THE PRICE OF TRUST

Chapter Two:The,Breaking,And,The,Price

*CHAPTER 2: The Breaking and The Price*

Amara locked herself in her small room in Diobu for three days. Three complete days. She did not eat. She did not sew. She did not pray. She did not even answer her phone when her customers called for their clothes. She just sat on the cold cement floor, staring at her wedding gown that was half-sewn on the mannequin.

The gown was white, with expensive lace her mother had sent from Onitsha Main Market, managing from her small akara money. She had sewn it with so much love, with prayers every night, imagining how Obinna would look at her on that altar in Living Faith Church, how he would smile and say "You are beautiful, my wife." Now the gown was just cloth. White cloth with no future.

The room smelled of damp and tears. Her eyes were swollen. Her wrapper was dirty. She had not bathed for two days.

On the third day, her mother called her from the village. Her mother had heard the news from a neighbor who traveled to Port Harcourt and saw Chioma and Obinna together in Mile 3 market, buying baby clothes and laughing, even though no wedding had happened for Amara.

"Amara, nwa m, what is it? Why are you not picking my calls for three days? Your voice is not in your voice. What happened?"

Amara broke down. She cried like a small child on the phone, loud, with no shame.

"Mama, they betrayed me. My sister, my husband. Chioma took my money, took my husband. Obinna left me for Chioma. Mama, I have nothing. I have no money, no husband, no sister. I gave Chioma ₦500,000 to keep for me, our wedding money. She used it to take my husband. Mama, I have nothing."

Her mother was silent for a long time on the phone. Amara could hear her mother breathing hard. Then her mother said, with a calm but broken voice, "My daughter, listen to me. When someone betrays your trust, they are not destroying you, they are teaching you something. God allowed it because He wants you to learn to trust Him more than man. People will fail you. Men will fail you. Best friends will fail you. But Yahweh never fails. He never sleeps. Come home to Anambra if you want, but don't die there in Port Harcourt. The God that took your father and kept you alive for 24 years did not keep you alive to die because of a man and a friend. Stand up, my daughter. Your destiny is bigger than this betrayal."

Amara went to church on Sunday. She did not want to go. Her legs were heavy. She felt ashamed to face people. But her legs carried her to Living Faith Church, Rumuokoro. She could not sing. She sat at the very back, wearing a black wrapper, no make-up, her hair rough, crying silently. She felt dirty. She felt like a fool. People were looking at her, whispering, because everybody in Rumuokoro church had heard the gist - Chioma, her best friend, her sister since Primary 3, was now living with Obinna, her fiance, in the same Rumuola one-room that Amara gave her the money inside.

The choir was singing "You Are Yahweh" - a song about God's faithfulness even when men fail you. The song that Obinna used to love and sing off-key during rehearsals.

"YOU ARE YAHWEH, YOU ARE YAHWEH, YOU NEVER FAIL... YOU ARE YAHWEH..."

As they sang, Amara felt a hand on her shoulder. It was Mama Nkechi, the choir leader, a 60-year-old woman who had lost her own husband to another woman 20 years ago and now led the single mothers ministry in church. She had seen many betrayals.

"Daughter, sing with us," Mama Nkechi whispered. "Your pain is your ministry. God wants to use your pain to heal other women. Don't let shame silence your voice. Sing."

Amara stood up slowly. With tears flowing down her face like River Niger, she lifted her voice. She sang not from her throat, but from her broken heart. Her voice was shaking, breaking, cracking, but it was powerful. It was anointed by pain. She sang the song Chioma and Obinna taught her to forget.

"I trusted you, Chioma... but Yahweh you remain... You never leave me... You never fail..."

The whole church of 500 people was silent. Women were crying. Men were looking down. Her voice, though shaking, carried the pain of betrayal and the hope of God. It carried the story of every woman who had trusted and been broken. The pastor came down from pulpit and hugged her. The choir joined her. That day, everybody in Rumuokoro knew - Amara was not finished. She was not a failure. She was just beginning. God was writing a new story.

That Sunday night, after service, Amara knelt in her room and prayed a new prayer. "God, I forgive them. Not because what they did is okay, but because I want peace. I forgive Chioma and Obinna. Help me to trust again, but this time, help me to trust with wisdom."

Six months later, Amara is different. She did not marry Obinna. She did not fight Chioma for the money. She did not go to police station to report them. She left it. She left them and left the ₦500,000. People in Diobu called her foolish. Her fellow tailors said, "Amara, you are too mumu! Take them to court! They stole your money! That is theft! ₦500,000 is not small money!"

But Amara said, with peace in her eyes, "My peace is more than ₦500,000. If I fight them, I will lose my peace and still lose the money. I will lose sleep, I will lose joy, I will become bitter like them. I choose peace. I choose God. Money can come again, but peace is hard to find."

She started a new business - not just tailoring, but writing. She started writing stories about forgiveness, about betrayal, about how God heals the broken heart. She used her small Tecno phone, typing every night after sewing, under candlelight when NEPA took light. She wrote under the name Min Real Princess Happiness. Her first book, THE PRICE OF TRUST, is this book you are reading now. She also started singing again. She led worship every Sunday, singing "You Are Yahweh" wherever she goes, telling people that when men fail you, Yahweh remains faithful.

One rainy afternoon, while Amara was sewing in her small shop in Diobu, while heavy rain was falling and people were running for shelter, Chioma came back.

She was pregnant, 7 months, with no husband. She was abandoned by Obinna who left her after spending all the ₦500,000 on gambling, on alcohol, and on other women in Diobu clubs. Her hair was rough, uncombed. Her eyes were swollen from crying. Her fine wig - the one she used to wear to oppress Amara - was gone. She wore old slippers with torn sole. The rich trader father in Onitsha had chased her away from house when he heard she took her best friend's money and husband.

Chioma entered Amara's shop and knelt down on the wet floor, in front of customers, in front of everybody. Rain water was dripping from her body to the floor.

"Please forgive me," Chioma cried loudly, holding Amara's leg, shaking. "Obinna left me. He used all the money. He beat me every night. He said I am not his type. I have no one. My family rejected me. I am pregnant and no husband, no money, no house. Please, Amara, you are my only sister. My blood sister. Please forgive me. I was jealous of you. I was wicked."

Customers were looking. Some brought out phones and were videoing. Amara looked at her. She remembered the pain, the banga soup falling on the floor, the hands holding on her bed, the words "You are too local. You are a village girl." She remembered three days of no food, the shame in church, the white gown half-sewn, the ₦500,000 she gave with trust.

Her heart beat fast. Her hand shook. She wanted to shout, to slap her, to push her out of her shop, to say "Go away! You wicked girl!"

But she also remembered the cross. She remembered how Jesus on the cross said "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." She remembered her mother's words - trust God, not man.

Amara bent down slowly, lifted Chioma up from the dirty floor, hugged her tight, and gave her water and a chair to sit. Tears fell from both of them, mixing with rain water.

"I forgive you, Chioma," Amara said, her own voice crying. "Not because you deserve it, but because I deserve peace. Not because what you did was small, but because my future is bigger than your betrayal. I forgive you, my sister."

Chioma cried loudly, wailing like a child, "Thank you, my sister. Thank you."

That day, Amara understood the final lesson. The Price of Trust is high. But the price Jesus paid for her on the cross was higher.

Amara is now a minister in songs and in words. She sings "You Are Yahweh" wherever she goes - in markets, in buses, in church. She tells young girls in Anambra, in Port Harcourt, in Lagos, everywhere - trust with wisdom. Give your money to bank, not to best friend. Give your heart to God, not to man. And when betrayal comes, forgive, not for them, but for your own peace.

*Trust men with wisdom. Trust God with your heart.*

_To be continued.