WALKING ON WATERS CHAPTER 6

                           

                             CHAPTER 6

                            YADAH’S POV

"Rora, careful, you're driving too fast," Aunty Ibiyemi's voice penetrated through the confines of the car as we navigated the narrow lane leading to Ajegunle. Outside, the bustling streets of Lagos buzzed with activity; motorbikes weaved in and out of traffic, horns blared incessantly, and pedestrians darted across the road, narrowly avoiding collisions.

Through the window, I caught glimpses of colourful market stalls selling everything from fresh produce to vibrant fabrics. The air was thick with the scent of fried plantains and roasted corn, mingling with the exhaust fumes of passing vehicles.

Inside the car, Aunty Ibiyemi's fingers clenched around the door handle, her knuckles whitening with a feigned sense of urgency.

 However, the mischievous twinkle in her eyes betrayed her facade of anxiety. Despite the steady rhythm of the engine's hum, suggesting a calm journey, her occasional sharp intakes of breath were accompanied by stifled giggles, revealing the playful charade she was orchestrating. As we leisurely navigated the streets towards Ajegunle, I couldn't help but suppress a silent chuckle at her theatrics, knowing full well that we were well within the speed limits.

"Yadah, please, I have dependents waiting for me at home, oh. My children, grandchildren, plus my future grandchildren, aside from the ones you refuse to birth, are expecting me to be in good health, so don't cut that expectation short," Aunty Ibiyemi reprimanded, her tone firm and laced with a hint of urgency, as I swiftly manoeuvred into another lane, following the directions from my Google Maps automated voice command. Her last words caused a flinch inside me, making me reflect on their weight.

"If not because Yele is just so opinionated and would not listen to my words," she muttered, her hand slamming against the top of the car's glove compartment in frustration. "Is this the kind of car he should purchase for you?"

Her disapproval was palpable as she continued, "This is not the car that befits a woman. A Toyota Corolla or Honda Accord is the best car for women, not this Obokun Oloye you are driving," she remarked, referring to the E350 Mercedes Benz I was currently navigating through the streets.

As Aunty Ibiyemi rants, her words echoing in the confines of the car, I offer a silent prayer of thanksgiving to God for guiding my decision to choose this car over the G-wagon. The sound of her frustration fills the air, but internally, I am grateful for the subtle nudge of intuition that led me here.

Yele's insistence on why I didn't choose the G-wagon still echoes in my thoughts, but I reassure myself quietly that my decision was wise. Despite his probing, I adeptly sidestepped his questions, placing my trust in my instincts and feeling reassured by my choice.

A few days ago, Aunty Ibiyemi had called me, expressing her desire to visit a place together. Despite my inquiries to know where we were going, she remained elusive, leaving me in the dark.

 

"Or do you think I want to harm you?" she quipped during her call to me

"No, ma, I just wanted to know, so that I could plan my sched--"

"Pele, Mrs. Scheduler," she interrupted sharply, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "As if I, the one who made the call to you, am jobless. Anyway, if you don't come along with me, that would clearly tell me what you think about me. That would mean you don't trust me enough not to harm you," she declared, her words laced with emotional blackmail.

"And I do not need to tell you again," she whispered, her voice low and intense, "that your husband must not know about this outing." Her words carried a weighty implication, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

"Understood, ma," I responded, my mind racing with conflicting thoughts,torn between her instruction not to inform my husband about this mysterious journey and the urge to tell him. I couldn't help but imagine how Yele would react at the mention of Aunty Ibiyemi. In fact, if I had told him, he would have been the one driving this car at the moment, with me beside him and Aunty Ibiyemi in the backseat. A quiet chuckle escaped me at the whimsical thought, contrasting with the weight of the decision I had to make.

Now, as I subtly gazed at her while we drove closer to our destination, I realized she had intentionally kept our outing a secret from Yele, preventing me from informing him about our mysterious excursion.

Regardless of Aunty Ibiyemi's directive, I ensured Bodisere, my cousin, was privy to our undisclosed trip. However, I had to extract a promise of secrecy from her regarding Yele. After all, Aunty Ibiyemi only specified that I shouldn't inform her nephew, not my own cousin, I mused as we came close to an old building.

"Alagba, Reverend, good afternoon oh,”Aunty Ibiyemi greeted with reverence as she crossed the threshold of the aged building, its weathered exterior resembling that of an old shop.

 "It's me, Iya Murewa," she announced, her tone carrying a sense of recognition and familiarity as she addressed the unknown clergyman.

"Come inside, nau," she urged me, her voice coaxing as I stood rooted to the spot. Torn between following her or turning away. Lost in the tumult of thoughts, I grappled with the unknown scenario awaiting me, juxtaposed with the trust I chose to place in Aunty Ibiyemi, this moment as my gaze lingered on her figure, clad in a vibrant ankara iro and buba, adorned with a matching headgear.

"Ah, Iya Murewa, you are the one," exclaimed the middle-aged man, his voice filled with recognition and warmth as he stepped into the building from another door. His attire, a colourful patchwork of fabrics, spoke volumes about his eclectic taste.

"Beeni, yes, I am the one, sir," Aunty Ibiyemi replied warmly, her voice filled with respect as she greeted the eccentric man of God. With a graceful half-genuflection, she extended her welcome, saying, "Eku Ojo three, e ku ise, Baba.”

"We thank God," the clergyman replied, his voice calm as he eased himself into an old plastic white chair.

"Enter now, Yadah," Aunty's voice rang out, pulling me from my reverie as I lingered outside, absorbing the surroundings with silent sighs. My eyes darted back and forth, scanning our destination.

"And put your slippers off, as you are coming in," she instructed.

"Ok ma, but where should I put it?" I asked innocently.

"On my head, come and keep it on my head," she replied with sarcasm, her tone laced with chide as she invoked the familiar phrase used by African mothers.

Laying off her words, I clutched my handbag and slippers tightly as I entered the religious, peculiar-looking building. Its weathered exterior bore faded paint and intricate carvings, giving it an air of mystique. The arched doorway beckoned, adorned with symbols of various faiths, hinting at the diverse spiritual practices within. I could see different denomination churches stickers- MFM, Winners, Celestial, Anglican, Redeemed Stickers. As I stepped inside, the dimly lit interior revealed ornate tapestries, flickering candlelight, and the faint scent of incense, adding to the mysterious ambiance of the place.

"What about Mummy?" Aunty Ibiyemi's inquiry pierced the air.

"She went to the Mountain; she took some pregnant women for prayers on the mountain," the clergyman responded, his fingers moving methodically along the rosary beads he held. As I settled into the comfort of a plastic chair, my gaze wandered to the wall adorned with aged frames, each displaying a portrait of renowned African clergymen, some of whom had already passed away.

 "I'm truly delighted to hear that. Glory to God! Indeed, the God who called you is worthy to be served." Aunty Ibiyemi uttered,her voice infused with reverence,as a wide smile bloomed on her face. 

Turning towards the clergyman, she tilted her chin slightly in my direction. "This, Reverend," she began, her voice dropping to a reverent hush, "is the girl I told you about .”

“Hmm,” The clergyman uttered a low noncommittal response, his eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. A beat of silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions.

"Your nephew's wife, the one you mentioned?" he finally asked, his gaze lingering a touch too long as it travelled down my body. The air crackled with a sudden tension.

"Yes, sir, that's her," Aunty Ibiyemi confirmed, her voice clipped and sharp, cutting through the tension that thickened the atmosphere.

"She's the one married to your nephew?”He repeated the question, his voice low and gravelly. This time, his stare held a glint that could have been suspicion, disapproval, or something else entirely.

Aunty Ibiyemi met his gaze head-on, nodding her head as she darted her eyes between him and me.

“Very well then” He uttered, rising to his feet with an inscrutable sigh , his face, a mask of neutrality that offered no clues to his thoughts. His fingers, however, betrayed a hint of agitation as they fumbled with the rosary beads, clicking them around in a rapid, almost frantic circle. 

"Let us pray," he finally conceded, signalling his willingness to engage in prayer. As he uttered those words,Aunty Ibiyemi gracefully sank to her knees, her eyes silently imploring me to join her in prayer, conveying the urgency and reverence of the moment. 

In that moment, My mind became a battleground, torn between defiance and submission.One part of me bristled at the thought of kneeling before a man whose gaze exuded cold suspicion. Yet, the memory of Aunty Ibiyemi's commanding glance lingered, a silent mandate that brooked no dissent,Disobeying felt like inviting a hurricane.

With a defeated sigh that echoed only in the caverns of my chest, I yielded.The bared concrete floor seemed miles away as I began my descent, each inch a reluctant concession. It felt less like kneeling and more like surrendering to an invisible force.

 "In Jesus' name!”The clergyman's voice boomed. The sound startled me, momentarily breaking the hold of my internal struggle. 

 Aunty Ibiyemi, her movements quick and unexpected, surprised me further by reaching out and placing a cool white handkerchief on my head.

 For the first time since our journey began, this simple gesture of hers became a silent reassurance, anchoring me amidst the swirling confusion in my mind.

"Baba, in Jesus' name!”The clergyman's voice boomed once more, The force of his pronouncement sent shivers down my spine. A fervent "Amen" erupted from Aunty Ibiyemi's lips, her voice filled with a conviction that both surprised and soothed me.

The clergyman's voice rose a notch, his words tinged with fervour. "In the matchless name of the God that called me!" he declared vehemently.

Aunty Ibiyemi responded with another resounding "Amen," her eyes squeezed shut in fervent prayer. In stark contrast, I found my gaze drifting around the room, utterly lost. My mind was a blank slate, unsure of what prayers were expected or appropriate.

A sheen of sweat began to bead on the clergyman's forehead despite the cool air. His head shook slightly from side to side, his eyes remaining tightly closed in concentration. Discomfort prickled at my skin – was it the stifling atmosphere, the intensity of the moment, or something else entirely?

Still baffled by all that was going on around me,His voice jolted me back to reality as it took on a strange cadence, his words morphing into a rapid stream of unrecognisable syllables. "Oh Baba, Lacasera Lacabobo! Lacasera Lacabobo!" My brow furrowed in confusion. Was he speaking in tongues, or simply rattling off Nigerian drink brands in a fervent prayer?

Across from me, Aunty Ibiyemi remained oblivious, her voice a steady stream of "Amen, Amen." Each one resonated with conviction, a stark contrast to the silence growing within me. My lips felt sealed, unsure of how to respond to this bizarre turn of events.

"For in Jesus' name, have we prayed!" He uttered, the strange prayer finally sputtering to a halt. The clergyman wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his chest heaving slightly.

I remained frozen, my mind still grappling with the nonsensical prayer. Should I mimic Aunty Ibiyemi's fervent "Amens"? Did silence imply disrespect? A knot of unease tightened in my stomach as I struggled to navigate this unfamiliar territory.

 A single, resounding "Amen" erupted from Aunty’s lips, the sound of it yanking me back to reality. Shame washed over me – how could I have gotten so lost in my own confusion that I forgot to even participate? A mumbled "Amen" tumbled out of my lips, a weak echo of Aunty Ibiyemi's conviction.

"Iya Murewa, stand up, and sit.”The clergyman uttered with a sharp voice,his gaze snapping towards Aunty Ibiyemi. Without hesitation Aunty compiled without a word,rising to her feet then lowering herself to the plastic chair she had earlier been sitting on.

 "What about her?" Aunty Ibiyemi asked , her voice tight with concern as she gestured towards me.

"She can also sit down, if she likes." The clergyman replied,his response slow and deliberate while his eyelids fluttered shut for a beat, then fluttered back open, his gaze locking onto mine with a disturbing intensity.

A primal urge to stand and face him head-on battled with the knot of unease twisting in my gut. Ignoring the tremor in my hands, I pushed myself to my feet. As I met his gaze, a strange smile played on his lips, his eyes flickering over me in a way that made my skin crawl.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, before he erupted into a series of nonsensical chants. Each verse seemed to invoke some unknown entity, the name of Christ tangled with words I couldn't understand. Aunty Ibiyemi, oblivious to my discomfort, joined in with fervent gusto. All the while, the clergyman's gaze remained fixed on me, that unsettling smile never wavering as I sat on the plastic chair.

The eerie chanting ceased abruptly, leaving an echoing silence in its wake. The clergyman's eyes, still fixed on me, held a manic glint.  

"Iya Murewa," he rasped, his voice dropping to a low growl. "Do you want the truth...as regards this lady's matter...or not?" He enunciated each word slowly, deliberately, as if speaking to a disobedient child.

The air crackled with a strange energy, the weight of his unspoken accusation pressing down on me. Aunty Ibiyemi, her face etched with confusion, looked between us, her lips moving silently in what might have been a prayer.

"Alagba," Aunty Ibiyemi pleaded,her voice laced with a sudden desperation, cutting through the charged silence as her gaze flickering between me and the clergyman

"What else would I want to hear if not the truth? Speak it, so this girl" – her voice hitched for a moment, then firmed – "so she too can know the truth and find her place as a mother, just like the other women." Her final words were a challenge, her chin jutting out defiantly as she locked eyes with the clergyman.

The clergyman's lips stretched into a thin, unconvincing smile as he bobbed his head in agreement. "Okay oh, if you say so." He gestured towards me, his thick index finger stabbing the air.

"This girl here," he began, his voice dripping with theatricality, "this particular lady..." He paused, letting the dramatic silence hang for a beat before continuing.

"If she is to ever bear a child in this world, if she is to become..." He slapped his own stomach with a resounding thwack, the gesture both vulgar and oddly comical.

"...pregnant," he finished with a flourish. "Then it is a must! She must undergo a twenty-one-day spiritual cleansing!" His voice boomed with forced authority. "For she," he declared, his eyes boring into mine with renewed intensity, "is no ordinary human being."

My gaze darted down to my own body, Was he talking to me Or someone else entirely? Part of me wanted to believe him, to cling to the idea that his words held some divine truth. After all, I wasn't like the others, not entirely. My faith in Christ made me different, special. But another part, a more cynical voice, whispered doubts. Was this some twisted interpretation, a way to manipulate Aunty Ibiyemi and me?

A triumphant cry erupted from across the room, shattering my internal debate. "I knew it!" Aunty Ibiyemi declared, her voice laced with a mixture of anger and vindication. "My gut feeling, it never lies! Something fishy has been going on with the lack of children in your marriage these past four years!"

Wait a minute,I think I'm beginning to understand the scenario that I found myself in. It feels like one of those scenes where everyone's pointing accusatory fingers at you, blaming you for whatever mess is at hand. And that's exactly what Aunty Ibiyemi and her half-baked prophet were doing ,blaming me for the lack of a child in my marriage to Yele. 

Which to me is a mix of ignorance and arrogance, and frankly, it's infuriating. What do these people really know? I scoffed silently, trying to figure out a way to escape this absurd conversation without offending Aunty Ibiyemi. My frustration simmered as I listened to their ridiculous talk, bile rising in my throat with every passing moment.

 "She is an ogbanje, a queen of the coast, she belongs to the marine world!”The clergyman's voice boomed.

Aye mi," A strangled cry erupted from Aunty,as she sat rigid,her back a ramrod against the chair. Her eyes, wide with alarm, darted between me and the clergyman whose face contorted with pronouncements.

"Omoyele, what have you done?" She uttered,calling out my husband's name who was nowhere around this austere environment as she clenched her teeth. She whipped her head towards me, her gaze a mixture of fear and accusation.It was as if my mere presence intensified the weight of the clergyman's words.

“I had my suspicions when he told me she was from Bayelsa state,a riverine area, a breeding ground for those..." She trailed off, the unspoken word hanging heavy in the air – "spirits.” 

“But as often, the stubbornness in his heart wouldn't allow him to listen. See the trouble he has brought upon himself, upon me!" She ranted as she smacked her hand across her chest, seemingly oblivious to my presence despite sitting right there.

The clergyman, his face flushed with self-importance, continued to hold court, his voice rising and falling in a dramatic monologue. But my attention was snagged on Aunty Ibiyemi. Her words about her refusal towards Yele getting married to me.

The accusation hung heavy, a dark cloud swirling around her outburst. The clergyman's pronouncement, though unspoken, resonated in the charged atmosphere. "Ogbanje, queen of the coast," it echoed, a chilling reminder of the unseen forces Aunty Ibiyemi believed were at play.

 "So, Alagba," Aunty began, her voice laced with curiosity, "is it only spiritual cleansing she needs, or is there something more?"

The clergyman's booming voice filled the room once more. "For now, the Spirit of God insists on a twenty-one day cleansing. It's crucial to detach her from her...marine people," he trailed off, his eyes flickering with disapproval. "If not, even a hundred years of her union with your nephew won't yield a single child."

  "Ah, Omoyele,” Aunty Ibiyemi's voice cracked as she spoke, her earlier anger giving way to a raw vulnerability.

 "He has ruined me." she lamented, shaking her head as if in disbelief. 

Her gaze darted back to the clergyman, a flicker of hope battling the despair in her eyes. She clasped her hands together, her knuckles white with tension. "Alagba," she pleaded, using the respectful title, "are you certain? With the spiritual cleansing... the evil of no children... Will it be averted?"

The weight of her question settled on me like a physical blow. "Evil of no children"? The phrase echoed in my head, a cruel reminder of their accusations. Could a ceremony truly solve a situation that felt so deeply personal, so out of my control?

The clergyman, sensing her desperation, puffed out his chest in a display of self-importance. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, as if contemplating a weighty matter, before finally speaking.

"By the power embedded in me by the God that called me," he uttered, his voice laced with self-assured importance. "The problem shall be subdued!" His gaze swept over me momentarily, a glint of something akin to satisfaction in his eyes.

"Hers is not the first spiritual problem that will be brought to me, nor is it the last." He let the pronouncement hang in the air for dramatic effect. "So, definitely, it will be solved." The last words dripped from his lips with the practised confidence of a salesman closing a deal.

The clergyman's booming pronouncements echoed in the room, each word a fresh stab of anger. But on the surface, I remained a mask of calm. My face, I was sure, betrayed none of the turmoil churning within.

This was rubbish, a ridiculous spectacle. Demons? Evil spirits? I belonged to no such things. My faith, my unwavering belief in Christ, was the only allegiance I held.

Regret gnawed at me. Why had I agreed to follow Aunty Ibiyemi here? My desire for peace, for a quiet resolution to the tension between her and Yele, had landed me in this humiliating situation.

A flicker of fear, quickly extinguished by renewed anger, shot through me at the thought of Yele. If he ever heard of this... Aunty Ibiyemi wouldn't know what hit her. But wasn't he, in a way, the root of all this? His insistence on waiting, his carefully laid plans that didn't include a child – this was the humiliation he'd subjected me to.

He should just get on with it already, fulfil those grand plans of his. Then, perhaps, a child would finally grace our home, silencing these people and their outlandish accusations. Their so-called visions, their suspicions – mere delusions born of ignorance. I longed for the day I could prove them all wrong.

  Stealing a glance at Aunty Ibiyemi, all I saw was a desperate yearning, a willingness to cling to any possibility, no matter how outlandish, to break the childless curse that seemed to hang over my marriage to her nephew.

  "Hope We," Aunty Ibiyemi began,her voice hitched as she emphasised the word with a pointed look that excluded me , "I mean my nephew and I... surely we won't suffer any repercussions from these… her spiritual mates?”She gestured vaguely with her hand, the weight of her question heavy in the air.

The blatant exclusion sent a fresh wave of anger surging through me. "Spiritual mates"? The very phrase reeked of the absurdity of the entire situation.  

Aunty Ibiyemi's question hung heavy in the air, a silent plea for reassurance. The clergyman, sensing his moment, smoothed down the ostentatious robes that seemed to swallow him whole. An oily smile spread across his face, as fake as the concern he'd displayed moments before.

"Worry not about that, mama murewa ," he soothed, his voice dripping with a feigned sincerity. "I will provide you with something, a safeguard against any attacks from these...spiritual mates." He made air quotes around the last two words, a gesture that felt more mocking than reassuring.

But then came the kicker. As he spoke the last sentence, his smile morphed into a sly grin. He extended a hand, palm open, and wiggled his fingers in a way that left no doubt about his meaning. Money. He wanted money.

Disgust rose in my throat like bile. This whole charade, this elaborate performance of spiritual authority, was nothing more than a cheap trick designed to prey on Aunty Ibiyemi's desperation.  

 "Money is not a problem nau," Aunty declared, her voice betraying a desperate eagerness. Fumbling with trembling hands, she dug into her purse and withdrew a wad of cash.

One by one, she peeled off bills, shame burned in my throat as I watched the display, a silent testament to the power of his manipulation.

The clergyman's oily smile widened, his eyes gleaming with avarice. With a flourish, he snatched the money from her grasp. The way he counted the bills was almost obscene - each note meticulously smoothed out, a single fingertip darting out to lick it before moving on to the next.

My stomach churned. This wasn't a religious leader; this was a conman, a predator feasting on Aunty Ibiyemi's vulnerability. A cold fury simmered within me, threatening to boil over.

"So, when can she start this cleansing program?" Aunty Ibiyemi pressed, her voice laced with a hopeful tremor.

The clergyman, his pockets now lined with ill-gotten gains, leaned back with a sigh. "Anytime, truly," he drawled, stretching the words out for dramatic effect. "But," he continued, a sly glint returning to his eyes, "I would suggest next week. It will allow for the proper preparations..." His voice trailed off, leaving the unspoken implication hanging heavy in the air – more money would be required.

 This whole charade had gone far enough. But before I could voice my outrage, I heard Aunty's voice speak out

"Next week sounds great," she chirped, her voice laced with a misplaced optimism. 

"She'll be here. I can assure you of that."

"She?" My mind reeled. Who was "she" referring to? A flicker of betrayal stung my eyes, but I forced them shut, maintaining a facade of calm. My outward composure remained stoic, a stark contrast to the storm raging within.My gaze drifted around the room, tracing the peeling walls, anything to avoid looking at either of them 

"Excellent!”The clergyman beamed, his satisfaction radiating like heat waves. " And by next week," he added, his voice dripping with false piety, "you'll receive the special soap and anointing oil – a safeguard against those unseen forces."

Aunty Ibiyemi bobbed her head eagerly, her face etched with a desperate hope that twisted my gut. "Okay, Alagba," she agreed, using the respectful title one last time. 

"We will be taking our leave now, to prepare for this cleansing. I must inform her father-in-law about this whole ordeal. Otherwise, that stubborn nephew of mine" – she shot me a pointed glance – "would kick against this deliverance program like a stubborn mule.

"

She rose to her feet with a huff, her eyes flickering towards me in a silent sulk. It was a sulk I chose to ignore, in fact, a tiny spark of defiance ignited within me. Perhaps there was a way to turn the tables on them, to use their own game against them.

With a slow, deliberate movement, I pushed myself out of the chair, mirroring Aunty Ibiyemi's action. As she turned towards the clergyman, her face plastered with a smile,I met his gaze head-on, eagerly anticipating our departure, as our feet moved towards the entrance.

WALKING ON WATERS CHAPTER 5

 

                        CHAPTER 5

"So, how's the daily grind going for you, I mean your 9-5 hustle?" I quipped at Jire, taking a sip of my virgin mojito mocktail. We were relaxing at the Anchor restaurant, soaking in the atmosphere of Animashaun Drive, Oniru, Lekki, Lagos.

"Ah, the usual grind, but hey, can't complain. Thank God for both the good and bad days," Jire replied with fervor, showing he's fully engaged in the banter.

"Hmm, if you say so, but are you sure?" I raised an eyebrow, teasing Jire as I playfully threw another jab at him.

"Omoyele Cardoso, I'm 100% sure," Jire declared with conviction, his voice brimming with confidence. "My 9-5 work is great, awesome, the best in this whole wide world. As you can see, I'm glowing."

"Oh, you mean you're shining like a diamond," I retorted in a singsong tone, unable to contain my amusement.

"Yes, I'm shining like a diamond," Jire affirmed, his laughter joining mine in an infectious burst. Around us, the other diners seemed bemused by our joviality, and I couldn't help but imagine the curious glances from the nearby ladies, wondering what had sparked such mirth between two grown men.

Jire and I had a longstanding tradition of setting aside time to hang out together, just the two of us, away from our wives and the hustle and bustle of daily life. Despite our busy schedules, we made it a point to preserve the camaraderie we had forged during our university days. Whenever we heard about a new food joint in town, it brought back memories of our days as students, pooling together our meager pocket money to explore these culinary delights and then regaling our roommates and fellow members of our Christian fellowship group with tales of our adventures.

Now, as adults, we still cherished those moments of bonding over food and laughter. We called these outings "Guys outing," a nod to our university days. 

Despite the passing years, our friendship remained as strong as ever, and whenever we managed to steal some time away for one of our hangouts, the lively chatter and banter flowed effortlessly between us, it was like stepping back in time. Our "Guys outing" was our way of reconnecting, of reaffirming the deep bond that tied us together. And as we sat there, savoring our meal and sharing stories, it was clear that no amount of time or distance could ever dull the connection between us.

"You know what, if I weren't so confident, and if you weren't so steadfast, I'd think Chief put you up to this," Jire remarked, mentioning his dad as he popped a piece of siu mai dumplings into his mouth.

Jire and his father had a strained relationship, primarily due to Jire's career decisions. Despite his father's expectations for him to seamlessly transition into the family business after graduation, Jire adamantly pursued his own path. Despite being the top student in his department and even the entire school that year, Jire opted to pursue opportunities outside of his father's esteemed company, much to his father's disappointment.

"But Guy, wait, seriously, isn't it time for you to step into your Dad's Company and embrace your role in the Tejuosho business legacy?" I gently shrugged my shoulders, broaching the topic with care.

Jire chuckled, deflecting the seriousness of the conversation with a lighthearted tone. "What's with the sudden concern, man?" he quipped, his demeanor relaxed. 

"As I've mentioned countless times, I'm not keen on joining my dad's company. Ogbeni , The Tejuosho Business Dynasty is thriving without me. You know, with all this persistent questioning, you're starting to sound like a nagging wife," he teased, smoothly steering the conversation away.

"If I were a nagging wife, you'd be the one enduring it," I playfully responded, mimicking a female voice for added effect.

"God forbid," Jire interjected with a chuckle, swiftly changing the tone. It wasn't my intention to intrude on his career decisions unnecessarily

I had only brought up the topic with Jire after hearing about the challenges his wife was facing from the persistent pressure from Jire's father to convince him to join the family company.

 It wasn't out of idle curiosity but rather genuine concern for their well-being that prompted me to bring up the subject.

As our discussion naturally dwindled, we found solace in the serenity of the moment, allowing the tranquil ambiance of the family-friendly restaurant to wash over us. With each bite of our meal, we absorbed the picturesque view of the Lekki Leisure Beach sprawled before us. The gentle sound of waves lapping against the shore provided a soothing soundtrack to our silent companionship, echoing the peaceful demeanor of the other patrons around us. This tranquil interlude persisted until it was broken by the sudden ring of Jire's phone.

"Hello, sir," Jire greeted warmly, slipping one earpod into place as he listened intently to the voice on the other end of the line.

 "I'm doing great, and you?" His genuine interest shone through as he waited for the response.

A smile tugged at the corners of his lips as he continued,

 "So glad to hear that... No, I'm not at home, just hanging out with one of my buddies." His tone was relaxed, indicating a sense of ease in the conversation with a close colleague or superior.

"Definitely, I'd love to hang out with you too one of these days," Jire's enthusiasm was palpable, reflecting his genuine desire for connection. 

"Hmm, that would be great. 

“So you're considering that after we're done with the Mushin Young Boys mentorship, we should also do some apostolic visits to see our boys in the Makoko district?" His voice dipped slightly, infusing a touch of reverence as he mentioned the prospect of "apostolic visits."

"That's actually a great idea. We should discuss it at our next meeting and pray about it," Jire affirmed firmly, his conviction evident in his tone.

"Yeah, I'll check my WhatsApp for the flier... Okay, sir," Jire acknowledged, punctuating his response with a brief pause to confirm his next steps.

 "Not at all, sir, you haven't disturbed anything. 

Will definitely relay your regards to him... Bye for now." With a respectful farewell, Jire ended the call and shifted his focus back to our ongoing hangout, a sense of contentment settling over him.

"Ore mi, the mentor," I teased Jire with a playful grin. "You didn't tell me you've started a mentorship class. I could have humbly applied to be one of your mentees," I added with a hint of mock sincerity, playfully acting out the scenario as I took a bite of my sesame pocket.

"Ologbeni, you better quit with this unnecessary whining," Jire warned me in jest, a smile spreading across his face, showcasing his perfect white teeth.

"Seriously, tell me about it. Is this mentorship part of what you guys do in that Christian program you've been inviting me to?" I inquired, genuinely curious.

"Yeah, it's part of what we do under the umbrella of the fellowship," Jire confirmed.

"That's great. It's wonderful to hear that you guys are playing a vital role in changing the poor narrative about our young boys to a better one," I remarked, impressed by their initiative.

"Let's thank God for that. And that's part of the reason I think you should attend this fellowship of ours," Jire suggested.

"Nah, I have my own church where I'm actively engaged. I'm also in a church unit that perfectly suits me," I interjected, explaining my stance.

"If I called you Blockhead, I would be offending God and your wife. How many times do I have to reiterate to you that Bromance in Christ is not a church denominational stuff? We're non-denominational. We're just a group of Christian men from different churches but with like minds in Christ. We come together to worship God, admonish one another with God's word, and strengthen ourselves in prayers, all for one purpose: to be the men Christ desires us to be in our homes, workplaces, and in society at large. That's all," Jire clarified 

"See, you should know that when I see something good and beneficial, not just for me but for my loved ones too, I'll make sure to share it with them," He affirmed. "Being part of Bromance over the last year has truly enriched my life as a man. My faith journey hasn't just improved; every aspect of my being has been positively impacted. With this group, I've become more conscious of my role as an ambassador for Christ every single day.”

"And what about your church? It seems like this group has replaced your local church," I quipped, teasingly snagging a siu mai dumpling from his plate.

"Never. Bromance in Christ simply reinforces whatever I might have learned in church," Jire clarified with a chuckle. "It's like imagining guys gathering together at a beer pub, sharing about their lives, both the ups and downs, and offering each other advice. That's what Bromance in Christ feels like, except we're not drunk on wine but in the spirit, you get it?" He laughed, delivering his punchline with a playful grin.

"For your mind, you've just dropped a punchline," I stated mockingly, feigning disgust.

"Whether it's a weak punchline or not, my point has been established. Mingle with the main men, just pay a visit once, Yele. Just once, and I tell you, you'll be wanting more," Jire pleaded earnestly, his tone carrying a sense of conviction.

"I've heard you; I'll think about it," I replied apathetically, not fully committing.

"You're still thinking? Don't worry, I'll just have to drag you down there," Jire asserted with a chuckle, determined to sway my decision.

"Before you drag me around like a calf by your cow rope or whatever, permit me to make an order of this sumptuous meal we enjoyed for my wife. You know, the underlying clause of our MOU for our guys' outing with my wife is that whenever we go out, I must bring home her package of every delicacy we enjoyed. So let me honor that part of our bargain," I explained with a chuckle, as I reached out for the menu.

"Guy, same thing with Oyinkan, oh," Jire affirmed, nodding in agreement as I flagged down the nearest waiter to place the order.

                        YADAH’S POV

Stepping out of the car, the cool breeze of the evening air caressed my bare feet, a sensation that never failed to stir a feeling of liberation within me. On one hand, I cradled my Gabriella Gold crystal leather flat slippers, their presence a gentle reminder of the day's responsibilities now happily cast aside. Meanwhile, the weight of my handbag on the other hand grounded me firmly in the present moment.

With each leisurely step toward the door of my home, a contented smile graced my lips, the edges turning up in anticipation of the comforting familiarity awaiting me inside. As the image of my mother's hypothetical reaction to seeing me barefoot within my own compound flitted through my mind, a soft chuckle bubbled up from within. "Omofuromo," she would likely chide in her Epie-Attisa dialect of the Bayelsa people, "what do you think you're doing, walking barefoot? Do you think you're back at Brass Beach, bah?" The thought brought a happy grin to my face, a silent tribute to the wonderful man I was fortunate enough to call my husband. In his embrace, I found not only love and companionship but also the freedom to be my truest self, complete with all my quirks and occasional bursts of childlike joy.

In that fleeting moment, enveloped by the tranquility of my surroundings, I savored the simple pleasure of walking unshod upon the earth—a silent homage to the carefree spirit that still danced within me.

Yele, my husband, has always encouraged me to embrace my authenticity, to break free from the constraints of being the prim and proper wife at all times. His acceptance of my quirks and occasional whims is one of the many blessings I count in our marriage. As I stood in front of our door, the sight of the smart lock greeted me, a symbol of modernity and security woven into the fabric of our home. With a gentle tap of my phone against its sleek surface, a soft hum acknowledged my presence—a comforting routine embedded in the rhythm of my daily life.

Crossing the threshold into my abode, a sense of serenity washed over me, wrapping me in it's comforting embrace. The familiar sights and sounds of home greeted me warmly, wrapping me in a comforting embrace. With a sigh of relief, I unburdened myself by tossing my bag onto one of the sleek, modern chairs that adorned the living room.

Ignoring the gentle pull of exhaustion, I made a beeline for the refrigerator, driven by a thirst that demanded immediate attention. The familiar hum of the refrigerator greeted me like an old friend as I swung open its door, a comforting soundtrack to my quest for refreshment.

Amidst the shelves of provisions, my fingers brushed against the smooth surface of a cold bottle of water. Cradling it in my hand, I returned to the comforting embrace of the living room, sinking into the plush cushion of the chair. With each sip of the cool liquid, relief washed over me, revitalizing my senses. Surrounded by the familiar comforts of home, a profound sense of gratitude welled up within me for the sanctuary I had created.

"Yele should be home any time soon,"

 whispered through my mind, a silent anticipation of his imminent return.He had ventured out with his friend Jire for a foodie expedition, while I had made my way to my parent's house to join forces with my cousin for a wedding preparations met for another younger cousin of ours. The agreement was clear – we both aimed to be back home before 7 pm.

Glancing at my phone, I noted the time – 5:40 pm. With a gentle flick of my thumb, the digital clock on my phone's wallpaper illuminated the screen, confirming the hour.

In a bid to break the silence that hung heavy in the living room, I reached for the TV remote control resting on the center table. With each press of its familiar buttons, memories from the day flooded my mind, washing away the stillness and infusing the space with the echoes of moments gone by.

"So, what did you do, Babe?" Bodisere, my cousin, inquired, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity as we sat together in the living room, surrounded by stacks of souvenirs meant to accompany the aso ebi. The room, once fondly dubbed the "Children's Living Room" during our childhood, now served as the backdrop for our reminiscences and wedding preparations.

"I just apologized, I told her sorry," I recounted, my voice carrying the weight of sincerity as I recalled the events of Murewa's child-naming ceremony.

"You mean, you were apologizing to a woman who was outrightly bullying you over such a sensitive matter?" Bodisere's words sliced through the air, carrying with them a sharp edge of disbelief and indignation. Her eyes blazed with fury as she confronted the injustice of the situation, her tone leaving no room for doubt about her feelings on the matter.

At that moment, I realized I couldn't continue with the last anecdote I had planned to share with Bodisere. The memory of Aunt Ibiyemi's unsettling behavior at my mother-in-law's grave flooded my mind with vivid clarity. I recalled her fervent pleas to my late mother-in-law as if seeking divine intervention for her assumption about me having fertility struggles. The image of her hands pounding the grave's slab while forcefully striking my stomach lingered in my thoughts, sending shivers down my spine. Despite the crimson hue that painted Yele's face in anger, I felt a surge of gratitude towards my brother-in-law, Molawa, whose intervention had prevented a volatile outburst from Yele. Knowing how easily Bodisere's anger could ignite, I decided to withhold the unsettling tale, fearing the potential repercussions if her fury were unleashed upon Aunt Ibiyemi.

"What are you insinuating? That I should have stooped to her level and engaged in a shouting match?" I retorted, my voice tinged with frustration as I addressed my prowling, angry cousin. 

"I couldn’t afford to tarnish my reputation in front of all these people. Remember, the event was attended by various individuals with different perceptions. And besides," I added, my tone softening slightly, “She's the only connection we have left to my late mother-in-law, the subtle reminder of what Yele’s mother looks like and probably act like, I can't risk alienating her, no matter how infuriating her behavior may be.”

"Abeg,Cut me that crap, just let me remind you, gentility no be stupidity," Bodisere cautioned me, her finger tapping the left side of her head as she spoke. Her voice carried a pidgin English sing-song tone, tinged with a hint of exasperation.

"Wait, what did Yele have to say with all these drama that happened?" she asked, her curiosity palpable in the furrow of her brow and the intensity of her gaze.

"Don't even let's go to that one. You know how he can be at such times, and I do not need to remind you how he and his aunt are not the best of friends. I had to keep pressing him to refrain from any form of outburst with his aunt. Eventually, he made us walk out of the event," I explained, my words laced with a mixture of frustration and resignation.

"That brother-in-law of mine doesn't disappoint; that's one of the reasons I love him," she remarked, a glint of admiration in her eyes. "You shouldn't have held him back; you should have let him put that aunt of his in her place. Her behavior is just too much," she added bitterly, her voice tinged with frustration and resentment.

"Ah, Boddy!" I exclaimed, taken aback by her candid remark.

"Don't worry," I reassured her with a chuckle, "when you and your future Bobo finally decide to tie the knot, you'll appreciate all these pearls of wisdom, especially when the topic shifts to those striking tattoos adorning your skin," I remarked, gesturing playfully to the intricate designs that adorned her milky complexion.

"Abeg, these marks I bear on my body are the marks of Christ," she remarked solemnly, delicately tracing her fingers over the tattoos adorning her skin. "Let no man trouble me," she added, her tone resolute, as if defending her choice of body art with unwavering conviction.

"I hope you know the marks Apostle Paul talked about are the beatings and stripes he received for the sake of the Gospel of Christ. He wasn't talking about tattoos," I clarified gently, offering a gentle reminder of the biblical context.

"I don't care, my stance stands," she pointed out firmly, a big grin spreading across her face as she asserted her position.

"But actually, I've been thinking about removing this IUD thing," I began, frustration evident in my voice. "I've discussed it with Yele, but he just doesn't see the reason with me. He's not even considering that the appointed years of delay have passed," I explained, a tinge of disappointment creeping into my tone. "He keeps giving one reason or another why we should still wait. I was considering that you, as per our gynecologist, could help me talk to him," I admitted, seeking support and understanding from my cousin as I gently touched her hands, conveying my earnest plea for assistance.

"I get that the year of delay has lapsed but dear cuz, where are you rushing to? Bodisere's hands moved in a circular motion in front of her stomach, mimicking the act of someone giving birth. "Are you trying to be a mother," she asked, her voice tinged with urgency, "just because some witch baby-hunting aunties are breathing down your neck to start popping out babies like nothing else matters?" Her demonstration captured the sense of pressure and expectation surrounding the decision to have children, her hands conveying the urgency and weight of societal expectations. Despite the dramatic gestures, her voice remained filled with empathy and concern, reflecting her understanding of the complexities involved in such a significant life choice.

"Bringing children into this world should be a mutual agreement between husband and wife, and it should be done at their own pace and convenience, not based on our society's world clock. If your husband feels you guys still need to be in the lovey-dovey phase for now, without the input of a child, darling it's not a crime, stick with it," she uttered in her American accent, her words carrying a sense of wisdom and reassurance.

"See, I can tell you how many couples' relationships have broken down due to them or one of them not being ready to embrace parenthood for one reason or another," she added, her tone reflective as she spoke from her own experiences and observations.

"I know we live in a society where the timing of marriage and childbirth is often dictated to us," Bodisere began, her tone gentle yet firm. "But my love, we shouldn't subject ourselves to that. I am of the view that married couples should take their time to nurture their love before thinking of nurturing a child. Because nurturing your love and nurturing a child are two different things. They may be on the same coin, but they're on different sides of the coin," she explained.

"But what about the fertile clock, shouldn't I consider that?" I questioned, furrowing my brow with uncertainty as I carefully packed the last souvenir along with the remaining aso ebi.

"Leave all those terminologies employed by us medical professionals. Are we God?" Bodisere's voice rang out with conviction. 

"See, no fertile clock will be lapsed whenever you and your husband decide to start a family in Jesus' name. The first thing that comes first before any fertile clock or children is you being whole, not losing yourself to the demands of our hypocritical society. I repeat, whenever you and Yele decide to bring children into this world, nothing shall delay it by the power of the Holy Ghost," She proclaimed, her words carrying a strong sense of belief and assurance, while a resounding "Amen" escaped from my lips, echoing the faith and conviction in her declaration.

"And knowing your man, I'm pretty sure he's already scheming up some grand plans for when you guys decide to start a family," Bodisere exclaimed, her tone brimming with excitement. 

"I wouldn't be shocked if he goes all out and brings in a team of au pairs from around the globe to cater to you and your future little ones. Your husband is the epitome of a man ready to give his woman the princess/queen treatment in this thing called marriage," she declared, her enthusiasm evident in her words.

"You know who comes to mind whenever I think of a man who wants to make marriage a bed of roses for his wife?" she asked, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she leaned forward eagerly.

"Who?" I asked, a playful glint already shining in my eyes, pretending as if I didn't know exactly who she was referring to.

"Yele," she whispered to me, her voice filled with happiness and warmth, as if sharing a delightful secret between us. A wide grin spread across my face as she uttered his name, my stomach coiling with happiness at the mere mention of him.

Sitting within the comforting embrace of my home, a smile naturally graced my lips as memories of Bodisere's endearing words flooded back. Yet, as I basked in the familiar coziness, a subtle shift occurred within me. The corners of my lips, initially drawn into a gentle smile, began to waver, betraying the calm facade I had maintained. Despite the apparent rationality of Yele's decision and the wisdom in Bodisere's advice, an undeniable glow filled my thoughts as I imagined myself pregnant and barefoot in Yele's kitchen, in our home, immersed in its warmth. The mere anticipation of children darting around, playfully tugging at me, stirred a sensation within that transcended words, spreading a deep warmth through my being. In my mind's eye, vibrant images emerged: expectant mothers exuding pure joy as they celebrated impending motherhood, and the spirited scenes of children joyfully clinging to their mothers' hands at gatherings.

"Baby, I'm home," Yele's voice broke through my daydream, his presence filling the living room as he entered, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, carrying with him some food packs.

"Welcome home," I uttered , my voice filled with warmth as I rose from the couch with a warm smile, so eager to welcome him. 

Without a word, I moved to assist him with the food packs, feeling his embrace envelop me in a comforting hug as I carefully set the pack down on the table. 

In that moment, our silent exchange spoke volumes of our shared affection and comfort in each other's presence.

"And how did your food adventures go?" I asked, gently intertwining my fingers with his as we made our way to the couch.

"Great, Their menu indeed exceeded my expectations," he replied with a gleeful grin, his touch playful yet tender, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he held me close while we settled into the comfort of the couch.

"I'm thrilled to hear that! I'm sure Jire would have been delighted not only to savor their cuisine with you but also to spend time together," I happily added.

"Yeah, I had a lot of fun with Jire. He even went ahead discussing more about this non-denominational Christian men fellowship that he had been recently talking to me about,”He stated as we lounged on the couch, the soft glow of the television screen illuminating the room with a flickering light."

"Really? What's the name?" I asked, my curiosity piqued as I traced patterns on his hand with my fingertips.

"He called it something like 'Brother In... No, it's Bromance in Christ,'" he recalled with a chuckle, his eyes reflecting the fading light.

"Quite an interesting name. What did he tell you about it?" I probed, a smile playing on my lips.

"Ahhh, why all these questions? Am I being interviewed? It seems like you've switched to your journalism mode," he joked, his laughter filling the room.

"No nau… ,I'm just interested in knowing what the group is all about, especially with such a quirky name," I replied, gently running my fingertips through the thick, soft strands of his beard. The neatly trimmed hairs tickled my skin, and I felt the warmth of his smile as he leaned into my touch, his facial hair a testament to his dedication to grooming.

"He said something along about how the group has helped increase his joy and progress in the faith" he said, sharing further insights about the non-denominational Christian men's group Jire had mentioned to him.

"Really, the group sounds cool, it's giving off vibes similar to the women of faith group," I remarked, making reference to a popular Christian women fellowship, known globally.

"Yeah, kind of," Yele replied, sensing the intensity of my gaze.

"What?" he asked, catching the significance of my stare as our eyes locked.

"Nothing, oh," I replied, my eyes briefly darting away from his, a faint smile playing at the corners of my lips. "I was just pondering, perhaps joining the group wouldn't be such a bad idea for you," I suggested, my words carefully chosen to convey my thoughts without being too direct.

"I just knew it, I knew something along that line was going to come out of your mouth, the moment I saw those gazelle stares," he said with a chuckle, his tone light-hearted but teasing.

"Is there anything wrong about suggesting that my husband belong to a Christian group that would be of benefit to his spiritual growth?" I asked, my hands lifted in a theatrical display of inquiry, each movement deliberate and calculated to convey my earnestness, while a playful spark danced in my eyes, hinting at the underlying humor in the situation.

"I can see that you and Jire belong to the same team, Team Benefits. Anyway, I'm not considering joining the group. I have a lot on my plate already," he stated, his tone firm yet lighthearted as he brushed off the suggestion.

"Ahhh, my Oko, my sweet husband," I began, my voice tender and affectionate. 

"I don't think there is any harm in belonging to this group, considering both the impact you will receive and give. Besides, apart from staying with your work all day and occasionally seeing Jire with some of our close acquaintances, this is another opportunity for you to mingle with men who pursue righteousness, faith, and love. You get it..." I paused, leaning in closer, my eyes locking with his, conveying a sense of earnestness and sincerity.

 "Remember your 2 Timothy Chapter 2, verse 22," I whispered softly, letting the weight of the scripture sink in as a gentle reminder of our shared values and beliefs.

"I get, but–" he started to say.

"No 'but,” I interjected firmly, cutting off his hesitation.

"I will be thinking about it," he stated, his voice trailing off slightly as he glanced away, a flicker of regret shadowing his expression. He mentally scolded himself for inadvertently revealing his discussion with Jire about the men's Christian group.

"Please do, I await your positive response," I asserted confidently, sensing a shift in his demeanor as his eyebrows furrowed and his jaw tensed, yet I remained undeterred. "For now, let's dig into the goodies you brought home," I said eagerly, my attention shifting to the food pack before us, a glint of excitement dancing in my eyes.

WALKING ON WATERS CHAPTER 4

 

                            CHAPTER 4

"Ibidunni, here we are again, as is our tradition each year," my Dad whispered, a sigh mingling with his words. His hand gently traced the edge of my mother's tomb, nestled among the multitude in the graveyard that had cradled her remains for the past twenty-four years.

As Yadah's hands gently placed a wreath on her tomb, my gaze lingered on the inscription: 

"In Fond Remembrance of IBIDUNNI KEHINDE CARDOSO (née FILANI) - A Cherished Daughter, Sister, Wife, and Mother - 1955-1990 - Forever in Our hearts.”

A subtle smile formed as I watched the assembly donned in matching white shirts, proudly displaying the familiar phrase. Was my late mother truly forever in our hearts, or had the passage of time refined grief into a scripted sentiment?

Taking in the assembly of my family, donned in uniform white shirts, each carrying the tribute that echoed the sentiments engraved on my mother's tombstone. The familiar words of remembrance adorned my father, aunt, stepmom, and younger brother, whose bespectacled gaze mirrored our father's. Together, we stood, a living reflection of the scripted homage to my late mother.

The phrase "forever in our hearts" bears varied significance for each of us. For Molawa, who was merely four when our mother passed, the phrase might be an abstract concept. His memories of her are scant, often leaving him adrift when tales about our late mother resurface. It prompts me to consider if his deep bond with our aunt stems from her being a vivid reflection of our late mom. It seems Molawa seeks in our aunt a tangible link to the motherly figure he can no longer recall but yearns to connect with.

Near the grave, my aunt stood, adjusting her sunshade to shield her from neither tears nor sunlight. Contemplating the question, I hesitated, pondering whether her identical late sister had truly found a lasting home in her heart or if it was a facade.

A chuckle escaped me as I reminisced about her reaction when Yadah and Molawa disclosed their plan to sponsor two secondary school students' education in memory of our late mother. Her response had been a vehement rebuke. The memory unfolded vividly—the subtle tightening of her lips, the narrowing of her eyes—speaking volumes without a single laugh escaping her.

“Why squander money when there are more meaningful uses for this substantial amount?" she criticized, dismissing the charitable initiatives. She indicated the yearly food donations to the less privileged and the support given to the school library, where our mother had once taught, asserting that they were already ample.

"Kehinde's death is not a cause for celebration. Sorrowful memories should be kept at bay, not resurrected by these unnecessary charities. Her passing is not an excuse for a Santa Claus charade," she vehemently declared.

The comedic twist in this whole saga amused me deeply. Before my stepmom entered my dad's life, my aunt conveniently avoided joining us at Mom's graveside during the Death anniversary, always armed with excuses. However, the moment Dad remarried, every excuse was swiftly swept under the carpet, and she seamlessly stepped into the role of being the link to our late mother. Certainly, time holds the key to unraveling the true intentions of her heart, laying bare the motivations that currently remain shrouded in mystery.

My eyes subtly shifted towards my stepmom, positioned discreetly at the rear, a quiet presence behind my aunt.

I found myself pondering my stepmom's emotions, questioning how she truly navigates being drawn back into a past that birthed her present. A past seamlessly woven into her current reality, where she holds half of the heart of the man she loves, while the other half rests beneath six feet. Is she embraced by gratitude, or does she wrestle with a poignant mixture of appreciation and compassion for the complexities that defines her marital existence? Time alone may unfold the delicate layers of her unspoken sentiments.

To my father, no doubt, she indeed lives on in his heart. As the years passed, I came to understand that a significant part of my father descended with my mom's remains the moment she was laid to rest. Even after marrying my stepmother, the warmth in his eyes that I remembered from when my mother was alive never returned. With each passing year, the man I once knew seemed to fade further away.

In this poignant moment, the hand of my beautiful Yadah is tightly entwined with mine. Her presence beside me is a testament to her conviction that the woman beneath this grave still matters, transcending her physical absence in our earthly realm. Yadah is here because, without her, my own presence in this solemn place would lack its profound depth.

Before Yadah entered my life, the ritual of visiting my mother's graveside on her death anniversary had halted with the newfound freedom of university life. It required persistent efforts from both Yadah and my Dad to bring me back here weeks before our wedding—an essential journey for Yadah to be introduced to the essence of my late mum. And my dad had profoundly expected me to resume visiting her graveside with him and the rest of the family, just like we used to before I pulled away.

“Dad, visiting her grave won’t bring her back.” I spoke softly, watching his eyes cloud over as the anniversary of my mother’s death approached, a year after I married Yadah.

"Definitely, it won't bring her back, but it's a sign of respect, a way to show she's not forgotten, that she's always in our hearts,” my Dad said softly, his voice filled with emotion, as we sat in his study at home. I had come that day to tell him that I wouldn't be joining them for their visit to her grave on her death anniversary. 

"Dad," I began, choosing my words with care, "I understand your perspective, but I won't be going this time." I paused, meeting his gaze steadily. "You may have thought that since I took Yadah there before we got married, I would continue the annual visits as I did in the past, but things have changed.”

"Nothing has changed, young man," Dad's voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed a mix of frustration and hurt. "I've respected your choice to stop visiting her gravesite since you started university, but that ends now. Being married comes with responsibilities, including honoring your mother's memory together with your wife."

His words hung heavy in the air as he continued, "You seem to think visiting her grave is a burden. It pains me to have to ask your wife to persuade you to visit the woman who loved you and your brother unconditionally throughout her life.”

As I sat across from him in that room that day, I saw how his shoulders slumped slightly. The weight of my intended absence from the tradition, meant to honor my mother's memory, hung palpably in the air between us. 

In the chapters of my life when my Mum was alive, our relationship wasn't defined by friendship, nor were we sworn enemies. Her demeanor, marked by stubbornness and strictness, painted a canvas of expectations. It seemed as though, if given the chance, she would have molded me into an Albert Einstein from the moment I took my first breath. This unspoken goal came bundled with a cascade of responsibilities, typical of the burdens carried by an African first child, all of which were silently entrusted to me.

"Sebi oni oki gboran ni, I will show you what the eyes of a stubborn child always see," my mother chided, her words cutting through the air. I knelt down with my hands raised while tears streamed down my face. The scenario unfolded after I finished my school assignment and dashed out to play football with our neighbors' kids. Engrossed in the joy of dribbling the ball with Ahmed, a neighbor my age, I heard my mother's voice calling out from our living room window.

"Yele! Omoyele!" Her voice rang out, carrying an ominous tone that hinted at trouble. With the ball kicked offside, I hurried inside upon her call. My entrance was met with a painful knock on my head and a searing slap on my back. Attempting to justify my reasons for going out only fueled the intensity of her reprimand.

"Just because you finished your assignment, you think the next thing is to go out and play ball, as if there is nothing else to do. Instead of bringing out the shoes you and your brother will wear to school tomorrow, or better still, fetching your Ugo C. Ugo textbook to start solving quantitative and verbal reasoning. Do you think winning the state mathematics quiz means you've arrived? See, you will smell your yansh today!" Her words pierced the air with fury.

"Honey, I'm home." My father's arrival shattered the icy atmosphere, his suitcase in tow. Three-year-old Molawa rushed, joyously scattering his alphabet toy.

"Sweetheart, E tide, you're back, welcome. How was work today?" My mother warmly greeted, reclaiming his suitcase.

"We thank God, work was great," he replied, cradling my little brother in his arms.

"Why is Yele on his knees? What has he done wrong?" my father asked, settling onto the brown settee.

"Hmmm, Yele just wants to kill me by being mediocre, and I won't give him that chance," she said, her gaze fixed on me.

"How?" My father asked, appearing lost at the notion of a seven-year-old me wanting to harm his wife.

"You're asking me, 'How?' I'll tell you," she replied, settling beside my father, recounting the events that led to my punishment.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, Sweetheart, that's all," she said, raising her hands in submission.

"Ibidunni, Omoyele cannot and will not harm you. I don't see anything wrong with the little boy playing after finishing his assignment. He's just a little boy, and all work and no play makes—"

"Baba Yele, don't just interject. You're indulging this boy. A son you should join me in reprimanding," my mother interjected.

"Forgetting that the good son is the father's pride, but the spoiled and useless one belongs to the mother. And no son of mine will be useless," she stated firmly.

"None of our children will be useless by God's grace. We just have to guide them with love and care; that's all. Just pardon and release him," my father remarked.

"I've heard you. Stand up, oh," my mother spoke in defeat.

"As you're standing up, go and bring that form you brought back from school for your father to see," she instructed as I took my leave from the living room.

"What form? What is it for?" My father's puzzled expression conveyed his confusion.

"Ehnnn, he has just been nominated by his school to represent them for the first trial of the national Bees competition. They need us to sign the form, granting permission for him to participate," she explained, her tone carrying a mix of pride and excitement for my achievement.

"Again?" My father inquired, his brows furrowing.

"Yes, again. Is there anything wrong with it?" my mother questioned, her gaze probing her husband's eyes to discern the reason for his less-than-enthusiastic response.

"Don't you think all these academic activities are getting too much for this boy, considering his tender age? I do not think his life should revolve around books alone."

"Baba Yele, don't talk like that. All these activities are not too much for him. We are just trying to make life better for him. Besides, he will be taking his common entrance examination into King's College next year. All these academic activities are just preparing him for the exams. You know, securing admission into that college is not an easy feat. Forget that I am one of their teachers. And you see, all these things we are doing for him right now, one day, he himself will come to appreciate it," she stated, her gaze holding a mix of conviction and anticipation, focused on me as I entered the living room.

Gratitude for those activities? It's hard to say. A fleeting flashback to that day left me questioning if she was already aware of her limited time with us. A sigh escaped me, the gentle breeze in the graveyard grounding me in the present moment.

“Ibidunni, everything you wanted for our boys has finally come to pass. See, Molawa has secured a full scholarship for his LL.M. at Cambridge. Here's the letter; I thought you'd like to see it," my father shared, retrieving a white paper from a brown manila envelope. A bittersweet smile played on his lips.

"I just wish you were here to see all these, my Ibidunni Akehinde," my father's voice wavered, carrying the weight of unshed tears. As those words escaped, I caught my aunt mid-smirk, exchanging a subtle glance with my stepmom, who maintained a stoic expression.

"Dad, that's enough. I'm pretty sure she's proud of us," my brother asserted, offering a reassuring pat on our father's shoulder. Following Mum's death, all her aspirations for us seamlessly transitioned into Dad's own. The one thing he refrained from was wielding the cane like Mum, but in his relentless pursuit to ensure we excelled in our studies, he gave it his best shot.

And Year after year, my dad made it a tradition to bring evidence of our achievements to Mum's gravesite on her Death Anniversary—a practice that never quite settled comfortably within me. I recalled the awkward moment when, after being featured in the Forbes 30 Under 30 list, Dad proudly framed the page and brought it to Mum's gravesite on her death anniversary. Despite my embarrassment, I couldn't complain. Who was I to voice dissent when the old man beamed from ear to ear, displaying the frame beside the marble headstone?

I doubt she's proud of me, contrary to what others may think. While she was alive, I couldn't label myself as the ideal son, and even in death, my career choice still falls short. She had envisioned me as a medical doctor, following in the footsteps of Dr. Ben Carson. However, I ventured down a different path. If she could rise from the grave, I'm certain she would adamantly drag me down the corridors of the medical college.

I hate to admit it, but her passing seems to grant me an unexpected liberation to live life on my own terms. Does that make me a terrible son? Shouldn't I harbor remorse? Strangely, I don't feel the slightest pang of guilt. No tears welled up on the day she departed, nor did they fall as she descended into the pit. As she departed, her last moments entwined with the fleeting breaths of an unborn child, a scene that should have unleashed a torrent of tears. Strangely, that well of humane emotion stayed dormant, concealed in the depths of my eyes. Instead, a peculiar joy enveloped me, prompting ecstatic leaps and bounds as It marked the cessation of the caning era.

I attempted various methods to elicit tears months after her death. I remember carrying her picture after applying menthol ointment to my eyes, a method Ahmed, our neighbor's child, claimed was used by Nollywood actors to cry in movies. However, it didn't work for me; I simply drifted into sleep after my unsuccessful endeavor to shed tears. 

I only attempted to coax those emotionless tears after witnessing four-year-old Molawa's incessant weeping, his tears fueled by a relentless quest for our late mother's whereabouts.

Does that label me as a demonic child? 

The answer eludes me. What I'm certain of is the gradual erosion of her presence within me, fading like an old photograph with each passing day of life.