If you had told me that saying no to that scholarship would become my life’s greatest regret, I would have laughed and walked away. But now, sitting behind the cracked window of my father’s old shop, watching customers haggle over cups of garri and packs of noodles, I can’t help but whisper to myself—I wish I knew.

The offer had come like a dream wrapped in an envelope: full scholarship to study Public Health in Canada. My email had lit up with congratulations and instructions, and for the first time in my life, I felt chosen—worthy.

But fear was louder than excitement.

“What if you get there and fail?” my aunt had warned.

“Do you know anybody there?”

“Who will take care of your mother if you leave?”

Guilt clung to me like sweat. Mama’s tired eyes, the sound of her deep cough at night, my younger siblings' school fees—all these became my reasons to stay. I convinced myself that dreams could wait.

They didn’t.

Two years passed. The pandemic came and left. Opportunities shrunk. I tried applying again, but the scholarship was a one-time offer. Every email I sent received a polite rejection. Every attempt to climb felt like climbing with broken legs.

I watched classmates who had accepted the offer post pictures in snow-covered cities, in bright lecture halls, on graduation stages. They had left when the door opened. I had stayed behind and locked mine.

One evening, I stood in our compound, staring up at the sky as a plane soared overhead. I wondered what it felt like to sit inside, to carry hope in a suitcase, to leave with purpose.

Now, I teach in a local school, earning just enough to keep food on the table. Sometimes, when I talk to my students about dreams and chances, I see in their eyes the same hunger I once had.

And I tell them this: When a door opens, even if your legs are shaking, walk through it.

Because now I know. And knowing too late is a kind of heartbreak that never really heals.

I wish I knew.

I would have traveled abroad.