Timothy didn’t know how he survived all the greetings and backstage networking with the other artistes. It was entirely out of character for him. He wasn’t the social type, but he had done his best to smile, nod, and respond politely, even as frustration simmered beneath the surface. Somehow though, it wasn’t as unbearable as he had imagined. Perhaps it was because his mind was elsewhere, circling back to Amara like a moth drawn to a flame.

 

How could he not think about her? He had tried all night to push her out of his mind, but how could a man stop thinking about a woman he never fell out of love with? 

 

Timothy had made a quiet vow years ago not to marry. Amara had broken his heart and left it in pieces. They planned to attend Unilag together, their youthful dreams entwined. But then his father’s fortunes had turned, and suddenly the family could afford Covenant University. Despite Timothy’s desperate pleas to stay and attend Unilag, his father wouldn’t budge, insisting that Covenant was a better school for his future.

 

Amara didn’t understand. She had been angry, hurt, and unwilling to meet him halfway. When he went to Covenant, phones were prohibited, so he poured his heart into countless emails—the only connection he had to her. But Amara never replied. “I don’t use email,” she had said dismissively when he came home for Christmas.

 

By the time he returned that holiday, she had moved on. Timothy still remembered the hollow ache in his chest when he realised their relationship was over. He had begged God for comfort, and in the months that followed, he redirected all his affection—every ounce of love he’d felt for Amara—back to God. That heartbreak had drawn him closer to his Creator, and from that point on, he’d never had another girlfriend. Amara was his one and only.

 

Now, here he was, ten years later, with those memories rushing back just as he was about to take the biggest stage of his life. 

 

“Timothy.” 

 

Kwese’s voice jolted him from his thoughts. His manager had stepped into the small corner of the green room Timothy had retreated to. Knowing Timothy’s social battery had likely been drained after hours of networking and greetings, Kwese had found him a private space where he could rest and watch the other performances in peace.

 

“It’s time,” Kwese said softly, his voice both reassuring and firm.

 

Timothy took a deep breath, clutching his Bible on the nearby table. “God, help me,” he whispered, closing his eyes briefly. He stood up and followed Kwese, his heart pounding with every step toward the stage.

 

The crowd was already alive with energy. The backup singers were dancing, their movements synchronised to the pulsating beat of the music. As Timothy picked up the microphone and stepped into the spotlight, the crowd erupted in cheers. The sound was deafening, a thunderous wave of excitement that rolled through the venue. 

 

Timothy stood still, overwhelmed by the magnitude of the moment. He brought the microphone to his lips, his voice barely audible. “Jesus, this is for You,” he murmured, his words carrying the weight of his heart. “Jesus, let them see You.”

 

The crowd continued to shout, their energy electric, but Timothy stayed focused. “Jesus, let them see You,” he said again, this time into the microphone. His voice, steady and sure, carried over the noise.

 

The room quieted slightly as his words resonated. Timothy repeated the phrase, and soon, the crowd began to echo him. 

 

“Jesus, let them see You. Jesus, let them see You,” he said, and the people shouted it back with fervor.

 

Timothy lifted his hand and encouraged them. “Now say: Jesus, we see You.”

 

The crowd shouted louder, their voices in unison: “Jesus, we see You! Jesus, we see You! Jesus, we see You!”

 

Timothy’s heart swelled. This was no longer about him, his fears, or even his performance. This was about Jesus, His glory, and His presence filling the room. The crowd’s voices rose higher, and as Timothy closed his eyes, he whispered one more time, “Jesus, we see You.”

 

—————————————————————————————————————————-

Amarachi had never missed watching The Experience. Every year, she either attended in person or streamed online. But everything changed when her daughter was born four years ago. Since then, attending physically was no longer an option. Yet, she never stopped streaming—until this year.  

 

This time, she made a mental note to avoid the livestream as soon as she saw Timothy’s name listed among the performers. 

 

Breaking up with Timothy was the worst mistake of her life. But as she watched her daughter babbling and running across their tiny living room, she couldn’t entirely regret the choices that had led her here. Still, the ache of not having Timothy in her life never went away. Everyone who knew them had said they were meant to be. Even she had believed it once. But they had started dating too early, and she’d been foolish.  

 

They were just sixteen and seventeen when it began. Timothy was a bit older, but they were both teenagers. Most people thought it was cute but doomed. “You’re too young,” they said. “You’ll break up eventually.” Amara had laughed it off at the time, but Timothy? It annoyed him that people would make such predictions. He had been so sure about them. “Amara is the only woman for me. She’s going to be my wife,” he would say with unwavering confidence.  

 

She had thought it was just talk. Their friends used to joke that they were more like best friends than a couple. They’d never kissed, not even hugged. Timothy had been so principled. “No touching until marriage,” he would say. Instead, he gave her side hugs, held her hand, pulled her nose playfully, and talked for hours. Timothy was gentle, patient—almost too much so.  

 

He was the Health Prefect in school, though everyone knew he would have been the Head Boy if he weren’t so painfully shy. The idea of Timothy giving speeches or making announcements was laughable. The teachers had given him the Health Prefect role because, as one of them put it, “What kind of Head Boy doesn’t talk?”

 

Amara smiled at the memory, her heart tightening. She could still picture how they met. She’d gone to the sick bay one day with a headache and found him there, reading a chemistry textbook.  

 

“Hey, Doctor,” she’d teased. “I’m sick.” In those days, she was a full extrovert, the extreme opposite to Timothy.

 

Timothy had looked up, smiling shyly. “Come, let me treat you.” He had taken all the courage he could muster to come up with that simple sentence. His shyness was endearing.

 

That was how it began. He became her friend, always showing up at her side, though he never officially asked her out. The next week, he passed her a note during class: “Hello, new girl. How are you feeling today?”

 

She had scribbled back: “Hey Doctor, I am fine now.” But their Biology teacher had caught them exchanging the note and made them read it aloud in front of the class. The room had burst into laughter. “Timothy has a girlfriend!” someone had shouted, and Amara denied it furiously during break time.  

 

But when she confronted Timothy later behind the class block, demanding that he tell everyone they weren’t dating, he had smiled softly. “Ever since you came to this school, I can’t stop looking at you,” he said. “Would it really be so bad if you were my girlfriend?”

 

She laughed. “You? Pastor? Are you not the FCS President?”

 

“Yes,” Timothy replied earnestly. “And I want a godly girlfriend.”

 

“So you think I’m godly?” she teased.

 

“Are you not a Christian?”  

 

She nodded reluctantly. “I am.”  

 

“Then think about it,” he had said. “Let me know.”

 

She laughed again, still unsure if he was serious. But by the end of the day, she agreed. And from that moment, Timothy treated her like the most special person in his life.  

 

He had introduced her to God in a way no one ever had. He sent her Bible study manuals, took her to church, and spoke about Jesus with the same love and devotion he had for her. Eventually, she fell in love with both Timothy and the God he so adored.  

 

But when he left for Covenant University, everything fell apart. She had been furious at God for taking Timothy away from her. When Timothy begged her to stay connected through email, she had refused. She hated email. By the time he came home for Christmas, she had moved on—and she made sure he knew it.  

 

Now, looking back, she realised she hadn’t loved God at all. It had been Timothy she loved. And without him, her faith had crumbled.  

 

Amara sighed, her daughter giggling as she chased after a toy in the corner of the room. She couldn’t deny how much she missed Timothy, how she had never fully moved on. Her fingers trembled as she reached for the remote.  

 

“No,” she muttered to herself. “Don’t do it.”

 

But despite her resolve, she switched on the TV. The screen lit up, and there it was—the familiar energy of The Experience. The crowd, the lights, the music. And Timothy.  

 

—————————————————————-————————————————————

 

As soon as Timothy climbed off the stage and entered the green room, he was met with a beaming Kwese, who immediately pulled him into a hug. 

 

“I’m so proud of you,” Kwese said, his voice filled with emotion.

 

Timothy, still visibly shaking, held onto the hug briefly before stepping back. “It’s Jesus,” he said, his voice trembling. “It wasn’t me. It’s Jesus.”

 

Kwese smiled, shaking his head slightly. “No, this was powerful. You need to do this more often. Your career is going to blow up after tonight.”

 

Timothy gave him a faint smile, his eyes earnest. “This isn’t a career, Kwese. It’s a calling. I’ll do it again if God wants me to, but right now… I just need to be alone.”

 

Without waiting for a response, Timothy walked back to the quiet space he had been in earlier, the small corner of the green room where he could be alone with God. He knelt down, his hands clasped tightly, and began to pray. His words of worship were soft at first, but soon they poured out of him in a steady, unbroken stream.

 

Back in the main part of the green room, Tari and Maryann burst in, their excitement palpable. “Where is he?” Tari asked, glancing around.

 

Kwese raised a hand to quiet them. “He’s praying,” he said softly, gesturing toward the private area.

 

“That was amazing,” Maryann said, her tone filled with awe. “He needs to do this more often. The world needs to see him like that.”

 

Kwese nodded in agreement. “I told him the same thing. But we all know Timothy, he is going to do this by the leading of the Holy Spirit.”

 

Tari smiled mischievously. “Well, then we’ll just keep praying and telling the Holy Spirit that we want him on stage more often!”

 

The room burst into laughter at her words. 

 

Kwese chuckled, shaking his head. “Let me get the bus ready. Once he’s done with his prayers, we’ll leave through the back.”

 

“Sounds good,” Maryann said, still smiling. Tari nodded in agreement, her energy still buzzing from the performance.

 

—————————————————————————————————————————-

 

Timothy’s favorite meal was Akara and pap, and his mother knew it well. As soon as the family returned from The Experience, she went straight to the kitchen and told the chef to let her handle the cooking herself. She always joked, “Inside this Akwa Ibom boy is a Yoruba soul.” It wasn’t just the Akara and pap—Timothy also loved Amala and Ewedu, paired with Gbegiri in a combination only he could appreciate in a house of pounded yam lovers.

 

Now, after the hearty breakfast, the whole house was quiet. The family had drifted off to sleep, exhausted from the long night. But Timothy couldn’t sleep. He tossed and turned in his bed, his thoughts refusing to settle. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop thinking about Amara.

 

Finally, unable to bear it any longer, Timothy slid off the bed and knelt down, clasping his hands together. “God, please help me get over this. I don’t need this drama. Please, help me move on.”

 

But the answer came gently, unmistakably. The Holy Spirit whispered, “Why? Why do you need to get over it?”

 

Timothy froze. The question hit him squarely in the chest, and he didn’t need any more encouragement. Without hesitation, he jumped to his feet, grabbed his slippers, and made his way to his sister Tari’s room. He knocked firmly on the door.

 

There was no response at first. Clearly, she was fast asleep. After a moment, a muffled, annoyed voice said, “What is it?”  

 

Timothy took that as his cue to enter. Tari groggily sat up, her hair a mess. “What are you looking for, Timothy? What happened? Are you okay?”

 

Timothy stood awkwardly at the foot of her bed. “Please. I need that makeup artist’s number.”

 

Tari blinked at him, then burst into laughter. “What?!” She doubled over, clutching her sides. “So Amara is really your Amara? The Amara?”

 

“Don’t be dramatic,” Timothy said. “Just give me her number.”

 

Still giggling, Tari reached for her phone. “Oops,” she said after a moment. “I don’t have it. It was actually Maryann who booked her.”

 

Timothy groaned, running a hand down his face. “Maryann? That’ll be awkward. She’s… not exactly subtle.”

 

Tari smirked. “You mean, because she likes you? Oh, she’ll hate this. You asking for Amara’s number? Priceless.”

 

Timothy sighed, shaking his head. “Let’s pretend I didn’t hear that. Just focus on getting me the number.”

 

Tari leaned back against her pillow, still grinning. “Hmm. Asking Maryann for it will definitely be tricky. But don’t worry, I’ll get it for you.”

 

“Please, Tari,” Timothy said, his tone serious. “If you give me this number, I’ll owe you one.”

 

She sat up straighter, her grin widening. “Owe me? Oh, I like this new Timothy. So desperate.”

 

“I’m not desperate,” Timothy shot back. “Just… just send the message.”

 

Tari laughed again as she typed out a message to Maryann. “Relax, Mr. Health Prefect. She’ll reply when she wakes up. We all went for the same vigil, remember? She’s probably still asleep.”

 

Timothy frowned. “That’s true. Okay, fine. Just send it to me as soon as she responds.”

 

Tari rolled her eyes. “You know, this is a side of you I’ve never seen. You’re always calm and composed. Never under pressure. This? This is something else.”

 

“I’m not under pressure,” Timothy said quickly. “Just—just send it.”

 

“Don’t worry,” Tari teased. “When you wake up, her number will be the first thing you see.”

 

“I’m not going to sleep,” Timothy muttered, turning to leave. “Just make sure you send it.”

 

Tari laughed as he walked out of her room, shaking her head. “Wow. This is interesting,” she said under her breath, already thinking about how much fun she would have teasing him about this later.

—————————————————————————————————————————-

 

 

Amarachi was sitting on her bed, her laptop open as she scrolled through search results for speech therapists in Lagos. She sighed heavily, jotting down a few names that seemed promising. It had been two years since she first noticed that her daughter wasn’t talking. At first, she brushed it off, thinking, She’s just a late bloomer. Her daughter was cheerful and showed no signs of developmental delay otherwise.  

 

But last year, during a routine assessment at her school, the teachers had flagged her for special needs testing. A follow-up message from the school stated they suspected her daughter was on the Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD).  

 

“God forbid!” Amara had exclaimed. She had cried, prayed, fasted—anything to refute the possibility. But the months rolled on, and her daughter, now four, still wasn’t talking. She didn’t respond to her name, couldn’t follow simple instructions, and hadn’t been successfully potty trained. Yet, Amara’s daughter could sing occasionally, her sweet little voice filling the house with hope and heartbreak in equal measure.  

 

It had taken time, but Amara knew she couldn’t keep denying it. Early intervention was key. That was why she spent most of her free time researching therapies, trying to figure out what her next steps should be.  

 

She was deep in thought, scanning a website about behaviour and speech therapy techniques, when her phone buzzed with a notification. Absent-mindedly, she reached for it, noticing it was an Instagram alert. She opened the app and navigated to her direct messages.  

 

What she saw made her freeze.  

 

The message was from officialtimothyebele. 

 

Timothy?! She recognised the handle instantly. Her heart began to race as she read the message from the notification.  

 

Hi Amara, lovely seeing you today. How are you?

 

Her hands trembled, and she dropped the phone on the bed as though it had burnt her. Her breath came out in shallow gasps, her mind reeling.  

 

Timothy? she thought. He remembered me? He actually remembers me?

 

He hadn’t said much when they met earlier, just a polite greeting, so she had assumed he was uninterested in reconnecting, as was expected. Now, this? How did he even find her handle? Why would he message her?  

 

She sat on the edge of the bed, her heart heavy. “God,” she whispered, covering her face with her hands. “I can’t face him. I can’t. I threw everything we could have had away. I have no words to explain if he wants me to.”  

 

Her thoughts spiralled back to her time in university. She had been reckless—too reckless. While Timothy had been studying in Covenant University, she had been in Unilag, immersing herself in the campus party scene. She’d been one of the so-called big girls, always the centre of attention, always in the company of boys.  

It was after her NYSC year that everything scattered. She had gotten serious with a guy and had decided that he would become her husband, because she was tired of moving from one guy to the other, but instead of marrying her, he told her to move in with him, and she did. They lived together for almost three  years until she got pregnant and he ended things immediately because he wanted nothing to do with the baby. “Abort it,” he had said coldly. And she knew at that moment that they had no future together.

 

She kept the baby. Alone and desperate, she had turned to a small neighborhood church. She had only entered because their singing had been “disturbing” her, but the moment she stepped inside, her life changed.  

 

The church had practically adopted her. They supported her through her pregnancy, even helped her give birth. It was during one of their skill acquisition programmes that she learnt how to do makeup. Slowly, she built herself up. She went from relying on the church’s generosity to earning a modest living and providing for her daughter.  

 

Amara rubbed her forehead, her fingers shaking as they hovered over the phone. The memories were too much. Timothy didn’t know any of this—he didn’t know how far she had fallen. She didn’t want him to know.  

 

He’ll laugh at me, she thought bitterly. He’ll see me as a joke.

 

Unable to bear the thought, she grabbed the phone and covered it with a pillow, as if hiding it could erase the message. But her heart wouldn’t stop pounding.  

 

“God,” she whispered again, her voice breaking. “What do I do now?”  

 

—————————————————————————————————————————-

 

Timothy sat in his room, his head pounding from exhaustion. For the past 48 hours, he hadn’t had a single moment of proper sleep. The night before, because of The Experience, he’d been plagued by panic attacks and endless worries about how the event would turn out. Then came the event itself, a whirlwind of emotions, energy, and spirit. And now, Amara. Seeing Amara again had changed everything.

 

He leaned back on his chair, pressing his fingers against his temples, trying to ease the throbbing in his head. His sister still hadn’t managed to get Amara’s number, so he’d taken matters into his own hands, going straight to Instagram, combining names and searching until he stumbled on her handle. It had taken time, but the moment he saw the profile, he just knew.  

 

The photos—many of them showcasing her makeup work—confirmed it. The smile was hers. The tilt of her head, unmistakable.  

 

He had sent her a message immediately:  

 

Hi Amara, lovely seeing you today. How are you?

 

But now, two hours later, there was no response.  

 

Timothy stared at his phone, refreshing his DMs repeatedly. “Maybe she hasn’t seen it,” he muttered to himself. “People don’t check DMs often. If it were a WhatsApp message, she’d probably have seen it by now.”

 

He set the phone down with a sigh, running a hand down his face. “God, help me calm down,” he whispered. His chest felt tight, his thoughts swirling. He needed an outlet. He reached for his guitar, his safe space, and began to play.  

 

The melody came almost effortlessly. Words followed soon after, flowing from his lips as he strummed. His voice was soft, his eyes closed as the music filled the quiet of the room:  

 

“Loving You is the essence of my being.  

Loving You because it’s always You.  

Loving You, You’re the special one.  

Oh Lord, You’re the special one.”

 

He paused. Something about the song felt… off. He opened his eyes and chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m singing it for the Lord, but… it’s about feelings,” he murmured, his lips curling into a wry smile. “This isn’t a worship song. It’s a love song.”

 

Timothy leaned back in his chair, guitar resting against his lap. “Oh God,” he said with a soft laugh. “I thought I was over her. Now I’m writing love songs? That’s not me.”

 

The whisper came gently, cutting through his thoughts: 

 

Out of the abundance of the heart…

 

He sighed deeply, his hands brushing against the strings of his guitar. “Maybe I never stopped loving her,” he admitted silently. He sat there for a moment, staring at the guitar in his hands. Then, almost involuntarily, he reached for his phone again, refreshing his messages. Still nothing.  

 

He groaned softly and opened his messages to his sister, typing quickly:  

“I’m still waiting for the number. Please share as soon as you can.”

Sending the message, he set the phone down again and closed his eyes. “Lord, please,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I don’t even know what to do anymore.”  

 

And yet, in his heart, he knew—this wasn’t over. Not yet. At least, she owed him one final conversation.

 

————————————————————————————————————————— 

Three hours later, Tari woke up and groggily reached for her phone, blinking at the bright screen. Her eyes widened as she saw five messages from Timothy, all variations of the same thing:  

 

“Tari, any update on the number?”

 

“Still waiting for you.”

 

“Please, let me know once you have it.”

 

“Tari?”

 

“I really need this number. Thanks.”

 

She sighed, rubbing her temples. “Why is he suddenly so desperate?” she muttered.  

 

Without wasting time, she dialed Maryann’s number. It rang twice before Maryann picked up.  

 

“Hello? Tari?” Maryann’s voice sounded groggy.  

 

“Hey, sorry I guess you were sleeping,” Tari said quickly. 

 

“Are you going for another event? Why do you need the makeup artist’s number?”  

 

There was a pause. “I just need it,” Tari replied casually. “Can you send it?”  

 

Maryann was silent for a beat. “Hello? Maryann, are you there?”  

 

“Yeah, I’m here,” Maryann said finally, her tone hesitant. “But… I don’t know. Why do you need the number? I can help you book her if that’s the issue.”  

 

“Just send it and stop asking questions,” Tari said, her patience thinning.  

 

Maryann pressed. “It’s not a big deal, just tell me why. Is something up?”  

 

Tari sighed. “Fine. It’s my brother. He wants the number.”  

 

Maryann’s hesitation turned into sharp disapproval. “I don’t feel good about this. Why does he want her number? She’s his ex. She’s his ex for a reason, Tari. She should stay his ex.”  

 

Tari frowned. “This isn’t our business. He asked for the number, and we should just provide it.”  

 

“I don’t feel good about providing it,” Maryann repeated firmly.  

 

Tari rolled her eyes. “You know I can just get it myself, right? It’s not like anything special. You stumbled on her Instagram, and I can do the same.”  

 

Maryann’s voice hardened. “If you’re my friend, you won’t.”  

 

Tari threw her free hand in the air. “What is this? What’s your problem?”  

 

“You know I like your brother,” Maryann said pointedly. “Giving him the number of a girl he used to date is not going to help my cause at all.”  

 

Tari groaned. “He’s not a baby. If he wants to contact her, he will. There’s nothing I can do to stop him.”  

 

“I’m sorry,” Maryann said, her voice icy. “But I’m not giving you the number.”  

 

Tari’s frustration spilled over. “Now you’re just being ridiculous. This doesn’t make sense.”  

 

“What does he even need the number for?” Maryann snapped.  

 

Tari retorted, “I don’t know, and honestly, it’s not my business. And it’s not yours either! But fine, if you want to act like this, no problem. Thanks. Bye.”  

 

“Wait, wait,” Maryann interrupted quickly. “Are you angry?”  

 

“I’m not angry,” Tari replied tightly. “You’ve made your decision, and that’s fine. I’ll get the number another way.”  

 

Maryann sighed deeply, her resolve wavering. “Just… discourage him, okay? Do this for me.”  

 

“Discourage him from what?” Tari said with exasperation. “I don’t even know why he wants the number. I don’t assume anything about what a man wants.”  

 

“Let’s not be children, Tari. A man wants the number of a woman he used to date. It’s obvious what he wants,” Maryann said flatly.  

 

Tari sighed, her voice calmer now. “Okay. No problem. Bye.”  

 

“Wait!” Maryann said quickly. “Fine, fine. I’ll send it. I’ll send it.” She paused, then added begrudgingly, “In fact, I’ve sent it. But please discourage him.”  

 

Tari rolled her eyes again. “Thank you. And don’t worry about it—it’s not our business.”  

 

With that, Tari ended the call and immediately forwarded the number to Timothy. His response came almost instantly:  

 

“You’re the best sister in the world.”

 

Tari grinned at the message and quickly replied: “Wow, I guess I finally found your weakness.”

 

Timothy responded with a single emoji: 🙏.  

 

Tari laughed and tossed her phone aside, shaking her head. “So much drama over one phone number,” she muttered to herself, already imagining what would come next.  

 

——————————————————

 

Amara was at the supermarket, pushing a cart that felt lighter than she’d hoped. She’d been rolling it up and down the aisles for at least ten minutes, trying to decide what to buy. Everything was expensive—ridiculously expensive.  

 

Sure, prices had been high for months now, but with Christmas around the corner, it seemed like every store had decided to double their rates. She sighed, frustrated. She had taken all the money she made from the makeup gig with Tari and Maryann that morning, determined to stock up for the entire month. Now, standing in front of the shelves, she realised she’d be lucky to stretch her budget for the week.  

 

Her daughter, meanwhile, was refusing to sit in the cart. She kept pulling things off the lower shelves, clutching them tightly as if daring Amara to say no.  

 

“Ziora, stop it!” Amara scolded, taking a box of cereal out of her daughter’s hands. “Don’t put me in trouble. If you break something, how will I pay for it?”  

 

Her daughter, unbothered, giggled and toddled off, grabbing for another item. Amara rubbed her temples. The entire shopping trip was becoming more stressful than she’d imagined.  

 

It was in the middle of this chaos that her phone rang. She glanced at the screen and frowned. It was an unknown number. For a moment, she debated whether to answer, but what if it was a client?  

 

She pressed the green button and brought the phone to her ear. “Hello, good evening. ”  

 

The voice on the other end was unmistakable.  

 

“Hey, Amara, it’s Timothy.”  

 

Even before he said his name, she already knew it was him. That voice—it had been etched into her memory for years. Her breath caught in her throat, and without thinking, she ended the call. Her heart pounded wildly in her chest as she stared at the screen.  

 

“Timothy? Oh my God. Oh my God.”

 

She switched off her phone immediately, stuffing it into her bag like it might explode. “He really wants to reach me,” she whispered to herself, her thoughts spiraling. “What am I going to say? What does he want? How is this happening?”  

 

Her daughter tugged at her skirt, pulling her back to the moment. Amara’s hands shook as she gripped the cart, her mind racing.  

 

“Let’s go,” she muttered, her voice shaky. She turned the cart around abruptly, ignoring the aisles she hadn’t yet visited. Her daughter looked up at her curiously but didn’t protest.  

 

Amara wheeled out of the supermarket, abandoning any thoughts of stocking up for the month—or even the week. She needed to go home. She needed to think.  

 

—————————————————————

By the time Amara got back to the house, her daughter, Ziora, had fallen asleep. Carefully, Amara lifted her out of the car seat and carried her inside. They shared the same bed, so she gently laid her down on her side, pulling the blanket over her small frame. Ziora stirred slightly, murmuring something incoherent before sinking back into deep sleep.

 

Amara sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her daughter’s peaceful face. She let out a long, weary sigh. “God,” she whispered, burying her face in her hands. “Why is Timothy calling me? Please don’t let me be put to shame. It’s taken me so long to get to this place, to find peace.”

 

Her voice cracked as she continued, “Peace with myself, peace in my walk with You. Lord, everyday You’re building me back, molding me back. For the past four years, it’s been me and You, and I want it to stay that way. Please, Lord, let Timothy back off. I can’t handle this. I can’t face him.”

 

Then, in the stillness of the room, a question came to her heart: Why?

 

She froze, her chest tightening. “Why?” she murmured aloud, her voice barely audible. “Because I can’t face him. What would I even tell him? What if he asks about Ziora? I’m not ashamed of her—never—but… what would I say?” Her voice faltered, and she buried her face in her hands again. “This is too much. Lord, please help me.”

 

After a moment, Amara shifted to her knees beside the bed and prayed, her words spilling out in a quiet stream. When she finished, a sense of calm settled over her. She stood and reached for her phone, which had been switched off since the supermarket.

 

The screen lit up as it powered on, and almost immediately, a message from Timothy appeared. Her heart skipped as she opened it.  

 

Hello Amara, how are you? I don’t know if it’s the network or if you ended the call, but I would really like to speak to you again, please. If you consider me a bother, then I can understand and I won’t call you again. But if you want to indulge me, I would be grateful. Please call me. I just want to greet you, check up on you, and catch up with you. It’s been a while.

 

Amara stared at the message, her heart aching. “Oh God,” she whispered, clutching the phone. “I miss him so much.”  

 

Her eyes drifted to Ziora, her daughter’s tiny face serene and innocent in sleep. She looked back at the phone in her hand, then up toward the ceiling.  

 

“God,” she said softly, tears brimming in her eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”

 

———————————————————————————————————————–

 

Who would have thought that our shy music minister will turn out to be a lover boy? This episode kept me at the edge of my seat. My heart goes out to Amara sha. It’s one thing to be a single mother, it’s another thing for that child to be autistic. 

Right now, I’m just waiting for episode 3. Amara had better reach out to Timothy