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Here's the concluding part of our inspiring story. (See Parts 1 & 2 of the story https://www.nairaland.com/2736286/lords).
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The heat of the afternoon sun seared Kemi’s eyebrows and she felt the discomfort of blackened, sticky sweat forming all over her body. She winced, grunted and cussed inaudibly and clumsily adjusted her fake Gucci handbag as she waited with other commuters in a long queue at Oshodi ‘Under Bridge’ for the next BRT Buses that was taking forever to arrive.
She itched and impatiently glanced at her wristwatch. But Kemi was not a box of firecrackers waiting to explode; her mind was a vast blue ocean of the unknown. Inside her, a turmoil of emotions surged and raged. All at once, she felt joy and anger, love and hate, hope and regret.

But her muddled mind had nothing to do with the ill-mannered ticket girls that would hiss and throw her N1000 note back at her for not having the right change for the journey; or the annoying cluster of local market women with chattered loudly and cackled endlessly.

No, Kemi was angry with someone else. Yes, she was sure of it, she was angry with Femi. Or maybe, more correctly, she was angry with herself for letting her chance slip when she had the chance seven years ago. But then maybe, maybe now, she could make amends. Maybe there will be hope after the regret; a faint ray of hope, no matter how small it might look now. But hope, all the same.

Finally, the loud engine sounds of a BRT bus laboriously slowing to a halt interrupted Kemi’s reverie. She finally found a nice ticket girl, paid for one and hopped into the bus. She made for the back of the bus and sat at the extreme end where she could stare out of the window, shut herself from the world and indulge in a nostalgic trip down bitter-sweet memories. She rummaged through her bag, fetched an earpiece and plugged the speakers into her ear. Then she scrolled through the music list on her budget smart phone and played Rosanne Cash’s ‘I Still Miss Someone.’

At my door the leaves are falling
A cold wild wind has come
Sweethearts walk by together
And I still miss someone

I go out on a party
And look for a little fun
But I find a darkened corner
because I still miss someone

Oh, no I never got over those blues eyes
I see them everywhere
I miss those arms that held me
When all the love was there

I wonder if he's sorry
For leavin' what we'd begun
There's someone for me somewhere
And I still miss someone

But the song, rather than heal her, damaged Kemi. The lyrics overwhelmed her; every word, every verse broke her and her eyes welled with tears and sadness. She dabbed her moistened eyes with her handkerchief let a tear or two trickle down her soggy face.

She could barely make out faces or voices now; every figure in the bus was blurred, every sound muffled. She rested her crossed arms on top of the seat in front of her, buried her face in its cushion and let her mind wander free like a caged eagle newly released into freedom. Her memories flitted and floated to seven years ago when she was just 23, young, innocent and prim; and Femi was 28, energetic, enthusiastic, green but promising.

Kemi had reconnected with Femi after a casual Facebook chat with a friend.

“Bae, you still remember Femi? When did you hear from him last?” the friend typed.

“Oh, Femi? Lost contact with him a long while ago after I closed my account and opened a new one. Funny you still remember though… I haven’t heard from him since then. Six or seven years now, I think” Kemi replied, trying to conceal the sense of nostalgia her friend’s words evoked in her.

“Chatted with him just yesterday. Femi, ever still his smart, chatty self!”

Kemi’s heart missed a heartbeat, then two. And her hands became unsteadied on the computer keyboard.

“But I’ve searched for Femi Adewunmi several times on Facebook and never found him. I thought he had closed his Facebook account…” She managed to type with her now wobbly fingers.

“That’s because he has Anglicized his name on social media. You should search for ‘Phemmy,’ not ‘Femi.’”

“Anglicized?”

“Yeah, maybe that’s because he just returned from the UK. You know, he’s now a ‘T-O-K-U-N-B-O’ and you won’t believe it, he’s also so well to do now.”

Kemi died inside. Femi was now a ‘Tokunbo?’ So Femi had been ‘The Tokunbo,’ her own ‘Tokunbo;’ the guy that was supposed to come from overseas and become her husband. So ‘the Lord’s will’ had also been her own will and yet she couldn’t see it?

Besides, he’s now also ‘well to do;’ the exact words Prophet Samson had used seven years ago… He had misled her… or not? How can someone be so wrong and right at the same time?

“Hello…. Helllo… Are you still there?” her friend typed in the message box.

But Kemi’s whole body was now shaking with emotions and her eyes were clouding with tears. She hurriedly left the computer and slumped on her bed and shed a good cry.

……………………………………


Two days later, Kemi type ‘Phemmy’ in the Facebook search box and sent him a friend request. Then she checked every other hour to see if he had responded. By the third day, Femi had seen Kemi’s friend request and accepted it. That morning, he was online and she was online too, so they chatted.

They were both overjoyed to reconnect with each other. They bantered and had small talks about the past and the present. Then they exchanged numbers and he invited her over to his place the next Saturday.

That Saturday, Kemi arrived at Femi’s home at exactly 9am as they’d agreed. “You shut yourself against the world,” Kemi accused Femi tongue-in-cheek after she was seated on a sofa in his decently furnished apartment in a high-brow neighbourhood in Ikeja, uptown Lagos.

“No; I should say that of you instead. As for me, I simply evolved and moved on,” Femi answered, pouring himself a glass from the wine bottle he had reserved for the visit. He filled Kemi’s glass cup too.

Kemi stole occasional gazes at him each time his attention was momentarily consumed by the football match on his wall-mounted 40 inches LCD tv. He was plump now and round-faced and spoke and laughed in slow, measured notes like rich African folks often do.

“So you’ve been to the UK recently. You are a ‘Tokunbo,’ eh? You are a big boy now, see,” Kemi said and giggled pretentiously, every word piercing her insides with pain and regret.

“’Tokunbo’? Oh, you mean ‘been to overseas’? That’s the common slang peeps here use. Me, big boy? Please don’t flatter me. My company just sent me on a professional course training. Then I worked for a year in the UK headquarters and was transferred back to Nigeria after then to head the corporate communications department,” Femi recounted modestly.

Kemi adjusted clumsily on her seat. She grew ever so uneasy. It was like his story was taunting her. “What company is that?” she asked, now only half interested in the topic. She had still not touched her glass of wine.

“Aircom. It is an international telecom company that has just invested in Nigeria,” Femi said. His phone rang and he spoke with the caller for some time. Then he went into the kitchen to check on a something he was barbecuing in the microwave oven.

The phone backlight was still on. Kemi finally had the chance to look closely at his iPhone 5 lying on the centre table, as she had been itching to all morning. When she looked, she saw he had put the picture of a beautiful, young African woman as his screensaver. Kemi’s heart deflated.

When Femi returned to the sitting room, Kemi’s demeanour had become sombre. “The lady on your phone, she’s your friend, eh?” her voice trembled a little.

“Err…, Yes…” Femi said and hesitated. He too was getting uneasy at Kemi’s sudden switch mood and conversation.

“A friend like me?” Kemi’s voice was wistfully sharp, like he was reprimanding him for betraying her.

Femi said nothing. But Kemi knew him well enough to pry out what was hidden underneath those eyes. She looked at him intently and knew his answer was ‘No.’

Her whole body shook now with emotions and her eyes clouded with tears. She hurriedly left the house and flagged down a taxi before Femi could stop her. When she got home, she slumped on her couch and shed a good cry.

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Kemi had gone to visit Prophet Samson that Sunday just after the worship service in the small bamboo church painted in a queer mix of blue, red and white.

The last of the regular worshippers had just left and Prophet Samson was getting ready to attend to the small crowd of faithfuls who were waiting for spiritual counselling, or wanted him to see a vision or prophesy for them.

Prophet Samson, or ‘Daddy Prophet,’ as many of the worshippers reverently call him, was dressed in a flowing white robe, with a red sash worn diagonally over it with the words ‘HIS HOLINESS, THE HOLY PROPHET’ boldly sown with white thread.

Kemi had been reluctant to visit ‘Daddy Prophet,’ but yielded after so much nagging by Aunt Simi every time she visited the house, which was so often she could pass for one of the residents of the house. Aunt Simi had the notorious fame of having four children from three different men been and being divorced three times. But it was an infamous badge she now wore with less shame or care. She had long endured all the street gossips and side and was now inured to them.

“A young, single lady like you must go and divine her future husband before it is late. A woman must marry God’s will when choosing a husband or marriage could turn out to be hell for her on earth. My example should suffice for you,” Aunt Simi would badger her endlessly until her voice grew hoarse.

Not that Kemi was hearing that for the first time though. In spite of their sophisticated looks, most young women in the city and even sometimes the young men go to some Prophets somewhere to divine ‘God’s will’ in marriage for themselves.

‘Daddy Prophet’ was about the most popular in this business of envisioning a future spouse for a young man or woman. Young people in their mid or late 20’s and early 30’s flocked in from the plush corridors of the city and the outskirts to his humble bamboo church to know about who or what lay ahead of them. No one dared questioned his visions or doubted them. Even if the prophesies don’t happen exactly as he had said them, the faithful worshippers always had some way to explain them away with rational judgement.

“I want to marry my own husband from God who will give me peace, prosperity and all the good things of life,” the throng of young unmarried women who queue to see ‘Daddy Prophet’ on the appointed days would say.

Sometimes a young lady would steal her boyfriend’s picture when she visited him and then take to Prophet Samson to divine with so she could know whether to continue to stick with him or look for another suitor.

Kemi stood rooted at a spot and shook with trepidation inside. Baba’s reputation overwhelmed her. “Good afternoon, Prophet,” she greeted and curtseyed. “I want to know who I should marry,” she said abruptly.

‘Daddy Prophet’ looked at her and his eyes drilled into hers like he was trying to decrypt a message locked behind it; something esoteric. Kemi’s knee weakened and she looked away.

“Ah, my sweet young lady. You’re a lucky one. Your husband will be a ‘Tokunbo.’ He will be well-to-do.” ‘Daddy Prophet’ prophesied as soon as they were inside the bamboo church and began the business of the day.

“’Tokunbo?’ His name will be Tokunbo…?” Kemi enquired. She wanted more information.

“No. I cannot know his name. The Lord does not reveal names. But your husband will come from overseas; that means he will be a ‘Tokunbo.’ He will be a rich man. This is your marriage destiny from the Lord,” ‘Daddy Prophet’ explained.

………………………………………………….

When Kemi came to from her reverie, she shrugged. Femi was still patiently imploring, mumbling some mumbo-jumbo Kemi could barely make out. She instantly felt irritated and snapped. “Why, I have wasted an entire day of my life standing here with you for no sensible reason! Are you such a slacker you don’t even value time? Do you realize I was on an errand when you stopped me? Wait, why am I even blaming you? I have been the stupid one waiting here and listening, as if you cast some spell on me, to the gibberish you’re spewing to amuse yourself and your friends! Please I have to go,” Kemi said and stomped off, leaving Femi mortified and rooted to the spot.

She barely heard from Femi again. But a month later, Femi called again. He was the proverbial patient dog. Femi thought inanely: Maybe Kemi was testing him to see if he had tempers; something single women avoided in prospective suitors like a plague.

But Kemi wasn’t testing Femi. She was simply obeying the Lord’s will, according to Prophet Samson or ‘Daddy Prophet,’ as the church faithfuls called him. She loved him, but she must love God more. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. She must not yield to the flesh. Femi was the flesh; but the Lord’s will, as seen by Prophet Samson, was the spirit; and the spirit must prevail to tame the desires of the flesh, Kemi convinced herself.

In time, Femi got to understand Kemi may never yield to his wooing. He never understood why though. Maybe there was some other guy. Maybe she wanted to be a career lady who ‘married’ her books instead. Maybe she wanted to be a nun.

Whichever it was, Kemi never told Femi and, after some time, he too stopped asking or pestering her. He no longer stopped to talk with her every time he saw her. Most times now, he would just wave at her and flash a smile. The calls dwindled too especially after he moved to another city. He went from calling every day to just twice a week and then no calls at all.

In spite of herself, it hurt Kemi. But she was determined to obey ‘the Lord’s will.’ She must be strong and not yield to the temptations of the flesh. But the tough hide she tried to put up to fight her true emotions didn’t last long, and she was beside herself. It ate her up very night and in dreams and visions she would see Femi come to her and ask again if she wanted to be with him. She would cry and with hearts thumping so loud say “Yes” and she would beg him to forgive her; and then she would wake up and become sullen and confused.

Sometimes when she woke up from her dreams or trance, she would moan and mope until the tears in her eyes dried and she lost all appetite for food. Once, she could no longer take it and decided to call Prophet Samson on the phone. Perhaps God would change His mind and Prophet Samson would say Femi was the Lord’s will and not some ‘Tokunbo.’

“I’m sorry, sir. But is God’s will for me still this ‘Tokunbo’ I am yet to see?” Kemi stuttered after ‘Daddy Prophet’ picked the line and said ‘the Peace of the Lord be upon the caller’ - his usual refrain in place of ‘Hello.’

But there was silence on the phone after Kemi asked her question. A pin drop silence.

“Hello. Hello, Prophet…” Kemi stammered some more.

“Yes!” Prophet Samson’s voice was curt.

“Emm, I just want to know if… if… I mean, I have a friend called Femi….” Kemi rambled.

Just then, the tiny echo of the call tone assaulted Kemi’s ears. The line was dead.

“Hello… Hello, sir…” Kemi called. She tried to redial, but Prophet Samson didn’t pick and she stopped after ten tries.

After that day, each time Kemi called the Prophet Samson, he would refuse to answer the call. The worshippers that need Daddy Prophet’s intervention these days must be so many. He’s seems very busy, Kemi rationalised for Prophet Samson.

But after two weeks and ‘Daddy Prophet’ would still not answer Kemi’s call, she started to doubt her own excuses for Prophet Samson. But one day he finally answered the call after she had bugged his phone and refused to stop until he picked up the line.

“Ah, Your Holiness, thank God I finally got you,” Kemi said and heaved a sigh of relief. “I’ve been trying to reach you on a small matter. It’s about my friend…”

But Prophet Samson rudely interrupted her. “Are you doubting the word of the Lord?” he bellowed. “I have told you the Lord’s Will for you and you are questioning it? You must repent of this insolence and fast unto the Lord.”

“I am sorry sir. I will abide by the Lord’s will,” Kemi sputtered again; her shoulders slumped, her body turned icy cold.

That call marked the end of her resistance to the Lord’s will as seen by Prophet Samson. She beat herself for days which turned weeks. And for penance for questioning the Lord’s will, she fasted for seven days.

(TO BE CONTINUED.... and hope we get more comments and interests)

Hi friends, here's part 2 of the series. More to come...

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Hello friends, it's been ages. We bring you a literary piece we know you'll find interesting. It's a true life story. It's a 6-part truly intriguing and inspiring story. Please hang around for the rest parts...

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Femi’s face lit up with joy once he saw Kemi sashaying along the road, swaying her hips rhythmically in the soft suns beams of the twilight. He felt a rush of emotions; the kind that had gnawed at his heart for months with a bitter-sweet sting. The kind that pumped at his ribcage uncontrollably and weakened him at his feet and he only manages to mask with a boyish swagger.

The white of his eyes shone brighter as Kemi got closer and made to pass Suya Joint and Football Viewing Centre where Femi and other young men had gathered for weekend leisure. They were arguing about the latest English Premier Leagues results of Chelsea, Manchester United, Arsenal and Liverpool; and other inanities before Femi’s sudden silence slowed the tempo of their excitement.

Femi said something in a low grunt that passed for excuse to the cluster of the young men at his table and stood up to intersect Kemi before she hurried past them. The young men – about eight of them, in their late 20’s; a motley of personality types you often see in public gatherings – grunted too in return and nodded, a knowing smile crisscrossing their faces.

“Hi, Beauty,” Femi greeted and forced a coy smile on his face. Soft twilight rays bounced off his receding hairline and cast a shade of beige on his tired jeans and grey shirt.

As Femi walked towards Kemi from the other end of the pathway, he slowed his pace at a quiet, less busy spot. In the circumstances, it was the perfect spot to once more unburden his mind to Kemi – even if he had done so many times in the past and in so many different places and situations that he had lost count and perhaps some self-respect.

Kemi sighted Femi from a corner of her eyes and stifled a smile emerging on her face. She scoffed and made to dash past him, but changed her mind midway. She stopped, rested her body on her right hip and fixed Femi with a patient, studying gaze. But it was exactly the kind of posture that often unsettled Femi; that made monetarily loose his composure and sputter. Kemi’s tight-fitting, three-quarter dress hugged her Figure 8 contours somehow overwhelmed Femi and made him secretly drool. He tugged lightly at the scruff of his shirt and gulped hard, then with his dull white handkerchief, he wiped of the tiny beads of sweat now gathering on his face.
“You’re sweating,” Kemi said and Femi feared the worst. Perhaps she has heard the sound of his heartbeats.

It tickled Kemi how easily she could wear him out, yet barely uttering a sound. She twirled a few strands of her hair and let a teasing smile settle on her lips. After what looked like an eternal interlude, she yawned sarcastically. “Femi, what do you want?” She asked in a feigned tired voice.

“But Kemmmiiii…” Femi drew out her name in a persuasive voice – almost pleadingly. “You know I like you a lot. I know you know it. In fact, I know everyone in Egbeda knows it now, but what do I care?” Femi held Kemi’s hand lightly and tried to press it lovingly like love-struck couples would do on the eve of their wedding in the cool breeze and warm shadows of a moonlit night.

Kemi slowly pulled her hand away, but Femi continued his wooing ritual, his voice now almost a bedroom whisper; and his eyes misting. “There are things you just can’t fight...”

He was serious. He wasn’t fibbing. Kemi knew it. She has always known it.

“But Femi, I’ve heard those same lines like a thousand times this week from boys of all sorts in this area?” Kemi remonstrated in measured, prim and proper tone. “Your own lines are even the most ordinary. No sparks whatsoever. They are boring me to death,” she teased him, bunching her lips sideways and keeping a straight face.

“I am serious, Kemi. Please, stop lumping me together with ‘boys of all sorts,’” Femi said. “You know that, don’t you? I don’t want anyone else beside you. I want to be with you only even if it is just as a friend. Not just that, I hope from there someday we can take it to the next level. I am serious and I mean every single word.”

Kemi’s ears tingled at the words “the next level.” In the street lexicon of boy and girl dating, that meant ‘marriage.’ She playfully wrapped her fingers round a stray curly strand of her hair again and tilted her head sideways for a better view of his face and maybe his heart.

Her eyes were becoming googly now. She liked him. He was smart, friendly, hardworking and often spoke with a simple but firm conviction that always willy-nilly broke down her defences. Yes, she liked him a lot just the same way he liked her. But that could be where it ended. There was not likely to be a “next level” because he was not the Lord’s will for her in marriage. Or rather, he was not the Lord’s will for her, according to Prophet Samson.

Kabir’s made-in-Nigeria Super XL Innoson covert electric police car glided noiselessly over the expanded Lagos-Shagamu highway. In his head, he could still hear the heart-rending pleas of Ogbonna as armed policemen tasered and landed several blows on him that wet and cold Saturday morning.

The Black Maria had driven noisily into the Ikeja headquarters of the Lagos Police Department (LPD) and Ogbonna, handcuffed and battered – and curiously the only one held in the stench-filled cells of the Black Maria – hurled out of the police van and dragged by his cuff.

Not that this was unusual. As a Superintendent of Police (SP), Usman Kabir had witnessed worse scenes. He remembers when a five-member criminal gang was brought into the police compound literally half-dead. The police had engaged them in several hours of shoot-out at midnight before the police subdued them with their newly-acquired laser guns and super night vision goggles.

But unlike the scenario with Ogbonna, this was a group; a criminal gang that had long terrorized the state. The Chief Police Commissioner (CPC), Kayode Ajala himself had expressly ordered the SWAT mission to arrest the notorious gang, while he remotely monitored the mission on camera via a satellite chip embedded in the night vision goggle of the leader of the SWAT team.

This was different. The images of a terribly molested and handcuffed Ogbonna kept playing back in Kabir’s head like it was on auto-play. Ogbonna had looked helpless and frozen in the icy drizzles of that early dawn and with clumps of red mud hugging his torn jeans and shirt kept. It pounded Kabir’s heart and seared his conscience.

For goodness sake, this was 2085 and police operations across all the independent state police departments in Nigeria were now as civil as they are efficient, effective and loved by the people. Gone were the days when the average citizen viewed a security officer with distrust, disdain and as a willing tool of oppression and brutality by the rich and connected. CPC Ajala particularly emphasized professionalism among the officers so that the LPD maintained the high reputation it had built over the past 15 years.

But there was another factor; and this was perhaps a bit sentimental for Kabir. Ogbonna had been his campus mate at the Ahmadu Bello University some 10 years ago. Although they never really belonged to the same inner ring of friends, Kabir secretly admired Ogbonna. His principled lifestyle was everything Kabir had always wished he could force himself to cultivate as an aspiring secret service officer. Ogbonna was studying to be a doctor, while Kabir was reading for degree in criminology.

The virtual screen on the car dashboard beeped and interrupted Kabir’s thoughts. It was the CPC, Kayode Ajala.
“Where are you off to, SP Kabir?” the police chief asked. “I needed you to debrief me on last night’s operation, but I see you’re on the road again.”

Kabir rummaged for a good excuse in his mind. “Yes, sir. I’d like to quickly conclude on some last bits of the puzzle and tie some loose ends.”

“OK,” Ajala grunted. “Just make sure I get the feedback ASAP.”
Kabir grinned. He had told a white lie. But the smile quickly gave way to a grim face as the car hit a bump or two as he veered off the highway. He had got to Ijede, a sleepy town tucked away in the hinterlands of Ikorodu.

He drove the car into a parking lot and put on a fez cap to match with his faded jeans and t-shirt. He was now wearing the look of the regular guy on the street.

He politely asked a couple of passersby for the nearest estate in Ijede. ‘Ijede’ and ‘Estate;’ those were the only two words that formed the clue he was working on. Those were the only two words Ogbonna could whimper before he was dragged into a dingy cell.
He had also mentioned ‘Please’ in a tired voice, stretching his bruised and shrunken hands pleadingly to Kabir. He had instantly recognized Kabir, but the circumstances defied pleasantries or any form of catching-up from old times. In Ogbonna’s swollen and barely opened eyes, Kabir could see a faint glint of hope his old pal was reposing on him.

Someone had now directed him to Millenium Estate, Ijede and with his undercover police investigative skills, he quickly located Ogbonna’s apartment. When he knocked and the door was opened, he saw Ogbonna’s wife and a few family members consoling her. Her eyes were red and bulging and flooding with tears. She sprang to her feet. Somehow, her sixth sense recognized that Kabir was a policeman.

“Sule set him up. Sule set him up oooo,” she began a teary and unsolicited narration, spreading her palms to the ceiling with a note of resignation in her voice.

“Sule planted the drugs in his car oooo. He had always boasted he was going to deal with Ogbonna over a personal business deal,” she lamented further.

Again, Kabir’s police undercover skills kicked in and he decided to meet with Sule with a strategy. “Stay calm, ma. I give you my assurance. Ogbonna was my friend back in ABU. I know him well,” he said and slinked out before he could get any elaborate response.

A couple of hours later, Kabir was posing as a secret drug buyer and bantering with Sule as a joint.

“You want some dope, men? I give you some; but you’ve got to have some real dough, know what I mean…” Sule rambled in a fake Jamaican accent.

Kabir pretended to want to check his wristwatch and switched on the inbuilt recorder. “$30, 000. My clients are big time!”

“Shit! I like you already, mheen.”

“But, first, my boss will like to meet you,” Kabir said and wrestled Sule to the floor and cuffed him. “My boss is CPC Ajala.” Then he led the suspect to his covert electric police car.