so they cooked red oil rice, thick with crayfish, and slices of dried catfish that filled the house with the smell of home. The kind of food that could solve small heartbreaks.
After they ate, the day finally slowed. Liliana retreated to her room and lay on her bed, phone above her face like a tiny moon.
She opened TikTok first. The very first video punched her stomach.
Temi Otedola and her husband are kissing on stage at a concert. Lights, perfection, money, ease. Temi is laughing, looking like luxury in human form.
Liliana's thumb stopped moving. She clicked the page.
Weddings. Vacations. Private jets. Designer outfits. Soft life layered upon soft life. And deep in her stomach, something cold unfurled. A quiet fear that whispered:
This will never be your life.
Your story is not written in gold.
You will struggle forever.
Her throat tightened. She dropped the phone for a second, swallowing hard, then picked it up again, like someone knowing the poison would burn but still drinking.
She switched to WhatsApp. Chaos everywhere. Status after status was the same.
Wike vs General Yerima. A whole Minister calling an officer a fool on camera. The army officer firing back: "I am not a fool." A national disgrace turned national entertainment in three hours. People had already made cartoons. Memes. Animations. Hope rising from the nonsense typical of Nigerians.
She shook her head, entered Tinuke's chat, her former roommate and bestie, but now life seemed to already be putting a rift between them. Liliana finally sighed and sent a simple:
Hi.
Then curiosity dragged her into the MEDIA section. PDFs everywhere. School work. Novels. Hairstyles. Clothes. Shoes. Aesthetic wallpapers because everybody was trying to be "that girl."
She opened the documents.
Half of a Yellow Sun. The weight of Nigeria's past slapped her gently. No matter how much Nigeria pretended, its old wounds still bled through everything: politics, identity, survival.
There Was a Country. More Biafra. More pain threaded through history.
Another file was titled "Only Big Bum Bum Matters Tomorrow." She burst into a short laugh. Valid title. Painfully valid. She imagined herself with "big bum bum" and rolled her eyes. Maybe by now she would've collected at least two toasters per week, instead of looking like a sixteen-year-old child in oversized hoodies.
She kept scrolling.
The Poppy War. The Burning God. The Burning Faith. Books that carried worlds on their backs.
Atomic Habits was her best, the reminder that 0.001% growth still counts, and that one day, if she kept going, everything would add up.
But right now? Nothing felt like it was adding up.
She dropped her phone and stared at the ceiling. Could she ever write something great? These authors weren't just storytellers; they were prophets. They cracked open the truth and handed it to the world raw.
And her? She wasn't even good at English, she thought. People liked her writing, but she never believed it enough.
Thousands of abandoned drafts. Ideas with no endings. Dreams with no shape. A life that didn't match the one she wanted.
She still lived in her father's worn-out house. Still ate her mother's food. Still depended on her meager teacher salary.
When would it end? When would she become someone, anyone?
Her chest tightened, and before she knew it, the tears came quietly.
"God, please," she whispered into the dim room. "Help me. I'm tired."
For a few minutes, it kept going till her phone vibrated. She wiped her face quickly.
Ngozi:Are you going to do a catering job?
Liliana inhaled, small relief washing over her.
Liliana:Yes, of course.
Ngozi:Next weekend, sha. Prepare.
A weak smile tugged her lips. At least something. At least one small source of money. At least one thing is going right.
And for tonight, that was enough to keep her from drowning.