Chapter 11

By the time Apostle Michael returned to the office, dusk had begun to settle over the city, and most of his team were already rounding off, gathering files, shutting laptops, and saying soft goodbyes.

He walked past the front desk quietly, his presence commanding but never domineering. When he reached the main hallway, he caught sight of Cathy, Ngozi, and Ezekiel still at their desks.

“Good evening, sir,” they chorused, almost too quickly.

He smiled faintly. They were uneasy; that much was obvious. Of course, by now, they had seen the headlines. There was no need for small talk.

“My office, please,” he commanded gently.

They followed in silence.

Inside his office, the faint hum of the air conditioner filled the room. Michael stood by the window for a moment, hands in his pockets, watching the slow traffic outside before turning to face them, thinking about his viral story. He had switched off his phone to avoid answering questions from curious friends and family.

“Well,” he said, finally. “Whatever you’ve heard… is true.”

Cathy blinked in mock surprise, then laughed. “Apostle, I thought I was the first to know.” Her tone was half-teasing, half-nervous. Ezekiel beamed with excitement, and chorused Congratulations repeatedly.  Ngozi, on the other hand, couldn’t meet his eyes, despite her own felicitations.

Michael smiled. “Relax with all the greetings, I am still trusting God for a Yes. I called you all mainly to know how the meeting went with our other missionary guests.”

“It went well, sir,” Cathy replied quickly. “They landed safely and checked into the hotel. We’re hosting them for dinner tomorrow.”

“Good,” Michael said. “Make sure the team books a proper brunch setup at the Grand Crest tomorrow. Let’s have something warm and calm, I want to talk to them about long-term partnership.”

He paused mid-sentence, his expression changing. It was subtle, the shift from warmth to something sharper, as though he just discerned something. His voice dropped a tone lower.

“But before we move on,” he said softly, “one of you betrayed me today.”

The silence was immediate.

Ezekiel’s mouth fell open. Cathy frowned, confused. Ngozi froze completely.

Michael didn’t raise his voice. He simply walked around his desk and leaned lightly against it, watching their faces with quiet patience.

“Which of you was it?”

Cathy spoke first, her instinct to protect him stronger than her fear. “Apostle, I’m sorry. I told my sister after you spoke with me earlier. I honestly didn’t think much of it, she’s family and discreet. I’ve never repeated anything private from you before, I just thought…”

Michael lifted a hand gently. “It’s alright, Cathy. You’re forgiven. Please don’t do that next time. But you’re not the one I meant.”

Cathy turned in slow disbelief toward Ngozi.

Ngozi’s lips trembled, tears welled up almost instantly. “I’m sorry, sir,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to… it wasn’t like that. I just— I needed money. I told someone… they offered to pay for the gist. I didn’t know it would blow up this fast.”

Cathy gasped. “You did what?”

Ngozi’s voice cracked. “I heard you talking in the restroom. 

Michael exhaled, long and slow. He didn’t shout. He didn’t move. He simply nodded, as if her confession had confirmed what he already knew.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “Thank you for being honest.”

Cathy, however, was livid. “Ngozi, we pay you well! You have allowances, medicals, housing support. What money are you still trying to make? You eavesdropped on me? About Apostle?”

Ngozi eyes filled up quickly “I wasn’t thinking—”

“That much is obvious,” Cathy snapped.

Michael raised his hand again, calm returning to the room like oil poured over troubled water. “Enough,” he said softly. 

Ngozi fell silent, trembling.

Michael straightened up. “You see, the work we do here is holy. But holiness doesn’t mean the absence of flaws; it means the constant willingness to correct them. Allow this place to pass through you, drop bad habits and desperation. Even in a Christian organisation, people will test your character. That’s life. I’m not angry, Ngozi but I am reminded.”

She wiped her eyes, confused. “Reminded, sir?”

He nodded. “That trust is a treasure, and I must be careful with whom I give it to. I forgive you, but Cathy will handle whatever disciplinary measures are necessary.”

He turned to Cathy. “Please, handle it discreetly. Don’t embarrass her publicly.”

“Yes, Apostle,” Cathy said firmly, though her tone carried disappointment.

Michael smiled faintly again. “Thank you. You all can go.”

The two women quietly left the office. Ezekiel remained, waiting for further instruction.

When the door closed, Michael sat at his desk. “Ezekiel,” he said. “Tomorrow, after the meeting with the missionaries, go to the registry. Find out what’s needed for a marriage license and begin the process.”

Ezekiel blinked. “A marriage license, sir?”

Michael smiled. “Yes. Faith moves faster than fear.”

Ezekiel nodded slowly, still stunned. “Yes, sir.”

As the young man left, Michael leaned back in his chair. The office was quiet again. The hum of the city outside had grown dim. He reached for the small brown journal he kept in the drawer,  the one that had traveled with him for five years.

He flipped to the last page where he had stopped earlier that afternoon and added a new line in his clean, firm handwriting:

Every betrayal becomes a bridge to the next chapter.
Every storm clears the path for the promise.

He closed the book gently, set it aside, and looked out through the window, his reflection superimposed on the skyline of Lagos.

“Lord,” he whispered, “surround my Busayo with peace. Let nothing steal her joy.”

His phone vibrated. A message from Cathy.

Apostle, I’ve handled it. She’s remorseful. She’ll face the committee tomorrow. I also apologise for my contribution in this. I was too excited that I wasn’t discreet enough.

He typed back:

It’s alright, Cathy. It’s commendable to have noted your wrongs.

Let mercy lead the judgment.

Then he rested his head on the back of his chair, letting the silence linger until the night fully claimed the sky.

A message dropped on his phone.

I spoke to my father, he said we will be donating to the church building project whether he speaks at the crusade or not. Sorry to have tried to bargain with it. He wasn’t happy with me. I wish you a very successful crusade. The state will also cater to all your security needs. God bless you Apostle.

Michael smiled, even without compromising, God touched their hearts.

What a mighty God! Beyond the money, he knew that  the crusade was a success already, but the money will take away some pressure. The church elders and prayer warriors would be so happy.

“Dear Lord, please put an icing on this cake of answered prayers, give me Busayo.”

————————————————————————————————————–

A few hours later

Busayo lay on her side, eyes open.

Sleep refused to come.

She had slept through most of the day, drifting in and out of consciousness, except for when Michael and Glory had come, she was awake only to swallow tablets or answer nurses’ gentle questions. Now her body was tired, but her mind was alert, restless, refusing to settle.

Her phone lay on the small table beside the bed.

She had turned off her data earlier, because it had simply felt easier not to be reachable. Illness had a way of shrinking the world, and she had welcomed the smallness.

But now, staring at the ceiling tiles she had counted twice already, boredom nudged her awake.

She reached for the phone and turned the mobile data on. It vibrated almost instantly.

Once. Then again. And again.

Her brows knit together. She unlocked the screen.

There were five messages from Michael and three more from some other people.

Something softened in her chest before she could stop it. She opened Michael’s message.

The first was time-stamped hours earlier.

How are you feeling now?

The second made her lips curve faintly. It was a boring joke. She shook her head slightly.

The third was a scripture, short, gentle, unforced. One she’d read before, but tonight it felt like it had been sent to her, not quoted at her.

The fourth made her pause.

Did you get the food?

Guilt pricked her gently.

The food had arrived. Glory had eaten some but Busayo had managed only a few spoonfuls before the nausea returned. She was typing a response when another message came in.

This one stopped her completely.

Please don’t let what you see online trouble you. I would hate for you to be discouraged.

We are meant for each other, even when the world speaks too soon.

Busayo stared at the screen.

Online?

Her fingers hovered, then moved slowly, carefully, as though afraid of what they might uncover.

She opened her browser.

The headlines were already there.

Apostle in Love.

Cleric Sparks Relationship Rumours.

Who Is the Woman?

Her heart thudded once,  hard, then slower.

She scrolled.

Her name and picture was not attached to the story. 

Relief washed over her, fragile but real. She exhaled shakily, sinking back into the pillow.

Then something else followed the relief.

Concern.

How was he carrying this?

How did it feel, having his life examined like this?

She typed, fingers slower now.

How did this get out? Are you okay?

I hope this doesn’t affect your work.

The ward hummed around her. A nurse passed the door. Somewhere, someone coughed.

Busayo set the phone down and stared at the ceiling again.

It struck her then, quietly, and unmistakably, that she cared whether he was okay.

Whether this troubled him.

Whether the weight of the world pressing in on him felt heavier tonight.

The thought surprised her, not because it felt wrong, but because it felt true.

She turned on her side, the ache in her head pulsing gently now, and closed her eyes.

In the dim hospital light, with machines breathing beside her, Busayo realised that somewhere between grief and healing, between weakness and grace, something had already taken root.

And she didn’t want to uproot it.

Around her, machines hummed. Restless, and tired of lying down, Busayo slipped on her slippers and stepped into the corridor for air.

Halfway back to her room she heard a soft shuffle and turned. An elderly woman stood there, small and elegant in her hospital gown, fingers curled around the rail.

“How are you, my daughter?” the woman asked, voice warm and steady.

“I’m fine, ma,” Busayo said, automatically straightening. “Are you okay? Should I help you back to your room?”

“I’m fine,” the woman smiled. “I grew ambitious. I told myself a short walk would be good. Now I can’t find the room that was ‘just there.’ Getting old is a funny thing.”

“What’s your room number, ma?”

“206.”

“Alright ma. Let’s find it.”

They walked slowly, checking for the rooms by looking at the doors one by one. A nurse saw them and asked if they needed assistance, but they declined. When they found 206, Busayo eased the woman onto the bed, reached for the remote, and placed it in her palm.

“Please keep this close, ma. If you need a nurse, press and someone will come.”

“You’re thoughtful,” the woman said, studying her face. “But something is troubling you.”

“I’m fine,” Busayo began, then stopped. The woman’s eyes were gentle, unblinking, and before she could think herself out of speaking, Busayo did.

“I lost my dad a few months ago, and I am still recovering from the mental shock. My faith feels… noisy. I know God is real. I know he’s good. I’m just trying to get back to trusting Him without flinching.”

The woman chuckled softly. “Ah. It is you, then. I knew I was going to meet someone special today. The Lord told me.”

“Ma?”

“Why can’t you trust Him when He has already made a way where there seemed to be none?” Her voice was soft, but it rang. “You’re standing at the beginning of a path and refusing to move. Why?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do,” the woman said kindly. “But fear dresses up as caution and calls itself wisdom.” She reached for Busayo’s hand. “This is a new phase. Step into it with boldness. God loves you. His thoughts toward you are of peace, not evil, to give you a future and a hope (Jer. 29:11).”

“Ma, why does trusting feel hard right now?”

The woman smiled with the patience of someone who had buried years and still believed. “Because pain can be so sharp it cuts you deep. But listen, you will not always feel this way. Every wound eventually heals if you treat it. The Bible says ‘Fear not, for I am with you… I will strengthen you, yes, I will help you.’ (Isa. 41:10). Have you asked God for help?”

The woman squeezed Busayo’s fingers. “No one calls on Abba for help and goes unheard. In the end you will say, ‘He makes all things beautiful in His time.’ (Eccl. 3:11) And you will see what you could not see tonight, according to his words, ‘Behold, I am doing a new thing… do you not perceive it?’ (Isa. 43:19)”

“Forgive me, ma, but… I always wonder why bad things happen to saints. Look at you, a woman of God, living here in a hospital. Doesn’t it bother you?. From the set up of this room, I can tell you have been here for a while. Where are your children? Your husband?”

“He sleeps in Jesus,” the woman said, a small smile. “My two children live abroad. I could have joined them but I chose to stay near the work God gave me. Do not read God’s goodness by my circumstances, child. Read it by His nature. I have lived a long and fulfilling life. You have no idea how beautiful my life has been.”

This set the woman on a journey of nostalgic stories till something softened between them. Busayo’s tension was dissolving.

“What is your name?” the woman asked at last.

“Busayo.”

“Joy added,” the woman nodded, pleased. “God loves you, Busayo. He has big plans for you. You will not be hidden. You will be announced to the nations, but first, be grounded in His word. Build deep roots before fruit.”

Busayo let out a shaky breath. “Amen.”

The woman settled back, then brightened with a thought. “I have a son I would like you to meet. The more I hear you speak, the more I am convinced you and he belong together.”

Heat flushed Busayo’s cheeks. “Ma… I am not…”

“Not tonight,” the woman smiled, almost conspiratorial. “When are you leaving this hospital?”

“Tomorrow, by God’s grace.”

“Good. Come by tomorrow afternoon, it’s Room 206. I will send for him and introduce you properly.” She paused, eyes glinting with a mischief that felt like prophecy. “Timing is a language God speaks fluently.”

“Ma, there is someone else, although I am not sure I’m ready for…”

“You are readier than you think,” the woman said, closing her eyes with a satisfied sigh. “Go and rest now, before the nurses start looking for you. Let peace keep you company.”

Busayo stood at the door, heart quiet for the first time in weeks. “Thank you, ma.”

“Abba’s girl,” the woman murmured, already drifting toward sleep. “The Lord goes ahead of you. Don’t break His heart by worrying too much. Trust Him.”

In the corridor, the air felt lighter. Busayo pressed a palm to her chest and smiled through fresh tears. Peace, deep, unreasonable, immovable, settled on her like a blanket.

She didn’t see the small tag on the bedrail as she pulled the door gently shut:
ADESINA, R. — 206

——————————————————————————————————–

Few Hours Later

Busayo woke with a start, her heart beating fast, her pillow damp with tears.

There was no dream, just that deep, unmistakable knowing.

She sat up slowly, clutching the bedsheet. “God,” she whispered, “what are You doing? Why me?”

The air around her felt charged, as though heaven itself had leaned close.

She began to cry, not out of sorrow, but gratitude mixed with fear.

“Lord,” she whispered, “I don’t even know how to be a pastor’s wife. I barely know how to pray without losing focus. Why would You pick me?”

No answer came, but her spirit was at peace.

She reached for her phone, trembling as she dialled her mother.

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

“Busayo!” her mother’s voice burst through the receiver, warm and surprised. “You never call this early. Is everything alright?”

“Mummy…” Her voice cracked. “It’s more than alright. I think… I know who I’m going to marry, and I am going to say Yes to him.”

There was a pause, then her mother laughed, half-teasing, half-relieved. “Ah! Finally, my prayers are working! Tell me, who is he? Do I know his people?”

Busayo hesitated. “You might know of him. His name is Apostle Michael.”

First there was silence. Then her mother’s gasp came through, loud enough for Busayo to pull the phone away from her ear.

“Jesu! The Apostle that’s everywhere on the internet? Busayo!”

“Mummy, please don’t shout…”

Her brother’s voice cut in from the background. “Wait, wait, wait. Did you just say Apostle Michael? The one trending on Twitter yesterday about finding love?”

Busayo groaned. “Yes, that one.”

Her mother was laughing now, mixed with tears. “Ah, my daughter, this is how God does His wonders. But are you sure? When did you meet him?.”

“I’m sure, Mummy. I don’t even understand it, but I’m sure.”

Her mother went quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her tone was soft. “Your father would have been so happy. You know how he always prayed that you’d marry a man of God.”

Busayo’s throat tightened. “I know, Mummy.”

“Alright,” her mother said, clearing her throat. “We’ll call a family meeting later but first, go and say yes to him properly.”

Busayo laughed through her tears. “That’s exactly what I’m about to do.”

————————————————————————————————————–

The call ended, and Busayo sat still, holding the phone to her chest. Her heart was fluttering again.

She whispered, “Lord, I’m stepping into this by faith. Please don’t let me fall.”

Then she dialled Michael’s number.

He picked on the first ring. “Child of God,” he said, his voice calm but eager.

Busayo exhaled shakily. “Apost— I mean, Michael. I’d like to see you.”

He smiled on the other end. She could hear it. “That’s good, because I’m here already.”

“What?” she asked, rising from the bed.

“I was on my way to see you,” he said, his tone shifting. “But I just got a call, something urgent has come up.”

Busayo’s heartbeat quickened. “What happened?”

“I’ll explain when I see you,” he said. “Give me a few minutes.”

Then the line went dead.

A few minutes turned into an hour, then two.

The morning sun had climbed high above the hospital roof, and still, Michael hadn’t come.

Instead, the doctor arrived, smiling, a clipboard in hand.

“Good news, Miss Busayo. Your fever’s down and your blood work looks fine, if you take your medication, the infection will go. You just need rest and eat a lot of fruits for your antibodies to regain strength. We’ll discharge you now.”

Busayo nodded, gathering her things slowly.

Somewhere between relief and longing, she felt a strange emptiness.

Where is Michael?

As she stepped out of the ward, she dialled his number.

“Hi, Apostle,” she began softly. “I’ve been discharged. Maybe we can meet somewhere else?”

On the other end, his voice sounded different, heavy.

“Oh, no… I’m so sorry,” he said. “Something came up. Is your car here??”

“No, it’s not,” she replied.

“Alright,” he said quickly. “My car is downstairs. The driver’s waiting. I’m actually in the hospital too, seeing my aunty. I’ll be there shortly.”

“You have an aunty here?” she asked, surprised.

“It’s a long story,” he said quietly. “Just wait for me downstairs.”

—————————————————————————————————————

Busayo found the car easily, the same black SUV she’d been in before.

The driver recognised her immediately and opened the door without asking questions. As soon as she was seated, he turned on the car’s air conditioner and excused her, but she could see where he stood, close enough to be summoned.

She relaxed, the faint scent of car diffuser and cologne lingering in the air.

Five minutes later, the passenger door opened.

Michael entered, still in black, his eyes red but calm.

“Apostle,” she said gently, “you look sad. What happened?”

He leaned back, exhaling slowly. “My Mentor’s wife passed away last night.”

Busayo froze. “Oh my God… your mentor’s wife? Is that the Aunty you told me about?”

He nodded. “Yes. She was the one who… who prayed with me the day I met you. I wish I’d seen her one last time.”

There was silence, then Busayo whispered, “I’m so sorry.”

Michael smiled faintly, though his eyes glistened. “She left me a letter. I’ve been too nervous to read it.”

He tapped his pocket lightly. “It’s here. I just… don’t know if I’m ready.”

Busayo touched his arm gently. “Whenever you are.”

He looked at her then, and something shifted, the sorrow in his face softening under the tenderness in hers.

“You said you wanted to see me,” he said. “I find that interesting timing.”

She hesitated. “It’s really not the right time…”

He smiled sadly. “Maybe it is. Maybe what you want to say will comfort me.”

She swallowed hard. “Alright then. I just… wanted to say yes.”

Michael blinked. “Yes?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice trembling. “I’ll marry you, Apostle.”

For a moment, he said nothing, just stared at her, wide-eyed, stunned.

Then he laughed softly, shaking his head. “The best and worst news of my year came on the same day.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be.” He took her hands and bowed his head. “Let’s pray.”

He began quietly, his voice thick with emotion.

“Father, thank You. Even in our grief, You make all things beautiful. Thank You for Busayo, for this gift I don’t deserve. And thank You for Mama, who taught me to listen when You speak.”

When he finished, Busayo wiped a stray tear from his face and said, “Why don’t you read the letter now?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Alright.”

He pulled the folded paper from his jacket and began to read aloud.

My son, Michael,

The Lord told me that before I leave, I must tell you something. I met a young woman yesterday. Her spirit reminded me of your late mother,  gentle, searching, full of light. I know in my heart she’s your wife. Her name is Busayo. Find her.

Michael’s mouth fell open. He looked at her, really looked.

Busayo covered her mouth with her hands. “She was here… I met her yesterday! Oh my God, she was your aunty? She was so strong and in control. How is she dead? Why do bad things happen to good people?

He nodded slowly, overwhelmed then whispered, “My love, she was old and ready. It’s painful, but it’s her time. No one lives forever, we just have to live well while we have the chance. All things work together…”

“…for the good of those who love Him,” Busayo finished, voice breaking.

They sat in silence for a moment, grief and wonder woven together in the air.

Finally, he squeezed her hand gently. “My driver will take you home. I need to stay and handle arrangements.”

She nodded. “Alright. I’ll be praying for you.”

He hesitated, then asked softly, “Can I hold you?”

Busayo smiled faintly. “I guess.”

He drew her into a brief embrace, then stepped out, closing the door behind him.

As the car pulled away, Busayo exhaled, overwhelmed by the divine symmetry of it all.

Somewhere between life and death, loss and love, she knew God had just written a story only He could have orchestrated.

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

AUTHOR’S NOTE

This story did not come to me in a season of joy.

It came at a time of deep frustration and quiet fear, a season where I was trying to be strong while watching my father grow weaker. He had not passed then, but in my spirit, I somehow knew the end was near. 

And in that place, the Holy Spirit gave me this story.

It did not come as an assignment, or a mandate, but as comfort.

This story came to cheer me up.

To remind me that God still speaks gently even when life feels loud.

To show me that love, hope, and divine timing do not disappear in seasons of loss.

After my father passed, I lost the courage to write it.

Grief does that.

It makes even beautiful things feel heavy.It convinces you that if you touch joy too soon, you might be betraying your pain.

So I stopped.

But time passed. Healing came slowly. And one day, I realised that this story had not left me, it had been waiting. Waiting for the moment when I could return to it, not from fear, but from faith.

And here we are.

If this story has taught me anything, it is this:

• God’s timing is not cruel, even when it feels delayed.
• God’s gifts sometimes arrive wrapped in sorrow, but they are still gifts.
• Grief is real, and human, but it must not be allowed to become a spirit that destroys us.

Loss can shape us, but it must not rule us.

This story is my reminder, and maybe yours, that God still plants new beginnings in wounded soil. That He still writes love into our lives when we least expect it. And that even in mourning, He is gentle enough to give us something to hold onto.

Thank you for reading.

Thank you for staying.

If you feel led to support the work behind this story the writing, the ministry, you are welcome to partner with us through prayers and donations. Your support helps us continue creating stories that heal, comfort, and point people back to God.

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May God meet you where you are.

And may joy, quiet, steady joy, find you again, in His perfect time.

Warm Regards,

Bolanle Oyindamola Jenrola