Mobola Johnson
The email came in at 3:17 a.m.
*Subject:* *Project Phoenix Strategy*
*From:* Mr. Bako
*”You’ll present the updated strategy at the 9 a.m. leadership meeting.”*
No greeting. No context. Just that.
I read it twice, sleep draining from my eyes in seconds. I hadn’t even submitted the final draft yet. The slides were rough, the pitch still forming in my head. But this was it—my chance. My moment to prove myself at Brandfair Advertising.
By 8:45 a.m., I was already in the boardroom. Laptop ready. Slides glowing. My heart beat louder than the hum of the projector. People trickled in, some with polite nods, others avoiding eye contact altogether.
Mr. Bako walked in at 8:59 on the dot.
No hello. He just dropped his bag, glanced over my laptop like it was a menu he didn’t order, and took his seat like he owned the room.
“Let’s begin,” he said.
I stood, took a breath, and launched into it.
I gave the best presentation of my career, confident, clear, forward-thinking. I broke down our digital gaps and introduced *Project Phoenix*, a strategy to reposition the brand we were managing and capture a younger market. Heads nodded. Even Linda, the team’s official skeptic, looked… intrigued.
Then, just before my final slide, he stood up.
“I think we get the gist,” he said, cutting me off. “Let me just add a few thoughts.”
He walked to the front like it had been planned and started rephrasing everything I had said—except now, it was *his*. Phrases like *“as I always say”* and *“my strategy for this quarter”* rolled off his tongue like butter.
I sat down, stunned. My chest was tight. No one said a word. No one even looked surprised.
After the meeting, people congratulated *him* on the “brilliant” strategy. The client was happy and ready to sign the deal. I stood in the hallway, phone in hand, pretending to scroll.
Linda passed by and paused. “Great slides,” she said quietly. “Too bad he thinks they’re his.”
“He doesn’t think,” I replied. “He knows they’re not.”
Back at my desk, I checked the project folder. Last access time? 2:58 a.m. I hadn’t touched it since the night before.
He’d gone through my files before sending that email.
I stared at the screen, heat rising in my chest.
This job isn’t just about ideas or performance. It’s about power. And if I’m going to survive here, I’ll need to learn the real rules and how to break them better than he does.
My name is Chiamaka. And this is my story.
Mobola Johnson is a talented creative writer with years of experience in storytelling.