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I took a deep breath, determined to handle the matter with as much grace and dignity as I could muster.



When I stepped out of the main building and into the dim, amber light of the corridor, a strange mixture of apprehension and resolve stirred in my chest. The late afternoon air hung heavy and still, almost as if the compound itself was holding its breath, waiting to see how this delicate situation would unfold. I didn't pause to second-guess myself; I had already made up my mind.

My footsteps echoed slightly as I made my way down the hallway, each one pulling me closer to Ms. Kay’s room. My heart thumped steadily—not with guilt, but with the pressure of being misunderstood. There’s a particular kind of frustration that comes when your character is questioned. It wasn’t just about a missing bra—it was about who I was and how others perceived me.

When I finally arrived at her door, I paused briefly. I took a breath and knocked.

To my surprise, the door opened almost immediately, as though she had been standing right behind it, waiting. Her expression was unreadable—neither warm nor cold, just composed, like someone trying not to show too much too soon.

"Can I see you for a moment?" I asked, my voice calm but firm.

She gave a small nod. "Okay, come in."

It was the first time I had been invited into her space. Until then, all our interactions had taken place in shared spaces—on the corridor, at the gate, or by the water tank. Somehow, stepping into her room felt like crossing an invisible threshold. I remembered the landlady’s cryptic advice from months ago: "Be mindful of the quiet ones, they have their ways." At the time, I had brushed it off, but now it echoed in my mind.

Ms. Kay's room was the same size as mine, but the difference in arrangement and atmosphere was striking. She had a talent for order. A soft, pleasant fragrance filled the air—something floral with a hint of citrus, like lavender and orange peel. Her bed was neatly made, no stray clothes tossed carelessly like in my own room. A modest shoe rack near the door showcased a surprising number of shoes, each pair aligned with intention. Clearly, she was someone who valued her space.

Two low settees faced the bed, and she gestured for me to sit. I chose the one closest to the window while she sat across from me, her posture straight, yet relaxed.

I sat with care, trying to respect the unspoken rules of the room.

"Thank you," I said, offering a quick, sincere smile.

She responded with a slight nod, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

I took a breath and began. “Concerning this current issue,” I said, choosing my words deliberately, “I want to start by saying, first and foremost, that I am not a diabolical person. I would never, under any circumstance, use anyone’s underwear—or anything else—for any kind of ritual. God is my witness. I can even swear, if that would help ease your mind.”

Her face didn’t change, but I could see a flicker in her eyes. She was listening.

I continued, “The one I showed you is exactly the one I found. My girlfriend was actually the first to see it. If you’d like, I can give you her number so you can ask her yourself. I don’t mind. And if you still have doubts after all this, I’m more than willing to take you to my room so you can search it thoroughly—check every corner, every drawer. I have nothing to hide.”

I let the silence settle for a moment. She didn’t speak right away, and in that moment of stillness, the weight of everything hung in the air between us—the accusations, the tension in the compound, the quiet gossiping behind closed doors.

Finally, she spoke. Her voice was calm, measured.

“There will be no need for that,” she said simply.

Relief washed over me, though I kept my composure. I nodded slowly. “Thank you for believing me. Since I moved here, you and I have never had any issues—not a single misunderstanding. That’s part of why this whole thing bothered me so much. I admire your decent, easy-going way of life. You don’t involve yourself in drama. You keep to yourself. I respect that.”

She said nothing, but her gaze softened ever so slightly.

“I just want us to be on good terms,” I added. “I’ve never had any bad intentions towards you, and I never will. I’m saying all this now so it’s clear. I don’t want to carry around any bitterness, and I don’t want you to either. So—thank you for giving me a chance to explain.”

Another silence. Then I said, almost cautiously, “Should I go and bring the bra I have with me now? Just to clear the air completely.”



She suddenly shrugged, her expression unreadable but no longer hostile. “Okay,” she said simply.

The word was like sunlight breaking through a cloudy morning. I let out a quiet sigh of relief, the tension in my shoulders easing. I smiled—wide, warm, the kind of smile that lights up the corners of your face and tells the other person they’ve just lifted a weight off your chest.

“Good. I shall be back with it in a jiffy,” I said, standing up.

As I rose from the seat, I instinctively reached out and gave her left shoulder a gentle pat—a gesture meant to signal goodwill, respect, and gratitude all at once. She didn’t flinch or pull away, but neither did she respond. Her silence lingered in the room like incense smoke after a prayer. I didn’t push further.

Verse 1:
Great and Mighty are You, Jesus
Glory to the Lamb of God
You are the King of kings
Lord of lords, You reign

Chorus:
Great and Mighty, Great and Mighty
You are God almighty
Great and Mighty, Great and Mighty
You are worthy to be praised

Verse 2:
You are the One who reigns forever
Ruler of the universe
You are the One who loves us
And gave Your life for us

Chorus:
Great and Mighty, Great and Mighty
You are God almighty
Great and Mighty, Great and Mighty
You are worthy to be praised

Bridge:
We lift Your name high
We sing Your praise
You are the One who saves us
And sets us free

Chorus:
Great and Mighty, Great and Mighty
You are God almighty
Great and Mighty, Great and Mighty
You are worthy to be praised

This song is a powerful declaration of God's greatness and might.

*Title:* "Majestic God"

*Verse 1:*
In the heavens, You reign supreme
A throne of glory, where Your name is esteemed
You are the King, the Lord of all
Forever and ever, Your majesty stands tall

*Chorus:*
Majestic God, You are worthy of praise
Your love and mercy, never fade away
In Your presence, we bow down and adore
Majestic God, forever we'll sing Your praise

*Verse 2:*
You are the Rock, our Refuge and our Guide
In times of trouble, You are our Pride
Your faithfulness, it never fails
You are the One, who hears our prayers and prevails

*Chorus:*
Majestic God, You are worthy of praise
Your love and mercy, never fade away
In Your presence, we bow down and adore
Majestic God, forever we'll sing Your praise

*Bridge:*
Holy, Holy, Holy, You are God
Three in One, the Trinity we've known
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit too
We'll praise Your name, forever true

*Chorus:*
Majestic God, You are worthy of praise
Your love and mercy, never fade away
In Your presence, we bow down and adore
Majestic God, forever we'll sing Your praise

This song is a heartfelt expression of praise and worship to God, highlighting His majesty, love, and mercy.

Later that evening, with a knot in my chest and my thumb hovering over the send button longer than I’d admit, I finally texted her:
“Can we talk?”

She came not long after. No makeup. No forced smile. Just Fiyin — raw, alert, and already worried.

“What happened?” she asked the moment she stepped in, her voice low and urgent, like she already knew whatever I had to say wasn’t good.

I didn’t ease into it. There was no room for preambles.
I told her everything — every word Uncle Tade had said, the maddening calm in his tone, as if his decision was a fact of nature and not a verdict on us.
As I spoke, I watched the light in her eyes flicker, the quiet tightening of her jaw, the way she folded her arms like she was trying to keep herself from coming undone.

For a long moment, she didn’t respond.
She sat down next to me, slowly, her eyes on her hands as they twisted in her lap.
“I knew it would come,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Eventually.”

“It doesn’t feel fair,” I said, the words spilling out. “We didn’t go looking for this. We didn’t plan it. It just… happened. We found something good. Something real. And now we’re supposed to act like it never existed?”

She looked up at me then, and in that gaze — wide, dark, brimming with frustration and ache — I saw the reflection of my own heartbreak.
“I don’t want to stop,” she said, voice steady but soft. “Do you?”

“No,” I said immediately, without flinching. “Not unless you do.”

She inhaled sharply, like she’d been holding her breath this whole time. Then she rested her head against my shoulder, her voice quiet, resolute.
“Then we’ll have to be careful. Smarter. Quieter. Just us. Just… real.”

I turned slightly, brushing my fingers against her cheek, as if I needed to feel her to believe this wasn’t all slipping away.
“Are you sure?”

She met my eyes. And nodded.
“I’d rather have you in silence than lose you in the open.”

We didn’t kiss. We didn’t cry. But in that moment, a choice was made — not out of rebellion, not even out of defiance. It was something else entirely. A private kind of courage. A decision to protect what we had from a world too rigid to understand it.

That night, we crossed into something deeper — something heavier.
We became secret lovers.

Not the kind written about in poems — no flowers, no moonlit rendezvous with stolen wine. No declarations in the rain.
Just long, deliberate glances passed like notes in a classroom. Just calculated silence at family dinners. Just coded texts and locked phones, and a growing fluency in the language of pretending.

In public, we were cautious. Practiced. Our conversations laced with nothing but friendliness. Our smiles clipped short. Our bodies held back.

But in the private places — in the quiet hours when the house exhaled and the walls stopped listening — we let the mask slip.
We whispered promises in the dark, touched each other like the world might end by morning, laughed too freely in rooms no one else entered. And when the silence got too loud, we reminded each other: We chose this. For now.

We were no longer just discovering each other.
We were learning how to survive each other — how to hold on, even when everything around us warned we’d have to let go.
Ours was a love in the margins — careful, quiet, and burning just beneath the surface.

And somehow, the danger of it only made it feel more real.


---


Being secret lovers required a kind of discipline neither of us had ever practiced before. It wasn’t just about hiding kisses or avoiding long stares — it was about mastering silence, learning when to act like strangers, and when to be everything but.

“Dave,” she said, “you and I need to talk. And this time, I want you to tell me everything. No holding back.”

The soft hum of a ceiling fan stirred the humid air as I sat opposite Madam, our landlady, in her modest but meticulously kept sitting room. The faint scent of camphor lingered in the corners, mingling with the aroma of the ginger tea she had just offered but I had politely declined. Her eyes, sharp yet not unkind, rested on me with an intensity that made it difficult to hold her gaze. A woman in her late fifties, Madam carried herself with a certain grace that came from years of being both a disciplinarian and a peacemaker in her tenement house.

She spoke again, her voice firm but not accusatory. “What went wrong between the two of you?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest. “What wrong did you do to her?”

The question felt like a weight, and for a few seconds, I struggled to find my voice. I had run this conversation a dozen times in my head before coming to her flat, but now the words seemed to falter under the pressure of implication. I looked up slowly, careful not to let my frustration show.

“Madam, honestly, I don't know,” I began, choosing my words carefully. “My relationship with Ms. Kay has always been smooth. Very smooth, in fact. We've never had any quarrel, any misunderstanding—nothing that could give rise to this kind of issue. There has never been any bad blood between us, at least not from my end.”

She leaned forward slightly, eyebrows arched. “Then why would she say such a thing?”

I drew in a deep breath, struggling to maintain my composure. “I was as shocked as you are when she made the accusation. To suggest that I—me, of all people—would use her underwear for something diabolical… Madam, that can never happen. I swear to you, I’m not capable of such a thing. It’s not in my nature, and I’ve never had any dealings or interest in anything like that.”

Madam nodded slowly, her eyes studying me as if trying to measure the weight of my truth. She was a woman who had seen and heard enough in her years to know when someone was lying, and I hoped my sincerity was coming through.

“I understand,” she said finally, her tone more contemplative now. “Since you moved into this compound, I’ve never had any reason to call you out. You’ve kept to yourself mostly, and I’ve never heard any complaints about you. You've been respectful and tidy. Even Ms. Kay—she's lived here longer than you have, and I've never had cause to rebuke her either. She’s always been quiet, polite, and from what I could tell, quite friendly.”

She paused, tapping her fingers lightly on the armrest. “But this recent tension between the two of you, it’s disturbing. And you know how things like this can spread in a compound. It starts with a whisper and then becomes a scandal. I don't want that here.”

I nodded, grateful for her measured approach. “I understand, ma. That’s why I decided to speak to you, so you’d know my side of the story. Because if I don’t clear my name, rumors will start flying.”

She gave a soft sigh and sat back. “Let me advise you, my dear. Sometimes, we think we’re doing the right thing by keeping to ourselves, but people can misunderstand silence. Maybe Ms. Kay thought you were being distant. Or maybe there's something she heard that’s influencing her behavior. Whatever it is, I suggest you try to befriend her again. You may have been too aloof before. Now is the time to be a little more open. Greet her, offer her a helping hand when you can. Just small things that can build a better relationship.”

I nodded again, letting her words sink in.

She added, “And if you still have her bra—deliberately or not—just return it. Even if she refused it before, try again. There’s no harm in showing you’re making an effort.”

I could feel a lump forming in my throat, not out of guilt but out of the sheer frustration of the situation. I wasn’t the kind of person to hold onto someone’s property, and I had tried, genuinely tried, to return the item. Ms. Kay had rejected it outright, her eyes cold and accusing, as though I had crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.

“I swear, ma,” I said solemnly, “the only item of clothing I ever had of hers was that bra she left in the washing area. I picked it up by mistake, thinking it belonged to my sister who had just visited. When I realized it wasn’t hers, I tried to return it to Ms. Kay. She refused. She said she didn’t want it back from me, as if I’d contaminated it.”

Madam’s eyes narrowed slightly at that. “Did she really say that?”

“Yes, ma. That’s what hurt me the most. I tried to explain, but she wouldn’t even let me speak. She just stormed off.”

Madam shook her head slowly. “This is not good at all. But I appreciate you coming to talk to me. It shows you care about your reputation and about keeping peace in this house. Let me see what I can do. I’ll talk to Ms. Kay myself.”

I stood up, feeling a mix of relief and uncertainty. At least I had spoken my truth. Whether it would be enough, only time would tell.

“Thank you very much, Madam,” I said, my voice low but earnest. “I really appreciate your time and your advice.”

She waved me off gently. “Go in peace. And remember what I said—sometimes a kind word can heal a wound you didn’t even know was there.”

I stepped out into the corridor, the evening air now cooler against my skin. The compound was quiet, save for the distant laughter of children playing somewhere nearby. I took a deep breath, determined to handle the matter with as much grace and dignity as I could muster.

Praise to the Power of God

O Lord of Heaven and Earth,
Mighty is Your hand and endless is Your might.
You speak, and galaxies are born—
You breathe, and life begins.

Mountains rise and oceans part
At the whisper of Your will.
The stars march in their courses,
Guided by Your unseen hand.

No force can rival You,
No wisdom outshine Your light.
In chaos, You are order;
In darkness, You are dawn.

You are the strength of the weak,
The defender of the humble,
The Rock unshaken by storm or time.
Kings rise and fall, but You remain forever.

Who can measure the depths of Your power?
Who can stand against You and prevail?
Yet, in Your greatness, You are gentle—
A mighty God who knows each name.

To You belongs all glory,
All honor, all praise,
Forever and ever. Amen.

🎵 Title: "You Too Good"

Verse 1:
When I think about Your love
And the things You’ve done for me
Na only joy dey fill my heart
You carry me when I no fit walk

Chorus:
You too good, You too kind
Baba God, You blow my mind
From January reach December
Na Your grace I dey remember
You too good, You too kind
Na why I dey dance all the time
Jehovah, You be my everything
Na You dey make my heart dey sing

Verse 2:
Even when I no deserve
You still dey show me love
Every day I wake, I see
Your mercy just dey follow me

Bridge:
Na You be Alpha, You be Omega
My Defender, my Provider
I go praise You forever
Nothing go ever separate us

(Repeat Chorus)

Jesus as the Solution to Living a Moral Life

In a world of shifting values and moral confusion, many seek a firm foundation upon which to build their lives. For countless individuals throughout history and today, that foundation is found in the life, teachings, and example of Jesus Christ. He is not merely a moral teacher among many but is seen by Christians as the ultimate source and standard of what it means to live rightly. Jesus offers more than rules; He offers a relationship that transforms the heart, enabling true moral living from the inside out.

1. The Moral Clarity of Jesus' Teachings

Jesus’ teachings cut through superficial rule-keeping and went straight to the heart of human behavior. In the Sermon on the Mount (Matthew 5–7), He didn't simply repeat the moral laws of the past — He deepened them. For example, He taught that anger is as destructive as murder in the eyes of God, and that lust is a form of adultery in the heart. His moral vision goes beyond external conformity to address internal motives.

His famous “Golden Rule” — "Do to others as you would have them do to you" (Luke 6:31) — has shaped moral thought for generations. His emphasis on love, mercy, justice, humility, and forgiveness sets a high ethical standard that remains both challenging and compelling.

2. Jesus Lived the Perfect Moral Example

Jesus didn’t just teach morality; He embodied it. His life was marked by compassion for the outcast, courage in the face of corruption, patience with the flawed, and integrity in the face of temptation. He lived in perfect obedience to God and in complete love toward others, even to the point of sacrificing His life.

In Him, we see what perfect moral character looks like: humble yet bold, kind yet truthful, gentle yet firm. His actions and attitudes provide a template for what moral living should be.

3. Jesus Offers Inner Transformation

One of the deepest challenges in moral living is that humans often know what is right but struggle to do it. Jesus addressed this by offering not just guidance but transformation. According to Christian belief, through His death and resurrection, Jesus makes it possible for individuals to be forgiven of sin and receive a new heart.

This transformation is not merely behavioral; it is spiritual. The Holy Spirit, whom Jesus promised to His followers, empowers them to grow in virtues such as love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, and self-control (Galatians 5:22–23). Jesus doesn’t just tell people to live morally — He enables them to do so through a renewed nature and daily guidance.

4. Jesus Gives Purpose to Moral Living

Without a larger context, morality can become a burden or a means of self-righteousness. Jesus anchors moral living in the love of God and neighbor, giving it eternal significance. He invites people into a life where doing good is not about earning approval but responding to grace.

Living morally in Christ is not about rigid perfectionism, but about growing in relationship with God and others. It’s about becoming more like Jesus — who perfectly reveals what it means to be truly human.


---

Conclusion

Jesus is not just a moral teacher; He is the source of moral renewal. His teachings illuminate the path, His life exemplifies the way, and His Spirit empowers the journey. In a world full of moral uncertainty, Jesus offers both the truth and the transforming power to live it out. For those seeking to live a moral life, Jesus is not merely a guide — He is the solution.

Her voice softened, just for a beat. “God rest her soul. She taught me to wear dignity like armor. Even when the world claws at your back.”

I nodded, jotting her words down, though I knew already that this wasn’t going to be a conventional profile. There was a gravity to the moment, a sensation like standing at the edge of something far larger than myself.

“And now?” I asked, my pen pausing. “What drives you today?”

Her eyes met mine, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of something—regret, maybe. Or something harder. Something colder.

“Peace,” she said. The word landed like a pebble dropped into a still pond. “And power. Not the kind that crushes… the kind that builds. I want to make things that last. Institutions. Ideas. Legacy.”

Just as I opened my mouth to ask what that legacy might look like, she leaned in slightly, her voice dropping half a register. It wasn’t a whisper, but it felt like one.

“But that’s not why I brought you here.”

My brow furrowed. “No?”

She gave a knowing smile—one that suggested she had been playing a different game all along.

“I wanted to meet the man behind the pen,” she said. “I read your piece last month. The one about Ojuelegba. The underground music scene. You told the truth without making a spectacle of their poverty. That takes discipline. And empathy.”

I blinked, caught off guard. She wasn’t flattering me—her tone was too precise for that. She was observing me. Measuring me.

There was a silence. A stretch of space filled only by the distant hum of Lagos traffic below. Then she stood—fluid, elegant—and moved to a black lacquered cabinet near the far wall. From within, she retrieved a small, cream-colored envelope.

“I’m having a birthday gathering this weekend,” she said, not looking at me. “Private. Discreet. I’ll be fifty-three.” She turned and gave a wink that made her seem suddenly much younger, mischievous even.

I chuckled lightly, unsure where this was going.

She walked back and extended the envelope. It was thick, the paper heavy, embossed with gold filigree. The weight of it in my hand was more than literal—it felt like I was being handed something rare. And potentially dangerous.

“It’s not a red carpet affair,” she said. “No journalists. No cameras. Just people I trust.” She held my gaze. “I’d like you to come.”

I hesitated. “You want me to attend? As…?”

“As my guest,” she said smoothly. “Not as a journalist. Not as the Entertainment Editor of The Continental Weekly. Just Femi Allen.”

There was a beat. I looked at her, truly looked—and saw it again. That flicker. Not quite vulnerability. Not quite manipulation. Something in between.

“I… I’m honored,” I said finally, meaning it more than I expected.

She nodded, satisfied. “Good. I want you to see something.”

“What kind of something?”

She smiled, that enigmatic curve of her lips returning. “Not everything in this city is as it appears in print. Sometimes, the real stories don’t live in press releases or government briefings. They live behind velvet curtains. In laughter at 2 a.m. In whispered arguments over vintage champagne. In the faces of people who never make the news.”

Her expression softened again. “Be at Magodo GRA. Number 17A. Saturday night. Come alone.”

To my surprise, Ms. Kay was also there, seated stiffly on the far end of the long sofa, arms folded across her chest, her expression unreadable. She didn’t even glance at me.

I greeted respectfully. “Good afternoon, madam.”

“Good afternoon, Dave,” she replied, her tone neutral. Then she gestured toward the armchair opposite her. “Please, sit down.”

“Thank you, ma,” I said, lowering myself onto the chair.

She gave a small nod and leaned slightly forward. “I’ll go straight to the point,” she said, wasting no time. “Why did you refuse to return Ms. Kay’s bra?”

I blinked. Despite how tense everything felt, I almost let out a dry chuckle. Seriously? This is what we’re sitting here for?

“It’s not like that, madam,” I said calmly. “I didn’t refuse to return it. I found a black bra in my room and gave it to her. She’s the one refusing to collect it. She insists it’s not hers.”

Madam Abdulrazaq turned her head slightly to look at Ms. Kay, then back at me. “But she said you tried to give her something that’s not hers.”

I shook my head. “Madam, with all due respect, I strongly believe the bra is hers. It’s not Damilola’s—my girlfriend. She already confronted me about it, and left the house upset. So that leaves only Ms. Kay.”

The landlady sighed deeply and adjusted her headscarf. “Let me ask you this,” she said, her voice now slower, more deliberate. “When Ms. Kay first told you about her missing bra, what did you say to her?”

I sat up straighter. “I told her I hadn’t seen it. That was true at the time. I honestly didn’t know I had mistakenly picked anything that wasn’t mine. But later, when I found the bra in my laundry pile, I thought—it must be hers. So I tried to return it.”

She nodded slowly, considering that. “That turned out to be incorrect,” she said. “Or at least, debatable. The real issue now is that she came to report that she still wants her bra back. She believes you took it and haven't returned the original one.”

I rubbed my hands together and sighed, exasperated. “Madam, the one I gave her is the only one I found. I don’t have any other. And at this point, I’m even ready to let this go. Ms. Kay, how much was the bra? I’ll pay you—double. Just tell me how much.”

Ms. Kay finally spoke, her voice low but firm. “I don’t want your money,” she said, her eyes fixed on me for the first time that afternoon. “I want my bra back. That’s all.”

There was a long silence.

Madam Abdulrazaq leaned back in her chair, watching the two of us as if trying to determine who was lying and who wasn’t. Then, to my relief, she gave a slight grin and turned to Ms. Kay.

“Alright,” she said gently. “Ms. Kay, leave me with him for now. We’ll talk this over. You’ve said your part.”

Ms. Kay hesitated, then nodded. “Thank you, mummy,” she said, rising to her feet. She walked toward the door, giving me one last look—something between suspicion and disappointment—before stepping out and disappearing down the corridor.

The door closed softly behind her.

Madam sighed again and looked at me, her sharp eyes now a little softer.

“Dave,” she said, “you and I need to talk. And this time, I want you to tell me everything. No holding back.”

And somehow, that felt more powerful than any dramatic confession ever could. Because when love comes like this — slow, sure, and quietly intense — it doesn’t just hold you. It roots you.

And once it begins, it doesn't let go easily.


---



It was a Saturday morning, slow and drowsy. The house was full of weekend sounds — pots clanging softly from the kitchen, the low murmur of a radio, someone washing a car out front. I had just returned from picking up some fresh bread down the road when Uncle Tade called me into the main house.

He was sitting in the living room, dressed in one of his usual flowing Ankara kaftans, flipping through an old newspaper, his glasses resting low on his nose. The moment I stepped in, he lowered the paper and looked up — not angrily, but with that measured seriousness I’d come to know over the years.

“Sit down,” he said quietly.

I obeyed, confused but alert.

There was a pause. He folded the paper neatly and set it aside.

"I’ve been noticing something, Tayo," he began, hands clasped over his lap. “Between you and Fiyin.”

I froze slightly, my breath catching in my chest.

“She’s a guest in this house,” he continued. “A young girl under our roof. And you, even though you’re not her blood relative, you’re still part of this family. Through me. Through my wife.”

He paused again, letting the weight of his words settle.

“In our Yoruba culture,” he said slowly, “what you’re doing — or even thinking of doing — is not acceptable. It’s quite forbidden, in fact. There’s a reason we don’t cross certain lines. Not just because of tradition, but because of how the family, the community, will see it. People will not understand. And they will not be kind.”

I wanted to defend myself — to explain that it wasn’t what he thought, or at least not in the way he feared. But the truth was stuck in my throat. He wasn’t yelling. He wasn’t even accusing. He was stating what, to him, was cultural fact.

I nodded respectfully, though my heart was racing. “Yes, sir,” I murmured, my voice low.

He studied me for a moment longer, then leaned back and picked up his paper again.

“I know you're an adult now. You’re working, educated. But don’t let that make you forget where you come from. Or what we stand for.”

With that, he said nothing more.

I stood and left quietly.

Back in the boys’ quarters, I sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, my mind spinning. Guilt, frustration, confusion — they all tangled together. What we were doing felt right, honest, even beautiful. But to others, it would look like shame.

Later that evening, with a knot in my chest and my thumb hovering over the send button longer than I’d admit, I finally texted her:

“Can we talk?”

"By His Wounds, We Are Redeemed"

Verse 1
Upon the cross of Calv'ry raised,
The Lamb of God was slain.
He bore the wrath, He took our place,
He died to end our shame.
No greater love has ever been
Than Christ who died for me—
To cleanse the soul, to break the chain,
To set the captive free.

Verse 2
The blood that flowed from thorn-crowned brow
Has washed our guilt away.
The veil was torn, the debt was paid,
At dawn of mercy's day.
He rose in power from the grave,
The stone was rolled aside.
O death, where is your victory now?
The Lord is glorified!

Chorus
Hallelujah to the Savior,
Jesus Christ, the risen Son!
By His wounds, we are redeemed—
By His cross, the war is won!
Lift your voice, O ransomed people,
Sing His grace that knows no end—
Hallelujah to the Savior,
Our Redeemer and our Friend!

Verse 3
Now clothed in Christ, we stand made new,
Adopted, justified.
The Spirit seals our hearts in Him,
We walk now side by side.
No fear in life, no sting in death—
We rest in Christ alone.
Our hope secure, our future bright:
Salvation is His own.

Title: You Are Worthy (O Seun)

Verse 1:
You are worthy, oh Lord,
To receive all the glory,
From the rising of the sun,
To the going down the same,
You alone are God,
Mighty are Your works,
Heaven and earth adore You,
We lift Your name on high!

Chorus:
🎵 O Seun Baba, O Seun Baba
(Thank You, Father, Thank You, Father)
Oluwa, mo gbe o ga
(Lord, I lift You high)
You are worthy, You are mighty,
Alpha, Omega — we praise Your name!

Verse 2:
You lifted me from the miry clay,
Set my feet on the rock to stay,
What shall I render to You, my Lord?
For all You’ve done for me,
I will dance, I will shout,
I will lift my voice and sing!

Chorus Repeat

Bridge:
Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
To the King of kings!
Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
We give You all the praise!

PASS ME NOT, O GENTLE SAVIOUR
1. Pass me not, O gentle Saviour,
Hear my humble cry;
While on others Thou art calling,
Do not pass me by.

CHORUS:
Saviour, Saviour,
Hear my humble cry;
While on others Thou art calling,
Do not pass me by.

2. Let me, at Thy throne of mercy
Find a sweet relief;
Kneeling there in deep contrition,
Help my unbelief.

3. Trusting only in Thy merit
Would I seek Thy face
Heal my wounded, broken spirit,
Save me by Thy grace.

4. Thou, the spring of all my comfort,
More than life to me.
Whom have I on earth beside Thee?
Whom in heav'n but Thee?

I AM THINE O LORD

1 I am Thine, O Lord, I have heard Thy voice,
And it told Thy love to me;
But I long to rise in the arms of faith,
And be closer drawn to Thee.

Draw me nearer, nearer, blessed Lord,
To the cross where Thou hast died;
Draw me nearer, nearer, nearer, blessed Lord,
To Thy precious, bleeding side.

2 Consecrate me now to Thy service, Lord,
By the pow’r of grace divine;
Let my soul look up with a steadfast hope,
And my will be lost in Thine.

3 O the pure delight of a single hour
That before Thy throne I spend,
When I kneel in prayer, and with Thee, my God,
I commune as friend with friend!

4 There are depths of love that I yet may know
Ere Thee face to face I see;
There are heights of joy that I yet may reach
Ere I rest in peace with Thee.

I took her hand—it was cool, firm, precise. Her gaze, sharp as obsidian, never wavered.

“Shall we begin?” she asked, motioning toward the pair of velvet armchairs near the center of the room.

As I walked past her, I noticed every detail. The subtle scent of jasmine and oud. The soft click of her heels on the oak floors. The distant hum of a classical piano track playing from hidden speakers.

Her office was a study in controlled opulence. Minimalist in color, yet rich in texture—cream silk curtains, a floating mahogany desk, and walls lined with white orchids and rare books.

Behind her desk hung an oil portrait that dominated the room: her late father, Chief Dapo Alowonle, staring down like an emperor. He had once been Minister of Trade, a political kingmaker whispered to have toppled and built governments with a single phone call.

I placed my recorder gently on the coffee table between us, opened my notebook, and clicked my pen.

She sat opposite me, legs crossed, spine straight. Not a single hair out of place. Her expression was unreadable, but her eyes? They watched me like a hawk measuring the wind before diving for the kill.

“I don’t usually do interviews,” she said with a small, knowing smile. “But I’ve read your work, Mr. Femi Allen. You ask the questions others are too afraid to.”

That threw me. I was used to press agents and curated scripts. Used to billionaires and ministers buttering me up with backhanded compliments. But this? This was different. Her words were a blade wrapped in silk.

“Thank you, Your Highness. That means a lot,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady as I flipped to a clean page.

“Please,” she said, with a quiet laugh. “Just call me Princess, I dropped the ‘Her Royal Highness’ nonsense when I turned twenty-one. Titles are for people who need them. I don’t.”

Something about the way she said it—offhand, but razor-edged—made me glance again at the portrait behind her. A daughter born into legacy, but not defined by it. At least not outwardly.

And yet… beneath that calm exterior, I could feel it. There was a storm coiled behind her eyes. Power like that never came without a cost.

“Alright, Princess,” I said, pressing ‘record.’ My voice was calm, but beneath it, a current of unease stirred.

She smiled politely, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Not quite.

I’d interviewed CEOs in oil-stained boardrooms, warlords in jungle compounds, dissidents in safe houses that smelled of mildew and fear. I’d learned to feel it—the shift in the air, the quickening of the blood when something unspoken hung in the room like smoke.

With Princess Betty Alowonle, it wasn’t just a hunch.
It was certainty.

There was something behind her charm. A shadow behind her smile.

And if I wasn’t careful, I had the distinct, chilling sense that this story—this woman—could consume me.
Whole.

She crossed one leg over the other, the movement graceful, deliberate. The silver bangle on her wrist caught the light as she adjusted it, the tiny etchings on its surface glinting like symbols of an ancient language. Her posture was relaxed, but I had the distinct impression that it was all a performance. Every glance. Every word. Every breath.

“I’ll keep this brief,” she said, smoothing an invisible crease in her trousers.

“My life is already too public for my liking. I grew up between Lagos and Geneva. My father raised me under the weight of legacy—his, our ancestors’, and the dynasty he hoped I’d one day uphold. My mother…”

Her voice softened, just for a beat. “God rest her soul. She taught me to wear dignity like armor. Even when the world claws at your back.”

🌅 1. Prayer of Thanksgiving

> “Lord, I thank You for bringing me into a new month. Thank You for the breath of life, for provision, protection, and grace. May Your name be praised in all I do this August. Amen.”




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🙏 2. Prayer for Guidance

> “Father, order my steps this month. Let Your wisdom go before me. Help me to make decisions that align with Your will, and grant me clarity and direction in all areas of my life. Amen.”




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🛡️ 3. Prayer for Protection

> “Almighty God, keep me and my loved ones safe in August. Protect us from evil, danger, and unforeseen harm. Cover our homes, journeys, and daily activities with Your divine shield. In Jesus' name, Amen.”




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💼 4. Prayer for Work, School, and Finances

> “Lord, bless the work of my hands this month. Let there be fruitfulness in my job, studies, and finances. Open doors of opportunities and favor, and supply all my needs according to Your riches in glory. Amen.”




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❤️ 5. Prayer for Peace and Emotional Strength

> “This month, I speak peace over my mind, heart, and relationships. Every burden I lay before You, Lord. Strengthen me through trials, comfort me through pain, and fill my heart with joy unspeakable. Amen.”




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🕊️ 6. Prayer for Spiritual Growth

> “Holy Spirit, draw me closer to You this month. Let me hunger for Your Word, live in obedience, and walk in love and humility. Use me to be a light in my family, workplace, and community. Amen.”




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📜 Scripture for the Month (Optional)

> Isaiah 43:19 – “Behold, I will do a new thing; now it shall spring forth; shall ye not know it?”

"You Are Worthy" (Praise Song)

Verse 1 (English):
You are worthy, Lord,
Mighty God, You reign above.
From the rising of the sun,
To the going down of the same,
Your name is to be praised!

Chorus (English & Yoruba):
You are worthy, Jehovah,
Olorun mi, You reign forever!
Kabiyesi, Oba awon oba, (Hail the King, King of kings)
We lift Your name on high!

Verse 2 (English):
You healed the sick, You raised the dead,
You made a way where none was seen.
Through the storm, You carried me,
Lord, I give You everything!

Iwo l'Oba ti ko ni parí,
Iwo l'Alagbara aye,
Iwo l'Atobiju Oba,
A o fi ogo fun Oruko Re.

Ogo ni fun Oruko Re,
Oruko t’o ga ju gbogbo oruko lo,
Jesu Kristi, Olugbala wa,
A gbe Oruko Re ga!




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English Translation (Extended):

> You are the King who never ends,
You are the Mighty One of the world,
You are the Most High King,
We will give glory to Your Name.

Glory be to Your Name,
The Name above every other name,
Jesus Christ, our Savior,
We lift Your Name on high!

We filled those hours with dreams and doubts and the comfort of being heard.

One evening, curled up beside me with her legs tucked beneath her, she whispered, “I want to open a café one day. Small. Warm. Books lining the walls. Good food. People would come to read, eat, and feel at home.”

“You know I’d write about it, right?” I said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “In fact, I’d practically live there. I’d be your in-house chronicler.”

She smiled, and it wasn’t just any smile. It was that rare, inward kind — the one that starts somewhere behind the ribs and glows all the way out.

That was how we grew into each other. Not through fireworks or declarations, but through the ordinary — which, with her, never felt ordinary at all. I learned she hated overly sweet tea, liked it with just a splash of milk. She learned I couldn’t fall asleep without a fan humming near my head, even in the rainy season. She’d tease me about my chaos of a desk — I’d tease her for always picking out the dodo first, like a child hiding treasure. We started becoming each other’s habits, each other’s soft place to land.

One evening, the sky outside bled orange and gold, like someone had cracked open the sun. We sat on the concrete step outside the boys’ quarters, her hand in mine, our fingers tangled in that quiet, familiar way they had started to do without thought.

“You feel like home,” she said suddenly, the words almost carried away by the breeze.

I turned to her. The world slowed. “So do you.”

She rested her head on my shoulder, a deep exhale following. “I used to think love had to be chaotic — that it had to burn and crash and shake everything apart. But this… this quiet, this ease… it’s better than I ever imagined.”

“It won’t always be like this,” I murmured, brushing my thumb over the back of her hand. “There’ll be hard days. Silent days. Maybe even days we don’t like each other much. But I want to try. For real. No pretending. No running.”

She was quiet for a moment, then looked up, eyes steady and warm. “I do too.”

And that was it. No need for fireworks. No swelling music. Just two people, sitting in the golden dusk, making a choice — not out of impulse, not out of fleeting emotion, but something stronger. Something truer. A stillness that said: I see you. I choose you. Again and again.

And somehow, that felt more powerful than any dramatic confession ever could. Because when love comes like this — slow, sure, and quietly intense — it doesn’t just hold you. It roots you.

And once it begins, it doesn't let go easily.

No warmth, no companionship, just me and my thoughts… and a TV that barely distracted me anymore.

The football match playing on the screen reached its conclusion. The referee’s whistle blew sharply, echoing through the room as players exchanged handshakes and swapped jerseys. My team had won. Normally, that would have thrilled me. I’d have cheered, maybe sent a message or two on the fan group chat. But today, I felt nothing. Just a lingering, bitter sense of frustration.

Then came another knock at the door.

Not again.

I turned my head toward the sound, my body still as a statue for a few seconds. Had Ms. Kay come back? Was she here to throw more baseless allegations in my face? What now—blood sacrifice? Occult ties?

I exhaled slowly and dragged myself toward the door, unlocking it with mild dread.

To my relief—and surprise—it wasn’t Ms. Kay.

It was the landlady’s house girl. A skinny teenager with cornrows and bright eyes, she stood there with an innocent smile on her face, holding a small tray with nothing on it.

“Good afternoon, sir,” she greeted politely.

I returned the greeting with a nod. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

“Madam say make you come now-now,” she said, in her usual crisp pidgin English. “She say she want see you.”

I raised my eyebrows slightly. “Alright. Tell her I’ll be coming.”

She nodded and trotted off without another word.

The landlady, Madam Abdulrazaq, wasn’t one to summon people unnecessarily. She only sent for tenants when it involved something specific—unpaid electricity contributions, sanitation dues, compound meetings, or maybe complaints about water usage or waste disposal. Routine stuff. Still, with the way things had gone today, my instincts were already on edge.

I sighed again, pulled my bunch of keys off the hook on the wall, locked my door, and made my way toward the main building.

Madam Abdulrazaq lived in one of the flats on the first floor. A stout woman in her sixties, she was a widow with a sharp tongue and an eagle eye. Though she rarely spoke unnecessarily, when she did, people listened. Everyone in the compound treated her with a cautious kind of respect. She lived with her last daughter, a quiet, bookish young woman who I’d heard was studying at the university.

I reached the front steps, climbed them slowly, and stood outside her door. There was a small bell affixed beside the frame. I pressed it.

A few seconds passed.

Then the door creaked open—and there was the house girl again, holding it ajar. She stepped aside wordlessly and motioned for me to come in.

Something in the air told me this wasn’t just about waste disposal.


---

As I stepped into the expansive sitting room of Madam Abdulrazaq's flat, I immediately noticed the quiet tension hanging in the air. The large room, with its ornate curtains and polished marble floor, usually had an air of quiet dignity. But not today.

The landlady, madam herself, was already seated on her favorite cushioned armchair. Dressed in her usual lace boubou and head tie, she looked calm, but I could tell by the way her lips were pressed together that she meant business.

To my surprise, Ms. Kay was also there, seated stiffly on the far end of the long sofa, arms folded across her chest, her expression unreadable. She didn’t even glance at me.