The way to back to us

Hard-engraved expectations often held the weight of the air in our home. They hovered over the marble floors, echoing beneath our feet with every careful step—a reminder not to shatter the invisible rules we lived under. My father, who was as silky smooth in his faith as the creases in his Sunday suit, moved through our existence with demanding and unyielding force. His sternness was in the approving and disapproving glances , and the pressed lips that we came to recognize all too often—whether in church or in the home. It was based on deep-seated beliefs that perfection by the Holy Book and by his own unshakable principles was the only road that I, his daughter, and my mother needed to follow. Our mornings started before the sun rose above the Lagos horizon. A loud knock on the door, Mum's soft voice, and the understanding that delaying our "quiet time" was like beginning the day in sin. I'd lie in bed and, as Dad used to say, "God should be the first you talk to," I often wondered what in the world I was supposed to say to God, and whether He even cared about the way Dad insisted we pray to Him; the step by step routine where words spoken were crafted with utmost care. A wave of exhaustion would come over me, a familiar resistance to the ritual. Not that I did not believe in God, but because the quiet time felt like that one box to tick on the endless list of my parents' expectations. Downstairs, the living room would be filled with chandelier lights gloom, cold, and quiet like we were all expecting supernatural visitation. Incense scent, always the same sandalwood, would fill the air, carrying with it our morning scent we woke with. We’d kneel on cold tiles, pages of the Bibles stiff against the palms of our hands, and take turns reading verses. I became good at memorizing verses with the rapidity and accuracy of a professional crammer because of the morning ritual. My mind, however, remained stubbornly detached, a scholar reciting lines in a language I didn’t quite understand. Dad would preach a sermon, reading from a devotional book, but then reshape the words with his own unyielding principles. His eyes were usually tired from the exhaustion of the night—he was always up studying the Bible. He had different versions in varying sizes, stacked like sacred possessions. He would beam with pride whenever I flawlessly delivered scripture, my voice clear and earnest. “See my daughter,” he’d say to Mum, with pride lacing his tone. “She has the word buried deep in her heart.” His praise was a warm balm, a fleeting moment of validation I unconsciously craved. It was easier to chase these appraisals, these nods of approval, than to grapple with the nebulous concept of truly understanding the verses—of letting them seep into the core of my being. Dad's principles were born out of experiences I only vaguely understood. He grew up in an extended family, a home that teetered on the edge of poverty and chaos. He had clung to faith as a lifeline. "Prayer is what kept my mother alive," he once said, eyes distant and cold. He spoke little of his father or stepmother, and I learned not to ask. His rigid faith was less about control and more about fear—fear that without God, everything would unravel; His faith wasn’t merely belief; it was survival. And maybe, for him, it had to be. But I couldn’t help but wonder: is that what faith in Christ is meant to be? A tool for keeping the chaos at bay? A fence built from scripture to hold back the wildness of life? I had nothing to fear—and so I often found myself questioning: if I do not share his fear, do I need to share his faith? And more urgently—was the faith he aggressively enforced on me and Mum truly centered on Christ? Sometimes, I longed to ask these questions, to voice out my doubts —but the stern, unapproachable look on Dad’s face always held me back. Mum, on the other hand, was a softer presence. Although, she was a robot to dad, lacking emotions and only a "yes sir", and "I agree with you" escaping from her lips.She never challenged dad directly, but her silences were often more telling than words. She was always there when I lingered at the breakfast table, clearly exhausted, she would say, “You tried, my dear,” and slide an extra spoonful of custard into my bowl. Her small acts of gentleness were like sunlight slipping through the cracks of our structured mornings. Sometimes, her smiles felt rehearsed—and she was convinced that dads way led to promised land. As the years passed, I noticed the growing disparity between my outward perfection and my inward conflict. During altar calls, I felt nothing, standing like a statue, uncertain, watching those around me step forward to embrace this "new life" in Christ. Dad's eyes were always shut, just as the Pastor had instructed, his expression mirroring the pastor's stern, and focussed expression, like the dutiful assistant pastor he was. Perhaps that was part of the altar call ritual. My eyes would wander, quietly; a growing guilt nested in my chest, a fear that I was a fraud. But who could I tell? Who could I confess to that I sometimes felt empty while doing the things meant to nourish my soul? School was a brief reprieve, with different rules and a chance to breathe, ..though no less defined. But even there, the weight of dad’s expectations still trailed my mind like distant echo. I chose my friends carefully the quiet, studious and spiritual ones who wouldn’t raise eyebrows or elicit the dreaded ‘that girl is too worldly’ judgement. Naomi walked into my carefully constructed life like a vibrant splash of color on a plain canvas. I met her at a joint church event and later saw her regularly at my local church in Lekki. She was the kind of girl my dad would warn me to avoid; the kind who was 'too much', too outspoken, too bold and too everything. Naomi was so expressive. She spoke too fast, too loud, and bragged too often about her family’s mansion in Lekki like it was some badge of honor Her careless laughter and outburst were always present, wrapped in an unapologetic confidence that both intrigued and intimidated me. She talked about boys so openly it made my ears flush with embarrassment, her descriptions were raw, vivid and untouched by shame. I always acted like I disliked it, maintaining the performance of my perfect Christian girl demeanor, but inwardly, my mind clung to her words, secretly trying to unravel and enjoy the details. I longed to speak like her; this open, fearless expression of attraction “That Chinedu,” she’d say, fanning herself dramatically, “his lips are so soft, eh Kai!” So soft? Her words as usual would hang heavy in my mind, weighted with judgment. How does a young girl like her know what soft lips feel like? Has she been kissed yet? She'd use words like melted chocolate, eyes like the sun. She was a poet when she described boys, which always sent my carefully trained mind reeling, inviting impure imaginations, quiet and sudden like a shadow hiding in the dark waiting for the faintest gleam of light to appear. Sometimes, I wished to ask her, to lean into the curiosity she stirred in me, but my constructed pure self always held me back, so I’d just nod along, a polite smile plastered on my face, even while my internal world screamed. And still, I couldn't deny the flicker of recognition within me. I understood, on some visceral level, the feelings she was describing. I just never dared to express them, not even to myself. My friendship with Naomi presented a dilemma. Dad never explicitly forbade me from speaking to her, but his subtle statements about her "type" made his disapproval clear. I often found myself walking a tightrope, eager for Naomi’s friendship yet wary of dad's criticism, a silent conflict brewing beneath the surface of my carefully well rehearsed obedience. Then came Micah. I met him through Naomi. “He’s basically my brother,” she said one afternoon, rolling her eyes fondly. “You’ll like him. His parents just relocated to Lekki, he will be joining our chapter.” I braced myself, expecting someone just like her, loud, unpredictable. I was also quietly intrigued that he was a boy; maybe I'd finally hear how he described girls. But Micah was calm, thoughtful, and cared less about girls. His appearance looked like someone who should be arrogant—but he wasn’t, he was very friendly and brilliant too. Dad fully approved of Micah—he was everything my father admired in a friend. But there was always a shadow of caution in his voice, a quiet fear that, because Micah was a boy, things could slip into something impure. Micah and Naomi were like contrasting sides of a coin, yet their easy camaraderie was something I’d never quite experienced. They spoke to each other with a freedom that was startling. Teasing, disagreeing, sharing opinions without the fear of judgment that permeated my every conversation at home. In the months that followed, we spent more time together, exchanging secrets and untold stories. Our connection deepened, and we had our spot; beneath the mango tree in Naomi’s compound. I was only permitted to visit during the holidays, under the watchful eyes of Naomi’s parents, but I didn’t mind. I always found myself laughing, even surprising myself—whenever Naomi would tell, with so much enthusiasm, funny moments from school. We did not attend the same school, but our hearts responded with every word that escaped her mouth. Micah was like a breath of sunlight, sometimes teaching us life principles. I began to open up, peeling away layers of myself, one at a time, and for a brief moment, the ever-present need to be 'good' receded. We all shared stories in turn, but when it came to me, the moment words left Naomi's mouth—'anything interesting happen to you today?'—my brain always went blank Interesting? My life was a dull orchestrated routine of chores, devotions, quiet time, and school. There were no spontaneous adventures, no rebellious escapades, no humor, no "interesting" tales to share. "School," I muttered softly, my gaze fixed on the leaves that were scattered all over the reddish-brown soil. Naomi exchanged a quick glance with Micah. "You don't always have something to say" she said softly, "Don't you ever do something that excites you and that you want to share with us?" The words hovered in the air, thick with the truth that I had run away from. Do anything for me? The idea was strange, almost selfish. My existence had been one of actions taken solely based on what dad wanted, Mum's guiding hand, the unvoiced obligations of life in our home. Even my need to excel academically, the endless nights studying, seemed less of my own doing and more of doing what I should do to gain approval from them. But with this question from Naomi, I realized that I was living with those who loved me but understood so little about who I really was, about the aspirations and hopes that flickered in my own heart.