Chapter 4 The Perfect lie

Chapter Four: The Perfect Lie

The first time I walked into the office, I felt powerful. Black suit. Heels. Briefcase. I looked like every version of success my parents had dreamed of. They told everyone, "Our daughter is now a solicitor in the UK." My father's eyes sparkled with pride. My mum prayed for marriage offers to follow.

I wanted to believe it too that I had arrived. That this office, with its glass walls and glowing nameplates, was a place I belonged.

But beneath my tailored blazer was a body already tired. I had just recovered from a crisis the week before my first day. My joints still ached. I smiled through it, swallowing pain with coffee.

Work became a performance. One I gave everything to.

I showed up early. Stayed late. Learned fast. Said yes to everything. I wanted to be indispensable. Not just because of ambition but because I feared that if anyone found out about my condition, they'd see me as a liability.

I hid my illness like a crime. My phone had alarms for medication, but I always silenced them. I took breaks in the restroom, breathing through pain while staring at myself in the mirror, reminding myself to hold it together. Strong girl. Professional. Top-tier.

And I was good, very good. My managers praised my attention to detail, my calm under pressure, my ability to handle difficult clients with a smile. I became the model junior associate.

But no one saw the nights I spent in pain, curled up in bed, too weak to lift my phone. Or the mornings I needed an hour just to dress because my knees were stiff from inflammation. I made excuses for sick days: food poisoning, migraines, family emergencies. Anything but the truth.

At twenty-seven, I was living the kind of life people envied. High-rise office, decent salary, professional wardrobe, independence. On paper, I was thriving. In reality, I was fading.

By then, the questions came louder:

"When are you settling down?"

"Your younger cousin just got engaged, you're next, in'sha Allah."

"Don't wait too long o, men want someone young and healthy."

Healthy.....

That word felt like a slap every time.

I went on a few dates, mostly with men from our community. They liked my intelligence, my career. But the moment I mentioned sickle cell, the mood shifted. Some said nothing, just disappeared. One said, "I respect you, but I don't want to build a family around hospital visits." I nodded, excused him with grace, and let him go.

Still, I smiled at weddings. Bought aso ebi. Took group photos. Clapped for the brides. Laughed at speeches. All my friends got married.No one knew I cried in the Uber home.

I didn't tell my parents the full truth either. They knew I worked hard. They didn't know how often I broke down in my flat. They knew I wasn't seeing anyone serious. They didn't know I'd begun to fear I never would.

The pressure to be everything..brilliant lawyer, perfect daughter, eligible bride, was crushing. And the lie grew heavier. That I was fine. That I could handle it all. That I wanted this path.

But the truth kept knocking.

Sometimes in the form of chest pain that stole my breath during client calls. Sometimes in the quiet loneliness of another weekend spent recovering from a crisis I told no one about.

Sometimes... in the way I stared at my own reflection and couldn't recognize the girl in the mirror anymore.

She looked like she had it all.

But she had forgotten what she wanted.

Or maybe... she never knew to begin with.