Dear Diary,
I returned to work today, which, surprisingly, did not feel like returning to war, it felt… nice.
A month ago, I would have been counting down the days until I could get back to the office. I would have spent the entire drive from Chevron to Ikoyi mentally listing all the things that must have fallen apart in my absence.
Instead, I spent most of the drive admiring the morning…the sky was unusually clear, the ride was relatively peaceful (dangerous illusion). I have lived here long enough to know that tranquility in Lagos is usually temporary and should not be trusted. Still, I enjoyed it.
I wore one of my favorite suits. The kind of outfit that says: I am competent, expensive, and not in the mood for nonsense.
I even wore lipstick, not for anyone, but for myself. There is something reassuring about looking put together before the day attempts to dismantle you.
The security guards downstairs welcomed me back warmly, the receptionist smiled, and the elevator doors opened.
I stepped onto our floor and immediately knew something was happening. The atmosphere was wrong, or perhaps right, depending on how one feels about collective excitement before nine in the morning.
People were moving quickly.
Junior staff stood in little groups, whispering, giggling and checking their phones.
Walking past offices with unusual urgency.
A few assistants were gathered near the reception desk, someone squealed, actually squealed. I stopped, looked around and briefly entertained a very flattering possibility.
Perhaps they had organized a welcome-back surprise. I had been gone for two weeks.
Perhaps they missed me.
Perhaps there was cake.
Perhaps there was a card.
Perhaps…
No. Nobody noticed me, not one person. One analyst brushed past me entirely, another looked directly at me and then immediately looked beyond me.
Interesting.
I stood there for a moment.
Senior Partner.
Head of Strategy.
The woman who keeps half this firm functioning.
Completely ignored.
I would like to say I was above feeling slighted.
I was not.
I continued toward my office. As I placed my handbag on my desk, there was a soft knock and Nneka entered. And unlike everyone else, she looked genuinely happy to see me.
“Welcome back, ma’am!”
She was smiling so widely I almost laughed.
“Thank you, Nneka.”
She immediately came around the desk.
“You look rested.”
I considered this.
“I am not sure that has ever been said about me before.”
She laughed.
“I mean it. You look different.”
I knew what she meant, I simply wasn’t sure how to explain it. Before I could answer, the noise outside grew louder. Someone gasped dramatically, then more whispering. I looked toward the glass wall of my office.
“What exactly is happening out there?”
Nneka’s face brightened immediately.
“Oh! You don’t know?”
“I have been away, Nneka.”
“An influencer is here.”
I blinked.
“An influencer.”
“Yes.”
I waited.
She waited.
Apparently this information alone was expected to be sufficient.
“Should I know which one?”
She looked horrified.
“Everybody knows her.”
Nneka lowered her voice.
“It is Simi Gold.”
I stared.
Nothing.
She stared back.
“You really don’t know her?”
“I fear I may disappoint you.”
Nneka looked personally affected.
“She has six million followers.”
I nodded.
“That sounds exhausting.”
She laughed.
“No, seriously. Everybody is trying to catch a glimpse of her.”
As if to prove her point, another burst of excited voices erupted outside. I looked through the glass again. Three junior associates had suddenly found reasons to walk past the conference room. Twice.
I almost said something. The old me certainly would have. A speech about professionalism.
Boundaries.
Productivity.
The dangers of celebrity worship.
Instead…
I smiled.
Then shook my head.
Nneka looked at me strangely.
“You are really different.”
“Apparently.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Who are you and what have you done with my boss?”
I laughed, actually laughed which startled both of us. Then she remembered something.
“Oh! Mr. Daniels wants to see you.”
“Now?”
“Immediately.”
I sighed.
“My first day back and already.”
“He said to bring you as soon as you arrived.”
I stood.
Straightened my jacket.
“Do we know what the issue is?”
Nneka shook her head.
“No. But everybody says it is serious.”
Of course it is, people do not hire us because life is going well. As I walked toward the conference room, I felt something familiar.
Excitement.
I had missed this.
The uncertainty.
The puzzle.
The opportunity to solve something impossible.
I paused outside the door, took one breath and then entered. Mr. Daniels stood immediately.
“Zara.”
There it was, that look. The one that said: Thank God you are back.I almost smiled.
“Welcome back.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Then I finally saw her.
Simi Gold.
Even if I had not known who she was, I would have guessed.
Beautiful.
Perfectly styled.
Impeccably dressed.
The kind of beauty that seems professionally managed. She looked exhausted which interested me immediately. Because people who live online rarely allow themselves to look tired in real life.
Mr. Daniels gestured toward me.
“Simi, this is Zara Ibrahim. Head of Strategy.”
A slight exaggeration of my title, I appreciated it.
Simi stood.
“Oh my God, finally.”
An interesting first sentence. She shook my hand.
“I’ve heard so much about you.”
I sat, Mr. Daniels looked relieved. Very relieved indeed. Another interesting detail.
“You wanted Zara on this immediately,” he said.
That was all, no explanation which meant the situation was worse than I thought.
I turned toward her.
“Why don’t you tell me what happened?”
She inhaled slowly, looked at her manager, looked at Mr. Daniels and then finally looked at me.
“I think my career is over.”
A dramatic opening. I remained silent, people usually keep talking if you allow enough silence. She did.
“You know the Sunshine Tomorrow Foundation?”
I nodded vaguely.
Children’s charity.
Scholarships.
Orphanages.
School projects.
Very visible online.
“I started it two years ago.”
Another pause.
“I never thought it would become this big.”
I waited.
She looked like she wanted permission to cry.
I did not provide it.
Eventually she continued.
“The schools don’t exist.”
Silence.
I blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“The schools.”
Her voice broke.
“They don’t exist.”
Even Mr. Daniels looked uncomfortable.
I folded my hands.
“Walk me through this very carefully.”
She nodded.
“I announced a charity project online. We said we were building schools in rural communities.”
“We?”
“My management team.”
I looked at the manager, he suddenly became interested in the table.
Interesting.
She continued.
“We raised donations.”
“How much?”
Silence.
I repeated myself.
“How much?”
Another pause.
“Almost eight hundred million naira.”
I felt my heartbeat slow, that is never a good sign.
“Continue.”
“We built one school.”
One.
I said nothing.
“The other projects never happened.”
“And the money?”
Silence.
Long silence.
Then: “I don’t know.”
I looked at her manager, he looked terrified. I leaned back.
“When did this become public?”
“This morning.”
“How?”
She swallowed.
“A former employee leaked documents online.”
I looked at my watch.
Eight forty-three.
“And?”
She looked at me helplessly.
“The hashtag has been trending for three hours.”
Three hours.
An eternity.
I turned to Mr. Daniels.
“How bad?”
He slid his phone across the table. I looked and then I understood.
Videos.
News articles.
Think pieces.
Calls for arrest.
Calls for prosecution.
Calls for cancellation.
Several celebrities distancing themselves.
Brand partnerships disappearing in real time.
And one particular hashtag sitting comfortably at number one.
#CharityFraud
I looked up, nobody spoke. I slowly placed the phone down. Then another detail occurred to me. I looked at Simi.
“Tell me something.”
She nodded.
“Did you know?”
Her eyes widened.
“What?”
“Did you know the schools didn’t exist?”
Silence.
The manager shifted in his seat.
Mr. Daniels watched carefully.
I repeated the question.
This time quietly.
“Did you know?”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Then opened it again.
And at that exact moment…
My phone vibrated.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
Five.
I looked down.
Adaora.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Eight missed calls.
I froze because Adaora never calls this much.
Never.
Something was wrong, very wrong.
I looked back at Simi.
At the terrified manager.
At Mr. Daniels.
At my phone.
Then back again.
And suddenly I had two crises.
One personal.
One professional.
Both urgent.
Both potentially catastrophic.
Simi finally answered.
“I knew some of it.”
To be continued…
Until next time,
– Zara
P.S.
I have been back in the office for exactly forty-three minutes.
This feels excessive.