He used polished language like wrapped stones.
Mrs. Hart’s hand moved instinctively to her belly.
Tunday felt something rise inside his chest.
He told himself to stay quiet.
He told himself he was not senior staff.
He told himself he had bills, responsibilities, a mother in hospital care.
But sometimes the heart refuses to obey fear.
Tunday cleared his throat.
The sound was small, but in that silence it landed like a hammer.
Mr. Akinwale turned slowly. “Yes? Who is that?”
Tunday stood up. His hands were at his sides. His voice was respectful, but steady.
“Sir, with due respect, Mrs. Hart’s department has been the most consistent in this company for months. The supplier issue was outside her control, and her pregnancy does not reduce her intelligence, her commitment, or her leadership.”
He did not shout.
He simply spoke the truth.
And pride hates truth, especially when it comes from someone it considers small.
Mr. Akinwale stared at him as if he had poured sand into his coffee.
“And who are you,” he asked slowly, “to speak in this meeting?”
“My name is Tunday Aibio, sir. Logistics coordinator.”
A few people shifted nervously in their seats.
Mr. Akinwale smiled, but his eyes hardened.
“A logistics coordinator. So now coordinators correct executives. Interesting.”
Mrs. Hart spoke softly. “Tunday—”
But Mr. Akinwale raised his hand to silence her.
“This is insubordination,” he said. “Complete disrespect. Security will escort you out after this meeting.”
The words landed like thunder.
Tunday’s stomach dropped, but he did not take back a single word.
By noon, HR called him in. By one o’clock, his access card stopped working. By two, security stood beside him as he packed his things.
No farewell.
No defense.
No explanation.
Just a cardboard box.
