The way to back to us

CHAPTER TWO

It was December, the height of harmattan season, and the festivities had begun. Yet, as I sat in church, the dry, biting wind outside did little to cool the heat within—Lagos was rarely touched by harmattan’s cold. I zoned out completely from the pastor's voice and instead paid attention to the dry violent winds raging outside, slapping against the stained glass windows of the church, perfectly mirroring the dryness and the restlessness inside me.

I had just celebrated my birthday last week, Seventeen, a tender age, yet I felt ancient, weighed down by the daughterly duties that clung to me like the heavy scent of Sandalwood incense that permeated our home. There was no elaborate celebrations whatsoever but instead, the usual “you are of age” lectures from my dad and a warm special meal with drinks.

As the pastor's booming voice echoed through the church, I worked all the more to retain his words than to fight against the harmattan wind's pull,—or the sleeping tugging at my eyelids. Beside me, Mum sat with her eyes closed, spiritually drawn into the pastor's assurances, her lips praying in soundless, habitual movements.

Dad sat stiff as a board in the pastor's pew, a pillar of devotion, nodding only at the sermon’s most weighty moments, as if his approval could sanctify the preacher’s words

I mimicked their postures and appearance of devotion, but my mind wandered to the conversation with Naomi and Micah under the mango tree.

Don't you ever do anything just for you?"

The question had lodged itself in my consciousness, refusing to be dislodged by even the most fervent prayers or diligent Bible studies. It was like a pebble in my shoe—small but impossible to ignore, creating discomfort with every step.

Soon enough, I began to get curious about boys too. It was a quiet hum beneath the surface, a forbidden melody, I tried not to acknowledge. It wasn't a roaring fire, but a slow burn, fueled by secret glances and eavesdrops of whispered conversations

It was a curiosity to unravel that thing I was told was dangerous, sinful.

Once, during a youth fellowship meeting, the youth general overseer had given a long sermon about the dangers of ‘premature emotional attachments. He described romantic feelings as distractions, stumbling blocks on the path to spiritual maturity.

"Guard your hearts,’ he had warned, his voice heavy with caution like it was a life and death situation

‘The enemy uses these feelings to lead young people astray."

"Wait till you are ready to marry, before you engage in these feelings" he had concluded with this

I had embraced these teachings without question, carried them alongside all the other rules and expectations my father imposed on my existence. But seeing how Naomi and few church girls speak freely and comfortably about romantic feelings made me question whether I was missing out on a natural, important part of life experience I was being denied.

As the time to get to the university drew closer, I was overly excited. I saw it as an opportunity to escape from the familiar confines of my home and get to satisfy my curiosity. The choice however, wasn’t completely mine to make, Dad had always believed a private university—a place where discipline and order reigned supreme was the right place for me. He viewed public universities as chaotic places that breed grounds for the 'freedom' he so vehemently feared would negatively influence me.

Mum, with her quiet and gentle nudges, eventually convinced him to consider Covenant University. She mentioned its strict rules and structured environment which appealed to dad; an environment that would uphold the same order he enforced at home.

"They have chapel services three times a week," Mum had pointed out one evening, her voice soft but firm. "And a dress code that enforces modesty. No trousers for the girls."

Dad had nodded slowly, his fingers drumming against the armrest of the leather chair at his personal desk. "And what of the friends she'll keep? These young people today, they are worldly and corrupt.."

"It's a Christian university," Mama had replied, placing a gentle hand on his arm. . And besides, Grace has a strong foundation. We've raised her well."

The subtle praise had pushed out a reluctant smile from dad, and I was grateful to Mum for that. In her quiet way, she was making room for me to be heard in the otherwise rigid structure of our lives.

Choosing what I wanted to study became another situation that I had to handle carefully with skillful negotiation. At dinner one evening, the clatter of silverware against china resonated the tension in the air as I hesitantly and methodically declared what I desired: ": "Mass Communication." I met their gazes, my voice firm despite the terror in my heart. Writing, which had begun as an avenue to escape my structured schedule, had now become an impassioned pursuit. I wished to be a journalist who articulated the voiceless and since journalism was not offered as an independent bachelor course, I settled for Mass Communication instead. I had researched all the details and was ready to justify my choice. Dad's brow furrowed, a familiar sign of his internal debate. But I persisted to sweeten my aspiration, claiming I wished to use my words to contribute to something bigger—shed light into the darkness as a Christian journalist; and I noticed his expression softened. A slow smile spread across his face—a rare moment of full approval. That was how my destiny was determined. The future ahead, though not entirely of my own choosing, was at least acceptable.