Episode 7

Amarachi folded the last of Ziora’s clothes into her small travel bag, glancing around the room with a sigh. The air felt thick and warm, the faint hum of the ceiling fan struggling to combat the Lagos heat. The living room was a clutter of travel items: a box of snacks for the road, neatly folded clothes stacked on the worn-out couch, and a plastic bag filled with toiletries. This was her every year routine with her family till she got pregnant with Ziora and moved out of the family house. Gearing up to be with the whole family for more than one week made her heart beat too fast. Perhaps it was because she wasn’t looking forward to the trip.  

The faint buzz of voices outside filtered through her window—neighbors chatting, the sound of someone closing the gate, and the occasional bark of a dog. It was a reminder of the bustling life of her compound, but Amarachi had learnt to tune out from all that. Her mind was already halfway to her parents’ house in Agege, imagining her mother’s pointed glances and her father’s long sighs. They didn’t need words to communicate their disappointment. The reminder that Ziora didn’t talk yet, combined with their judgment of her career and life choices, hung over her like a dark cloud every holiday.  

She brushed off the thought, glancing over at her daughter, who had fallen asleep on the couch after a long day of outing with Yemisi. It had been a good day, one of those rare moments where she had felt light, happy even. Amarachi smiled faintly, adjusting Ziora’s blanket and whispering, “You’re the only reason I keep going.”

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Timothy sighed as he adjusted himself in the driver’s seat, glancing at the clock on the dashboard. It had been four hours since his driver had brought him to this area, parking at the filling station across the street from Amarachi’s house. Four hours of wrestling with himself, trying to answer the one question that had been tormenting him since the moment he arrived: What am I doing here?

One hour into his waiting, the manager of the filling station had knocked on his car window, asking what they were doing there. Timothy had hastily explained they were just waiting and handed the man a wad of cash through his driver. That seemed to settle the issue. The manager left with a wide grin, instructing the station attendants not to disturb him and even promising that Timothy could stay parked there till the following day if he wanted. 

But Timothy didn’t want to stay till the next day. He didn’t even want to be here right now. Not really. He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, and had told his driver to leave, two hours ago.

The driver, watching him fidget, had spoken up around 10 p.m. “Oga, this area isn’t for you. Let me stay here. I can wait all night if you want,” he had said, his voice laced with concern. 

Timothy had managed a weak smile and replied, “I’ll be fine. You don’t have to wait for me, you can leave now.”

The driver frowned. “I don’t want to leave you here like this, Oga. You sure say you go dey okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Timothy had insisted, giving the man some money and urging him to go home. The driver reluctantly left around 10:30 p.m, still looking skeptical as he came down from the car and walked away.

Now, sitting in the empty car with the engine idling, Timothy leaned back against the seat and groaned. “What am I doing here?” he muttered for the hundredth time, shaking his head at himself. He told himself it was Christmas season, and he had come to give Amarachi a goodwill gift, nothing more. But he knew better. He knew that the chaos she’d stirred in his heart since she reappeared was the real reason he was here, parked across the street from her house like a teenager with a crush. 

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered, laughing mockingly at himself. “I said I was going to leave her alone. I sent her that message earlier. I’m supposed to be a man of integrity, if nothing else.”

But when it came to Amarachi, integrity seemed to unravel like a threadbare sweater. “When it comes to her,” he admitted to himself, “I don’t even know what kind of man I am anymore.”

It was midnight and Timothy finally made a decision. He couldn’t stay here all night. He’d just give her the sneakers and leave. No explanations. No emotional entanglements. Just a simple Christmas gesture. 

He turned off the engine and reached into the glove compartment for his sunglasses. They were ridiculous for this time of night, but he felt safer with them. He also raised the hood of his jacket, hoping to make himself as unrecognisable as possible. The last thing he needed was for someone to recognise him and capture the moment on social media.

Stepping out of the car, he handed another five thousand naira notes to the filling station’s security guard. “I’ll be back,” he said. “Please keep an eye on the car.”

The guard saluted, grinning. “Oga, don’t worry. Your car is safe with us. Go do your thing.”

Timothy nodded and crossed to Amara’s street, his heart pounding with every step. The darkness of the street felt oddly comforting, with no streetlights to illuminate his path. He kept his head down as he walked, navigating the uneven terrain of the area. 

As he approached her compound, he hesitated for a moment, standing just outside the gate. His heart raced as he looked at the building, dimly lit by the faint glow of solar-powered lamps. What if she wasn’t home? What if she didn’t want to see him? What if this was a mistake?

But Timothy had never been one to turn back from a decision. With a deep breath, he pushed the gate open and stepped inside.

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As Amarachi zipped the bag shut, finally done with packing, a knock startled her. She froze, staring at the door. Who could be knocking at this time of night? Her neighbours never came by this late unless there was an emergency. She frowned, her heart racing slightly as she stepped toward the door. 

“Who is it?” she called out cautiously.

“It’s me—Timothy,” came the voice on the other side. 

Her eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. What on earth was Timothy doing here? At this hour? She quickly unlatched the door and pulled it open, dragging him inside before anyone could see. “Timothy! What are you doing here? It’s midnight!”

Timothy stepped into the cramped room, his face calm but slightly apologetic. He was dressed simply in jeans and a black hoodie, his hands stuffed into his pockets. “I’m sorry for coming so late, Amarachi,” he said, his voice low. I just wanted to give you something.”

Amarachi stared at him, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Give me what? At midnight, Timothy?”

He reached into the bag slung over his shoulder and pulled out a neatly wrapped package. “It’s a Christmas gift. For you and Ziora.”

She blinked, her confusion deepening as she stared at the package. “A Christmas gift? Timothy, you couldn’t wait until morning?”

“I… Err,” he stuttered. He cleared his throat and continued, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I thought it might mean more if you got it now, before Christmas.”

Amarachi shook her head, pressing her fingers to her temple. “Timothy, this is… I don’t even know what to say.”

“Then don’t say anything yet,” he said, placing the package on the table beside her travel bags. “Just open it.”

She eyed him suspiciously but reached for the package, carefully peeling away the wrapping. Inside was a pair of sleek, stylish sneakers, and nestled beside them was a smaller pair—clearly for Ziora. Her breath caught as she held them up, the faint scent of fresh leather filling the air.

“Timothy…” Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. “You didn’t have to do this.”

“I wanted to,” he said, his voice just as gentle. “I remembered how I got you shoes back in school, and… well, it felt like the right thing to do. You’ve been working so hard, Amarachi. You deserve something nice.”

She stared at the sneakers, her throat tightening. She didn’t know what to say. The gesture was overwhelming, not because of the gift itself, but because of what it represented—Timothy’s unyielding kindness, and his presence in her life even after all these years. 

“Thank you,” she managed to say, her voice barely audible. “But you shouldn’t have.”

Timothy shrugged, leaning back slightly. “It’s Christmas. Giving is part of the season.”

She glanced over at Ziora, still peacefully asleep, and back at Timothy. “You’re too much sometimes, you know that?”

He chuckled softly. “I’ve heard that before.”

They stood in silence for a moment, unspoken words hanging between them. Finally, Amarachi shook her head and said, “You should go. If anyone sees you here…”

“I know,” he said, stepping toward the door. “I just… didn’t want to miss this chance.”

Amarachi stood by the door, watching as Timothy stepped outside. “Merry Christmas, Timothy,” she said softly, but her voice wavered, and before she could stop herself, it broke. Tears streamed down her face, and she turned her head, trying to hide it, but Timothy had already noticed.

“Amarachi, what is it? What happened? What did I do?” he asked, his voice full of concern as he quickly stepped back inside and closed the door behind him.

She shook her head, wiping her face with trembling fingers, but the tears wouldn’t stop. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know why I’m crying,” she said, her voice cracking. “It’s just… Timothy, nobody… nobody has given me a gift in years. For the past five years, since I got pregnant with Ziora, nobody has given me anything that’s just for me. They’ve given me money to help with her. They’ve bought things for her. But… no one has thought of me.”

Timothy’s heart clenched. Without thinking, he reached out and wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumb, his touch gentle. But Amarachi kept crying, her emotions pouring out like a floodgate had been opened. Unable to watch her in pain, Timothy pulled her into his arms and held her tightly.

She buried her face in his chest, her tears soaking through his t-shirt as she clung to him. Timothy didn’t say a word. He just held her, his hand stroking her back gently, his heart breaking for the weight she had been carrying alone. He felt her pain in every sob, every tremor that shook her frame.

When her crying finally subsided, she pulled back, her face flushed, her eyes red and swollen. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve stained your shirt.”

Timothy smiled softly, his hand still cradling her face. “It’s just a shirt, Amarachi. I don’t mind.”

Her breath hitched as he looked at her, his eyes filled with so much kindness it nearly broke her all over again. Even in the dim light of the solar lamp, she could see the sincerity in his gaze. It made her feel exposed, vulnerable. But it also made her feel seen.

Timothy guided her to the small chair in the room and sat her down gently before pulling up the edge of the couch to sit across from her. “Amarachi,” he said, his voice steady but laced with emotion, “I’m back. I’m here for you. You don’t have to worry about things like this anymore. You don’t have to worry about never getting a gift again. I will always give you gifts.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand, pulling the pairs of sneakers from the bag. “In fact, I didn’t know what you needed, but I saw this pair for myself and thought, why not make it a set?” He smiled, holding up the shoes. “You see? Three of us are matching now. You, me, and Ziora.”

Amarachi stared at the sneakers in disbelief, her heart thudding in her chest. She slumped back into the chair, shaking her head. “Oh, God, Timothy… What are you doing? Why would you buy matching sneakers? We’re not a family. This is… awkward.”

She stood abruptly, pulling at his arm. “You need to start going. It’s late, and this—this is too much.”

But Timothy didn’t budge. Instead, he gently pulled her closer to him, his hands firm but tender. “Amarachi, listen to me,” he said, his voice low but firm. “I’m back. And I’m not the kind of man who lies to himself. I’m not rushing you. I’m not saying you have to decide anything now. But I’m back, and you cannot shut me out. Not this time.”

She stared at him, her breath caught in her throat, her heart pounding.

“Amarachi,” he continued, his tone softer now, “for the past twelve years, I have not felt anything for another woman. I’ve seen beautiful women, talented women, but nothing. No feelings. Nothing even close. It took just one moment of seeing you for my heart to start racing again.”

He paused, his eyes locking onto hers. “I love you. I still do. I never stopped. And I can’t stand by and watch you shut me out when I know you’re hurting. I can’t see you needing me and pretend I don’t care. That’s not going to happen.”

Amarachi swallowed hard, her hands trembling as she tried to form words, but nothing came. She was overwhelmed—by his words, his presence, his kindness. Everything about Timothy was too much, yet it was exactly what she had always needed. 

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Amarachi carefully carried Ziora to her room, laying her gently on the small, colorful bed that had been her haven since they moved into this apartment. The room was dimly lit, and Amarachi adjusted the blanket over Ziora, brushing her daughter’s forehead lightly as the little girl sighed contentedly in her sleep. For a moment, Amarachi lingered, taking in Ziora’s calm expression. This child was her world, her anchor, and yet there were days—days like this—when everything felt too heavy to carry alone.

The living room was quiet as she returned, but Timothy’s presence felt almost tangible, a warmth she wasn’t used to. She paused at the doorway to steady herself. How had he ended up here, at this hour, disrupting the walls she had carefully built around herself? The day had been an emotional whirlwind.

Before stepping out, she heard his voice, low but clear, speaking into his phone. 

“I’m fine. I’m just out with a friend,” Timothy said. His tone was calm, almost casual, but there was a quiet sincerity in it. “No, don’t worry about me. I’ll be home soon. Please, just rest.”

He ended the call and looked up just as she entered the room. Their eyes met, and he smiled faintly, a mix of reassurance and something she couldn’t quite place.

“Your people are worried about you,” Amarachi said, folding her arms.

Timothy shrugged, his smile widening. “They always are. It’s what they do.”

“They should be worried?” she said with a raised brow. “I’m sure they are not used to you being out this late.”

“Exactly,” Timothy said, laughing lightly. “That’s why they should trust me more. I don’t exactly have a reputation as a nightcrawler.”

Amarachi shook her head, trying not to smile. “You’re not helping your case. It’s late, Timothy. You should leave now.”

Before he could answer, her phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and sighed as she read the message. It was from her sister: Amara, we are leaving at 7 a.m. sharp. Don’t come late and delay us. The journey to Enugu is long, and we don’t want to arrive after dark. 

She sighed audibly, and Timothy noticed. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his tone soft but concerned.

“It’s my sister,” Amarachi replied, placing the phone on the table. “She’s reminding me not to delay everyone tomorrow. The bus leaves by 7 a.m., and they expect me to be at my parents’ house by 6:30 a.m.”

Timothy nodded. “Perfect. I’ll drop you off.”

Her head snapped up. “What? No, Timothy. You can’t—”

“I can and I will,” Timothy said, his voice firm but kind. “It’s not up for debate.”

“Timothy, please—”

“Amarachi,” he said simply, the sound of her name settling the argument. “It’s settled.”

She sighed, her shoulders sagging. “Fine,” she said reluctantly. “But it’s late, and you should leave now.”

Timothy smiled again, leaning back on the couch. “You should get some sleep. It’s going to be a long journey tomorrow.”

She hesitated. “Do you want anything to eat? Are you hungry?”

He shook his head. “No, I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Her feet lingered, but she eventually retreated to her room, closing the door softly behind her. In the silence, Timothy’s words replayed in her mind, each one chipping away at her defenses. She didn’t know how to feel about his presence, about the way he so effortlessly entered her space and made it feel… less lonely.

Meanwhile, in the living room, Timothy sat quietly on the couch, his elbows resting on his knees. The room was sparse, but there was a quiet coziness about it. He closed his eyes and began to pray.

At first, the words didn’t come, so he let his spirit take over, speaking in tongues softly, after a while, the words began to form, and he prayed earnestly.

“Lord, comfort her. I don’t know the full extent of her struggles, but I can see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice. She’s carrying so much, Lord. Please give her peace. Let her feel Your presence in her life. Guide her steps, and remind her she’s not alone.”

He paused, his head bowed. “Father, I don’t want to confuse her. I don’t want to act out of emotion or cloud her mind. Help me to know what to do. Show me how to walk this path in alignment with Your will. I surrender it all to You.”

Timothy continued to pray, his words interwoven with moments of silence and soft whispers of gratitude. Eventually, the prayers gave way to exhaustion, and he slumped back against the couch, his eyes heavy. Before he realised it, sleep overtook him, his head leaning to the side of the couch.

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Amarachi sat on the edge of her bed, her thoughts spinning like a whirlwind she couldn’t contain. She could still hear Timothy’s quiet breathing from the living room. His presence, even when silent, was overwhelming—comforting and yet unsettling all at once.  

Her hands clutched the fabric of her bedsheet as she stared at the ceiling. “What kind of man is this?” Timothy carried a peace she had never encountered before. “What does he know that the rest of us do not?” It wasn’t just his kindness, it was something deeper, his faith. Something she had never been able to grasp. She had heard him praying earlier.

She took a slow breath and closed her eyes. Lord, I cannot continue with religion without knowing You. I cannot keep doing this, saying I believe, when my heart is full of doubt. 

Timothy’s words on the blog post replayed in her mind. You need an encounter. And an encounter is a product of faith.  

She had believed—at least, she thought she had. For the past four years, she had held on, hoping, praying, trying. But where was the encounter? At what moment would faith become real? And not just something we do because we were born in a Christian home.

Her heart clenched as she thought of Ziora. Lord, just like the man in the Bible, I believe—but help my unbelief. You told him, If you believe, your child will be made whole. 

Tears filled her eyes, and her voice dropped to a whisper, not wanting to wake Timothy and make him worry. I believe that You have the best intentions for me. I believe that You can heal my daughter. But why do I still feel so lost? Why do I still feel so far away from You? Lord, please… help my unbelief. 

The room was still, but inside her, a battle raged. And then, in the midst of her silent cries, she felt an urgent need to open the Bible. 

She blinked, startled by the thought that had entered her heart so clearly, so suddenly. Slowly, she reached for her phone and opened her Bible app, hesitating before scrolling through the passages.  

Her mind swirled with questions as she hovered over the search bar. Even this Bible… who wrote it? She had googled it before, desperate for answers. Some scholars said Moses did some in the old testament. Some argued about the gospel accounts—was it really John? Was it really Peter? Paul wrote letters, but what made them divine?  

And if this interaction in ancient times is called the Word of God, why does it stop at a certain point in time? Why were there no modern-day scriptures? Did God stop speaking? Were the men who lived in those old times more superior?  

A lump formed in her throat. “Lord, I don’t want to sound like I’m questioning You,” she whispered, rubbing her forehead, “but I have to. I need to. Because I can’t just go through the motions anymore. If You are real, if this Word is real, then help me understand it.”  

Her finger hesitated before tapping the Gospel of John. The words formed clearly on the screen, and she read them aloud.  

“In the beginning, the Word already existed. The Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

She stopped, her heart pounding.  

The Word was God?  

She read it again, slower this time, as if the meaning might change if she paid closer attention.  

“He existed in the beginning with God. Through Him, all things were made…” 

Amarachi swallowed, her pulse quickening. “So how does this mean that the Word was Jesus, like Bible scholars say?”

A shiver ran down her spine, and she exhaled, staring at the words on the screen till she slept off, reading it over and over again.

The word became flesh and dwelt amongst us.

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Timothy stirred on the couch, his sleep interrupted by an odd sensation, almost as if a hand had rested gently on his shoulder. His eyes snapped open, his heart beating steadily but fast enough to alert him that something wasn’t right. He sat up slowly, glancing toward Amarachi’s room. The door was still closed. The dim glow of the solar lamp cast long shadows along the walls, but no one was there.  

He frowned. Did she come out and leave? 

He rubbed the back of his neck, shifting slightly to relieve the stiffness in his muscles. The couch was far from comfortable, but that wasn’t what unsettled him. There was an urgency in the air, something pressing against his spirit like an unspoken demand.  

He sighed, wiping a palm across his face. Just then, a sharp sting prickled his arm. A mosquito. He slapped at it absentmindedly, grumbling as he glanced at the faint mark it left behind. 

He tried to relax again, shifting to find a better position, but sleep wouldn’t come. Instead, something stirred deep within him, tugging at his soul—an unmistakable call to prayer.  

His brows furrowed. “Holy Spirit, what is it? What are you trying to tell me dear Master?”

The answer came instantly, pressing against his heart with quiet force. Pray for her. 

Timothy sat up fully now, stretching his legs before placing his feet firmly on the floor. His spirit grew heavy with conviction, and without hesitation, he clasped his hands together and began to whisper a prayer.  

“Lord, help Amarachi. I don’t know why she carries so much weight on her shoulders, but You do. You know the burdens she doesn’t speak of, the fears she doesn’t share. Lord, she is Your daughter—please help her. Take her on a journey, a journey of transformation, of healing, of truth. Let her encounter You in a way she never has before.” 

The pressure in his chest deepened, and suddenly, words failed him. Without thinking, he shifted into tongues, the prayers rolling off his lips as though his spirit was speaking directly to God.  

The room, though quiet, felt alive. He could feel something moving—an unseen presence, powerful yet peaceful. He prayed deeper, leaning into it, surrendering fully to whatever God was stirring in the atmosphere.  

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Over 2000 years ago – A.D 33

The moment Amarachi opened her eyes, she felt a strange stillness in the air. It wasn’t the usual heat and muffled noise of her Lagos apartment. Instead, the air was cool and dry, carrying the scent of dust, olive trees, and the faint aroma of baking bread. 

She sat up abruptly. 

Her bed was gone. The walls of her apartment, gone. Instead, she found herself lying on a simple woven mat, the texture rough against her palm. The space around her was small and modest, lit only by the dim flickering of an oil lamp resting on a clay stand. 

She gasped.

Something was wrong.

Her hands trembled as she touched the fabric of the clothing she wore—a long, flowing linen tunic, loosely tied at the waist with a rope belt. Over her head, a shawl of soft wool draped around her shoulders.

What in the world? Where was she?

And then— Ziora. 

Her heart lurched. She twisted around, searching wildly.  

“Ziora?” she called, her voice breaking with panic. “Ziora!”  

No answer.  

She stood, nearly stumbling as her feet felt the hardness of a dirt floor instead of tiles. She rushed outside, only to be greeted by the sudden burst of bright sunlight, making her squint.  

The world before her was not Lagos.  

The streets were narrow, lined with stone buildings made of limestone and mud bricks. The ground was uneven, dust kicking up with every step. Vendors were stationed behind wooden stalls, selling fruits, figs, and loaves of bread. The scent of roasted fish and freshly ground spices filled the air.  

And the people, they were dressed exactly like her. Men in robes and turbans, women with shawls covering their heads, donkeys pulling carts, Roman soldiers patrolling with stern faces.  

She was in Jerusalem.  

Panic gripped her chest. She turned in every direction. “What is happening?”  

Then she saw him.  

Timothy.  

Walking toward her, clothed in a white robe, with a sash tied around his waist**.  

“Timothy!” she called, rushing to him.  

A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. “My dear wife.”

She froze. Wife?  

“Timothy, what is going on?” she demanded, gripping his arm. “Why are we dressed like this? What kind of film set is this? Where is Ziora?”  

He chuckled, his deep voice calm. “Beloved, why dost thou speak in riddles?”  

Amarachi’s eyes widened. “What? Why are you talking like that?”  

He simply shook his head in amusement. “Thy mind doth play thee false, my love. Our daughter is safe with my mother and sister. Didst thou not remember? She tarrieth in Bethlehem for the feast.”

Bethlehem? A feast?  

“Timothy, I don’t understand! Where are we?”  

Still smiling, he took her hands into his warm, calloused palms. “Thou hast long desired understanding. Come, I shall take thee on a journey of truth.”  

“What journey?”  

“To the River Jordan,” he declared. “To show thee where John baptized the Lord.” 

Amarachi’s breath caught.  

This wasn’t real.  

It couldn’t be real.  

And yet, as Timothy gently pulled her hand, leading her through the ancient streets of Jerusalem, she followed.  

As they passed through the bustling city, she saw people bartering at the market, women carrying water jars on their heads, and scribes writing on parchment scrolls. The air buzzed with voices speaking Aramaic and Hebrew, and somewhere in the distance, a shofar blew.  

Finally, they reached the outskirts of the city, where a long, winding river stretched before them.  

The Jordan River.  

Timothy turned to her, eyes filled with an emotion she couldn’t name.  

“Amarachi,” he said, voice gentle. “God sent a man—John the Baptist—to tell of the Light, so that all might believe. He himself was not the Light, but he bore witness of it.”  

Amarachi felt her chest tighten. “You mean… Jesus?”  

Timothy nodded. “Yea, the true Light, which lighteth every man that cometh into the world.” He paused. “Thou hast read, and yet thou dost still question. What is it that troubleth thee?”  

Amarachi bit her lip, her voice barely a whisper. “Who created God?”  

Timothy smiled at her, the way he always did when she was being stubborn.  

“Thy mind is bound by time,” he said. “God is beyond time. He hath no beginning, neither hath He an end. Time itself was created by Him. He existed before the world was formed, before the sun was set in the heavens.”  

Amarachi frowned. “But I don’t understand—”  

“Thou dost not understand because thou thinkest in mortal terms,” he said patiently. “In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth. It was then that time began. Before time, there was only Him.”  

Amarachi felt her head spinning. Everything was too real.

The sun shone down brightly, the water of the Jordan rippling gently in the wind. The weight of her linen robe, the sand beneath her feet—it all felt real.  

She turned slowly to Timothy. “Why am I here?”

He took both her hands in his. His gaze pierced through her, like he could see into the very depths of her soul.  

“Because, beloved, thou seekest the truth.”  

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Wow… An encounter. Amara is having an encounter. My God! The Holy Spirit will truly find you at your lowest and raise you up to where you should be. I pray Amara finds Faith through this encounter. It’s looking like this love story finally has hope. What are your thoughts?

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