Mobola Johnson
Monday started with a fake smile and a real headache.
I stepped into the office and immediately sensed something was off. The air felt thick with unspoken tension. A few heads turned when I passed, but quickly looked away. Helen avoided eye contact. Linda didn’t even nod. Something was up.
I got to my desk and opened my laptop. Then I saw it, an email from HR.
Subject: Invitation to Clarify Internal Concerns
Time: 7:42 a.m.
From: HR@brandfair.com
The message was polite, almost friendly. But the tone beneath it was ice-cold.
“You are invited to meet with Human Resources today at 1:00 p.m. in Meeting Room 3A to clarify a few concerns raised by your line manager regarding the Project Phoenix documentation and attribution process.”
Concerns? Attribution?
I read it twice, my throat tightening. Bako was trying to flip the narrative again. He was accusing me of stealing the project.
By 10 a.m., I’d already started gathering every receipt, every version history, every email backup that proved I developed Project Phoenix from scratch. I even pulled out my notebook where I’d scribbled the first outline.
Linda walked by my desk, then doubled back. She lowered her voice. “HR meeting?”
I nodded.
She hesitated. “Just… go with your facts. Don’t get emotional. And don’t name-drop.”
That surprised me. Linda never offered unsolicited advice. Was this solidarity or guilt?
The meeting at 1 p.m. felt like walking into a courtroom. The HR manager smiled like she was offering me tea. Bako sat across the table, expression blank, as if this was just another Monday meeting.
He said little. He didn’t need to. The damage was already in the room.
I presented my evidence calmly—emails, timestamps, voice memos, even the deck history from my Google Drive. Every document proved the idea had originated from me, long before he swooped in.
The HR manager listened, nodded, took notes. Her expression never changed.
When I walked out of the room 40 minutes later, I felt… numb.
Back at my desk, Obi’s message was waiting for me:
“How did it go?”
I typed: “He’s trying to burn the house down and blame me for lighting the match.”
He replied instantly:
“They may control the boardroom, but not the truth. Stand your ground.”
I stared at those words.
Stand your ground.
At 5:30 p.m., Bako passed my desk without a word. His silence told me everything—I hadn’t lost. But I hadn’t won either.
They were watching me now. Measuring my next move.
And so was I.
I wasn’t just fighting for credit anymore. I was fighting to stay.
And something told me—the real test hadn’t even started.
Mobola Johnson is a creative writer and a master storyteller