One Room, Two Generations

Bro Joshua

Episode 4:

I picked up my phone.

Then dropped it.

“Go and check up on him yourself,” I thought.

Bro Joshua was one of the choir members. He was a quiet guy, always dressed in a suit whenever he came to fellowship. He never laughed too loudly, never caused trouble, and hardly ever spoke unless he had something meaningful to say.

He was the kind of brother sisters called “serious.”

The kind of brother everyone trusted.

After fellowship that evening, I grabbed my bag and went with a few other sisters to check on him.

His room was at Awolowo Hall, Block D, Room 12.

Awolowo Hall was where most of the big guys on campus stayed. The rich kids. The happening boys. The ones with cars parked outside their hostels and expensive shoes on their feet.

We knocked.

It took a while before he finally opened the door.

He looked tired.

His eyes were red, and his face looked like he hadn't slept properly in days. There was a Bible lying on the floor, an empty food flask on the table, and several unwashed plates scattered around.

“Christiana? Welfare coordinator?” he asked, trying to smile.

“Is anything wrong?”

I shook my head.

“You missed choir rehearsal, so we decided to come and check up on you. Is anything the matter?”

He sighed and stepped aside.

“Come in.”

The room smelled like pain.

And unwashed plates.

We entered and sat down.

Favour, one of the choir coordinators, looked around and said, “Before we start anything, let's pray.”

We prayed.

Then Favour looked at him.

“Bro Joshua, why weren't you in church?”

He stared at the floor.

For a few seconds, nobody spoke.

Then he whispered,

“People of God… I failed.”

Favour frowned.

“Failed what?”

“My exams.”

He swallowed hard.

“All of them.”

Silence filled the room.

“I have a carryover in five courses.”

I stared at him.

“But… you're always in church. You're always praying for people.”

Sarah, one of the sisters, couldn't hide her surprise.

Favour interrupted gently.

“I think you need to learn how to balance God, church activities and your academics. That's the main reason we're here.”

Bro Joshua laughed bitterly.

“Exactly.”

He rubbed his face.

“I was so busy serving God that I forgot to serve my books.”

He told us everything.

His father had lost his job. His school fees were delayed, and he was too ashamed to tell anyone. Instead of asking for help, he started looking for ways to survive on his own.

He began skipping classes to do runs and online jobs.

Then things became worse.

He became depressed.

He stopped reading.

Stopped eating properly.

Stopped attending some lectures.

But somehow, every time he came to fellowship, he wore his suit, carried his Bible and acted as though everything was fine.

He had become an expert at pretending.

“So how were you able to afford this hostel?” I asked.

He looked at me.

“I was able to pay with the support of my guys and some money from my runs.”

He paused.

“I've been pretending.”

His voice became softer.

“Pretending that I'm okay. Pretending that I'm spiritual. Pretending that I have everything under control.”

He looked down.

“But I'm just tired.”

Something inside me broke.

This wasn't Bamidele.

This wasn't a guy who wanted to use me and leave.

This was a brother drowning right in front of us.

“Bro Joshua,” I said quietly. “You're not alone.”

I didn't lecture him.

I didn't judge him.

I just sat there and listened.

We prayed with him before we left.

Then I did what I was supposed to do as the welfare coordinator.

I reported the situation to our fellowship pastor.

Within seven days, we raised money for him. Senior brothers helped him arrange tutorials. We gave him foodstuff and even a full three-kilogram gas cylinder.

Slowly, Bro Joshua came back.

He started attending classes again.

He started smiling again.

He started serving again.

But this time, he learned to balance everything.

One evening after choir rehearsal, he stopped me outside.

“Christiana.”

“Yes, Bro?”

“Thank you.”

I smiled.

“For what?”

“For not judging me. For not gossiping about me. For just… showing up.”

I smiled again.

“That's what welfare is for.”

He looked at me for a long time.

“You're different.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Different how?”

“Strong. Godly. I like that.”

My heart skipped.

But not like it did with Bamidele.

This felt different.

It felt calm.

Safe.

Still, I remembered something Mum once told me:

“A man who cannot manage his books cannot manage a home yet.”

So I smiled.

“Thank you, Bro. But let's focus on God and school first.”

He smiled and agreed.

Second semester ended.

I made first class again.

Bro Joshua cleared all his carryovers.

We became close.

Not as lovers.

As friends.

As co-workers in God's house.

People started shipping us.

“Bro Joshua and Sis Christiana will marry.”

Sometimes we laughed about it.

But we both knew the truth.

There was nothing romantic.

Yet.

It was respect.

It was peace.

It was friendship.

And for the first time since Bamidele, I wasn't afraid of a man.

We rounded up the semester, and I went home.

Then one evening, my phone rang.

It was Bro Joshua.

“Good evening, Sister Christiana. How are you doing?”

“I'm fine. And you?”

“I'm fine too.”

That conversation should have ended there.

But it didn't.

We spoke for hours.

Simple conversations.

Innocent jokes.

School.

Fellowship.

Life.

We laughed.

Before I knew it, it was 2 a.m.

The next day, we spoke again.

And the next.

And the next.

We spoke almost every day.

He was slowly leading me somewhere emotionally.

Was I comfortable with it?

No.

But I couldn't say no.

I couldn't question it.

I just continued.

My parents weren't aware this time.

Besides, I wasn't even interested in a relationship, so I didn't see any reason to raise an alarm.

The holiday ended.

Resumption began.

Bro Joshua and I were still close friends.

By then, I had become the welfare coordinator for the entire fellowship, not just my unit.

It was a whole new level of responsibility.

I wanted to know God deeper than I had ever known Him.

Bro Joshua volunteered to help me.

We studied the Bible together.

We prayed together.

Sometimes, he would preach the Bible like he was already a pastor.

“Hmmm,” I would say whenever he started.

One day, he called me.

“I have a message from the Lord for you.”

My heart jumped.

“Really?”

“Yes. Come and see me.”

I was excited.

I dressed up and went.

When I got there, he asked me to sit down. He brought out snacks and poured malt into a cup.

I ate and drank.

“Bro Joshua, what's the message?” I asked, smiling.

He laughed.

“Are we no longer friends? Attend to your friend first before you receive the message.”

He smiled.

“Let me welfare the welfare.”

“Bro Joshua, you're very funny.”

I chuckled.

We talked about school, results and fellowship.

Then, suddenly, I felt dizzy.

“Bro Joshua…”

“Yes?”

“Can I sleep here? I feel dizzy.”

“Of course. What are friends for?”

I lay down on his bed.

“Are you no longer interested in the message?” he teased.

“Bro Joshua, please. When I wake up. I feel like I would fall if I don't sleep.”

“Okay. Make yourself at home. Let me go and get something outside.”

That was the last thing I remembered.

When I opened my eyes, the room was quiet.

Bro Joshua wasn't there.

Then I realized something was wrong.

I looked down.

I was naked.

On his bed.

My heart stopped.

I couldn't breathe.

The room began spinning again, but this time it wasn't because I was dizzy.

It was shock.

Fear.

Confusion.

Bro Joshua had taken advantage of me.

I started crying.

When he eventually came back, I looked at him through my tears.

“Why did you do this?”

He didn't answer.

“Why did you take advantage of me?”

My voice shook.

“You drugged me. I trusted you. I let my guard down because I thought you were my brother.”

I cried harder.

“I thought you were a Christian. Even you?”

I couldn't understand it.

“What is the church of God turning into?”

He looked at me without remorse.

“At least you're awake. Get dressed and leave. I have other matters to attend to.”

I stared at him.

“You aren't even sorry?”

“I would report you!”

He laughed.

“Try it.”

He stepped closer.

“And see if people won't criticize you for coming to visit a male in the first place.”

I froze.

“Oh.”

So I was the foolish one.

The victim.

The one who would have to explain herself.

“Bro Joshua, you're wicked. How could you do this to me?”

“My God will punish you.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Why are you crying? You aren't even a virgin.”

Those words broke something inside me.

“Get up. Leave my room.”

I quickly dressed myself.

Then he laughed.

“You really think I had a message from God for you?”

He laughed harder.

“Those messages? They're things I've been watching on YouTube.”

He looked at me with a cruel smile.

“You really thought I was some serious Christian?”

I couldn't speak.

“You couldn't read the handwriting on the wall. You lack the spirit of discernment.”

Then he laughed again.

“Welfare mama welfared me with her body.”

His laughter filled the room.

“Common! Get out!”

I ran.

I couldn't stand the humiliation.

I couldn't stand what had happened.

I couldn't even understand how the same person I once helped could become the person who destroyed my trust.

Should I report him?

How would I look?

Would anyone believe me?

Would they blame me?

Would they ask why I went to his room?

Would they say I wanted it?

I was terrified.

I confided in one sister, Sister Abigail.

I thought I was talking to a sister.

I thought I was safe.

The following Sunday, I couldn't go to church.

My roommate, Stella, went with her friends.

When she returned, she sat on my bed.

“Are you fine?”

I looked at her.

“Yes. Why did you ask?”

She stared at me.

“You couldn't confide in me, but you told an outsider?”

My heart sank.

“Your news is everywhere.”

I couldn't move.

“They said you committed f*********n with Bro Joshua.”

I burst into tears.

“I was raped.”

The words came out broken.

“I told only Sister Abigail. I thought I was talking to a sister. I trusted her.”

Stella looked at me.

For once, she didn't ask questions.

She didn't judge me.

She simply pulled me closer and let me rest my head on her shoulder.

Then she said quietly,

“But you know she has always liked Bro Joshua.”

I looked at her.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

My roommate, who wasn't even a serious Christian, was showing me more compassion than the Christians I trusted.

She rubbed my back.

“Calm down. You'll be fine. I'm always here for you.”

Then she stood up.

“Let me get us something to eat.”

Weeks went by.

Nobody came to check on me.

Not the welfare team.

Not the choir.

Not the sisters.

Not even the people who used to call me “Sister Christiana” every Sunday.

Nobody came to hear my side of the story.

Nobody asked what happened.

They had already decided.

I wondered,

Is this how little I mattered in church?

They couldn't even hear my side.

Stella became my support system.

She stood by me through everything.

She wasn't a serious Christian.

She was the type who sometimes chose clubs over church. She had plenty of boyfriends and lived a completely different lifestyle from mine.

But she was there.

She didn't preach at me.

She didn't judge me.

She simply stayed.

And somehow, that mattered.

I started asking myself questions.

What was the point of being a Christian if Christians could hurt you like this?

What was the point of serving God if the people in God's house could destroy you and then blame you for being destroyed?

I became angry.

Then bitter.

Then numb.

“I am not going to church again,” I told Stella one night.

She looked at me but didn't argue.

“If an unbeliever can be kinder to me than the so-called Christians, then maybe I don't belong there anymore.”

Slowly, I started following Stella to clubs.

At first, I only went to watch.

Then I started drinking.

The first time I drank, I hated the taste.

But I discovered something.

For a few hours, I didn't remember.

I didn't remember Bro Joshua.

I didn't remember his room.

I didn't remember waking up naked.

I didn't remember Sister Abigail spreading my story.

I didn't remember the people at church whispering about me.

So whenever the memories came back, I drank again.

Sometimes two bottles.

Sometimes more.

Anything that could silence my thoughts.

“Calm down,” Stella would say whenever she saw me drinking too much.

“Don't kill yourself.”

But I wasn't trying to kill myself.

I was trying to forget.

I was trying to become someone who didn't feel anything.

Someone who didn't trust anyone.

Someone who didn't care anymore.

Because somewhere along the line, I had started believing that caring was what got me hurt.

And I didn't know it yet, but this was only the beginning of my fall.

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