That was the first thing they taught him.
His mother used to say it while stirring a pot of soup over the kerosene stove, steam rising between them.
“Be patient, my son.
Your own time will come.” His father said it when the landlord came knocking, eyes fixed on the cracked tiles of their living room floor.
“Wait for your time.
Good things come to those who endure.” So he waited.
He waited in primary school when the teacher accused him of stealing a pen he never touched.
He waited in secondary school when his name was always the first called for every group punishment.
He waited in university while classmates copied his assignment notes and forgot his name by evening.
He waited at his first job while salary came late, month after month.
For thirty years, Ayomide waited.
And now, sitting on the edge of a thin mattress at 12:03 AM, he had no idea what he was waiting for anymore.
Wrrrr.
Wrrrr.
The ceiling fan in the corner turned in sluggish, heavy circles, kicking up warm dust instead of air.
Sweat glued his t-shirt to his spine.
The pale yellow paint on the walls had been peeling since he was nineteen.
On the small wooden table nearby sat three worn notebooks—filled with business ideas and financial breakdowns for projects he never had the money to start.
His phone buzzed in his palm.
Birthday reminder.
Facebook.
Instagram.
WhatsApp statuses.
“Happy 30th Birthday, Ayomide!” He stared at the screen for a few seconds, then cleared the notification with a slow swipe of his thumb.
Thirty years old, sitting inside the same cramped room.
His old classmates were posting flight tickets to Dubai and London while he was still calculating bus fares down to the last naira note.
Ten years spent sacrificing today for a tomorrow that never showed up.
He let out a long breath.
“Omo…
how did I even end up here?” It started in school, back when he still thought people were fair.
He was fourteen when a calculator went missing in class.
Nothing expensive, just a basic plastic model.
Before Ayomide could even open his bag, the class captain pointed straight at him.
“Na Ayomide.
He’s always quiet.
Na those quiet ones dey do this kind thing.” Ayomide stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor, heat rushing to his face.
“I didn’t touch it.” The teacher didn’t ask for proof.
She just gave him a tired, disappointed look.
A few students laughed under their breath.
They never found the calculator, but for the rest of the term, people watched him like he was already guilty.
After that, Ayomide talked less.
Silence was just safer.
When he got into university, he tried again.
He joined group chats, answered questions during lectures, and stayed up late helping people break down difficult assignments.
Once, a guy named Bode brought him a plate of cooked rice from the cafeteria as a thank you for helping him pass a carryover exam.
Ayomide actually thought he had made a real friend.
Two weeks later, Bode walked right past his table at the student center with a group of friends, making eye contact for a split second before looking away.
No greeting.
No head nod.
People only remembered Ayomide when a deadline was breathing down their necks.
The second they got what they needed, he vanished.
So he stopped trying.
After graduation, he took a job at a small logistics firm.
The owner clapped him on the shoulder during the interview.
“Stay loyal, and you’ll grow with us.” For six months, Ayomide was the first to arrive and the last to leave.
Then the salary delays started.
“Abeg manage this month,” his boss would say, adjusting his watch.
“Things are tight, but I’ll sort you out next month.” Next month turned into next year.
Ayomide stayed because applying for new jobs meant writing hundreds of cover letters, sitting through fake interviews, and starting the whole cycle over again.
He was simply too tired.
So he endured.
On his phone, life moved on for everyone else.
Tunde posted pictures in the Canadian snow.
Chika shared her wedding videos.
Emeka, who had dropped out in third year, posted photos next to three new delivery vans for his startup.
Ayomide scrolled through it all, typed “Congrats bro,” deleted it, typed it again, and hit send.
At night, while the fan squeaked above his head, the same question kept crawling back.
When will it be my turn?
For the first time, he wondered if waiting for his turn had been the mistake.
Thirty years old.
Alone in the dark.
Outside his window, Lagos was loud—car horns blaring, music playing from a nearby joint, life moving forward.
His life was standing completely still.
Ayomide lay back on the mattress and stared at the dark ceiling.
He laughed—a short, dry sound.
“Thirty years of waiting.” He closed his eyes.
Being good had changed nothing.
Working hard had changed nothing.
Waiting had changed nothing.
“If I ever get another shot…” He kept his voice low, but his jaw tightened.
“I’m done asking for permission.
I want money.
Real freedom.
Authority.” He took a slow breath.
“I refuse to be a nobody again.” Scrape.
The sound of wooden chair legs dragging against floor tiles pulled him awake.
Voices talking over each other.
The faint tap of a marker hitting a whiteboard.
Ayomide opened his eyes.
Bright fluorescent lights.
White walls.
Rows of wooden desks filled with students in casual clothes, whispering and scrolling on their phones.
A lecture hall.
Ayomide sat up, his heart thumping hard against his ribs.
He looked down at his hands resting on the desk.
Smooth skin.
No calluses on his knuckles from years of carrying heavy office files.
“Wait…” His voice sounded lighter.
He looked down at the plastic card sitting next to his notebook.
UNIVERSITY OF LAGOS STUDENT IDENTIFICATION Name: Okafor, Ayomide Department: Economics Level: 200 Six years.
He looked down at his arms, then pinched his forearm.
Hard.
“Ow.” It hurt.
Definitely real.
He flexed his fingers, staring at them for a few seconds.
The initial shock began to settle into a strange, heavy quiet.
“Twenty-four…” He rubbed his shoulder, rotating the joint.
“At least my knees don’t hurt anymore.” The joke was real enough, but the weight sitting in his chest didn’t leave.
Six years.
That was all the distance between this classroom and the hollow man sitting in that dark 12:03 AM room.
At the front of the room, a lecturer in an oversized suit was drawing a supply curve on the whiteboard, completely ignoring the back rows.
Ayomide leaned back in his hard wooden chair and looked up at the ceiling lights.
So You really gave me another chance…
He looked around the room at the familiar faces of his old classmates.
After thirty years?
A small, quiet laugh escaped him.
You really have a strange sense of timing.
He picked up the student ID card, turning it over in his hand before sliding it into his pocket.
No more waiting for things to fix themselves.
No more playing the quiet guy who steps aside so everyone else can eat.
The world had taken thirty years of his life while he sat politely in the corner.
He wasn’t going to beg for a turn anymore.
Ayomide picked up his pen, twirling it casually between his fingers as he looked back at the whiteboard, a cold spark rising beneath his calm eyes.
The world owed him a life.
And this time…
he was the one collecting.
I’m always looking to improve, so constructive feedback is always welcome.
I hope you enjoy Ayomide’s journey through Aetheris as much as I’ve enjoyed creating it.
Thank you for giving my story a chance.