The next morning, she walked to the creek. It was still black. But she saw something surprising: a single green shoot, a mangrove seedling, pushing through the oil-slicked mud.
A young boy was fishing nearby. Not with a net—with a plastic bottle tied to a string. “Any fish?” she asked. He shook his head. “But I catch hope,” he said, smiling. “Tomorrow, maybe.”
Ebiere listened as she stirred a pot of pepper soup. She was no longer an analyst. She was a teacher now. The school had reopened. She had written to a small NGO, and they had sent books. The oil pipeline had been shut down—not because of the company’s kindness, but because a woman with a hoe and a story had refused to be silent. Evi Edna Ogholi - No Place Like Home
The London call went fine. But after hanging up, she looked around her “home.” White leather couch. Italian marble floors. A fridge that dispenses ice cubes shaped like diamonds. It was beautiful. It was also a gilded cage.
She stood on the balcony of her 14th-floor apartment in Victoria Island. Below, the city roared: generators hummed, street hawkers sang praises to their goods, and a thousand Danfo buses coughed black smoke into the sky. It was a Tuesday. She had a video call with the London office in ten minutes. The next morning, she walked to the creek
Ebiere smiled. It was a real smile—the first one in a decade that didn’t feel rehearsed.
But Ebiere had listened too well. She had built a life where the water was clean, but her soul was dry. She had replaced the sound of village drums with the sound of Slack notifications. She had replaced the taste of fresh bush mango with the taste of anxiety. A young boy was fishing nearby
And there is truly no place like it.
“ Ebiere! The little one who ran away to the white man’s school!” “I didn’t run away, Mama,” Ebiere said, her voice breaking. “I just… left.”
She typed back: “I resign.”
Ebiere told her boss she was taking a week off for “mental health.” He laughed and said, “You? You’re the strongest woman I know.” She didn't correct him.