Before I disappear

If there was one thing I had learned about life, it was that it possessed a remarkably strange sense of humor. It could let you spend years imagining exactly how your future would look, only to wake up one morning and rearrange everything without bothering to ask if you were ready.

I didn't know that yet. At nineteen, I still believed life was something that could be negotiated. I believed that if I worked hard enough, prayed sincerely enough, and made enough sensible decisions, things would eventually fall into place.

I was wrong. But I was young enough to be confidently wrong.

My name is Lovely. Yes, really. Lovely.

My mother had chosen the name because, according to her, I had been the prettiest baby she'd ever seen. My father had laughed when she first told him.

“You have seen exactly one baby in this house,” he had reminded her.

“And she is the prettiest,” my mother had replied. That had been the absolute end of the argument.

I grew up in a small but comfortable home in the Eastern part of Nigeria, surrounded by people who knew my name, knew my parents, knew exactly which house I belonged to, and, unfortunately, knew enough about my business to have a never-ending stream of opinions about it. I was the first child, which sounded innocent enough until you actually became one. Being the firstborn meant carrying the weight of a village’s expectations. My parents expected me to behave responsibly, my younger siblings expected me to solve their problems, and my relatives expected me to be a flawless example.

And somehow, everyone expected me to know what I was doing. I usually didn't. I just had the good sense to look like I did.

By nature, I wasn't the loudest person in a room. In fact, when I first met people, I could be painfully shy. But once I became comfortable, that shyness had a strange habit of completely disappearing. My mother called it my “second personality.” My younger sister called it my “problem.” My brother simply avoided me whenever I started giving instructions. I wasn't entirely sure which description was the most accurate.

I loved reading, snacking, styling hair whenever I had a spare moment, and, more specifically, I loved Korean dramas. Not casually. Not in the normal, oh, this show is interesting kind of way. I was deeply, utterly committed. I knew the actors' faces. I knew the predictable yet comforting storylines. I knew the dramatic pauses that seemed to last five business days before someone finally answered a simple question.

I had watched enough television to completely convince myself that I understood Korea. This was, of course, completely ridiculous. I had never been there. I didn't know what the streets smelled like, I didn't know how biting a true winter actually felt, and I certainly didn't know how difficult the language would sound when spoken to me at full speed without English subtitles.

But whenever I watched those shows, I felt a strange pull toward a place I had never seen. Sometimes I would sit on my bed with a packet of snacks beside me, completely absorbed in a scene, while my mother’s voice shattered the illusion from the kitchen.

“Lovely!”

I would hit pause. “Yes, Mom?”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes!”

“What did I say?”

Silence. I would stare at the television. The actress on the screen would stare back at me through my paused laptop. Then I'd slowly answer, “You said... something.”

My mother would inevitably appear at the doorway, folding her arms. “Something?”

“Yes.”

“You are watching those Korean people again.”

“They're not those Korean people, Mom. They are just Korean people.”

“Exactly. And you understand what they're saying?”

“Sometimes.”

She would look at me. I would look at her. Then she would shake her head, mutter under her breath, and leave. I always laughed afterward.

Back then, I thought Korea was just something I could admire from a safe distance—a beautiful country contained within a screen, a collection of stories that belonged to other people. I never imagined I would actually live there. I certainly never imagined I would one day stand in the middle of a Korean university, wondering why on earth I had voluntarily chosen to put myself through such intense suffering. But life has a way of taking the things you joke about and turning them into reality.

And sometimes, those reality shifts begin with something as ordinary as a school application.

At first, I hadn't told a soul. I found the scholarship announcement late at night while mindlessly scrolling through my phone. I almost skipped past it. Almost. Then the bold text caught my eye: FULL SCHOLARSHIP — SOUTH KOREA.

I sat up fast, reading it again. Then again. My heart began to hammer against my ribs.

“No way,” I whispered, leaning closer to the screen. I wasn't saying no because I didn't want it; I was saying no because it looked far too good to be true. Tuition covered. Accommodation covered. A monthly living allowance. A chance to study abroad—not just anywhere, but South Korea.

My fingers hovered over the application button. I looked toward the bedroom door. The house was dead silent; everyone was fast asleep. I looked back at the screen.

What if?

That was how it started. Not with a burst of confidence or a grand sense of certainty. Just two simple words: What if?

I filled out the application, submitted it, and then I waited. And waited. I tried not to think about it, which naturally meant I thought about it constantly. I checked my email so frequently that my phone battery began to suffer. Every notification made my heart jump; every junk advertisement that arrived in my inbox left me deeply disappointed. Every time I opened my mail and saw nothing new, I told myself it didn't matter.

But it did matter. I wanted it. I wanted it so badly that I was terrified to say it aloud, because voicing a dream made the prospect of losing it hurt so much more. So, I kept quiet.

Until the email finally came.

It sat at the top of my inbox. I stared at it for several seconds, too paralyzed to touch the screen. My eyes scanned the preview line, zeroing in on a single word: Congratulations.

I swallowed hard, finally tapping it open to read the next line, and the one after that. My fingers tightened around my phone until my knuckles turned white.

“No... Is this real?” I whispered into the empty living room.

It was a full scholarship to South Korea. Complete funding. My heart gave one hard, violent thump against my chest, then settled into a frantic rhythm. I looked toward the kitchen. The rich, warm scent of my mother's cooking drifted into the room—comforting and familiar. I could hear the rhythmic clattering of plates and my younger brother complaining about a chore. Normal sounds. Our perfectly ordinary evening. And there I was, sitting on the couch with a digital message that was about to shatter our normal forever.

I got up, taking a few steps toward the kitchen, then froze. No, I couldn't tell them like this. I needed everyone in the same room. I turned around and walked back to the dining table.

“Lovely!” my mother's voice echoed from the kitchen.

“Yes, Mom?”

“Come and eat before your food gets cold!”

“I'm coming!” I pressed the phone flat against my chest, a massive smile breaking across my face. I was going to Korea. I nearly laughed out loud, but managed to compose myself just enough to step into the kitchen.

My family was already gathering around the table. My father sat at the head, eating quietly, while my mother finished serving the stew. My younger brother was eating like someone might snatch the plate away from him, and my sister was mindlessly frowning at something on her phone.

I stood in the doorway. Nobody noticed me at first. I just smiled, watching them. These were the people I'd spent my entire life with. The same noisy house, the same food, the same daily bickers. And I was about to tell them I was leaving.

“Why are you just standing there?” my mother asked, looking up from the pot. “Come and sit down.”

“I will.”

“Then why are you standing?”

I walked over and took my seat. My sister immediately looked up, narrowing her eyes. “Why are you smiling?”

“I'm just smiling.”

“No, you're smiling strangely.”

“What is a strange smile?”

“That one,” she said, pointing a finger at my face.

I immediately forced my expression flat. “Eat your food.”

“You're hiding something,” she insisted, leaning forward.

My brother looked up from his plate, his interest piqued. “What are you hiding?”

“Nothing.”

My father glanced at me over his food. He didn't say a word, but his steady, observant gaze made me entirely more nervous. I picked up my spoon, but my hand was shaking so badly I had to put it right back down.

My mother caught the movement instantly. “Lovely.”

“Yes, Mom?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“You look like you want to say something.”

I looked around the table. Every single eye was fixed on me now. My heart was beating so fast I could hear it in my ears. It was ridiculous. I had imagined this exact moment a thousand times while waiting for the results. I had imagined screaming at the top of my lungs, running laps around the living room, my mother bursting into tears, and my father wearing a massive grin. I had imagined everything—except sitting at the dinner table, completely unable to form a single, coherent sentence.

My sister leaned closer, her eyes glittering. “Did you fail an exam?”

I stared at her. “Why would you say that?”

“Because you're behaving like somebody who failed something miserable.”

My brother nodded in agreement. “She looks guilty.”

“I do not look guilty!”

My mother laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “Leave your sister alone.” Then she turned her soft eyes back to me. “So, what is it?”

I reached for my phone. My fingers felt strangely icy. “I got an email.”

My father’s entire expression shifted. His posture straightened. “What email?”

I looked directly at him. “The scholarship.”

An immediate, heavy silence fell over the room. My mother stopped moving entirely. My sister’s phone lowered to the table. My brother stopped chewing.

I looked down at the glowing screen and repeated myself, making sure the words were clear. “I got it. I got the scholarship.”

My mother stared at me as if I had suddenly grown a second head. “Which scholarship?”

“The one in Korea.”

Her hand flew to her mouth, her voice catching. “What?”

“I got it.”

Suddenly, my sister let out a piercing scream. “You got it?!”

I jumped in my seat. “Yes!”

“You actually got it!”

“Yes!”

She shot out of her chair, knocking it back, as my brother started shouting at the top of his lungs. “Korea! Korea!”

My mother lunged across the space, grabbing my arm tightly. “Are you serious, Lovely? Are you serious?”

I laughed, tears pricking my eyes. “Yes, Mom! I'm serious!”

“You are going to Korea?”

“Yes!”

“Oh my God!” She pulled me into a fierce hug so suddenly that my chair scraped harshly backward against the floor. I wrapped my arms around her, laughing into her shoulder as she squeezed the breath out of me.

“Mom!”

“My daughter!” She squeezed me tighter, her voice cracking. “You got it!”

“I got it.”

My father stood up slowly. He looked at me, then down at the phone tightly clutched in my hand. “Let me see.”

I handed it over. He adjusted his glasses and read the email. His eyes moved slowly across the screen, scrutinizing every single line, looking for the catch. Nobody breathed while he read. When he finally finished, he lowered the phone.

Then, he smiled. It wasn't a booming, dramatic smile, but a quiet, deeply rooted one—the kind that reached his eyes long before it touched his mouth.

“Congratulations, my daughter,” he said softly.

A thick knot formed in my throat. “Thank you, Daddy.”

He nodded firmly. “God has answered your prayers.”

“Amen,” my mother wept, already crying in that dramatic, unmistakable way only Igbo women could master.

“Mom,” I laughed, wiping a tear from my own cheek. “Why are you crying?”

“Am I not allowed to cry?” she shot back, wiping her face.

“You literally just started!”

“I am happy!”

“You're crying like somebody died.”

She slapped my arm lightly, her eyes flashing. “Don't say such a thing!”

I laughed, wrapping an arm around her waist. “Sorry.”

She wiped her face with the edge of her wrapper, her chest heaving. “My daughter is going to Korea.”

My sister immediately cut in, her eyes wide with sudden realization. “Will you bring me back Korean clothes?”

I stared at her, exasperated. “You haven't even allowed me to leave Nigeria yet!”

“But you are going.”

“I haven't gone yet.”

“So?”

My brother raised his hand eagerly. “Will there be snow?”

I looked at him. “I don't know.”

“You're going to Korea and you don't know if there is snow?”

“I haven't been there yet!”

He slumped back, looking deeply disappointed. “I thought you knew everything.”

My sister laughed, shoving his shoulder. “She watches their movies, silly. Not documentaries.”

“Exactly,” I said.

My father chuckled, shaking his head, while my mother sat back down, still dabbing at her wet eyes. “When do you leave?”

I glanced back down at the text on the screen. “Soon.”

Her smile softened, a trace of maternal worry bleeding through. “How soon?”

“They said they will send the final arrangements in a few days.”

My father nodded slowly, his expression turning practical. “You will have to prepare heavily.”

I swallowed hard, the reality of it setting in. “Yes.”

My sister leaned across the table, her playful demeanor dropping slightly. “Are you going all by yourself?”

“Yes.”

“For five years?”

I nodded.

The vibrant excitement around the table quieted instantly. Five years. Up until that exact moment, it had just been a number written on a digital application. But hearing it spoken aloud in our dining room made it sound like an unfathomable, terrifying distance.

My brother stared at me, his lip turning downward. “That is too long.”

“It is.”

“Will you come back?”

I smiled gently. “Of course I will.”

“When?”

“I don't know yet.”

He frowned deeply, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don't like this scholarship anymore.”

The entire table erupted into laughter, my father’s deep chuckle booming over the rest. My mother reached across the space and squeezed my hand tightly, anchoring me.

“You will come back,” she said, her voice filled with absolute conviction. I looked at her, and she just smiled, her eyes radiating a fierce, protective warmth. “You will go there, you will study, and you will come right back to us.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. “I will.”

My father leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “You have worked exceptionally hard for this, Lovely. You deserve this opportunity.”

My eyes burned fiercely. I looked down quickly to hide the tears, but my mother noticed. She didn't say a word to embarrass me; she simply squeezed my hand a little tighter under the table.

For a single, beautiful moment, I completely forgot about Korea. I forgot about the scholarship, the plane ticket, and the strange, distant country I had only ever seen through a laptop screen. I just looked around the table at my father, my mother, my brother, and my sister. This was my home. Everything familiar, everything safe, everything I had ever known.

And suddenly, a sharp, heavy ache bloomed right beside the excitement in my chest. Because I finally understood the terrifying truth of it: getting the scholarship meant I actually had to leave.

My sister broke the heavy silence, her voice whining dramatically. “So... when you go, who is going to make my hair?”

I laughed through the tightness in my throat, grateful for the distraction. “You can finally learn to make it yourself.”

“I don't want to.”

“Then suffer.”

“Mom!” she wailed.

My mother just laughed, shaking her head.

“You see?” My sister pointed a dramatic finger across the table at me. “She hasn't even left Nigeria yet and she is already becoming wicked.”

“I have always been wicked,” I countered.

My brother nodded with complete, solemn seriousness. “She has.”

I glared at him playfully. “Traitor.”

He just grinned back.

The entire table erupted into laughter once more. I laughed right along with them, but somewhere deep underneath the joy, the endless questions, and my mother’s lingering tears, I felt the monumental weight of what had just transpired.

My life had changed. Not someday. Not eventually.

It had changed right now.

I looked down at my phone one last time. The email was still open, the bold characters staring back at me. South Korea. This time, I didn't whisper it. I let the words anchor themselves in my mind, real and absolute.

I was going.