‘Please, pull that hair gently,’ I cautioned Bimbo, my best friend and hairdresser, ‘you should know better for therein lies my glory.’
‘I’m sorry. I would be careful this time around,’Bimbo apologized, ‘but sincerely, My desire is that your hair would bring in the much-expected result in the end.’
‘Quit speaking in parables. I would definitely get a refund if it doesn’t draw the attention of any ‘Bro’ this weekend,’ I stressed, jokingly.
‘By the way, how was the Singles program last weekend?’ she veered to another subject.
‘It was fine; thank God I attended. Apart from the wonderful expositions from the guest speaker, the presence of some very matured single sisters at the program, made me feel like a teenager in their midst.’
Bimbo laughed so hard that the comb fell off her hand.
‘Dabira, you’re not too advanced as you think; even if you are, haven’t you taught me in Sunday school that with God, all things are possible?’
Bimbo was right. Even though she was barely two weeks old in the Christian faith, yet her childlike simplicity inspires me so. The likes of her are very rare. Although married to a wealthy man, yet very humble, a virtue which I earnestly covet.
By the time my hair was done, it was already late. However,the light traffic that night,saved the day; otherwise, the notorious, ‘gentlemen men’ along the Badagry express road would have taken advantage of the heavy traffic to launch their attack on the innocent commuters.
Finally, I arrived home in time, and made my way into my self-contained apartment. If there was one thing I would remain grateful to my mother, it was the high level of neatness she instilled in our early upbringing. Basking in the freshness of my neat room, snippets of the message from the guest speaker at the just concluded Singles program, filtered into my ears: ‘Your level of neatness as a single sister determines how neat you would be when you get married. Some singles…’
My train of thoughts came to an unexpected halt by a familiar voice by my window side.
‘She thinks age is still on her side, but little does she know that a woman has no time in the world to waste…’
Impossible! My heart skipped like a wild goat.This cannot be coming from Mama Tola!
‘The pathetic side of the story is that she doesn’t even have a steady…’ the voice continued.
My heart bled. What hypocrisy! Mama Tola was a woman I respected so much; a classical example of a virtuous woman of our time. What had suddenly come over her? could she had been pretending all this while?
Raw anger welled up within my stomach, I felt like opening the blinds and giving it back to her but an inner voice restrained me:
‘By strength shall no flesh prevail.’
I fell on my knees and allowed the tears to flow freely. The last time the tears flowed that way was at the funeral service of my father, five years ago.
‘Lord Jesus,’ I muttered, gulping back the tears, ‘It is me – Dabira, your child. I need your help; I am gradually losing my mind. I cannot take this anymore. Help me Lord. Remove this reproach from me I pray thee.’
I became silent expecting to hear a voice like: ‘my daugh…ter, my…. daugh…ter. I am your Lord…’
Twenty seconds, thirty, and sixty…yet, I heard nothing.
Then suddenly, a gentle knock drummed at my door. I hesitated. But the persistent caller would not let go in a hurry.
‘Who is it?’ I finally yielded, moving closer to the door.
‘It’s me; Mama Tola…’
A cold chill ran through my spine.
….TO BE CONTINUED.