The sound of the rooster did not wake her that morning. Neither did the passing noise of her neighbour's motorcycle or the clang of someone opening the gate. What woke Idara was the faint vibration of her phone under the pillow. She reached for it, half annoyed, half sleepy. The screen glowed dimly. 6:04 AM. One missed call. Then another message followed almost immediately. She squinted to read.
"Congratulations. You have been awarded the 2025 Federal Government Scholarship. Kindly check your email for further details."
Her body froze. For a second, she was not sure if she was still dreaming. She sat up slowly and stared at the message again. The same words. She blinked. Then checked her email. Her hands trembled as she scrolled. The message was there. Not a scam, not a prank. Her name spelled correctly. Her department listed clearly. The email came directly from the scholarship board. She touched her chest gently like she was confirming her own heartbeat.
This was it. The news she had been praying for. She flung the bedsheet aside and jumped up. No slippers. No brushing of teeth. She dashed into the passage and called out loud.
"Mummy come and see o!"
Her mother who had just finished boiling water for her morning tea came rushing out. "What is it?"
Idara handed the phone over. Her mother read it aloud, then looked at her daughter. For a moment both women just stood there, eyes watery and wide. Then her mother dropped the phone and hugged her tight.
"God has done it. You will go to school. You will not suffer the way I suffered."
They stayed like that for minutes. Two women. One prayer answered. Years of trying, failing, hoping, being turned down, writing letters, begging professors, staying up late to study on an empty stomach, attending lectures with torn shoes, buying secondhand textbooks. All of it was worth it. The stress of JAMB, the noise of strike, the disappointment of seeing others chosen over her. All now behind her.
This scholarship was not just a blessing. It was freedom. It meant tuition would be fully paid. It meant she would get monthly allowance. It meant she could finally buy her own laptop and not borrow from her coursemate every time there was a submission. It meant she could concentrate and finish well.
She sat on the floor and began to cry. Not the loud, sorrowful cry. But the kind that comes with relief. That kind of silent tear that falls when a burden has been lifted.
By 8 AM, the news had spread. Her phone kept ringing. Her group chat was buzzing. Even her course rep called to congratulate her. Some classmates were already joking that she would no longer join their struggle for school fee extensions.
"Idara don cash out," someone typed. But she didn’t care. Let them joke. Let them talk. She had fought too long for this. Her mother called her uncles and aunties. Her pastor even sent a voice note prayer. Her younger brother who had just woken up started dancing without knowing what the celebration was about.
The rest of the day passed like a slow dream. She cooked rice with plenty meat. Something they had not done in a long while. She played music and cleaned the house with joy. Every now and then she would check her email again. Just to be sure the message was still there. That it had not disappeared.
In the evening, she stepped outside. The air was fresh after the short rainfall. She looked at the sky and whispered softly.
"Thank you."
It was not about the money alone. It was the recognition. It was the proof that someone had seen her, believed in her, and decided she deserved a shot. For a girl from a small street in Uyo who had faced rejection after rejection, this was the best news of her life.
Idara did not know what tomorrow would bring. But she knew this. She was not the same girl who had gone to bed the night before. This morning changed her story. This morning reminded her that sometimes, the sun really does rise after a long night.
And she was ready.