I told my mom about it, because it was something that had plagued me for a long time. That I enjoyed reading the stories in the old testaments, but when it got to words by Jesus, I begin to brace myself. I didn't know the Holy Spirit was about to address that matter. My mother's reply wasn't satisfactory for me. It hit me when I was speaking to my sister on a whole different topic entirely.

If there is no good person, except God, who do we regard as some people as ‘good people’ and others as ‘bad people'? It didn't make sense to me. The further I plunged into this thought, I reasoned, how about our pastors and mentors we looked up to? How about people in heaven? The holy spirit narrowed the question down to myself.

Am I a Christian? Yes. But do I have dirty thoughts sometimes? Still, yes. Do I resent someone sometimes? Yes. Do I wish something bad would happen to a person, especially one who hurt me deeply? Yes. Do I make mistakes? A big yes. So many times. But do I still consider myself a Christian? Yes! Why do I? This question will be answered shortly.

At first, this statement may sound shocking because many people believe that good behavior is what earns a person a place in heaven. However, the Bible teaches something entirely different.

First, the Bible clearly states that no one is truly good by God's perfect standard. In Romans 3:23, we are told, "For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God." Every human being has sinned. Some sins may seem bigger than others in our eyes. Fornication seems like a bigger sin compared to a tiny lie, putting a ‘no’ where there ought to be a ‘yes’, or Killing being a bigger sin than saying a bad word, however, before a holy God, we all fall short.

Jesus Himself said in Mark 10:18, "No one is good except God alone." If only God is truly good, then no human enters heaven because they are good enough. This was when this passage made better sense to me. People who are called good portray characters similar to God’s but not in its entirety. God does not know sin, God does not have a flaw, but every human, no matter how pleasant they seem, have something they struggle with.

Secondly, heaven is filled with forgiven people, not good people. Salvation is a gift of God's grace, not a reward for good deeds. Ephesians 2:8–9 says, "For by grace you have been saved through faith... not by works, so that no one can boast." If people could enter heaven simply by being good, then Jesus would not have needed to die on the cross.

Consider examples from the Bible. The thief on the cross had lived a sinful life, yet Jesus promised him, "Today you will be with me in paradise" (Luke 23:43). He did not have time to perform good works. He was saved because he believed in Christ.

The apostle Paul once persecuted Christians, yet he became one of the greatest servants of God after receiving His mercy. These examples remind us that heaven is not reserved for those with perfect records but for those who accept God's forgiveness. This simply means that people with good moral standards and seemingly perfect characters are not a yardstick to making heaven. The only yardstick to making heaven is believing in Jesus, repenting of your sins and obeying God.

This does not mean that good works are unimportant. Christians are called to do good, but good works are the result of salvation, not the cause of it. A transformed life produces good fruit, but that fruit does not earn eternal life. Do you understand it now? An occultic man may be on his dying bed and he accepts Jesus into his life and dies. The next minute, they are singing with angels in heaven. And people who may have been affected by his actions may still be here resenting and cussing at him. This is why it is important for believers to hold their salvation with all sincerity and seriousness. Your good works isn't a ticket to heaven, no matter how enormous it is. Your salvation is.

This is why, no matter what you do, or how long you've fallen short, do not forget to stand up, dust yourself and return to God. He'd never get tired of receiving you. Never. So why am I still a Christian even if I do all those things I said I did at the beginning of this article? It is because I always return back to God. Even if I am ashamed of myself. Always return. You cannot be more righteous than the righteous one. Please do not let the devil deceive you into believing there's no hope for you with God. The only time for you to return to God after you go against his command, is while you're still alive. The curtain is drawn after you die.

In conclusion, heaven is not filled with people who were good enough to deserve it. It is filled with sinners who recognized their need for God's mercy, placed their faith in Jesus Christ, and were saved by grace.

Thank you.

Till I pick

this pen again,

I'm Allie❤️

I never truly understood the concept of 'pain to receive a badge of honor' until a sewing machine needle pierced my finger. That singular moment, six years after the 2020 global pandemic changed my life, offered a new perspective on suffering and purpose.

The whirring needle of a sewing machine, which felt like my biggest asset after the 2020 lockdown, eventually became the source of an injury that taught me the profound meaning of the Apostles' persecution.

When the pandemic hit, I suddenly had so much time. I consumed endless podcasts and motivational speeches about learning a new skill, and the idea resonated with me—I felt like I was wasting away. Long story short, I started sewing thanks to my best friend’s sister.

One day, a colleague injured her little finger when the machine needle scraped it. I remember the floors of the small shop being stained with blood droplets. It was a gory experience, and I hated seeing blood; I felt her pain so deeply that tears threatened to leave my eyes. She quickly applied first aid—pouring Kerosene over the cut and wrapping fabric pieces around her finger. Between consoling her, our Madam made a statement that completely changed my perception of pain:

‘Now you can say you've become a real tailor.’

Although I preferred to be identified as a Fashion Designer, clock it.

All my life, I had run away from learning how to ride a bicycle because my brothers and cousins insisted you must sustain an injury before becoming a pro. I didn't understand, or like, the concept of pain as a badge of honor.

But for sewing, it was different. The girl was praised for being a hero, and inadvertently, I started looking forward to my first sewing injury—a sign that I was committing to the craft. I believe that was the day I truly fell in love with sewing. Soon after, I was paddling better and had made my first few pieces of clothing. My father got me a sewing machine for practice at home, and I considered it my biggest asset.

That day finally came. I was working on an assignment from my Madam. The paddling was going so smoothly that I forgot my finger was close to the bobbin needle. Next, I felt a sharp pain through my finger, my voice rang out like a woman pushing out her first child. I nursed the injury and cradled it while everyone came to my aid.

As the sharp pain subsided, I felt a deep, inner satisfaction—a pat on the back for 'suffering for a cause.' I wore that small wound like a proud toddler. That self-same paradoxical joy, I realized later while reading my Bible, must have filled the Apostles’ hearts when they were flogged for preaching the gospel.

Acts 5:40-41 NLT

The Paradox of Purposeful Pain

How can one be excited for being punished? Humanity’s first attitude towards suffering is displeasure, to disembark, and to restrain. So, if a person finds pleasure in going through pain, it means they see something higher, bigger than themselves that others do not. It’s the definition of purposeful living.

I strongly agree with the statement, ‘Life is only worth living when there's something worth dying for.’ In the absence of that, we're just pawns in the grander scheme of things. This is why people would dedicate time, labor, investments, and sleepless nights for a cause they believe in, a height they want to attain, or a vision they are building.

The Apostles believed in Jesus and were ready to die for Him, so much so that they were excited to be punished for the sake of Christ. They had pleasure in going through the pain because the cause they were fighting for was higher than them.

They were aware of what they were getting into, as Christ had told them on several instances while he still walked the earth:

• Mark 10:39 NLT

  [39] “Oh yes,” they replied, “we are able!” Then Jesus told them, “You will indeed drink from my bitter cup and be baptized with my baptism of suffering.”

• John 16:33 NLT

  [33] I have told you all this so that you may have peace in me. Here on earth you will have many trials and sorrows. But take heart, because I have overcome the world.”

Why Proximity to Jesus Wasn't Enough

Isn't it shocking that the Apostles actually stayed through, preaching the word of God, and spreading the fame of Jesus despite intense persecution?

You might assume it's because they lived with Jesus long enough to believe in Him. They saw incredible, awestrucking miracles: Jesus healing the sick, raising the dead, walking on the sea, and feeding thousands.

• Mark 10:32 NLT

  [32]They were now on the way up to Jerusalem, and Jesus was walking ahead of them. The disciples were filled with awe, and the people following behind were overwhelmed with fear. Taking the twelve disciples aside, Jesus once more began to describe everything that was about to happen to him.

They knew Jesus was truly the Christ because of the things He did. So, while seeing the miracles was a part of the truth, it was a half-baked truth. Let's look at the Scriptures to see why.

• Matthew 26:31 NLT

  [31] On the way, Jesus told them, “Tonight all of you will desert me. For the Scriptures say, ‘God will strike the Shepherd, and the sheep of the flock will be scattered.’

Even Jesus knew that the disciples were not able to withstand the persecution that came with standing with him. Peter swore he would never leave, even showing his allegiance by trying to fight for Jesus when He was arrested:

• John 18:10 NLT

  [10] Then Simon Peter drew a sword and slashed off the right ear of Malchus, the high priest’s slave.

However, this display of loyalty was in his own strength. When the time came, he did what he, in himself, could only do.

• Matthew 26:73-74 NLT

  A little later some of the other bystanders came over to Peter and said, “You must be one of them; we can tell by your Galilean accent.” [74] Peter swore, “A curse on me if I’m lying—I don’t know the man!” And immediately the rooster crowed.

Not just Simon Peter, every disciple of Jesus turned away from Him. They went into hiding. (Except John the beloved). The man they had followed for three years was going to be killed in the most public and gruesome way, and they simply did not have the fortitude to withstand that.

• Matthew 27:4 NLT

  “I have sinned,” he declared, “for I have betrayed an innocent man.” “What do we care?” they retorted. “That’s your problem.”

• Matthew 26:75 NLT

  Suddenly, Jesus’ words flashed through Peter’s mind: “Before the rooster crows, you will deny three times that you even know me.” And he went away, weeping bitterly.

Proximity to Jesus, therefore, wasn't the ultimate reason the Apostles gave their lives for the gospel. When Jesus was alive, the Disciples were at peace because of His presence. This was why Jesus shunned the Pharisees when they accused the disciples of eating when they ought to be fasting.

The Power of the Holy Spirit

Now, here's the question: How did this change? The answer is in the Scripture:And you will be filled with power when the Holy Spirit comes upon you.

The Holy Spirit was the difference. The disciples stayed in the upper room until the Holy Spirit came upon them. That event marked the start of their apostolic journey and changed everything. The Holy Spirit was the higher power they needed, confirming the truth that by strength no man shall prevail.

Peter, who denied Jesus thrice, was now bold enough to identify with Christ in public and preach unashamedly. The other disciples carried the message of Christ with such vigor, they were willing to die for it. While they knew miracles were possible due to their time with Jesus, being able to do it and withstand the cost required a higher power they weren't operating in at the time. The Holy Spirit gave the disciples the necessary boldness to carry out their divine assignment.

The Modern-Day Badge of Honor

Just as my sewing injury was my "badge of honor," today’s persecution, though often less physical, still serves as a necessary distinction for the true disciple. In modern Christianity, persecution doesn't always mean being beaten or killed.

It can be:

• Being denied employment.

• Being talked down to.

• Being treated differently because of your belief.

However, be encouraged because there's a reward for every persecution you suffer. Just like the apostles got their reward for suffering for Christ.

Matthew 5:11-12 NLT

Identifying with Christ automatically sets us apart from so many things—worldly pleasures, certain ways of life, and more. I remember quitting my job as a ghostwriter because my boss' clients only wanted erotic scenes in their stories, and I couldn't deliver that anymore after finding Christ. It was painful because I needed an extra source of income while in school, but I was happy because I did what God would have me do. He who wants to be my disciple should pick up their cross and follow me.

If you have a bubbling desire to do things for God—preaching, starting something new, speaking in public—but you're too shy, scared of what people may say, or simply not confident enough, you can invite the Holy Spirit into your heart and ask Him to help you with the boldness required to carry out that task.

If you're one of these people, say this prayer with me:

Dear Holy Spirit,

I've heard of you and I've seen you work through the Apostles and your servants here on earth. I need you in my life, because without you I cannot carry out my purpose. So I invite you into my life. Give me strength where I'm weak, give me boldness where I lack confidence and comfort me when I lose something for your sake. In Jesus name.

With Love, Favour.

He turned up the wick, and the little flame cast a halo of light in the pitch-dark room. I still couldn't see his face, but I knew his glasses rested on the ridge of his nose and his big Bible lay open in front of him. We hadn't had electricity in a month. Our phones were charging at a neighbor’s house—a place we went to every night, swallowing our embarrassment after a few reluctant knocks finally brought them to the door. I would rather face the awkwardness than watch my father do it.

He still managed to crack a joke that only sounded funny to him. Everyone knew he had been out of work for six months. My mother's little kiosk out front, which carried our daily expenses, was now buckling under a weight of debt. I looked toward the curtain separating us from the kitchen, knowing she was there, sleepless, stirring her evening tea. I couldn't understand how he could still have so much faith. Just last week, we got the news that his own mother, for whom he'd poured all his resources, had died. The landlord would be here any minute to take our things. We were one year late on paying our rent and my father's good rapport with the landlord waned since he lost his job. I was here out of sheer respect, but whatever he was reading—whatever he was preaching—was a lie.

“I know my Redeemer liveth,” he murmured.

“Daddy, I have a question for you.” I finally broke out. I was angry. I needed to understand. If I kept this in for one more second, my chest would explode.

“I've heard you say it. I've heard the preacher say it: ‘The expectation of the righteous shall never be cut short.’” I paused, trying to calm the fire in my chest. “Now tell me.” I clenched my fist. “Are you not a righteous man? Does God not consider you one?”

“That’s a good question.” My dad caught it like a keeper would a football. I had never seen my father at a loss for words. He knew a bit about everything. When I was a child, I went to him with every problem. If he didn't know the answer that day, he would wake me up with it before morning devotion. This was why he thrived as a lecturer at the state’s university—until the day they sent a sack letter. No questions asked. No good reason given. Just his termination. I knew it was his religious fervor that finally got him that letter.

“Of course, I'm a righteous man, my dear.”

“Then why–” I searched for a way to put it simply, without hurting him. But I was a teenager, and I needed the truth. “Why do you get the back end of everything? Why is Mommy still suffering from that sickness? Why were you a junior lecturer for fifteen years and then kicked out? We live in this house. We struggle before bills are met. You pray every day. We fast. We go to church. You’ve helped so many people.” I was crying now. I had decided I was leaving this religion the moment I got into university, if we could even afford that. “We’re a laughingstock on this street. We are indebted to almost everyone.” I didn't say that sometimes I was ashamed to be his daughter, but the thought hung in the air. “And grandma died. After we prayed and fasted and you poured everything into her health.”

“My dear daughter,” he began, a profound pain in his voice I hadn't recognized before. I hated that he was hurting, but I still needed my answers. He took a slow breath, his eyes meeting mine over the lamp. "What you are seeing right now is a storm, and sometimes the deepest faith is the hardest thing to explain. If I told you, 'God is not the cause of our problems; the devil is,' would that be enough for you?" He shook his head. "No. It isn't. The real question is: What does faith look like when the promise hasn't arrived? That's what we are going to talk about tonight."

A lot of us come from backgrounds like these, left with unsatisfied questions about why a believer suffers when they follow all the right Biblical standards. Often, we are given half-baked answers, like the one the father offered his daughter: "God is not the cause of our problems; the devil is." Or, we hear, "God understands," "It is not the will of God," or "God will answer us one day."

While these statements contain an element of truth, they are insufficient for someone desperately seeking an answer, like the teenager in our story. The real challenge is understanding the fundamental questions that lead to such despair: Why do we believe? Why do we pray? And why do we suffer, if the Bible is filled with so many promises of blessing? This essay seeks to address the hard truth of The Other Side of Faith.

What is Faith?

Hebrews 11 provides a solid definition of faith: "The substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen." It then lists Bible heroes—Abraham, Moses, and others—whose faith resulted in what the text calls "a good report," not merely in the things they obtained. The Bible mentioned that Abraham obeyed, even without seeing results.

Why exactly did he believe? Because this was what held him till he got the physical representation of what he was promised. It was a substance not seen-God. The prize is God. There's a deep, profound certainty that comes with knowing God that satisfies. The joy, peace and rest that exceeds material things. I believe this was what kept the Apostles going even when they were persecuted, what kept Abraham going even without seeing the promised land or a son, what made Abel offer the sacrifice.

Also, in the case of Noah, he had ‘Godly fear’ when he built the ark. After all the scripture says looking unto Jesus, the author and the finisher of our faith. So, it is God. Always has been. What's even more beautiful is that we get rewarded by having this ‘faith’ in Him. A good report… even before the physical gifts.

When we focus solely on immediate results, the reaction to loss becomes predictable:

"I had faith that my mother was healed, and she was." (Positive result)

"I had faith for that position, and God gave it to me." (Positive result)

"I had faith, but I still lost my mother to an accident. I prayed, but God did not answer." (Negative result)

In the face of the negative result, the common responses are often accusatory: "You didn't have enough faith," "You didn't pray enough," or even "Maybe you sinned; ask God for mercy." This pressure to equate faith with desired outcomes—a belief often tied to the prosperity gospel—has caused many believers to fall out of faith altogether. We must correct this misunderstanding: Having faith does not guarantee the results that we desire. Having faith is having God as our focus!

Instead, what if every act of faith and every storm you endured while trusting God earned a reward? This reward is what the scripture calls "obtaining a good report" or "obtaining a good testimony."

It’s like studying hard for a difficult test: the effort itself builds character, regardless of the final grade. Christian faith is not solely based on receiving what we prayed for at the end of the day. Sometimes we receive, and other times we grow through the pain of unanswered prayers. This topic has been avoided for too long, leading many Christians to abandon their faith.

The heroes of faith in the Bible understood this truth:

The Bible presents the Christian life not as a path to comfort, but as a commitment to be a "living sacrifice." Unlike the Old Testament burnt offering where the animal was killed before being offered, we are called to live through the burning—constantly denying ourselves for the sake of Christ.

Scripture is clear that in this world, we will face many troubles. Therefore, facing trials should not surprise us as believers; the promise is that God will walk with us through the flames. This is why it is dangerous to preach only the "rosy life and the blessings" during evangelism. We must present a balanced truth:

• Does God heal the sick? Yes!

  Can God transform lives? Yes!

  Are Christians sometimes denied these? Yes!

  Should that stop us from having faith? No!

It is vital to preach this other side of faith so that Christianity does not seem like cajoling a person into a cult.

Why Do We Not Get Answers to Prayers?

This is a frequently asked question. It is true that all we need for life and to please God is already supplied; we simply need to receive it by asking. However, several factors can cause an unanswered prayer or a season of suffering. It is important to know the difference among them:

• Human decisions

• God's will

• Demonic operations

A challenge we face may be caused by one, two, or all three of these factors. This is why a good knowledge of the Bible is essential to balance out these truths.

Human Decisions

The Bible teaches a balanced truth that operates on a condition: "If you are willing and obedient, you will eat the good of the land." The inverse is also true—what happens when we are unwilling and disobedient?

God created humans with the powerful gift of free will. These decisions can make or break us; the ball is in our court. God has established systems that respond to the choices we make: plant a seed, water it, and it produces a plant. Fail to nurture it, and it dies.

Furthermore, God often blesses people through other people. He doesn't shower manner from heaven or send a raven to bring it to your doorstep. So if humans are involved, so is their freewill. What if, in the exercise of their own free will, those people refuse to bless you as they were instructed to by God?

God's Will

Before making any serious life decision, we need to discern if we are walking a path that aligns with God's design for our lives. Are we truly meant to be on this journey? If not, we may face difficulties that we cannot overcome. In contrast, there is a deep assurance that comes with suffering on a path you know you are meant to be on. You know that there is an end, and you are walking with God toward it. This is where the alignment with God's will provides stability in the storm.

Demonic Operations

Finally, demonic operations can actively prevent one from receiving answers to prayer. For example, Daniel prayed for twenty-one days. The answer was sent by God's angel on the first day, but a demonic principality delayed its manifestation.

The bottom line is that it is wrong to conclude that a person’s misfortune is solely the result of a lack of faith or a sin they committed. It is even worse when a person abandons their faith because of suffering. On the last day, every man will receive their rewards according to their works, and these most certainly include their faith.

If you're hoping for a miracle and you seem not to have as much faith, say these prayers with me.

Dear Lord,

Thank you for (mention it) because you said in your word that everything that pertains to life and godliness, you've supplied to me. Therefore, I receive this blessing in Jesus Name. Father, whoever is going to be an instrument for the manifestation of my blessings, compel them to yield to your leading. And dear God, every power that may be withholding the manifestation of my blessings, be destroyed in Jesus name. Amen.

You know how you speed out of church after Amen? I was about to do that when God just told me, calm down, calm down. Sit and pray and I did just that.

This morning I had checked my bag to see I didn’t have money for transport so I cleaned my boots because I was going to use the two legs God gave me. My church was 15 minutes away, so I left home at exactly 8:35 and I arrived just in time for church.

In the same spirit, I had sprinted up to leave after church before Daddy calmed me down. After I walked out of church, I checked the time to calculate my walk back home using a shorter route my brother showed me two weeks back. I was busy timing myself when I saw a young man sitting on the dusty floor in front of a shop. I had taken a few steps away when I had a nudge to preach to him. I didn't want to because I had time to catch up. I wanted to prove to my brother that the route he said was shorter wasn't as short as he said or I was curious to know if indeed it was a shorter route. So I ignored the nudge. But then I slowed down and used my favourite Gideon line to dismiss the feeling.

Judges 6:17 NIV

[17] Gideon replied, “If now I have found favor in your eyes, give me a sign that it is really you talking to me.

“Lord, if it is really you speaking, just give me a sign and I'll turn back now.”

I wasn't shy, I knew what to say. It was a line I had practiced over and over again in my days in Portharcourt.

“Hello, how are you?” I'd ask with such enthusiasm that's hard to ignore.

They'd greet me back with an expression that stood between curiosity and dismissiveness. It didn't scare me. But the only time someone didn't respond to me positively was just one time on my way to Mile One Market.

“I’m fine” They'd go on.

“My name is Favour and I'm a Christian. How about you?”

This is when they tell me their own name. Then I flow with what God would have me say. It was simple. But I was busy.

The path was lonely. He was the only one sited there, and as someone who's still mustering courage to evangelize, this was the perfect opportunity for me. One-on-one evangelism worked better than preaching to a bunch of people. My voice always betrayed me and I ended up sounding like a scaredy cat. I didn't see it as an opportunity because I was waiting for a sign from God. Maybe a loud voice, rain falling on a sunny afternoon, wind blowing my wig off or an old man in white calling me by name. That sign didn't come, but something crossed my mind immediately.

“The Bible is enough sign for you to preach. The Bible says go ye into the world and preach the gospel unto all men.”

But at that time, I was already close to my gate. I completed my journey and my brother was right. The route was shorter by three minutes. I wasn't satisfied because all I heard was ‘leaving the ninety-nine for the one, but you left the one to win a score in an argument.”

Defeated, I turned back—trust the sun to turn up the heat. Hot sweat dripped down the sides of my face, the walk looked longer and more crooked, the ground was like the teeth of a road construction truck had never touched it, one wrong step I'd fall to my face on an angry rock. I wiped sweat off my forehead, regretting why I didn't just do it when it was easier. As I neared the bend where the man sat, relief washed me. I was finally making Jesus proud—except the man was no longer sitting there and there were three other men.

One on a motorcycle scrolling through his phone, looking intimidating in a durag, piercings and a sweater that I didn't think suited the weather. The other two looked like they were in a heated conversation. Why didn't I think that the man may not be there anymore? I know someone who may have been watching from a distance would think I was crazy, having passed this same road. The words I had prepared in my head to say vanished and all I was thinking was how to talk to these three men. All these thoughts went through my mind as I walked straight, passed the three of them because my tactics had already worn out. I went to a shade and stood there and pretended to be waiting for someone till the three of them left. And then again I felt defeated. Again.

Sometimes we always wait for the perfect timing, the rumbling in your stomach moment, the eureka springs or some dramatic coincidences before we act out what God has ordained us to do. While waiting for these moments, time keeps passing us by and we wonder why we can't do the things we want to do for God. I picked something from what the pastor preached in church today. God's word is his voice. Sometimes we wait too long for a still small voice or some magic sign to do what we ought to do and miss out on it. God's Word is enough! God said it, I believe it and that settles it!

When you're at a crossroad and you don't know what bend to turn, and you can't hear the voice of God in the way you envisioned to hear Him, the next thing that should come to your mind is God's word! What did the Bible say about this situation? Who had a similar experience like this in the Bible? There are a lot of pains that are indeed needless if only we open our Bibles and see what He's saying.

I'm not trying to downplay signs. Yes, sometimes God gives us signs to show He's the one speaking. He gave a sign to Gideon in the book of Judges, to Moses in Genesis and several other veterans of the faith. However, it takes maturity for you to get accustomed to God's Word and acting by it, rather than to wait and miss out on great opportunities.

You may wonder what happened next. After then, I refused to accept defeat. I saw a lady cleaning her shop to start business for the day, I walked up to her and preached to her. When I finally got to my street, I saw another young guy I walked up to him and preached to him. Maybe, just maybe the prayer I made before I left church was what prompted all of this. Ha! Devil that's on you!

I went home happy, but with a few lessons.

• God's Word is enough sign

• Strike when the iron is hot

• Do not accept defeat even if you fall.

I’d be doing more spontaneous posts like this, maybe that way I’d have less drafts on my Google Docs. Do have a lovely Sunday evening!

I was on my fifth chore when I started getting frustrated. I had chopped carrots, shredded cabbage, washed plates and swept the house yet I hadn't heard the loud siren from our neighbors. It was bad enough that I fanned myself to sleep with hopes of waking up to a bright bulb in my face. I had envisioned tucking myself beneath my blankets while I increased the fan to the highest speed—instead, I woke up in a pool of sweat. My chest tightened as I marinated the chicken, what is Christmas without light? In a split second I heard the cry of children from the neighborhood. That was the best announcement to power supply and I realized how seamless everything got. I laughed back at my brother's dry jokes, I didn't hit his hand when he tried to steal the chicken I had just fried, neither did I yell at my sister for not being supportive in the kitchen.

Sometimes I wonder how much lighter your mood gets when there's power supply and the opposite when there's a blackout. It says a lot about the significance of light. Electricity or not. Light is an essential part of life, even plants need light to survive. There are no plants underneath a thick forest with canopies, save for moss and lichens that require little sunlight to grow.

What is Christmas with no Lights?

This translates as What is Christmas without the birthday boy? There would be no celebration of Christmas without Christ coming into the world. We’ve had a different historical accounts surrounding the birth of Jesus from Matthew, Mark, and Luke. John came with a different approach. He described Jesus as Light. No wonder my annoyance when there was no light. Jesus is the light of the world, why is there no light?!

Jesus came into the world because the world was in darkness. Of course the sun still ruled the day and the moon the night, but the darkness here was the state of man’s heart. Deceitful , hostile, hardened and wickedness all summed up in one word—sin. Sin means a divide from God, a state of separation from God, the absence of God.

Romans 3:23 NIV

• [23] for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.

So because of the presence of sin, God could not relate with man like he originally planned; Fellowshipping with man in the cool of the eve like he did with Adam in Genesis before the fall. And because God cannot behold iniquity, he retracted his presence from man.

Genesis 3:8 NIV

[8] Then the man and his wife heard the sound of the Lord God as he was walking in the garden in the cool of the day, and they hid from the Lord God among the trees of the garden.

When this occurred, Adam and Eve had to leave Eden and that was day one of walking the path of darkness. So many years after, the state of Man deteriorated; Cain killed his brother, Abel. Lamech, a descendant of Cain, killed a man. A generation who didn't know God multiplied the earth and wickedness, immorality and strife became the order of the day such that God regretted creating man. Therefore, he decided to destroy the world with flood.

Genesis 6:6-7 NIV

[6] The Lord regretted that he had made human beings on the earth, and his heart was deeply troubled. [7] So the Lord said, “I will wipe from the face of the earth the human race I have created—and with them the animals, the birds and the creatures that move along the ground—for I regret that I have made them.”

After the flood, the next generation of humans still sinned against God. Man could only relate with God through priests, who spent extra time to sanctify themselves enough to be in God's presence, the blood of animals which happened once yearly and they could only hear from God through Priests. They were a pretty big shot back then. Which was why some of them abused this power e.g Eli’s sons. But this was not God's plan. God wanted a one-on-one relationship with humans, and for that to happen, man had to be pure and the blood of animals didn't quite do it. A bigger sacrifice was needed. A pure sacrifice. One that cleansed man’s sins once and for all. That there was the essence of Jesus coming into the world.

Hebrews 10:4 NIV

[4] It is impossible for the blood of bulls and goats to take away sins.

Jesus the Light

John did a quick paraphrase of Genesis 1 and used an imagery of light to describe Jesus Christ. A completely different narrative from the accounts of other disciples of Jesus. While the other disciples described the physical and historical events before Christ’s birth, John introduced Jesus as the Light.

John 1:4-5 NIV

[4] In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. [5] The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

Jesus further described himself as Light

John 8:12 NIV

[12] When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”

Jesus is the light of the world. His presence drives away spiritual darkness. When Jesus walked the floors of this earth, He showed us the way back to the father through His various sermons, He healed the sick, raised the dead, delivered people from oppression and lies of the enemy. This was why He was born. To illuminate the darkness in man and restore his relationship with God.

Before Jesus' death, he introduced the Holy Spirit who bore witness of the Father in us. He is that lost connection from the garden of Eden. Now man can communicate one-on-one with God as it should be. Now you can go on your knees and talk to God about your needs, how your day went, and what you're struggling with. Like you would with your father.

Jesus is the reason for the season

Christmas is the most celebrated religious holiday, even the most unchristian person out there celebrates Christmas but lacks the foreknowledge of what the celebration is truly about. It is not about a big man with white beards and red coats running down the chimney to drop presents, as much as I love the idea of Santa Claus. Neither is it about oblee and detty December.

The celebration of Christmas is about the celebration of the coming of the lamb who would reconcile us back to God and be one with Him. Unfortunately, Christians are not loud enough about this truth because the world needs to know this! Non-christians should be told of the true essence of Christmas. God’s son, taking the state of Man, and being born in a manger (the humility) to die the death of a criminal in order to liberate mankind from darkness.

What to do as Believers

Jesus is no longer in the world physically, but he left himself in us. He gave us light, that light with which we have to show other people the way to Him. We weren't saved for ourselves, but to also save others still in darkness.

There are so many people oppressed by the enemy, others plagued by diseases, and some drowned in the pool of addictions. We see them everyday, we know their names, their pictures pop on our phones from time to time. These are the people Jesus was born for. The light of God is able to redeem them from the cla

ws of the enemy, so let them know!

With Love,

Favour.

I was on my fifth chore when I started getting frustrated. I had chopped carrots, shredded cabbage, washed plates and swept the house yet I hadn't heard the loud siren from our neighbors. It was bad enough that I fanned myself to sleep with hopes of waking up to a bright bulb in my face. I had envisioned tucking myself beneath my blankets while I increased the fan to the highest speed—instead, I woke up in a pool of sweat. My chest tightened as I marinated the chicken, what is Christmas without light? In a split second I heard the cry of children from the neighborhood. That was the best announcement to power supply and I realized how seamless everything got. I laughed back at my brother's dry jokes, I didn't hit his hand when he tried to steal the chicken I had just fried, neither did I yell at my sister for not being supportive in the kitchen.

Sometimes I wonder how much lighter your mood gets when there's power supply and the opposite when there's a blackout. It says a lot about the significance of light. Electricity or not. Light is an essential part of life, even plants need light to survive. There are no plants underneath a thick forest with canopies, save for moss and lichens that require little sunlight to grow.

What is Christmas with no Lights?

This translates as What is Christmas without the birthday boy? There would be no celebration of Christmas without Christ coming into the world. We’ve had a different historical accounts surrounding the birth of Jesus from Matthew, Mark, and Luke. John came with a different approach. He described Jesus as Light. No wonder my annoyance when there was no light. Jesus is the light of the world, why is there no light?!

Jesus came into the world because the world was in darkness. Of course the sun still ruled the day and the moon the night, but the darkness here was the state of man’s heart. Deceitful , hostile, hardened and wickedness all summed up in one word—sin. Sin means a divide from God, a state of separation from God, the absence of God.

Romans 3:23 NIV

[23] for all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God.

So because of the presence of sin, God could not relate with man like he originally planned; Fellowshipping with man in the cool of the eve like he did with Adam in Genesis before the fall. And because God cannot behold iniquity, he retracted his presence from man.

Genesis 3:8 NIV

[8] Then the man and his wife heard the sound of the Lord God as he was walking in the garden in the cool of the day, and they hid from the Lord God among the trees of the garden.

When this occurred, Adam and Eve had to leave Eden and that was day one of walking the path of darkness. So many years after, the state of Man deteriorated; Cain killed his brother, Abel. Lamech, a descendant of Cain, killed a man. A generation who didn't know God multiplied the earth and wickedness, immorality and strife became the order of the day such that God regretted creating man. Therefore, he decided to destroy the world with flood.

Genesis 6:6-7 NIV

[6] The Lord regretted that he had made human beings on the earth, and his heart was deeply troubled. [7] So the Lord said, “I will wipe from the face of the earth the human race I have created—and with them the animals, the birds and the creatures that move along the ground—for I regret that I have made them.”

After the flood, the next generation of humans still sinned against God. Man could only relate with God through priests, who spent extra time to sanctify themselves enough to be in God's presence, the blood of animals which happened once yearly and they could only hear from God through Priests. They were a pretty big shot back then. Which was why some of them abused this power e.g Eli’s sons. But this was not God's plan. God wanted a one-on-one relationship with humans, and for that to happen, man had to be pure and the blood of animals didn't quite do it. A bigger sacrifice was needed. A pure sacrifice. One that cleansed man’s sins once and for all. That there was the essence of Jesus coming into the world.

Hebrews 10:4 NIV

[4] It is impossible for the blood of bulls and goats to take away sins.

Introducing Jesus, the Light

John did a quick paraphrase of Genesis 1 and used an imagery of light to describe Jesus Christ. A completely different narrative from the accounts of other disciples of Jesus. While the other disciples described the physical and historical events before Christ’s birth, John introduced Jesus as the Light.

John 1:4-5 NIV

[4] In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. [5] The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

Jesus further described himself as Light

John 8:12 NIV

[12] When Jesus spoke again to the people, he said, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”

Jesus is the light of the world. His presence drives away spiritual darkness. When Jesus walked the floors of this earth, He showed us the way back to the father through His various sermons, He healed the sick, raised the dead, delivered people from oppression and lies of the enemy. This was why He was born. To illuminate the darkness in man and restore his relationship with God.

Before Jesus' death, he introduced the Holy Spirit who bore witness of the Father in us. He is that lost connection from the garden of Eden. Now man can communicate one-on-one with God as it should be. Now you can go on your knees and talk to God about your needs, how your day went, and what you're struggling with. Like you would with your father.

Jesus is the reason for the season

Christmas is the most celebrated religious holiday, even the most unchristian person out there celebrates Christmas but lacks the foreknowledge of what the celebration is truly about. It is not about a big man with white beards and red coats running down the chimney to drop presents, as much as I love the idea of Santa Claus. Neither is it about oblee and detty December.

The celebration of Christmas is about the celebration of the coming of the lamb who would reconcile us back to God and be one with Him. Unfortunately, Christians are not loud enough about this truth because the world needs to know this! Non-christians should be told of the true essence of Christmas. God’s son, taking the state of Man, and being born in a manger (the humility) to die the death of a criminal in order to liberate mankind from darkness.

What to do as Believers

Jesus is no longer in the world physically, but he left himself in us. He gave us light, that light with which we have to show other people the way to Him. We weren't saved for ourselves, but to also save others still in darkness.

There are so many people oppressed by the enemy, others plagued by diseases, and some drowned in the pool of addictions. We see them everyday, we know their names, their pictures pop on our phones from time to time. These are the people Jesus was born for. The light of God is able to redeem them from the claws of the enemy, so let them know!

With Love,

Favour.

Growing up, I always knew every action had its consequences. You stay out past curfew, you get grounded; you take meat from the pot, you get flogged; you help your twin brother, you end up in jail. I have one question though. Shouldn't helping a person bring good consequences?

I woke up to torch light flashed in my face, as I squinted my eyes and turned away, the first smell that hit my nose was the stench of urine and sweat, waking me to the full consciousness of where was. The smell hung in every corner of this room like a strong cologne that cannot be taken out. I barely slept well, my back ached from lying down on my makeshift carton-on-bunk bed. Here there was no knowledge of time, you just know when they wake you up, it was morning and when the sun went down, it was night time. Except you are close to wardens who updated you with what the time was. I wasn't interested in knowing time, it only reminded me that I was wasting away. But Mama Sadiya had made it her point of duty to come here every year for my birthday. I hated my birthdays now. They reminded me of the day I got into this mess.

After hearing the metal clangs on the cell bars, everyone else started waking up. A few stretches here and there, low mumbles and some muttering prayers. Why was one thankful for life in a place like this? I got annoyed whenever my eyes opened to the cracked ceiling. There have been cases of prisoners dying in their sleep or some dying after battling with diseases— sometimes I wished it was me. Better dead and in a better place than being in a place like this.

“Be like you no wan baff today.” Seyi slapped my leg. “Come on!”

Not like a bowl or two of water from that rusty tap served as enough water to wash off the smell from my body. The jailer unlocked the cell. The other boys were already in the hallway, pushing towards the back exit where the tap stood. When we got to the queue with buckets in hand, the tap coughed and wheezed before brownish water spurted out of its spout. The first guy on the line fetched two bowls of water into his bucket, that was the only way it could go round. In no time, the water would come out in tiny streaks and no one wanted to face that fate. Guards stood there to ensure no one took more water than the other person. Sometimes a fight arose where the guard was toppled and people scrambled for water. This didn't last for long as other guards came to the rescue and released tear gas to bring back normalcy. Other times, the inmates were beaten, those days bloodied bodies trailed the floor, I hated those days so I tried to stay away from trouble. I guessed that was the only thing that made everyone co-operative this morning.

“I haven't seen Kenny since yesterday. Any idea what could have happened?”

“Discharged and acquitted!” Seyi gestured with his hands. I didn't understand why he was so excited, like they were taking turns in discharging people from prison and it would soon get to his turn. “I heard there are some pro-bono lawyers coming around to interview inmates. That's our best shot at leaving this place, man.”

“Pro-bono ke? Those ones that are just looking for cases to take up and dump it after it gets tough. People aren't that nice.”

“Not these ones. They're church people.”

It got to Seyi’s turn to fetch, before mine. I had started enjoying Seyi’s company without knowing it. He always had something to say, and they were always very interesting stories. It was no wonder he had lots of friends here. Even the Generals liked to hear him talk.

“What makes these people special? They still have flesh and blood like the rest of us, surely they have needs for themselves.” I inquired, trying to understand why these people try. I wanted to understand what benefits they got from doing these things because I believed every human did everything to an end.

“It’s different when you have something you can die for. These people, they do it for Jesus.”

For Jesus? I laughed. The same Jesus who came to punish offenders and send them to hell? I don't get it. How this Jesus thing works.

We had our breakfast of watery beans pushed to us under our cell bars and we scrambled over the bland food hungrily.

Just like Seyi mentioned, later that afternoon, the guards came and mentioned that pro-bono lawyers were coming to interview prisoners. This was the most turn up I had seen for any meeting called here. I was part of them, my curiosity led me there. The chapel was used. Seeing them in fancy clothes and talking passionately about God incited the curiosity in me.

“You know, one of the greatest men who lived on earth was once a prisoner. His name was Joseph. Joseph was betrayed by his brothers because of his father's love for him. They planned to kill him, but decided against it and sold him into slave trade.

Joseph was later thrown into prison by his master after being framed by his wife for trying to take advantage of her. He stayed in prison for a long, long time. He made some friends in prison who forgot him the moment they got out. I'm sure a lot of you are familiar with experiences like this. Wasted years as a result of crimes you're not guilty of. And you ask yourself if your life is some sort of joke.”

This was the same story Seyi wanted to tell me. The prisoner who became ruler of a world power country. He was betrayed by his brother, just like I was, framed for crimes he didn't do, forgotten by friends, left for the dead for years. I'm sure when Joseph became a ruler, he threw his brothers in prison and made them rot in there.

“Your life isn't over because you are in here, all hope is not lost! Jesus offers you hope, a sustainable life.”

After that, we were asked to leave the hall and stand in a queue to be interviewed by the lawyers. Each inmate was assigned to one lawyer. There were over fifty lawyers in fine suits, waiting on each inmate. I was glad I had my bath today, I dug my head into the neckhole of my shirt—the smell wasn’t bad. I turned around to see Seyi with his own lawyer. I wanted to wave at him, but he backed me. He was talking as usual but I had never seen him talk with this much sadness in his eyes. Just en it occurred to me that I hadn't known his story, when he knew everything about mine. Outside this place, Seyi would pass for someone who would thrive in the corporate world, say a lawyer. He was very articulate and convincing with his speech. He was someone who knew what words to say in every conversation, griping you with a sprinkle of mystery like a marketer. Seeing him that way made me understand that everyone had problems. He always looked content.

I walked into the hall when it was my turn and I sat down in front of the lawyer. He was the person who first addressed us with the prisoner-ruler story. He had a permanent smile on his lips, like he had been looking for me for a long time. He had shiny, well-combed hair and a straight cut at the side of his afro. I couldn't remember the last time oil touched my skin, moreless having one in my hair, that was luxury. The ringworm on my hair made me cut my hair to my scalp. People came in weekly for our haircut. I still had cut scars from roughly done haircuts.

“How are you?” He asked.

“I’m fine.” I replied.

“So, what is your name?”

“Nkemdirim Osita.” I replied. This reminded me of days in school when I had to say my name.

He scribbled something into a brown leather notepad. “Nice name. ‘Nkemdirim’... sounds like something that means ‘let mine not be lost’?”

I nodded. “That’s what it means. Irony, right?”

He didn’t laugh. He just looked at me — really looked, like he could see through the wear and stink and brokenness. That kind of gaze made you feel naked. I shifted in my seat.

“I’ve gone through some of the files. Yours was one of the first they handed me. Six years. No trial. No bail. No conviction. Just... silence.” He flipped through the pages again. “Tell me your side. Start from the beginning. I want to understand how you got here.”

My chest tightened.

Where do you start telling a story that has no hero? Where everyone is either broken, guilty, or dead?

But his eyes said, “I’ll wait.” He was patient, I had waited for this day for so long.

“It all started in November 2019 when I got back home from school.” The event played back like it was just yesterday. “I saw my brother crying in his room and went to ask him what happened. At first he was reluctant, then he told me his girlfriend, our housekeeper’s daughter was pregnant for him and they wanted to take it out so it doesn't jeopardize their chances of their scholarship abroad. He didn't have the money at the time so I suggested he took the money my father kept and to refund it immediately after he's able to sell his fancy shoes and accessories. Which he did. Afterwards, it all went as planned until he was about to return the money and he was caught by my father. He put the blame on me and my father dropped me here.”

The story sounded so simple and short, like it didn't just ruin my life. After narrating this, I figured I hadn't told anyone about this before now. I saw him scribbling something in his paper and I kept quiet.

“Your father brought you here?” He asked more out of shock than curiosity. “Did he ever find out the truth?”

“I wouldn't know. I haven't seen him since that day.” I had tried my best not to think about my father all these years. It was too painful that a father would leave his son for the dead.

He wrote something down again.

“How about your brother? Where is he now?” His eyes trained on me, it looked like he was studying me, and it made me feel uncomfortable.

“He’s a pastor now.” I answered him, still looking everywhere but his face, “He was here a few days back, asking for my forgiveness.” I held in the painful laugh threatening to burst out from my throat.

“Does he want to drop the charges?”

“My father was the one who threw me in here. So if anyone was dropping charges, it would be him, right? Although Ify said something about doing everything to get my release.”

“Do you have his number? Maybe we could reach out to him and see how we would proceed with this case.”

This was what I have always wanted to hear. “let’s proceed with your case” I've dreamt about it on several occasions. Was this how Kenny felt when his brother took up his case? Did he have excitement burbling in his chest like I was feeling now? Like I can raise my head high, he could endure anything—the congested rooms, bad food, unstable environment—because I had someone who would fight for me and take me out of here?

“What did Joseph do to his brothers when he became a ruler?” I still had one question that had been bugging me.

“He fed them and gave them a place to stay.”

That wasn't the response I was hoping to get, but it was too late to ask more questions as another inmate had taken the spot where I was, sitting in front of the man who would be my saviour. I wondered what he thought of me. Pathetic? Unlucky? If he had any of these thoughts, he didn't show it. I had never talked to anyone about what brought me to prison like I just did with this stranger.

When I reached my cell, I clutched the hard cover of the Bible they handed to every inmate after today’s session. So many inmates had at least, a copy of The Gideons Bible from different team of preachers that came here. Some held unto it not because they read it, but because it was the only material, asides the Q’uran accepted in prison, so it served as holder to things—pieces of papers, contraband like cigarette sticks, powdered drugs, and tiny weapons like razor blades. Whenever there are rumours of contrabands circulation, the jailers came in for a search and destroyed everything. From time to time, inmates are asked to hand in their Bibles. This was what led to the death of a priest who refused to let go of the only thing that kept him sane behind bars.

I brought the book close to my nose, flipped over it quickly to inhale its fresh smell. It reminded me of new terms in school when my parents got new textbooks for Ify and me. Ify would immediately start writing his name on it and laminating the covers with sellotape to help preserve them. Mine ended up in bad shapes or lost term after term, but when I held this one, I had the sense of protection Ify had for his textbooks. I wanted to keep it.

For the first time, I opened the Bible, curious about the people in here. I remembered asking the lawyer why he was taking my case when no one cared about me and he said “Jesus came for the lost, so they can be found.” Was that something written in here too?

I lost appetite for everything else, it seemed like it was just me and my Bible, lost in a bubble. Every inmate, including Seyi blurred in the background. The preacher said I could get all my answers here. And for the first time in six years I opened a book and read from it.

In the Beginning, God created the heavens and the earth…

I had stayed long enough in this prison to know the different kinds of people that ended up here.

First, the unfortunate ones, those caught at the wrong place, at the wrong time. You could still see the confusion in their eyes, like they were waiting for someone to burst through the gates and say, “Sorry, there’s been a mistake.” But when that moment never came, the wait hardened into resentment. The weaker ones became prey, pawns to the bigger dogs who ran the place like their own personal fiefdom. The stronger ones? They learned quickly, toughened up, adapted to the system and eventually morphed into monsters the system could no longer tame. I called those ones prison-made.

Then, there were the guilty, the ones who admitted it. They carried their shame like a second skin. You’d find them in the chapel every Sunday, raising trembling hands when the missionaries came. They washed toilets, served food, tried to earn redemption through service. Their punishment was self-inflicted. They sought peace, forgiveness — anything to ease the weight on their conscience. Seyi was one of them, I suspected. Always smiling, always singing, always preaching. I didn’t like the guy, so I kept my distance. But today… I was bored, worn out. I sat at the edge of my bunk, arms crossed, listening to his voice drift across the cellblock.

“Otu osiri masiri Chineke, mma mma ya, mma mma ya di ebubee...”

It was one of those Igbo choruses my mother used to sing on Sunday mornings, back when we still pretended to be a christian family. I didn’t know the words, not really. But it reminded me of home. Whatever that meant now.

Then there’s the third kind, the most dangerous of them all. The ones who were not just guilty, but aware. They didn’t flinch or fold under guilt. They knew exactly what they did, why they did it, and what it cost. They weren’t loud. They were calculated, deliberate, patient. Those ones didn’t need to raise a hand to command fear, their silence alone could shatter glass. You stayed out of their way.

Me? I don’t know what I am anymore. I came here at eighteen. It’s been six years and I still haven’t had a proper trial. I could be here forever, for all I know.

In the meantime, I played football with the prison team, I made a few friends. Most of them promised to remember me once they got out. They didn’t. And honestly, I couldn’t blame them. I wouldn’t want to be associated with a convict either.

The cell tensed when the jailer walked in — M.N. Kunle. Everyone knew the drill. Contraband slid under beds, cigarettes vanished into toilet bowls, and conversations died mid-sentence. Seyi stopped singing. I missed his voice immediately.

“Maybe they’re here for Kenny,” someone whispered. Kenny had a court appearance today, and a relentless lawyer working tooth and nail to get him out. His brother. The guy visited regularly, brought snacks and smuggled them in for the rest of us. I envied him — not just for the food, but for having someone in his corner. A man like that could be my way out. I’d been meaning to talk to Mama Sadiya about it.

“Nkemdirim Osita!” Kunle barked.

I looked up.

“Someone is here for you.”

A ripple of excitement passed through the cell. The boys cheered, slapped my back as I stood. I straightened my shirt, tried to ignore the stale stench on it. I already imagined the ofeakwu Mama Sadiya brought, her food was the only thing that made prison feel human.

Kunle cuffed me tightly. The metal was cold, biting into my wrist. I walked past the cells. Some inmates stared with hollow eyes, others banged against the bars, furious for no reason. Maybe just to feel alive. The rebellion would cost them. I knew what was coming. Kunle and his men didn’t just beat you. Sometimes, they passed electricity through the metal bars, frying flesh like suya. The bodies were cleared out in silence. No questions asked. Just space made for new arrivals.

I entered the visitors’ hall, eyes darting. And then I saw her — Mama Sadiya, seated at the far end. My face relaxed. She had come again. God bless that woman. But two others sat beside her, facing away.

My steps slowed.

They were too well-dressed. Too clean for this kind of place. I walked around the table, and as I saw their faces, something in me recoiled.

Ify. Nelly.

“How convenient,” I muttered under my breath. My shirt clung to my skin. I hadn’t bathed in days, and I could smell myself. I felt like filth in the presence of royalty.

“Why are they here?” I asked, my voice rising, sharp with disbelief.

Nelly got on her knees, ignoring the grime of the floor. She wore a designer wool skirt, pale pink, the slit riding up past her thighs. The matching jacket made her look like someone from a magazine. Ify was no different, navy-blue Italian suit, polished shoes, perfectly trimmed beard.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, “for everything I put you through. I haven’t known peace since the day you were taken away from home.”

Home? Did my parents take her in? Had they replaced me so quickly? Or were they married now? My gaze flicked to their fingers. No rings.

I turned to Mama Sadiya.

“You knew?” I asked, trying to mask the crack in my voice. “Did you know why I’m really here?”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. “I just found out, my son. Why didn’t you tell me? Were you trying to protect her from me?”

Nelly began to cry. “I was a coward, Nkem. I let you take all the blames because I was young and scared. I should have spoken up. I should have stopped this before it ever got this far. I’ll do anything to bring you out.”

I laughed. Should have. It's all past.

It was one of those hollow, broken laughs that just leaves your throat because you don't know what emotions to show. How much of a joke my life had become. 6 years wasted. It wasn’t funny. None of this was funny. My life had been shredded, discarded like trash, and now they were here… to what? Undo it? With tears and apologies?

“What happens to my life now?” I asked. “Do you rewind the years I lost? Can you bring back my shot at a football career? Do you know how many times I dreamt of wearing that jersey, standing in a stadium, hearing people chant my name?” My voice cracked. “Who wants an ex-convict footballer? Even if by some miracle, I get out?”

I turned to Ify. “You ruined me. I want you to live with that. Sleep with it. Breathe it every morning. You’re worse than a murderer. At least murderers end your pain once. You made me live mine… every damn day.”

The guards started closing in, sensing a potential outburst.

Ify raised his hands in surrender. “I know. I came here to make things right. Nelly and I… we’ve been called into ministry. God told us to come back, to make peace.”

I stared at him, jaw tight.

“So if God hadn’t said anything, you wouldn’t have?” I turned around and started leaving. I could no longer stay in the same room as them or I'd lose my mind. I knew how this would end, they try to make up for lost years with just that? Did my parents know what Ify did? The pregnancy? The abortion? The stealing? Or did they turn a blind eye when they found out everything? If not that we had the same face, I would have doubted if his parents were mine.

“You know, sometimes I see Kenny’s brother like the advocate we all ignore.” Seyi said when I got back to the cell. I had seen Kenny’s brother with the jailers outside, in a black suit and a leather bag that held the files for Kenny's case. “He fights relentlessly for our souls to be saved. He went to the extent of giving up his life and taking up blames that we’re guilty for. Imagine Kenny's brother taking his place in jail so Kenny would go out free.”

“Human beings are not that selfless. They'd rather put their crimes on you to exonerate themselves.” I recalled the night Ify did that, the memory replayed in my head everyday as my hatred deepened.

“You have to forgive your brother, Nkem. Or you'd never be truly free even if you leave this place.” His words sounded like a warning, like he was sure of his words.

I turned to him, “How did you know about my brother? I never told anyone that.” I was shocked.

“The Holyspirit told me all about it. He asked me to tell you to forgive him.”

“And I should listen to the Holyspirit, why? The Holyspirit can say to forgive him but not prevent me from getting in here.” That souless laughter returned.

“I’ll tell you two stories. First, about a man who was once a prisoner and next he became the leader of a world power centuries ago. He too, was betrayed by his brothers. The second story is about a man who deceived his brother and took away his birthrights from their father. They were twins. Just like you and your brother.” He looked at me closely, I saw the scar than ran deep from the bridge of his nose to his left cheek. “So tell me, which story do you want to hear first?”

I weighed my choice. The two stories resonated well with mine. “The twins.”

“Very good. There were two brothers born to the same parents. One loved by the mother, the other worked so hard in his father's field. Their father was filthy rich, so may estates, livestock and minerals to his name and they were to be passed down to his first son. When their father was old and about to give his blessings, he asked the latter, let's call him John, to prepare soup for him. John went out to hunt the biggest animal for his father. Mind you, his brother, let's call him James was at home. Their mother overheard this conversation and asked James to take the place of his brother and take his brother's blessings. His brother was hairy while he was not. His mother tied goat skin on him so their blind father would only feel it and not doubt him while she made the pepper soup for him. Long story short, James took the blessings of his brother, John. John came back with a fat animal, but his blessings had already been given to James. John was filled with rage and he hunted his brother relentlessly, fueled by vengeance. Alas, God stopped him, asked him to forgive him and he did. Even if it was a tough decision.”

I didn't think I could ever be John. Forgive? Why would he forgive a person like that? I wanted to hear the second story, but I was already too angry with this one.

“John is a coward.”

“That’s like calling Kenny’s brother a coward, you know.”

“No—” I paused, “Kenny’s brother is brave.”

“We’ve all sinned, Nkem. We've all had shortcomings. Should I tell you about my selfless friend? The one that died to save me?”

“What about him?”

“You put him there too. He died for you too. And thanks to that, you can be saved.”

“Are you talking about Jesus?” I raised an eyebrow. This guy was trying to preach to me and I refuse to be cast under that spell, “I don't believe in him. He's just another made up story for Christians. A coping mechanism for this harsh world. Nothing more.” I declared, and that was what I believed. I didn't know much about Christianity, my parents went to church sparingly, the closest I knew to Christianity was my father's brother who was a pastor and his frequent visits when I was a rebellious youngster.

Throughout that night, I was relentless. Forgive? What Nelly and Ify did to me was beyond forgiving. I wanted them to feel the pain I felt when I went through all this hell. The next year after I was detained, March 5th, 2020, I fell ill and I was quarantined with other sick prisoners. It was more like we were left for the dead. I heard all about the virus circulating the world and I waited for it to take me, like it took the other prisoners. I didn't eat or see sunlight for days, only people dressed in white sacks, looking like astronauts, walking from one row to the other, carting away dead bodies. They came over me a couple of times, but when they saw I was still breathing, they walked past me. I didn't know what kept me. I remember this doctor who was brave enough to walk in with no masks on, but he wore white. He had the warmest smile that felt like a hug, I thought it was an angel taking me to heaven. He said to me that day, “My grace is…” something I don't recall now, I was too sick to hear properly, it could have been hallucinations too.

Later that day, a team of doctors conducted a test on me only to find out it was malaria. I stayed in the hospital for days, I resembled a breathing cadaver, my flesh took after shape of my bones, and I coughed blood. That period, I thought I'd die. I silently waited for one of my parents to show up and pick me up, maybe this had been punishment enough for stealing their money, but it seemed like they were already fed up of me. Like they had sought ways to get rid of me for so long and this opportunity came in handy. These times were what I wished to be wiped off my memory. It held the worst days of my life. And when Seyi mentioned it, how Jesus had been there with me, holding me up, I couldn't imagine it.

“Do you ever imagine why you didn't die in that quarantined room?” Were his words before he finally left me alone. Who was this Holyspirit and what more did he reveal about myself to Seyi? Seyi had only been an inmate for about two years, so he wouldn't have known that detail. Those were the most vulnerable moments in my life. But why was this man Jesus on my case? Why did he save me then and sent Seyi to me? Was I any special to him? As I laid down on my side, thinking, I drifted into a deep sleep. Maybe tomorrow I'd ask about the other story.

To be cont’d.

….

Storifyy’s Note

I didn't realise this story would turn into a series when I started writing. Crafting this took me time, I lost track of what I was writing, I knew what I wanted to write, but how to go about it, I was confused so I stared at blank sheets for long, prayed and asked God for help. I knew I had to put it out there, God wanted it out there because he wants you to see this. I also don't know why God has been emphasing on forgiveness but I'm not the one writing, God is just using me and I'm honoured to be used by him. We tend to hold on to the pain caused to us by other people, forgetting the one we cause Christ everyday and his steady compassion to us. Forgiveness frees you. I don't know how this would end, but I'm excited to see what happens next, just like the rest of you.

God’s ultimate gift to mankind was his love. His love forgave us, even when we didn’t deserve it. He took up our sin, got blamed for it, died the most shameful and painful death of all, just so we can secure our relationship with the father once more. He craves our indulgence, our attention and time more

than anything. He's beckoning on us to return to him and in exchange he gives us his peace.

Jesus Loves You. ❤️

Hey,

Let's skip the part where I pretend to care how you are doing, if you've gotten into a new relationship or talks about the weather. I know this might come off as petty, but I just thought it right to inform you that I found him. Oh my gosh, I finally found him! He loves me and he shows me how. Not in the condescending way you showed yourself, how you only make me feel whole whenever I did your dirty little jobs, how you whisper in my ear saying I'm not enough and you tell me it was the only way you could push me to do better. You were loud. Demanding. Always needing more of me but never giving anything that truly filled me. You kept me up at night — not with peace, but with anxiety. Regret. Guilt. And I stayed because I thought I couldn’t do better. I clinged onto you because I thought you were what I deserved, I could never get better in life.

You were fun, easy, made things feel good, even when they weren't. You made me make you my world and you knew well how to pull the strings to get me back to you, like a chain round the neck of a dog. I could bark, play, dance but one pull, I'm back to square one, you. It was until I left you, I knew you didn't really love me. You never did. I was just a pawn. A pawn in the grander scheme of things. Your kiss was a lie. You took away everything and everyone from me, convinced me you were the only one I needed.

You sent me money. Loads of it. I wore the best clothes, shone the brightest in any circle, showed me off to the world. Everyone wanted to be like me, they worshipped the ground I walked on and they threw money at me at any turn I made. They cried whenever they heard my voice, fell even, like one high on cheap wine.

But I was alone, oh, you made sure of it. The pills you gave me to help me killed me. In the euphoria of the drugs messing with my head, you danced with me, you gave me songs, but you tormented me. You told me your torment was a little price to pay for the life and luxury you lavished on me.

He told me about you, you know. He knows you and I'm sure you might know him. I see you trying to get back to me, sending flowers to my doorstep, gorgeous black roses because those used to be my favourite colours, the whispers, the pop up messages, the suggestions. Those were nice tries. He gives me lilies. Wrapped me in love. I wake up everyday to speak to him and he's always there. He holds me up when I fall. He reassures me, he tells me how much he loves me and gave me a book to remind me of that daily.

He doesn’t take; He gives. He doesn’t leave me empty; He fills me. He doesn’t use me; He loves me. And His love? It’s real, pure, and unshakable. With Him, I don’t have to pretend, perform, or prove my worth—because He already proved mine when He gave His life for me.

With you, I was restless. With Him, I have peace. With you, I was afraid. With Him, I am secure. With you, I was searching. With Him, I am found.

So here's to saying goodbye. I am his now and he's mine, there's no going back. Your enticing words and flashy things wouldn't compare to the gem I have.

Sincerely,

The one who got away.

The day I knew my parents could sell me off was the day they dropped me in front of Maitama police station in the middle of the night and zoomed off. I'd never forget that day, 7th November 2019. I gambled with my father’s 500 dollars. Allegedly. Before you judge me, I did it for a good cause. Keep reading and you'll see why.

It was like a game. I wanted to see the most I could do, how far I could get, how much emotions I could rile up while doing my ‘little things.’ My parents ignored me for long. They were busy with their own lives while I had fun with mine. But the more little things I did, the more it grew and they started taking notice of it. The missing items, bloodied shirt, swollen eyes. I knelt down for two hours when I broke Mom’s favourite painting when I was eight, I was given two strokes of the cane when I stole a piece of meat from the pot during Christmas, my devices were taken from me when I was caught in the dark with my neighbour’s daughter. That, I promise I didn't do anything with her. The girl is rebellious, just like me and she liked me too much, it was crazy. I was an adolescent, you wouldn't blame me, and was curious about a lot of things. Including a woman’s touch. But we weren't far gone before a woman pointed her torch at us where we stood. The girl immediately stood from my lap and I raised my hands up like criminals did in Hollywood movies. Funny thing was, I wasn't ashamed. It was funny. For that crime, my father invited his pastor brother to speak to me. My mother untied and tied her wrapper round her waist, raising her hands in the air and cursing in Igbo. My brother stood behind the pillar demarcating the living room and the dinning. The boy was skinny, but I could still tell because of his big head. It's not an insult, his head was twice mine and it was no wonder he was very smart.

My brother's name is Ifeanyichukwu. ‘There’s nothing hard for God.’ That was true about my brother and math and a host of other things we were still discovering. I called him Ify, even if he didn't like being called that. He came back home with lots of awards, my parents were proud of him, I too was proud of him, but there was no way I could be like him. I'd rather be his guard, protect him from the bullies at school and in exchange, he helps me with my difficult assignments. We complimented each other and that was enough for me. I can relate well with Esau's story in the Bible because I was the forgotten one and Ifeanyi was the loved one.

One of these days, my brother got back from school earlier than I did. We were 18, well, almost because it was three days to our birthday. I heard Ify crying in his room. My hand was still sore from the strokes of cane I chested in school, and my knees from kneeling on hard gravels under the sun.

“Why can’t you be like your brother?” The Intro-tech teacher repeated while he unleashed each stroke on my palm. I have heard that severally. I had long made a pact with fate, I would never be half as good as my brother. The only way my parents still recognised me was when I was a nuisance.

I opened the front door with my elbow, leaped into the clean, fresh house. There was a residue of the smell of freshly made banga stew in the air, my mouth watered. Our maid must've cleaned up and prepared food, leaving no spec of stain behind. She was the only person who really saw me, beyond my rebellion. She didn't live with us, but came three times weekly to clean the house and make food. Sometimes I indulged the thought of her being my mother. She had a pretty daughter, Nelly. She came to our school. We went to a pretty expensive school, Ma Sadiya couldn't afford it, my mother loved the girl and had taken responsibility for her schooling. Now she and Ify battled for who was the wittiest in school, they had gone abroad to represent my school severally.

I walked past the living room, heading for my room when I saw Ify’s room door slightly opened. His room was right across mine. We used to share a room until he complained to my parents that my snores were too loud. At first, I wanted to ignore him and nurse my sore, but the good Samaritan in me wouldn't do that to my only brother. I entered his room. It was clean and wide, unlike mine. Not in the wideness now, the neatness. There was a shelf with rows of carefully arranged books, another shelf immediately after the first where he kept his trophies, from when he was in kindergarten, pictures he had taken with both the principals and prominent people in the world. Qatar, Germany, Dubai, UK and London. I've only visited the US and sometimes UK whenever we had family vacations and I was being a good boy. I wanted to be a footballer. I was this close to convincing my parents to enroll me in a football academy and the price was a good Waec result. They had given up fighting it when they saw how good I was at the game. The trophies in my room could speak for itself.

Ify immediately wiped his eyes clean and looked away. His ears were still very red, thanks to the complexion our parents passed down to us. Ify hid his emotions well, from everyone including me. But it wasn't that way in the past. We were basically two peas in a pod, even if I was the bad pea.

“Why are you crying?” At first I wanted to laugh, his cry looked and sounded funny, but I knew this wasn't the time.

“Its nothing, Nkem.” After thoroughly cleaning his face, he turned to me. “Ma Sadiya made your favourite. You can go ahead and eat.”

Looking at my brother was like looking in a mirror. Only, I had altered mine with a broken nose and a scar across my left eyebrow.

“You know it would take a lot more than that to push me away, right?”

“Nelly is pregnant.” He threw out of the blues. I didn't expect that so I was thrown off-balance.

When we were younger we fought for who would marry Nelly. We tried to impress her with chocolates, flowers and snacks but as we grew older, she got more and more out of my league. I wasn't interested in girls generally. I didn't like the drama they brought with them.

“Are you messing with me?” I raised an eyebrow. “But what has that got to do with you?”

“I got her pregnant, don't you understand?” His face got red again, his face squeezed and a bubble of mucus burst in his left nostril. I resisted the urge to laugh again. You wouldn't blame me, he had an ugly crying face. “We need money for abortion and they're calling a huge amount of money that we cannot afford.”

“Hold up. Aren't you supposed to let our parents know this? You know this is serious. She could lose her life trying to abort the child.”

“We have a competition to represent the school in Qatar. This would be a big shift in her life and she could get a scholarship abroad for uni.”

“Oh, shit.” I cursed, “But you could have thought about this before playing with your private parts. And I didn't think you had a thing for her.”

“There are lots of things you don't know about me.” He mumbled as guilt flashed across his face.

“So, what are you gonna do?”

“I don't know,” He shrugged, lifting his hands halfway into the air, “convince mom and dad to release our trustfunds?”

“You know that's never gonna happen. So leave it alone. Think of something better.” I rubbed my hand on my temple as something came to mind. “How about you selling your shoes, fancy wristwatches.”

“That would take time. We need to do the abortion today!”

Then it occured to me. It was a last minute resort and it landed me in prison. I had seen our dad stash a wad of dollars in his drawer. I couldn't afford to be reckless, my parents had told me the only condition to go to that football academy was to be on my best behaviour, plus the Waec results. But then there was Ifeanyi and Nelly whose future would come to an abrupt pause because of this, so I weighed my options carefully.

“Dad has money in his drawer and I know the combination to unlock it. So this is what would happen. Look for a buyer for your shoes and wristwatch, when they finally come, you refund the money back to dad. How does that sound?”

“Wouldn’t dad find out his money is missing?”

I feared that, too. But this was the best we could get now, “What would you rather do, let our parents know about your little affair with Nelly, break her mother's heart, destroy you both’s future or the little punishment dad would give when he finds out an insignificant percentage of his wealth got missing?” What Ify didn't know was that I was saying this to convince myself too. That my father wouldn't care about a little money missing. But we both knew how stingy our father was.

Everything went as planned. The abortion was successful, Nelly hugged me to say thank you, but I'd never look those two the same way again. Ify sold his shoes and we made back the money. But while Ify was going back to place the money back in our father’s drawer, he got caught.

“And what are you doing, standing there, young man?” My father asked.

I was in the living room, pretending to watch TV which was odd. I never did that. I wished I had done it myself. Maybe that way, Ify wouldn't have gotten caught. I thought of the worst thing that could happen. My football academy? Before I could salvage the situation, Ify formed the fastest lie I hadn't seen him do in the 18 years of our lives.

“Nkem threatened me.” It flowed effortlessly. “He took your money, gambled with it and asked me to return it, threatening me. I swear it, that was what happened.”

Of course, no one would think Ify was stealing. Why would Ify steal? He was the family’s golden boy, but me? I could pass for a thief any day. Even if it was true he stole, they would easily forgive one spec of sin their golden boy committed. While my overwhelming record of atrocities whispered against me on the judgement day. The lie Ify told them was I gambled with Dad’s money, I got the proceeds and was about to replace the money using him as the bait. I was impressed with his lie. I was relieved I wasn't the black sheep. We were birds of the same feathers, the only difference was that one of us had a bigger head.

At first, I thought it was just one of those punishments my father gave. I would plead with him and Mama Sadiya would try to convince my mother and they would release me. But it wasn't. It seemed like I had bitten more than I could chew and I couldn't be forgiven for this crime. Ify never came to visit me in prison. Every month that passed, my hatred for Ify deepened, and the most was for myself, for stepping into his room that evening.

To be Cont'd.

You are directed by security as you slowly park your car at the church lot, beside a black Lexus. Your hands grip the steering wheel tightly as you stare at the entrance. Everyone looks their best, reminding you of days that have fizzled down your memory. As they walk in, smiling, greeting each other with warmth you can’t quite relate to, a strange feeling settles in your stomach.

You glance at your phone—Chichi’s last message is still on the screen.

"See you soon. I’m saving you a seat next to me. Can’t wait :)"

You take a deep breath.

You’re not the kind of person who goes to church. The last time you stepped inside one, you were a teenager, sitting stiffly beside your mother as she sang hymns with closed eyes and lifted hands. Now, she goes to church alone every week, and you wonder how she has the energy to be present at every church meeting. You wouldn’t be surprised if she woke up one day and told you God called her to Afghanistan.

That woman does daring things.

She already holds countless prayers in your house, but you’re glad you're away most of the time, and when you're home, your door is soundproof. It’s something you’re grateful to the landlord for. Her number one prayer point is your repentance, and it makes you laugh. Maybe God finally answered her by bringing Chi-Chi your way.

Chichi, with the laugh that makes your chest tighten. Chichi, with the sharp tongue and kind eyes, who never lets you get too close but never pushes you too far away either. There’s something about her that intrigues you—no girl has ever caught your attention this much. Maybe this is love. It’s a strange feeling. She never comes over to your house, she isn't always available for dates. You’ve known each other for six months but have only seen each other three times despite living in the same city.

But today, she invited you.

That has to mean something.

You inhale sharply, step out of the car, and walk toward the entrance.

Every church looks the same. Full of people who wait on anything the pastor says, filled with hope and expectations. Inside, the air is thick with the scent of polished wood that irritates your nose, but faint traces of perfume make up for it. You take out your handkerchief and sneeze into into it, your eyes water and you wiped it away. Voices hum in quiet conversations, the sound of a keyboard playing lightly in the background. You recall wanting to be part of the church band, nostalgic feelings fill you in this moment.

And then, there she is. You find her almost immediately, following the directions she gave you—ten benches from the back, opposite where the aged people say. They remind you of your mother. Full of vigour and faith in a God that she didn't see.

Chichi sits near the middle of the hall, her long braids pulled back and a pair of gold earrings. When she sees you, her smile widens, revealing her perfect gap-toothed dentition.

“You made it,” she says, nudging your arm as you sit beside her.

“I said I would.”

She gives you a look. “I half expected you to cancel.”

You smirk, but before you can respond, the service begins, the voices of worshippers overshadowing yours. You can't define how you feel, but seeing Chichi keeps you at ease.

You turn to your side, and Chichi's hand is up like the others. You contemplate raising yours as well but decide against it. You barely know one song, but they are soothing. Chichi’s voice is beautiful. You’ll commend her after the service. You half imagine waiting at the altar while she walks down the aisle in a beautiful bridal dress. You can feel it in your gut—this is the start of something incredible in your life.

And then the preacher walks up to the pulpit. He is graceful, gentle, he looks nothing past the age of 45, wearing glasses with a large Bible open in front of him. Chichi whispers in your ear, but you don’t hear it.

“We’re going to talk about forgiveness tonight.”

A frown creeps on your forehead. You hate that word.

The preacher’s voice is warm, steady. “I initially prepared something else to preach. But the Lord laid it strongly in my heart to speak about this today. Some of us have been carrying burdens for years. Pain caused by people who should have loved us. Some of us have built walls around our hearts, convinced that if we hold on to our anger, we’re protecting ourselves.”

You swallow, your fingers clenching against your knee. The smile on your face is gradually wearing out.

“But unforgiveness doesn’t just hurt the other person. It poisons you.”

You pick up your phone to distract yourself, pressed the power button, fiddled around the screen, double tapped to put it off, uneasy.

Unforgiveness. You’ve heard it a thousand times before. From your mother. From well-meaning people who have no idea what they’re talking about. They always make it sound so easy, like letting go is just a switch you can flip.

You just know there is nothing good to get from church, just a bunch of weak people, living on hope for a God who is absent when they go through tough times in life. Because why is there so much wickedness in the world if there is a true God who loves like the church people say?

Your breath comes quicker, your skin feels too hot. You need to get out of here. You can't even pretend for Chichi. Maybe the wedding isn't going to happen. You don't share the same beliefs, so you wouldn't mind if she rejects you.

Chichi’s hand brushes against yours. “Ozo,” she murmurs, voice low. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head. “I need air.”

You stand abruptly, struggling to pass through the space between the people seated, who cast you strange looks, and the seat in front. It would have been easier if you sat next to the aisle. Heads turn as you move toward the exit, but you don’t care if they think you're Lucifer's son at this moment. You have to leave.

Chichi is right behind you, so many thoughts running through her head, her heels clicking against the tiled floor as she follows you outside. “Ozoemena, wait—”

You stop, turning to face her.

“Don’t ever bring me back here again.”

Her eyes search your face, her expression unreadable. “Ozo—”

“Don’t.” You point at her, and before she can say anything else, you walk away. Chichi stands there, wondering what could have gone wrong. Was this a sign from God that you were not the man for her? Amara would shout, I told you so! You cannot change a man!

And that, she would agree with—for now. But curiosity lingers. There’s more to this. She wants answers.

***

The cemetery is quiet, save for the wind stirring the brittle leaves and the distant caw of a crow. You squat over the grave, the bouquet of white lilies limp in your grasp. Your fingers toy with the petals, pressing them between thumb and forefinger, as though testing their fragility. Your jaw is tight, your eyes flat as they trace the letters carved into the headstone.

You had expected something. A sense of loss, maybe.

But there is nothing. You see? There's no such thing as forgiveness. Forgiveness is a taboo.

The grave is freshly packed, the earth still uneven. Someone has been here before you—probably the priest, maybe the few people who thought the deceased was worth mourning, or his other family whom he held dear. The ones who never showed up when calamity struck and there was no more honey to latch off him. Words like Beloved and Missed are printed in careful gold lettering.

Your throat tickles with a dry, humorless chuckle. Beloved? By who?

Maybe by your mother, your father's supposed first love. The same woman he disrespected countless times but called just when he was about to leave this world. And she jumped at it, always ready to fulfill duty. It was a Saturday morning when your mother had woken you early to assist her in the kitchen. Immediately, your nostrils were hit by the smell of ground beans, and your stomach growled. A few minutes in, and you were already stealing pieces of fish whenever she looked away. She used to slap the back of your hand whenever she caught you, back when you were younger, but now it seemed she was overlooking a lot.

“Why are you making so much? I thought it was just the two of us.” You grew more curious as she wrapped, tied, and placed the portions into the big boiling pot.

“It’s for your father as well. He needs us.”

Your father? The fish in your mouth turns sour. “Who’s my father? And why does he need us?”

“Please, sit.” Your mother tries to hold you, but you avoid her grasp. “He was diagnosed with stage four cancer, and he has no one to help him, except me. I'm still on all his papers as next of kin.” She continues.

“Of course. You're always there to clean up his mess. You'd never listen until he takes your life too!” You walk from one end of the large kitchen, the one you had discreetly chosen. Growing up, you always had small kitchens because of the apartments your mother could afford. Sometimes, you had no kitchen at all, cooking in your room, the smell of food clinging to every fabric that hung in there. And it was trapped in the small room with no windows. You always heard your mother fantasize about large kitchens and an array of kitchen equipment. So when you chose this house, you made her dreams come true.

“We cannot allow him to die.”

"We?" You laugh. “I’d watch him die and feel nothing.”

“Ozoemena!” Her voice breaks. You stand up and leave the kitchen, wanting no part of the man who wanted nothing to do with you.

You should have come sooner, you think. You should have been here when they lowered the casket, when they muttered hollow prayers and wiped empty tears. You should have come then, to see if your chest would tighten, if some buried instinct would make you grieve. But you hadn’t. You had waited. Waited until the ground had swallowed the body and the people had moved on.

And now, here you are. Alone.

You turn around to leave when you see a figure standing behind you. Your vision is clouded with tears, and you barely see through them. You wipe your eyes to see clearly.

Chi-Chi?

Why is she here? You must be seeing things.

“W-what are you doing here?” Your voice falters. “Why are you here? Scratch that, how did you know I was here?”

“God sent me,” she says.

“Cut that bullcrap, please. I cannot be the man you want me to be, so I think you can go back to church and leave me alone.” You turn around and wipe your eyes further. You hate how vulnerable she has seen you.

Instead, Chi-Chi walks closer, her steps slow, careful not to get her heels stuck in the grass. You feel the need to help her, but you need help too, but you're unwilling to admit it. The wind catches the hem of her dress, she holds it and you look away, and for a second, you wonder if she’s even real, or if she’s just a cruel figment of your grief and exhaustion.

She stops a few steps away, close enough for you to see the concern in her eyes. “Ozo,” she says softly, her voice careful, like she’s afraid you’ll run. “You don’t have to push me away.”

You turn your face slightly so she won’t see the emotion you’re fighting to suppress. “Chi-Chi, I don’t need a sermon right now.”

She doesn’t move. “I didn’t come to preach to you.”

You scoff, shaking your head. “Then why are you here?”

She exhales, her gaze never leaving yours. “Because I care about you.”

You focus on the headstone, your fingers curling into fists. “There’s nothing to care about,” you mutter. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine.” Her voice is gentle, but firm. “You’ve carried this weight for so long, you don’t even realize how heavy it is.”

Your body stiffens. “I don’t care about him,” you say quickly, the words tumbling out like a shield. “I don’t care that he’s dead, I don’t care that he never wanted me—”

“Then why are you here?”

Her question slices through your defenses, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at her.

She takes another step, her voice soft but unwavering. “If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be standing over his grave with your hands shaking. You wouldn’t be fighting so hard to convince yourself that you feel nothing.”

“What do you want me to do, Chi-Chi?” you snap, frustration rising. “Forgive him? Pretend like he didn’t ruin my life? Pretend like my mother didn’t suffer because of him?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “I want you to be free.”

You blink. “What?”

“Hatred isn’t freedom, Ozo,” she says, her eyes shining with something you can’t quite place. “It traps you. It controls you. And no matter how much you try to bury it, it eats away at you.” She glances at the grave, then back at you. “Your father is gone. But you’re still here. Do you really want to carry this with you for the rest of your life?”

You look away frowning, looking for the closest distraction.

She exhales. “Ozo… I know you don’t believe in God. I know you think all of this is just some fairy tale we tell ourselves to feel better.” She hesitates, then continues, “But I also know what it feels like to be angry. To hold on to pain so tightly because you think it’s the only thing that makes you strong.”

Your gaze snaps back to her, surprised. Chi-Chi, calm, kind, always composed Chi-Chi, knows what anger feels like?

She smiles faintly at your expression. “I used to think forgiving someone meant letting them off the hook. That it meant saying what they did was okay.” She shakes her head. “But it’s not about them. It’s about you.”

You swallow.

She takes another step, close enough that you can smell the faint scent of her perfume. “Ozo, Jesus didn’t wait for us to be worthy of His love. He didn’t wait for us to deserve forgiveness. He gave it freely, even when we didn’t ask for it.” Her voice softens, “He loves you. Even with all your anger. Even with all your hurt. And He wants you to be free from it.”

Your throat tightens, as if an invisible hand is pressing against it, making each breath feel heavy. You try to swallow, but it’s like trying to force down a jagged stone.

She tilts her head slightly, her gaze searching yours. “I know you think letting go makes you weak. But it doesn’t. It takes more strength to forgive than to hold on to hate.”

You don’t even realize your legs are giving out until you’re kneeling in front of the grave, your breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Your hands grip the grass as if it’s the only thing keeping you tethered.

Chi-Chi kneels beside you, silent. She doesn’t push, doesn’t tell you what to do. She just stays.

And for the first time in years, you allow yourself to feel.

Not just the anger. Not just the bitterness.

But the grief. The pain. The loss.

And maybe, just maybe… the beginning of something else. You hold her free hand, maybe there was a space to let Jesus in, even if you still have a lot of questions for him, maybe if you knew him better, he would answer you. Maybe Jesus made your mother forgive your dad. All these years you thought she was the weak one, while in the real sense of it, you've been the weak one.

“Demaris 2025!”

I cringed when I heard Bro Jonathan hail when he sighted me and Deyemi in the church’s love garden. It was something we incorporated as a couple since we started dating. This was the most public place we could be seen in, and given Deyemi’s plenty roles in the church, being in public like this with his girlfriend was a symbol of chastity. It was something he held high like a flag and preached nonstop on the altar. It was something I admired about him, asides his physique. Deyemi was someone every girl in church would want to be with, his charming smile, his dedication to the church, he definitely checked off that list of being the ‘priest’ of the family. I was one of those girls, and when he finally looked my way, I felt privileged to be picked by him.

“I think I need a break from this relationship.” I started. It was the most courageous I have been in ages.

There were light laughs from the background, The sun was at its highest, giving free, top notch lighting to people taking pictures in the church’s large landscape, capturing the moment, and show off their new clothes, even if they had to borrow their friend’s iPhone for it. It was something I could relate with, I would wait for hours after getting home from church before getting my pictures from Priscilla, when I still used an old android phone. Other people hung around to talk, like me and Deyemi. There were fewer cars in the lot compared to and children scattered around the area, playing while waiting for their parents to be done greeting everyone in church. It reminded me of when I was young. I'd sit in the car for an extra hour, waiting for my parents to greet half the church’s population before leaving. I saw the pastor from the side of my eyes, talking to a group of people who were blessed from today’s sermon.

I lifted my eyes to meet Deyemi’s deep black ones. They looked so unreal, at first I thought they were contacts only to get close enough to him to find out they were natural. Now, they looked sad, even if he tried to mask it with smiles, maybe because the pastor wasn’t far from us.

“Why? We've been good together.” He tried to touch my hand but I retracted it and I saw how it broke his heart.

“I do not want to marry a pastor.” I said and looked away, I didn't know why it was something I felt ashamed saying.

The crease on his forehead stretched out and he gave into a deep throaty laughter. I liked to hear him laugh, they gave off confidence and peace at the same time, it was hard to explain. Deyemi affected me that much. For this man, I got closer to God than I ever had in years. I could tell when he was laughing in bitterness, ridicule, sarcasm or ‘you cannot be serious’ The latter was the definition of his laughter.

“Is this because I told you God was calling me into ministry the last time we talked?” He raised his left eyebrow. I was jealous I didn't have as much brows as him. I struggled every morning to draw perfect arcs over my scanty brows, some days it came out good, other days it switched up on me like Abuja weather.

“I am quite serious about this. It's not funny.”

He took my hand in his, this time, I let him. “Look at our pastor.” I did. They were together now, laughing heartily to something Deaconess Olabisi said. “You see how beautiful that is? That's how our future will be. Me and you, serving God and leading his people to the promised land.”

“That was Moses’ job.” I took my hand out of his, “Even he left Zipporah and his kids with her father after God called him to lead the Israelites.” My hand felt empty after I took it out of his.

“Is that what you're scared of? That I’d leave you? You know I never will. I love you so much. You're a part of me.”

“What if a call for mission comes knocking and you have to leave me? Would you take my hand or the hand of this calling?” The way I said it made him sit up straight. I knew what was going through his mind, why would I say a thing like that? How can I come between him and God? Had some demon possessed me to think that?

“Our service and devotion is first to God before ourselves. Even I wouldn't come between you and God. It's me, you and God in this relationship. I thought we’ve gotten past this already. Is this the problem?” He was still as understanding as ever. Sitting across me. I still had a lot to tell him. “We could do this mission thing together, go to the nations and bring souls to Christ, just like our pastor and his wife. They have such a beautiful marriage, fifteen years long and they're still waxing strong!”

“I respect them, believe me. But I do not want to be like them. I wasn't called to that ministry like you mentioned. I do not want their lives. I want to be with my husband, in our small way, building our family, serving God and pursuing business.”

“Babe, we prayed about this relationship. We're meant for each other, which means you have to change your dreams to align with God's.”

“You mean, to align with yours?” I was resisting the anger boiling within me, from bursting out. I was in public, I had to maintain composure. There are many girls who would love the spotlight, be a pastor’s wife, but that wasn't something I wanted for myself. Not with what I had seen firsthand.

There were still a lot of things to say, but Pastor Ken was already here. It seemed that he had a message for Deyemi I greeted him and sat down in silence.

“I’m so sorry, I have to steal him away for a few minutes, if you don't mind.” Pastor Ken teased, smiling. I smiled back and nodded. I had a lot to tell him and it has to be today. Not tomorrow or the day after. Deyemi was a midget taller than pastor Ken, but Pastor Ken had a huge physique. He was the humblest person I knew and very passionate about church growth. It was how he seamlessly got to the heart of the youths without trying too much that got to me. I turned my concentration to my phone, fiddling with the bead chain I had gotten from Priscilla before she travelled out of the country. I missed her. I turned on my data to check on her. She wasn't online, but I busied myself with her Instagram stories, scrolled mindlessly through my feed, laughing at every joke silently, when I came across a post. I paused, looking at it with scrutiny.

Pastor Ken is gay?

I looked up between Deyemi and Pastor Ken, wondering what they were talking about. I saw his wife from the distance, I didn't know if she had seen what I just saw or she was tired of waiting for her husband, she had a scowl on her face. Immediately, I stood up, picked up my bag and left. I had a lot going through my mind and I couldn't contain it in that position.

***

I heard banging on my door. At first, I mistook it for the sound of thunder. When I heard it again, I jumped out of my bed, my head spinning. I stood still, waiting to comprehend what was going on in my environment. When I got the stability I needed, I checked the time.

10:44pm.

Who could it be? I didn't have guests over that often. Moreless having a late one.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

I rushed to the living room, checked the hole, but I think the person’s body covered the door hole.

“Who is that?” I asked. Holding my flannel around my body tightly. I was beginning to feel chilly. I turned off the air conditioning, it'd take a while for the temperature to increase, but I could manage.

“Babe, it's Deyemi.”

What was Deyemi doing here at her house? The last time he did, they ended up in bed and they vowed never to let it happen again, hence the public meetings. That was eight months ago. I hesitated for a few seconds.

“Please, open the door I'm cold.” He cried and I felt pity for him. I went back to my room and got my robes, the flannel material was too thin. When I got back, I opened the door only to see him drenched in the rain, shivering. He fell on my shoulder and I held him, closing the door behind him. I led him to sit on the floor, went back in to bring a big towel for him. When I handed it to him the towel and a cup of tea for the cold.

I waited for him to say something after he regained himself. Maybe he was here to beg for the relationship, for us to still be together and finding a way around the situation.

“You know the news going round about PK is false, right?” He started.

I was taken back for a while, “Wait, is that what you're here for? Talk about your precious pastor, not even about us?”

“What could be more important right now? The name of God is being dragged into the muds because of these scandals. We cannot sit back and watch it happen. We have to pray. We can talk about us later, we'll be fine.” He dismissed.

“Let me ask you something, Deyemi. Did you know when I walked out of that place?” My anger was rising again. He sat down there with a big blanket around his shoulder and a mug of tea in his hands. He shook his head.

“Just great. You didn't call to apologize or know how I was doing or if someone kidnapped your girlfriend!”

“But PK asked for your permission prior.”

“That is not the point!”

“I don't get you, Marissa. What do you want from me? Give up serving God because you want out of the relationship? You know that's never gonna happen.” His accent flew out whenever he was this angry. “Or run after you when PK was talking to me? That's some level of disrespect, Mar.”

It was now Marissa or Mar and not Babe anymore. Everything was already falling apart and we had no control over it. If I wasn't this angry, I would have talked about it.

“But you have no issues with disrespecting your partner.”

“I thought you’d understand!”

“Still! Deyemi. Accountability. You've gotta show some accountability to your partner.” I demanded, holding back the tears invoked by my rage. I hated talking when angry, because I just end up crying and it's so annoying how weak I look at the point. So I stopped to take a few breaths.

“How did you think I felt when you just cornered me and told me you wanted to end the relationship because I want to be a pastor? If there's anything I learned today, it is how unstable you can be, but the church, God has never switched up on me like that. Why wouldn't I give him my all, regardless what you think!”

There was no way I could make him see what I was sensing. He wasn't yet a pastor, yet he was insensitive to my feelings when it clashed with church and duty. No sympathy, not apology, just stubbornness and ruggedness. I feared for what would become of us in the future, like how it happened with my parents. How they became like strangers in their own house, but looked their best in front of people. The endless travels and absences in our lives and no apology or makeovers for time spent. Instead, my father would lock himself up, praying, while I and my siblings took turns to serve him his meal. My father was a stubborn man, he beat us and put mother whenever he pleased and suspected her for cheating whenever she greeted a male member in church. I had seen him throw her bags out severally. It didn't matter the weather —when it's cold, raining, sunny and dry.

“You are nothing like PK. How do you think we would be a couple like him and his wife? I'm sure right now he is seeking comfort in his wife and not fighting with her.” I started, as if I just realized it. “Being a pastor’s wife isn't what I'm scared of, it is what it could make us out to be. I have told you severally about my parents’ story. And in contrast, you're more like my father.”

“I’m sorry, babe.” He scooched closer to me, trying to hold my hand and I moved away. “I didn't know. I don't know what came over me. You know, zeal for God has consumed me. Just like Jesus.”

I laughed when he said that. But I didn't say anything.

“I’m sorry. I need you right now. I know how vast you are when it comes to media, if there was a way you could debunk the foolery making rounds on social You know what, after now, I'll take you to somewhere nice.”

“That would be unnecessary, because it's over between us. You can sleep in the living room, and leave first thing in the morning.” I told him and walked to my room. I cried that night.

The next morning, I saw my blankets neatly folded and the cup clean. Deyemi was gone. It was then it dawned on me that it was really over. I better get ready for the glances and questions that'd unroll in church on Sunday.

Amara moved to the city after getting a job to work with a firm she had been following up on for years. It had been a prayer point for the last Hallelujah Challenge and seeing it come to pass was like a dream come through. Her parents were skeptical about her moving to a city where she knew no one. However, Amara was determined. This was supposed to be a fresh start—a place to carve her own path, away from the expectations of family. When they failed at convincing her to stay back, her parents had suggested she attend their church’s branch in the city, but she wanted something different. Something that felt like hers.

She had barely stepped out of her estate one morning when she saw a group of young men and women standing by the roadside, Bibles in hand, laughing like they had no worries in the world. It seemed like they had mapped the area for evangelism, maybe because their church wasn’t far from here. Among them was a tall, dark-skinned man with kind eyes and a confident stance. She was about walking back to her house, not ready to exchange words with church people convincing her to join their church when he caught up with her.

“My name is Obinna.” He said, “I’d like to invite you to church.” He was polite, and something about him drew her.

“And if I don't want?” Amara folded her arms, giving him a knowing look. It wasn't everyday you saw young people on the streets still fired up about evangelism. It was Amara’s weak point. She had never been bold enough to speak to another person about her faith, she felt everyone was an adult, and was free to worship who they believed was right. She finally convinced herself that praying for them was the only way she could contribute to soul winning.

Obinna chuckled, unfazed by her challenge. “Then I’d pray for you.” His voice was steady, warm, and confident—like a man who truly believed in what he was saying.

Amara studied him. He stood tall, shoulders squared, holding his Bible like it was a part of him, not just an accessory for Sunday mornings. There was something striking about that kind of conviction, Amara wanted to know the source, the pulpit that filled him with all that courage.

She sighed, unfolding her arms. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”

He grinned. “Very.”

Her lips twitched into a small smile. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to go, just once.

The next day, Amara found herself at their church—a massive white tent stretched over an open plain land. It was nothing like the tall cathedral she had grown up in, but as soon as she stepped in, apart from the air-conditioning that slapped her, she felt something settle inside her. Peace.

The ushers welcomed her with warm smiles, leading her to her seat. The congregation was filled with young people who worshipped with abandon, unashamed of their love for God. No one stared at her like she didn’t belong. No one pulled her aside to whisper about how her skirt might be “a distraction” although they were below her knees, or how her small gold earrings were “worldly.” because not everyone could afford those. The woman she sat next to smiled at her and she wondered if she had something on her hair.

“You must be new?” She asked. And Amara nodded. How did she know?

“You’re welcome to church.”

“Thank you.” Amara smiled back, her heart already warmed.

From the first worship song to the final Amen, Amara felt God’s presence settle wrap her like a warm hug. She had cried and sang during worship, neglecting her makeup. She laughed and prayed like she hadn't done in days, her heart was sold out and in that moment, she felt God’s love pour on her. She concluded that she had found the place. After weeks of jumping from one church to another, God led her to a church she could call home.

After the service, first-timers were warmly welcomed, filled forms and was served rice and chicken. That was new. Her own church back home didn't go past hand shakes and a flier to come again. She could hear her father at the back of her mind, criticizing it. “You cannot bribe people into joining your church with food!”

Amara had just taken a seat when he appeared again, sliding into the chair across from her.

“Did you enjoy the service?” Obinna asked, his voice bright with genuine curiosity.

She nodded. “I did.”

“I guess I didn't have to pray too long.” His smile reached his eyes.

“You shouldn't stop, though. Keep praying so I'll stay.” Amara didn't like the way it came off, like she was flirting with him, but she hoped he understood her. She was staying back in the church because this was what she had longed for, for so long.

But from that moment on, Obinna was always there.

For the longest time, Amara thought Obinna was in the follow-up ministry, because he was always the first to help. He spoke about God with so much passion that it was easy to be drawn in, to admire his faith. He checked in on her, sent her scriptures in the morning, reminded her about mid week service whenever she was done with work every Wednesday and walked her home after each. Maybe that was his way of keeping her rooted in the church. Amara had felt special all this time until she found out Obinna did the same for other people in church. Amara admired his dedication to the church and people; she began to wish she could be half as dedicated as him.

For a while, Amara thought he was everything a Christian man should be.

Then she started noticing the cracks.

It was an evening after Bible study, he had walked her home, excitement lighting up his face—like every other day. Amara had never seen him angry.

“I have this idea,” he had said. “A Christian clothing line—FireBrand Apparel. Not just scriptures on shirts, but bold messages. Things that make people think.”

That day at church, the pastor had preached something about youths being innovative and doing something with their skills to achieve purpose. Amara had been in deep thoughts throughout service, thinking on how she was achieving purpose in her workplace. Was she making an impact or she was just on their payroll? Hearing Obinna mention his big idea sparked back the messages to her mind.

Amara had been intrigued. “That sounds great. How long now have you had this idea? It could really go wild especially for Christian audiences.”

“About a year… I think. Pastor's preaching brought it back to mind. Although this is one out of my many ideas.”

“Have you started working on it?”

Obinna nodded eagerly. “Yes! Well… kind of. I have the name, I have the ideas, and I know God will provide the funds.”

She had frowned slightly. “You haven’t started saving?”

“I don’t have much to save right now. Especially since my job doesn't pay me much. But I know when God is ready, He’ll make a way.”

That was the first time she realized it. Obinna wasn’t waiting on God. He was hiding behind Him. But she didn't put so much thought into it. She encouraged him to pursue his dreams regardless of the pressures from work.

“We’ll talk about this later.” She said before waving at him and walking towards her estate gate.

Amara had her own battles.

Having gotten a job at a marketing firm, she had been eager to prove herself. But for months, she had been stuck doing small tasks—proofreading newsletters, compiling social media analytics, and sitting through meetings where her only role was to take notes. She wanted more.

The next day, she took a bold step.

The firm had been struggling with a beverage brand’s rebranding campaign. Sales were stagnant, engagement was low, and the proposed ideas so far lacked originality. Amara had spent weeks observing, analyzing data, and brainstorming solutions in the background. But she had been scared to bring them up. That morning, she put together a complete campaign strategy—target audience insights, a fresh content approach, and a digital rollout plan that leaned into influencer partnerships and interactive storytelling.

She had designed mock-up social media posts, drafted ad copy, and even created a rough storyboard for a video ad. Every detail was backed by data—customer behavior trends, recent industry shifts, and case studies from successful competitors. It was something she had been working on for a while. The pastor’s words pushed her into action. She wouldn't wait around for manna to fall from heaven, she would take a step. No one would know she had these ideas if she didn't speak about them.

Before walking into Mr. Daniel’s office, she whispered a quick prayer, took a deep breath, and knocked.

Her boss, a middle-aged man with graying temples, frowning, looked up from his laptop. "Yes, Amara?"

“I have a campaign idea for the Sparkle rebrand,” she said, holding out the printed presentation. “I think it can help us turn things around.”

Mr. Daniel raised an eyebrow but gestured for her to continue. So she launched into her pitch—explaining how Sparkle could reposition itself as the go-to beverage for young professionals, how they could use storytelling-driven content instead of generic ads, and how user-generated challenges could drive organic engagement.

She had expected curiosity. Interest, maybe. But instead, he leaned back, unimpressed.

“Amara,” he sighed, rubbing his forehead. “This is… ambitious. But you don’t have the experience to lead a campaign like this.”

Her stomach sank. “I know I’m new, but I really believe this could work—”

“This isn’t your role,” he cut her off. “Focus on your current tasks. Leave strategy to those who’ve been here longer.”

She clenched her jaw, nodding stiffly.

As she walked out, clutching the presentation that no one would ever see, she wondered if she had been foolish to try. By the time she got home, she was exhausted. She hated how she worked so hard with nothing to show for it or looked down on.

And somehow, she thought of Obinna.

How easy it would be to stop trying. To tell herself that when God was ready, things would fall into place. To sit back and wait, instead of pushing through the frustration, the rejection, the failure.

She understood him now. Maybe too well.

The fight came on a quiet evening after church. It started with something small—an offhand comment, a sigh that lingered too long.

“I heard David just secured a partnership with a printing company,” Amara said carefully.

Obinna scoffed. “That guy doesn’t even wait on God. He just does things anyhow.”

“Or maybe he already knows,” she countered. “Maybe he’s not waiting for a sign to do what he should already be doing.”

Obinna’s steps slowed. He turned to her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She exhaled. This was it.

“It means,” she said, measuring her words, “you keep talking about how much you want to do—your business, going back to school, fixing your finances—but you never actually do anything.”

His expression hardened. “I pray about it.”

“I know. You pray, you wait, and you do nothing.”

His jaw tightened. “So, now trusting God is a problem? Abraham trusted God and it was counted to him as

“Obinna,” she said, her voice rising, “faith isn’t just waiting. It’s moving! It’s taking steps, even when you don’t have the full picture. Abraham moved! He left his father's house to a place he didn't know, trusting God. Abraham gave away a land he would have owned to Lot, trusting God. Abraham almost sacrificed his son, benching on God's word! You say you want to start FireBrand Apparel, but you haven’t made a single shirt. You say you want to go back to school, but you won’t even check application deadlines. You complain about money, but you won’t leave this job that takes all your time and underpays you and take another job because it’s ‘not your calling.’ How do you expect your life to change when you won’t change anything?”

Silence stretched between them. Maybe the stress from work was getting to her and she was transferring it to Obinna or because she was tired of seeing someone she cared about whiling away time when he could do so much more. He was smart, a deep thinker, but not a doer.

His voice was quieter when he spoke. “So, you think I’m lazy.”

She hesitated. Then, finally, she said, “I think you’re afraid.”

He let out a bitter laugh. “You don’t understand.”

She took a step closer. “Then help me,” she pleaded. “Help me understand why you won’t even try.”

He ran a hand over his face, frustration flickering in his eyes. “Because what if I fail?”

The confession hung in the air between them, raw and unguarded.

Amara’s heart clenched. “Obinna…”

He shook his head. “You think I don’t know I’m stuck? You think I don’t want more? But what if I step out and nothing happens? What if I try and it still doesn’t work?”

Her voice softened. “And what if it does?”

He looked away, staring at the darkened road ahead as if it held the answers he was too afraid to find.

She took a breath. “You can’t keep waiting for life to happen to you, Obinna. You have to meet it halfway.”

He didn’t respond.

And for the first time, Amara wondered if he ever would.

Kanayo woke up with a strange weakness in his waist, a dull ache that pulsed with every slight movement. The early morning sun piercing through the raffia curtains, felt heavier than usual. He sighed, shifting slightly on the bamboo-framed bed, the old mattress sagging beneath his weight. Maybe today wasn’t a good day to meet with the elders concerning his title. The pain was a sign. He needed to stay home and allow his wives to tend to him.

The faint aroma of firewood and fermenting cassava lingered in the air, reminding him of the fufu Nnedi and Kamsi had prepared the night before. He liked it best when Nnedi made it—smooth, firm, just the way he preferred—but he never openly admitted it. That would only stir unnecessary competition between his two wives, though Nnedi would never raise her voice, much less her hand, in jealousy. That was one thing he loved about her. She was devoted, calm, and respectful, never one to nag or question him like other women he had heard about from his friends at the bar. She was also the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on. From the moment he saw her, he knew she would be his wife. Her silence was a comfort to him; he never had to worry about complaints or petty quarrels. He had made the perfect choice in marrying Nnedi.

Then there was her their daughter, Kamsi. A wild force of nature. Though she had Nnedi’s striking features—high cheekbones, smooth dark skin, and piercing brown eyes—she was everything her mother was not. Loud, stubborn, reckless. She fought men twice her size and never backed down from a challenge. Kanayo often wondered where she got her strength from. Not a week passed without him having to appease a family with one of his livestock for the harm Kamsi had caused. And she didn’t fight with women—no, never. Perhaps because they were no match for her.

At sixteen, she had bitten off a man’s ear during a heated brawl at the village square. That day, Kanayo had nearly collapsed from shame. But recently, he had noticed something strange. His livestock had remained intact, except for the ones he sacrificed to Amadioha on Eke market days. There were no more complaints from angry families, no more incidents of Kamsi’s name being whispered in the marketplace. Had the gods finally heard his prayers?

But Amadioha would not let the same person serve a false god.

The first time Kanayo saw her in the town square with a megaphone, her voice rising above the nonchalant crowd, he thought he would go mad. A Bible was clutched in her hand, and she stood boldly, speaking of a foreign god, calling villagers to repentance. He had heard the rumors, but seeing it with his own eyes had sent a sharp pain through his chest. That day, he had been walking with a councilman who was the first to point out Kamsi’s blasphemous display. The shame had burned deep.

Kanayo tried to sit up, to perform his morning prayers with ofor and gin at his little shrine, but the pain clutched him tighter. He gritted his teeth, beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He would send for the nurse later. This was more serious than he thought.

---

Nnedi smiled as the chickens clucked and flapped their wings eagerly around her feet. The small poultry house behind the main building smelled of dry feed, warm feathers and chicken poop, Nnedi wrinkled her nose a little. Her next chore for the day was to clean this place out. She bent slightly, the woven basket on her hip filled with crushed maize. As she poured it into the feeding trays, she realized how hungry they must have been. She had forgotten to fill their cans last night—lost in a long, deep conversation with Kamsi.

There were house staff to tend to the poultry, but Nnedi preferred to do it herself. She found an unexplainable peace in the quiet routine of feeding the animals, feeling the rough texture of the woven basket against her palms, inhaling the familiar scents of earth and grain.

She was about to pour another bale of feed when a piercing scream tore through the morning air.

Kanayo.

The basket slipped from her grip, maize spilling onto the ground as her heart pounded violently against her chest. Njideka was supposed to be inside with him, wasn’t she?

There was no time to think. Nnedi hastily locked the poultry house, turned on her heels, and ran toward the main house, her feet kicking up dust as she raced to her husband.

By the time Nnedi reached Kanayo’s room, her breath was ragged, and her heart pounded violently against her ribs. She barely noticed the sting in her bare feet from running so fast. As she pushed open the wooden door, the sharp scent of dry gin hit her nose. Her gaze swept across the room—and then she saw him.

Kanayo was sprawled on the floor, his wrapper loose around his waist, his face twisted in pain.

"Kanayo!" she gasped, rushing to his side.

Her hands trembled as she touched his arm, feeling the heat radiating from his skin. That was when she noticed the shattered glass scattered across the floor. The broken bottle of gin. A sinking realization settled in her chest—he must have been trying to get to his shrine for his morning prayers when the accident happened.

She wasted no time. Wrapping her arms around his shoulders, she helped him up, her muscles straining under his weight. He groaned as she eased him back onto the bed, his grip on her arm tight.

“My husband, what is wrong?” she asked, her voice laced with worry.

“I think I have to see the nurse,” Kanayo muttered through gritted teeth. “I woke up with this pain in my waist. I guess I need some rest.”

Nnedi swallowed hard, but her mind was already racing. A thousand and one possibilities filled her head. Could this be ordinary sickness, or had someone sent this upon him? Kanayo was a respected man, but he had enemies—people who would rather see him rot than claim the title that was rightfully his.

She quickly set to work. Gathering the shards of glass, she cleared the floor so he wouldn’t step on them by mistake. Then she fetched his food and placed it beside him, watching as he weakly reached for it.

But days passed, and Kanayo did not leave his bed.

His cries of pain filled the house day and night. He cursed his unknown enemy, calling on Amadioha to avenge him. But the gods remained silent.

The medicines weren’t working. If anything, each new remedy seemed to make him worse.

That morning, as Nnedi stood in the kitchen, stirring a pot of warmed herbs, she found herself thinking about Kamsi’s words.

Would this Jesus heal a man who rejected him? A man who cursed his name and clung to the old ways?

The thought unsettled her. She had never dared to question Kanayo’s gods, nor had she openly embraced Kamsi’s faith. But now, with her husband’s life slipping through her fingers, she felt something she had not felt before.

Helplessness.

She exhaled and gripped the warm calabash tightly. Maybe… maybe it was time to consider another way.

—

Kamsi had never been afraid of her father. Not when he scolded her for fighting boys twice her size, not when he dragged her by the ear after she bit off a man’s ear, and certainly not when he forbade her from going to church.

But today, standing in the familiar courtyard of her childhood home with her Bible pressed against her chest, she felt something close to fear.

She had heard of his sickness. The entire village had. Whispers of Kanayo, the man who never bowed to anyone, now crying in his bed like a child had reached even the marketplace. But she had not come here because of the gossip. She had come because she knew that all the herbs, all the sacrifices, and all the invocations of Amadioha would not heal him.

Only Jesus could.

Her friends followed behind her as she stepped through the doorway. The house smelled of burnt herbs and something metallic—probably the medicines they had been forcing on him. Her mother stood at the door, worry lines creasing her face.

“He doesn’t want to see you,” she whispered.

Kamsi swallowed but nodded. She had expected that.

She stepped into the room, and there he was—her father, the great Kanayo, looking nothing like the man who once towered over her childhood. He was smaller now, swallowed by the bed, his wrapper loose around his frail waist. His face was gaunt, his eyes sunken.

The man who once called her stubborn goat could barely turn his head to look at her.

“What is she doing here?” His voice was weak, but the irritation was still there.

Kamsi held her ground. “I came to pray for you.”

A dry laugh scraped from his throat. “I do not need your prayers. My gods—” He winced, shifting slightly before groaning in pain. “Amadioha will heal me.”

Kamsi’s hands clenched around her Bible. Has he not seen that the gods have abandoned him?

She took a slow breath. “Father, it has been days. The gods have been silent.”

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

“Just let us pray for you,” she pressed, stepping closer. “What harm can it do?”

He turned his face away, the same stubbornness she had inherited radiating from him. For a moment, she thought he would refuse again. But then, just barely, she saw it—the flicker of fear in his eyes.

He was afraid. Afraid that this time, his gods would not come through. Afraid that the prayers of the very daughter he had forbidden from going to church might actually work.

With a long, strained sigh, he closed his eyes. “Fine. But make it quick.”

Kamsi let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

She looked at her friends, nodding, and they stepped forward. Hands pressed over his frail body. She placed her own hand on his waist, where the sickness had taken root.

Then they began to pray.

“Father, I thank you for your love. I thank you for an opportunity to show yourself. Thank you for my father, and thank you for the ultimate sacrifice on the cross. Because of this great love, we can be healed. We are redeemed from the power of sin and death. Now I pray Lord, that the same power that raised Jesus from death be evident in my father, Kanayo Madueke, in Jesus Name!”

At first, his body was tense. Resistant.

“Papa, do you believe?” Kamsi asked.

How did she know he doubted? Accepting this foreign man would be the end of his reputation. Surely, those few words from his daughter had no power to make any meaningful change.

“Do you want to live?” Kamsi’s voice came again, this time, stronger than before, it terrified him, he nodded.

“Receive your healing.”

Something in the air changed. It was not just words. It was power. The kind of power Kanayo had spent his whole life denying.

And then, it happened.

Kanayo expected something dramatic to happen, like him shaking and convulsing, an earthquake happen somewhere or something break. But none of that happened. The pain just… disappeared. He had strength within him.

His chest rose and fell rapidly, his hands trembling as they released the sheets. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open.

For the first time in her life, Kamsi saw something she had never seen before in her father’s eyes.

Not anger. Not irritation.

Surrender.

“How can I meet this man?”

“But I love him! I love him so much I cannot live without him, mama!” Her teary eyes lingered on her mother, hoping for an intervention, “Tell papa.” She pleaded. Her mother stood across the room quietly, watching the argument go on between father and daughter. Nnedi had never had a say whenever these two fought. She had always insisted that Kamsi was as stubborn as her father, and was yet to know whose headiness surpassed the other. Kanayo on the other hand, knew how adamant her daughter was, and he had always tried to nib it in the bud from when she was young. He saw himself in her resilience and the fire in her eyes reminded him of his younger self. While he admired it at some point, it scared him.

“Your love has made you mad, Kamsi. And you’ll remain in this house till you decide who comes first. Your parents or a man that your parents know nothing about.” Kanayo declared, dismissing the argument before retiring into his room. The loud bang on his door afterwards made Kamsi jump a little.

Kamsi walked to her mother who had been listening to the conversation all along without uttering a word. “Mama. We have a meeting tonight. How can I cancel because of papa? Can't you talk to him?” Sometimes her mother’s silence infuriated her. That was why her father rode over her frequently. She would rather keep her reputation of ‘Nnedi, the peace loving woman’ than act out of character when her husband brought home a second wife, or raised a hand on her. Kamsi swore never to be like her mother, weak and gullible, she was going to stand on whatever she thought was right and even her father wouldn't stop her.

“You’re his wife!” She glared, “Surely you have some strings you could pull.” She stormed out of the room, for fear of reclining to her old ways.

***

“Tell me about this man, Kamsi.” Nnedi enquired. She was sifting fermented cassava. The stench filled the compound, Kamsi wrinkled her nose in disgust. Nnedi stirred the milky paste on the large sift gently, as it strained into the bucket she placed underneath it. She put away the chaff she strained out of the mixture. They were making fufu for the household. After that, they would pour the paste into a large wide pot they called agada and stir it under heat until it solidifies. Kamsi loved the way her mother prepared hers. It was smooth and soft. It went down smoothly whenever she swallowed, there was not bad after taste, except for the savory taste of Nsala. Her palm also didn't have a terrible smell after dinner, like it did whenever Njideka makes the fufu.

“What man?”

“The one you sneaked out of the house the other night for? The one you fought with your dad about?” She paused for a second, then continues sifting. Moving her hand in a circular motion consistently.

Kamsi sat down on the dead tree trunk, wide-eyed, thankful she could hide behind the darkness of the night. Her eyes wandered from the palm tree they sat under, to the others in the compound behind her mother. The stridulating sounds of mating crickets heightened the silence between them. How did she find out? Kamsi was sure she was very careful when she placed her leg on the tree trunk, climbing her way down the udala tree.

“You knew I went out that night?”

“Yes, I did. I made sure your father didn't notice your absence. Afterall, he had better things to be worried about.”

When Nnedi spoke in this manner, it was about her co-wife, Njideka. It was a night she would spend with their husband. If she was so uncomfortable with the situation, she had to do something about it, Kamsi thought.

“Well, about this man… he died for me.” She dragged Nnedi’s attention from her failed marriage to the conversation they were having.

It worked, as Nnedi blinked, “So you and the other followers worship a dead man? Our gods are alive and live with us. The spirit of our ancestors are with us.”

“What was love like between you and my father?”

Nnedi smiled shyly and looked away. “Well, he was the most educated man in the village and he saw me whenever I was coming back from the market. His house was close to my maiden home, but we never spoke until the day I saw him in my father's house. Tall, black and strong, how I like my men.” She giggled. “He told my parents he wanted to marry me. Imagine my parent's joy! Then we got married and had you.”

Kamsi waited for more, but when none was coming forth she asked, “Is that all?” It wasn't a surprise. No wonder they had no relationship at all. Knowing her father, he went after her mother because of her beauty, before another man took her. She had smooth, rich and dark chocolate skin that shone under the sun, just like hers. Kamsi had gotten tired of the compliments she got from random people.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“Well, this man showed his love very differently from Papa.” She started, “You know how meticulous Papa is about his goats? If one gets missing, he'd look for it till it's found, forgetting completely about the other goats in the pen? That's how much he looked for me till he found me.”

“But you told me he's dead.” Nnedi was getting confused.

“Yes, he died, but now he's alive forever.”

Nnedi’s attention had been on her daughter for a while now. Since Kamsi started going to that church, she behaved like a woman in love. She stopped fighting with boys older than her and twice her size, she stopped picking fights with Njideka’s children, she spent more time with her, carrying out house chores. It looked like she didn't want to fall short of her lover’s expectations. She had looked at her in admiration. She had the boldness Nnedi could never think of expressing. She sometimes wished she could be like her, bold and rugged about her faith. How could she stop her? Especially because of her husband's fragile ego. He was pursuing a chieftaincy title and a straying child would be dent to his image. Right now, Nnedi was more interested in who this man was. The man who transformed her daughter's life.

“How? How can a man die and come back alive?”

“He’s not a man, mama.” Kamsi laughed, “He died because of how much he wanted to redeem the world from sin and death.”

Nnedi didn't understand what her daughter was talking about, but it seemed like she was convinced. What sin? What death? She couldn't wrap her head around it, but what she said pricked her heart. She was curious about this man who had made her daughter mad.

Kamsi sensed her mother didn't understand what she was saying. She wished she could relay to her mother how Jesus turned her life around. “Mama, there's something I never told you?”

A new wave of curiosity washed through Nnedi. She paused what she was doing and asked, “What is it, my daughter?”

Kamsi, finally resolving to let go, opened up to her, “I have been angry for a long, long time, mama. Angry at you for being weak, at Papa for always taking and taking from you too, at the world for seeing all these go on with no one trying to stop it. This anger turned to resentment. It crippled me, so I diverted it into things. It was like fuel, consuming everything it came across. I got into fighting, I became rebellious to the extent I couldn't stop myself. It got too much, I began to resent myself. I just wanted peace.” Kamsi recalled how distressed she had been going through that phase in her life. Her chest tightened and tears was close to her eyes. “All that anger was torture, mama. I wanted freedom. Then I met Jesus.” She broke, “He took it all away when I surrendered to him.” Kamsi could tell she had finally gotten through to her mother through her testimony.

“Is that why you love the church so much? To the extent of defiling your father.”

“Yes.” She held her hand, “Jesus gave me peace, mama. He can give you peace too. I know that your silence and smiles are only a mask to the hurt you've been holding for years. Papa hurt you severely, physically and mentally. But he has not right to do so, he has no claim over you.” Kamsi went ahead to tell Nnedi about the miracles Jesus performed in the Bible. Healing the sick, raising the dead, transforming lives and saving the oppressed. Nnedi sat in silence, assimilating everything her daughter said. Silently wishing she could meet this man too.

“You know what, mama? You can join me at church next Sunday. I want you to meet Jesus too. I promise you, papa would never notice your absence.”

“You don't know your father, dear child.” It was as if she finally snapped back to reality. Kanayo might let his child sway, but never his first wife. Nnedi was his image, she reflected him. A false religion could never be a representation of a man with title. The gods forbid that she disrespects her husband. “Come on, let's finish up with this before it gets too late.”

The rest of the night, Nnedi rolled from one corner of her bed to the other in worry. If this Jesus did all those wonderful things as Kamsi said, can he also visit Kanayo? She also wanted to know why a good man like that died.

My little sister’s voice rang after hers, “Mom, it's just makeup.” I knew she had an eye roll plastered on her face. Momma walked from one end of the living room to the other, probably looking for Kenechukwu’s shoes, frustration hanging on its last thread. No wonder, her outburst. 

“We ain't going to no beauty pageantry, we're going to God’s presence. Go take that off.” She demanded. 

“What’s wrong with makeup, momma?” She came into view now, wearing a dark navy blue flay gown and a black panty hose. Sometimes I wondered where she borrowed her fashion sense from.

“You don't want God not recognizing you with all that charade going on there.” She pointed. 

“God created me, right? No makeup would make him not recognise me.” 

“I do not want to repeat myself no more.”

Kamsi grudgingly walked out of the living room. I heard her bedroom door open and then the loud this afterwards. I shook my head in disbelief. I wasn't surprised at my mother’s outburst. Sometimes I blamed it on the depression she faced, other times, I don't get it. 

“And what are you still doing there?” She shot at me. I raised my eyebrows. “Aren’t you supposed to be warming up the car?” She yelled. 

“You don’t have to yell, momma. I can hear you.” I picked the car keys from the center table and waltz off the house to her Toyota Corolla car standing outside the house. It was the only thing we got after my father passed away.

Few minutes later, everyone was in the car. Momma was driving. I could tell she found a hard time navigating the road as she focused on using Google map to the new church one of the friends she met at the salon recommended. It must be yet another powerful prophet. The sooner Momma realized all these people were no good, the better. The last pastor ended up scamming her of her hard earned money and stopped picking her calls. I recalled how much she cried and stayed behind closed doors for days. After a few days, she started speaking in weird languages I hear from the churches we visit and singing hymns. It was then she started leaving her room and she took over making the meals from me—a relief. After then, she started mentioning a new pastor. The one we were going to his church now.

“He is a sound man of God. My spirit resonates with him. You’ll see.” She had said, trying to convince us to warming up to the idea—its not like we had any choice. No matter how much I kicked against these people, Momma never listens. She called me anti-christ in one of our fights. 

“Momma! I wanna peee.” Kenechukwu danced from the back seat. 

“Sit still. We’ll soon get there.” She warned, her eyes fixed on the mirror, to see Kenechukwu wriggling in discomfort. 

“But Momma, it's almost here— nevermind.” Silence swept through the vehicle as I awaited Momma's yell. I was angry too because I would be scrubbing that backseat this night. 

***

The church was located on a plane land, a small structure, no bigger than our house. Everyone knew we were new, there was no way I was escaping standing up for newtimers. Momma didn't need to pull my ears or glare at me. I groaned internally, my eyes fixed on my smart watch as I mentally calculated how long we would spend here.

It was as if the same scene was playing itself again. Choristers sat at the left side of the altar. The females dressed in long skirts, almost sweeping the floor, blue button-up shirts and black berets that matched their skirts. I'd rather be playing Minecraft than be here. Mom on the other hand seemed delighted to be here. She sang very loudly and danced dramatically. Seemed like we were finally in that church. I loved Momma, but I wished something would go wrong with this church so we'd be on our way out. I shared the same expression with Kamsiyochukwu who looked lost, standing next to me. She was still sad from rubbing off her makeover she spent hours on YouTube learning. She was just thirteen, surely there were more problems in the world than makeup, even if I didn't exactly share the same thoughts with Momma on the subject.

Kenechukwu already looked sleepy, and in no time, Momma would have him in her lap, tired, but she wouldn't leave her seven year old like that.

When it was finally time for preaching, the pastor—younger than I pictured him to be—mounted the altar. He had his eyes fixed on me and I wondered what Momma must have told him. I wasn’t a troublesome kid, however, I didn't just believe in God. There was so much evil in the world, for there to be a big good God in the sky. The same God Momma worshipped yet he did nothing when Dad fought cancer for years and finally gave in. He also did nothing when mom’s finances crippled, we had to come down to Nigeria.

“You will serve God.” The preacher said with his eyes fixed on me and his congregation echoed ‘amens’, including Momma, whose voice was loudest. I shifted my gaze to my phone. He surely wasn’t speaking to me. The rest of the preaching had nothing to do with me until Momma was pointed.

“Where is your husband?” the preacher asked and Momma, being the drama queen I’ve always known started rolling on the floor. Every church we went to, she made the scene and I couldn't wait for all this to be over so I can find comfort in my bed. I hated thinking about the tragic situations that had befallen my family, and places like this reminded me of them. Especially when these preachers start narrating my life’s problem, detail after detail, I started to believe Momma had a hand in it. How else would they know?

I thought of Dad, in that sick bed for years. It swallowed our finances and I watched the man I loved the most become a shadow of himself. From a full-fledged man to a skinny man I didn’t recognise. I recalled making a single prayer, the first I’ve ever had—if God was out there, he should save my father. I cried. Something I hardly did. Yet, dad died, leaving us in debts Momma couldn’t keep up with. Our houses that were placed as collateral were taken by the bank, we slept at a friend’s place for a while, Momma wallowed in depression for months before we finally, through the help of friends, came back to Nigeria. I was still fifteen and I became the father and husband of this home. Momma pulled me out of school so Kenechukwu and Kamsi went to school, but she had the money to spend on preachers. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. As I stepped on the church porch, the preacher’s words came ringing again, “You will serve God.”

This, among the others were what I disagreed with. I went to the car and sat down on the passenger seat, waiting for the church to finally be over.

…..

Hello guys, Storify here! I'm back to sending faith inspired stories that would both entertain and deepen your understanding of God. I struggled with inconsistencies, but now I came up with a better plan to beat this. I have a few stories in my draft, so every Saturday I'd drop them here. I hope this was helpful.

Till next Saturday, may the peace of the Lord be with you. Amen.

There was something about them that would make you know they were all related, it was their small sleepy eyes. Grandfather had it, and it was good to say that his genes dominated 100% of his children and it transcended fast to his grandkids because there were a few kids I saw during the burial. I didn't know whose kids they were but I knew they were Grandfather's descendants. Those pairs of eyes followed me from the huge mahogany door down to the empty space on the fancy white upholstery chair where I sat. All the while, I kept wondering what I was called for. 

Grandfather and Grandmother sat at the more elevated chair. I was sure the two thought of themselves as royalty and had taken a lot of family decisions there. The ones that either brought the family together or tear them far away from each other. I wonder if they were sitting there when they decided the fate of my mother when she had me in her womb. Seeing these people gathered here gave me an insight of what happened, and what fate Mama must have faced when she was here with an unwanted baby at such a young age. I could not believe I would see things from her view point. Not until this moment. 

"Child." Grandmother called and I stood up immediately, but didn't know what to do. "Didn't your mother teach you that when you are in the company of people who are older than you that you should greet?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Good evening, ma." 

"It's 'Grandma'!" Aunty Ngor corrected. 

"Good evening, grandma." I corrected and she (Grandma) looked at me for a long while before waving me away. I turned to the rest of the adults in the room and greeted them accordingly. I didn't know how to act, it was so strange being here. Everyone was so stuck up to pay me any attention, only Aunty Ngor answered me. 

Uncle Sam was in his pyjamas, next to Uncle Somadina who was still wearing a white Senator shirt he wore for the burial today and next to him was Uncle Emeka in black polo shirt and cargo shorts and a flat cap. Aunty Ngor sat on a lone sofa, directly opposite her parents.

The living room large and furnished, artistic paintings and sculptures were hung at strategic points in the room and at Grandfather's side was a vintage clock. The walls were finished with shiny paints and huge curtains covering the windows. The floor was finished with marble tiles, it was beautiful to see. Anyone would mistake this place for a palace, no wonder Grandfather and Grandmother carried themselves as royalties.

"So, now that we are here together. Let me get right into it. I know we must be tired from the whole burial rites."

"And yet you called us out here by midnight to have this talk that cannot wait until morning?" Uncle Sam looked fearless with the beards covering half of his face. 

"Shut your mouth there. You don't talk back at your mother." Grandfather scolded but Grandmother touched his arm, to calm him down. 

"I know exactly what his problem is. One of those little girls are waiting for you in your bedroom, shameless man." 

That alone made the room silent again as if the news of his promiscuity hadn’t been announced in my presence. I began to wonder why I was here. Was I supposed to hear all these things? It seemed like I was invading their privacy, being here. 

"So, we are here to decide whose home she ends up in." 

I lifted my head to know who this ‘she’ was, only to see her pointing at me. I looked behind me to be sure it was me she was talking about, but there was no one behind me. And with how silent the room was, it showed that this conversation wasn't coming up for the first time. But I knew what I had to say. I didn't want to be with any one of them. I barely knew them, they didn't care about me so I refuse to get shipped to a foreign household, especially without my notice. Who told them I was looking for where to stay? I was fine living with my step father and siblings. Mama's death wouldn't change anything. Besides, I still had something important to discuss with Black and White preacher. I raised my hand to protest. 

"What is it, my child?" She asked, and I had a tinge of hope that she was going to respect my opinion. 

"I do not wish to stay with anyone here. I love to stay with my father and siblings." 

"Who now?" Grandmother laughed. "You should be happy I'm letting you stay with one of my children. Your step father gave you up. He cannot take care of you." She said it more like mockery than passing across a message. "I knew your mother to have the worst taste in men, I didn't know it ran in the blood." 

"Like mother, like daughter." I muttered under my breathe, so silent no one heard it.

Mama was hardly cold in her grave and I was already up here like a commodity on auction. I have never felt more alone all my life. He gave me up? Why? Who would take care of the kids? I knew he could hardly wash his own clothes more less taking care of four kids alone. I knew something was fishy here but I could not place my hand on what it was. I didn't even know whose cold treatment was better, the one from my mother or from her family. I sat back down and listened to the adults talk, feeling more alone than I have always been. What did this mean? Was my life course being changed intentionally by God again? Did he hear my thoughts from the chapel and decide to play with my life? How can someone so mighty pick someone as small as me and listen to what I have to say? Did anything I think or say matter? It didn't even matter in a room filled with my blood relatives. 

"You all know my wife. No family relatives again. We've already had a handful of them." Uncle Emeka said, as if the little conversation I had with grandmother was irrelevant. It didn't matter what I said or thought. 

"But you and your wife live alone. She works, and so do you. You must need help with the kids." Grandmother insisted, disappointed. 

"We are looking for a na– we just got a house help." 

"We all know helps from blood relatives are more trusted than—" 

"Mom, I'm not the only one you can pick on. We are four here." He shifted uncomfortably on his chair, avoiding his mother's gaze. It was relieving to know that it wasn't just me that found her gaze unsettling. 

After Uncle Emeka, every other sibling gave one excuse or the other not to include one more mouth to feed in their family, especially one who was an abominable child. An unwanted child. I expected more from Aunty Ngor. She was the closest to Mama and would be the one I would comfortably stay with compared to these other men I knew nothing about. If none of them takes me in, I didn't know what my fate would be, would Grandmother adopt me? Or she would give me off to anyone who she thought needed an extra hand with home duties. 

It broke my heart that that was all I was good for. A house help. For a minute I had thought they would want me return to school and further my education. 

"I'll take her under me." A new person introduced to the room added. All heads turned to the entrance.

We were back to Asaba to bury Mama and I sat at the extreme row in the ankara attire that was shared to every family member. It was a service to commemorate her death and I was puzzled at the number of people here. I didn't know Mama had so many friends. I only knew about how rich her parents were, and how they wouldn't spend a penny on her. But why were they here, pretending to have loved her even in life? I bet if mama knew half the population here, we wouldn't be living in the kind of place we lived all these while. Everyone knew I was Mama's daughter, the expression says it all. The abominable child, the child that rid her mother of her inheritance, the child that brought pain to her mother. The list goes on, but I knew all of these for myself because Mama never failed to remind me everyday. 

I didn't always go to church, but the few times I went, I knew the man who was officiating this ceremony was a priest. He spoke from the big book, the size of a dictionary, the same book the White and Black preacher carried every morning. So I thought he was going say the same thing as the man, instead he said, 

"There is time for everything, and a season for everything under the heavens: a time to be born and a time to die, a time to plant and a time to uproot, a time to kill and a time to heal…" I zoned out when the priest continued. 

A time to be born and a time to die…

Did it mean that everyone here was just waiting to die? Were we born to die? When I came to that reality, I started looking at the mass of humans here with pity. Some in flashy clothes and accessories, others as simple as they can be, some affluent with heavy bank accounts, others feeding from hand to mouth. Surely, humans were a pitiful lot. Or an excuse for a God who was so bored and interested in creating and destroying. 

A time to be born and a time to die?

If this priest was speaking from the same book the black and white preacher spoke from everyday, it meant that he also believed that humans were born to die. This reality made me frown. I knew I had been seeking for answers, somehow I believed that if the God he preached of was so kind and loving, surely he had a good reason to bring us all here. I had a sick feeling, to think that we were all on some show that entertained God and his people. Does he have fun when he sees people die in gruesome manners, or ones that died as children? Did he have fun seeing Mama die? No wonder humans were the way they were, striving everyday to make something out of their lives before their time is up. Maybe human wickedness reflected the laxity of a God who only reserved humans only for them to die. 

I couldn't wait to have another talk with the Black and White preacher and question him about these things. The more I thought about it, the more puzzled I got. I was going to say to his face that he was a liar and tell him to do something with his life before his time gets over. 

Before we came to Asaba for Mama's burial, he had come to the shop to buy soup items. It was then that I realized he lived in our area. With the way he looked at me, it seemed like he was trying to figure out who I was, but failed at it. I didn't give him the chance either and in no time, his back was faced to me as he retired into the busy street. Now that I knew this, I would confront him with it. Then I would give him a little advice, 

"If your God is as merciful as you make him out to be, why do you wear rags? You said your God sees everything and knows everything, Is he happy to see you go through all these sufferings? Stop acting like you're better than the rest of us in the world and get your hands busy with work. Real work." 

I was still lost in thoughts, I didn't know when the family members were going to see mama's body for the last time. My grandparents were the first to go, clad in black, they still reeked of opulence. My grandfather in black agbada with a beautiful weaving crested to the chest of the outfit. My grandfather was one example of those people that aged with grace, it was as if the older he got, the more fashionable and handsome he got. He and his wife, my grandmother, were two peas in a pod. Her skin glowed even at her age and I looked at mine, it was no match for hers and I was young.  They went over to my mother's corpse as if to say 'I told you' to her. I didn't know if it was genuine or not, Grandma pulled out a wad of tissue from her bag and dabbed the corner of her eyes closest to her nose ridge. 

Was she crying? 

There were also flashes of the camera on her and I wondered, who did that at such a personal moment? Just then, her eyes landed on me. I stood there transfixed, I didn't know if I was to wave at her and smile or keep the gaze or look away. Never have I been under such an uncomfortable gaze my entire life. Her attention was diverted when Grandfather touched her arm and she looked at me one more time then walked away with him. 

I just knew this was another avenue for my grandparents to flaunt their affluence on everyone's (who cared to notice) faces. The reception was huge and for once I wondered what exactly made my mother not have a relationship with her parents, apart from me which seemed to be the most glaring factor. There were people in asoebi, drummers who followed my grandparents down to their seats, women in uniforms and people who looked forward to when the food will be shared. 

I knew so little about my family and it was beginning to dawn on me. Do they even regard me as their family, even? 

After a hectic day, I went to my bedroom, where I was barely used to. I didn't know what it felt like to have a whole bed to myself, nor have a room the size of our entire apartment back in Lagos. I rehearsed how I would go back to Lagos with my stepfather who I barely saw throughout the burial. Thinking about that now, why was he behind the scene all through? I have to realize my grandparents loved attention, but my stepfather was no better. Did my mother's death silence him? Just before I hit my head on my pillow, I heard a knock on my door. 

Everyone had long forgotten about the event from this morning. When everyone else quickly went ahead with the activity of the day, I knew there was no one coming to rescue me. It was going to be between me, my mother and her husband who didn't exactly care about me. Maybe he agreed with my mother, that I was an abomination and would have never been here. If he didn't think so, then  he would stop her when she beat me, he would send me to school like the other kids or bought clothes for me. Mama listens to him, she didn't have that much hold over him. In fact, he was the only one she listened to. I prepared my mind on the shouts that would follow and weighed my punishments— cane or starving? Sometimes it was the both, no one was coming to my rescue either way. 

I should have been more careful. When that little boy in dirty shorts and dada (dreads) hair was hanging around, I should have known he was there to steal and not to beg for food. But what would he do with five big fish? If he had begged me, I would have considered giving him something to eat, but now I was to blame for not keeping close watch. I waited all day after praying silently in my mind that the boy would return it, with remorse in his eyes. But all that hope disappeared, the closer the sun got behind the clouds. 

It wasn't a very good market day, it was as if the current recession had affected how many people came to the small market. We scampered for ever customer that walked in here, if one seller got one, the other one carried long faces. I used all the strategies I knew from the books to draw customers to myself and somehow gained a few enemies for the day. Sometimes I thought that my mother knew how good I was with buyers so she left the whole work to me. 

It was past six, the sky was getting dark and a faint view of the moon was coming into view. I walked fast, my slippers slapping the back of my foot, with the dust it raised. However, I was reluctant to go home, knowing what happened this morning. Maybe a good sales day would make her forget about the stolen fish, but I doubt that. My mother would never forgive a mistake. I held the empty tray as I walked the untarred rickety road. Other market women were already closing their shops, tired from the day's work, kids were on their way home as well. The vibrant street market was gradually turning into a silent grave yard. I thought about sleeping back here, but that was even worse than the sin I commited this morning.

The closer I got to home, the heavier my chest pounded. The activities of the day had silently disappeared into a blur, leaving what had silently squatted in one area of my mind. When I finally reached our street, I passed the barbers shop where men went to gossip after a long day from work. It was a safe haven from their nagging wives and overwhelming responsibilities from their kids. I have caught my step father here, even if his hair was down to the scalp. Sometimes I wondered if he was one of the reasons my mother was hostile to me. Because before he came along, there were nights when my mother forget for a moment that I was a result of her encounter with a rapist. She would cuddle me and kiss my forehead and cry while I pretend to be deep in sleep. She never showed any compassion to me when I was wide awake, which was why I looked forward to night times. But since he came along, I have never seen even a slice of that compassion from her. Only anger and harsh words followed. 

The small bend before you get to our face me I face you compound, I made a silent prayer, hoping some miracle would happen and I would walk away without any punishments. My body was already weak and my eyes tired, I needed food. Just then, my stomach growled loudly and I held it down, as if my hands could silence the noise erupting from my digestive tracts. I finally got to the compound where I had lived my whole life. 

"Aunty Kate!" The children in the compound started running towards me. 

"Cally me, cally me!" They cried stretching their hands upwards, motioning for me to lift them up. They were like this every day I got back from the shop, but today I was too tired to lift even a leaf. If I carried one child, every other child would want me to take turns in carrying them, so I bent down to their level and hugged all of them. They giggled happily. It was Friday, so their happiness was beyond the usual. I used to be in school like them too, now I had hazy memory of what a classroom looked like. When I hugged the last kid, I was ready to face my fears, the hugs gave me some kind of relief. 

But then I noticed something odd. The adults casted pitiful looks on me and I was confused why. Did they already know about my fate? I knew it would be Mama Chukwudi, she was the closest to Mama and she never let any story pass her. I would have known why she closed her shop before anyone else and she walked away hurriedly without saying a word. Just then, all the confidence I thought I had built crashed like a pack of card. But I was too close to our house to start turning back. I knocked on the door and it was immediately opened. 

"That is her! The witch!" A voice shouted when entered. The voice belonged to Mama's sister, Ngozi, but everyone called her Ngor. She was Mama's only family that still spoke to her. She lived in Asaba, but why was she here? I didn't know she was visiting. She supported whatever Mama did and I wouldn't be shocked if she was told about the fish theft. I looked around, but Mama wasn't here, had she seen me coming and had gone to dip my can in hot atarodo?(pepper)

"You finally killed her abi? Are you happy now?"

The white and black preacher was the first person to make daring statements like this. We call him black and white preacher because he stood here every early morning, disturbing this neigbourhood with his megaphone, preaching Jesus wearing a black pair of suits I doubt if he washed. I wish my mother was here to hear this, maybe she would have treated me differently from every other child of hers. But I decided against it, she would pour him the water she just used to wash the frozen fish she just bought. Those ones with terrible smell that would be latched onto your skin for days. 

"He spoke unto Jeremiah, that even before conception, he had ordained him a prophet, hallelujah! God is intentional about every single person on earth." 

I wondered if I was one of those people God was intentional about. My own mother hated me, but she was the one who brought me to this world. I have never understood what it meant to be shown motherly affection. I have always been the despised one and even now, as early as 6, she had sent me to go from compound to compound, hawking pap while she prepared her other kids for school. 

I held the sides of the stainless tray tightly till I couldn't tell if blood flowed freely in my palm. I was sure the white and black preacher had taken notice of me, he was looking towards my direction now and I didn't know if I should run or stay back and ask the question that always lingered on my mind. 

Why was I born? 

I wanted to continue my business because by 9am I should have finished the pap in the tray and open the little kiosk where we sold food items in our neighborhood. Either that or one of my mother's aproko friends, Iya omolade catches me here and reports me to my mother. I started hastening my steps, recalling the new pairs of cane she bought just for me since the other ones were short from constant use. The evidence of its usage was on my back. Bold red marks that turned into black markings after a few days. 

"Buy your sweet pap!" 

I came out very early in the morning because I should become the first thing my potential customers heard before deciding what to eat that morning. If it wasn't pap, it would be ripe plantain, but people loved this pap my mother made with millets better than the one made with corn and dawa. If I sold everything, I would be early enough to open the shop. Maybe just today, she wouldn't call me names or spit on the ground I stepped on. Even that was better that her making new marks on my back with her cane. 

"Buy your pap! Your sweet pap!" 

It was a good morning. Usually I didn't get sold out this early except on Saturdays when it seemed like everyone wanted pap and they came to the shop when they saw that my pap was finished. Those were days I over-worked myself helping with the shop and the kids. Washing a week's old heap of clothes, cleaning the house and ironing their clothes against Sunday. I hated the weekend, I was already dreading that today was Friday.

When I got to the shop, I opened for a new day. I greeted some of our neighbors, Mama Chukwuma, by the right— a tall hefty woman who didn't know how to smile and Iya Shine with heavy tribal marks on the sides of her cheek. She had two children— Shine, who was my mate and Joy who was in her final class in primary school. Shine had stopped asking why I didn't go to school and I was relieved about that. 

"Ah, omó dada! You came very early today."

"Yes ma. I sold out all the ogi early."

"It must be a good market day for you, dear."

"Yes oh!"

I cleaned out the shop, set the fire place for smoked fish and kept the few shawa my mother prepared the day before. I kept them carefully, size by size to attract customers. I washed the fresh tomatoes and carefully arranged them as well according to their cost. 

I had just turned to bring out the basins of garri and rice when I turned back to see that five fishes were missing from the strainer. I cleaned my eyes, not believing what had just played out. Maybe I was just stressed from waking up very early today. There was no way my fish would be missing. After rubbing my eyes, it became clearer that I had been robbed. This early in the morning? I felt my blood begin to boil and my skin hot but the sun wasn't out yet. I felt a sharp pain run across my head as I tried to think about how to explain to my mother that we had lost 5,000 worth of fish this early in the morning. 

"Is everything alright?" Iya Shine asked, having seen the worry in my eyes. 

"The …" My voice became too heavy for my mouth to form words. I flapped my fingers, pacing from one end of our shop to the end, the smell of mixed spices and old oil greeted my nose. Iya Shone was getting confused by my instability. "They have thief my fish! The fish I keep here!" I couldn't decide what tone to use, to cry or shout or be angry. But however I put it, I had communicated to Iya Shine that I was in trouble. Big trouble. 

Thank you for reading today's episode on ‘Why am I here?’ Its one part out of a five parts series. I'll be releasing the second part of the series tomorrow, so watch this space closely! I'm glad I finally put my thoughts out there, so I would like to know what you think of this part.