chapter 7: Cracks In The Facade
686 Words
Obinna woke to the sound of rain tapping against his window. The city was quiet for once, muffled beneath a heavy downpour. But inside him, the world spun.
He hadn’t slept well in days. Images of Amara’s face flickered behind his eyelids, her calm, piercing eyes asking questions he had refused to answer.
She could have lived.
The thought stabbed him. Not like a warning, not like fear — like a betrayal. He had chosen silence. And silence had taken her life.
He sat on the edge of his bed, hands gripping the sheets, staring at the ceiling. The ceiling did not answer. The rain did not answer. Only the void did — and it was heavy.
The phone rang.
“Obinna,” whispered Pastor Daniel. His voice was nervous, uneven.
Daniel: “She… there’s news coverage. Tributes. The city is… reacting.”
Obinna closed his eyes, feeling a hollow ache. “I know.”
Daniel: hesitant “And… how are you? Really?”
Obinna’s jaw tightened. His voice shook, just slightly. “How do you think I feel? I… I could have warned her. I could have—”
Daniel’s pause was long. “You didn’t.”
“I know,” Obinna whispered, almost to himself. “And now… she’s gone. I could have done something. I… I didn’t.”
Silence. Rain. The city outside continued as if nothing had happened.
Daniel: softly “We… we need to control the narrative. The church, the donors… everyone is watching.”
Obinna’s hands clenched into fists. “Control. Always control. That’s what I chose over… her life.”
The word “her” made him flinch, though no one could see him. His chest tightened. Heart racing. Guilt pressed like a vise.
“I’m… I’m not okay, Daniel,” he admitted finally. “I can’t stop seeing her face. Every prayer feels hollow. Every sermon feels… fake.”
Daniel: “Obinna… you can’t show this. Not now. The congregation… they expect strength.”
Obinna laughed bitterly. “Strength?” His voice cracked. “They expect a man they worship. They don’t care about guilt. They don’t care about fear. They want miracles and performances. And I… I’ve become a performance.”
Later that day, Obinna walked through the church halls. Staff moved quickly, worshippers filed in and out, phones recording, lights blinking, cameras rolling. Every face looked up to him. Every eye trusted him.
And every step reminded him of Amara.
He stumbled into the office alone. A recorder lay on the desk — Amara’s last interview notes, never published. He touched it, hesitated. His fingers trembled.
He whispered to himself:
She asked the questions I refused to answer. She trusted me. And I…
He could not finish.
Tears pricked at the edges of his eyes. His breathing quickened. He leaned against the wall, sliding to the floor. Rage. Shame. Grief. All tangled together.
That evening, Chief Adewale Babalola called. Obinna forced himself to answer calmly.
“It’s under control. No one suspects the church. Everything appears… natural.”
Obinna’s throat tightened. He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw the phone across the room. Instead, he whispered: “Good.”
“You seem… tired.” Babalola didnt fail to notice
Obinna swallowed hard. “Perhaps I am. This job… the responsibility… it’s heavier than I realized.”
“It is. But it’s necessary. Influence, Obinna… requires sacrifices.” he added
He ended the call. And as soon as the line went dead, the weight of the words hit him like a fist: sacrifices.
Not donations. Not politics. Not control.
Her life.
Night came. Lagos glimmered beneath a blanket of clouds. Obinna stared at the city lights, silent, trembling. His reflection in the window stared back, pale and unrecognizable.
He remembered her last words:
"Danger never stopped me… but I hoped you’d care."
And he felt the slow, suffocating truth: he had failed. Not publicly. Not visibly. But privately, irreversibly.
He could still preach. Still command respect. Still inspire belief.
But inside, he was hollow.
And for the first time, he wondered: Does anyone ever escape themselves?
- Writer
