The church bell at St. Michael's had rung three times before Abraham slipped into his usual seat, second row from the front. He carried his Bible tucked neatly under one arm, his shirt pressed, though the restless set of his shoulders betrayed his inner turmoil. Around him, the congregation was alive—women fanning themselves with folded bulletins, children shifting impatiently, ushers guiding latecomers into the pews.
The choir swelled into song, voices layering over the rhythm of the talking drum. Abraham tried to let the melody ground him, but his thoughts wandered.
Glory sat a few rows behind, beside Chiburuoma. Her head was bowed, scarf knotted tightly under her chin, lashes brushing her cheeks as she mouthed the hymns. Abraham caught himself staring, his chest tightening. He turned quickly to face the altar, silently rebuking his own distraction.
The sermon came and went in a blur. The pastor's voice, urging faith and unity, seemed distant. Abraham found himself tracing the edges of his Bible instead of listening. His prayers were shallow that morning, words falling flat against the weight in his chest.
When the final hymn faded and the benediction was given, people poured out into the bright courtyard. The smell of fried akara from a nearby stall mixed with the dust of many feet. Conversations sparked everywhere—about business, politics, children's schooling.
That was when Desmond appeared.
He cut through the crowd like a knife, his white shirt starched so stiff it caught the light, his shoes polished enough to reflect faces. He moved with the easy arrogance of a man who knew he was being watched.
"Brother Abraham," he said warmly, extending his hand. "The Word was rich today, wasn't it?"
Abraham accepted the handshake, but Desmond's grip was too tight, almost crushing. Their eyes locked, and for a brief moment, the noise around them seemed to fade.
"The Word is always rich," Abraham replied evenly.
Desmond's smile widened. "Indeed. And some blessings are clearer than others." His gaze flicked toward Glory, who had just stepped into the sunlight, chatting with Chiburuoma. "You're fortunate to have such company nearby."
Abraham stiffened. "Leave her out of this."
"Oh?" Desmond tilted his head, mock innocence on his face. "But everyone can see it. You watch her like a shepherd guarding his sheep. Tell me, Abraham—what are you afraid of? That someone else might offer her greener pastures?"
Before Abraham could answer, Emperor slid between them, his grin mischievous. He had clearly been eavesdropping.
"Ahn ahn, see tension o! Na so fight dey start inside church compound?" He clapped both men on the shoulders. "Make una calm down before pastor catch una."
People nearby chuckled, but the humor only stoked the fire. Abraham pulled away from Emperor's touch, his jaw tight.
"This isn't the place," he said, turning to leave.
Desmond's voice followed, sharp enough to cut. "No, it isn't. But don't think silence will protect you. Some of us aren't afraid to fight for what we want."
The words hung heavy in the air.
Tamuno, who had been lingering near the church steps, stepped forward, his tall frame casting a shadow. "Enough, Desmond. This is God's house. Don't disgrace yourself."
Desmond only shrugged, his smile thin. "A man without courage will always need others to speak for him."
Glory, who had been making her way toward the gate, froze at the words. She turned slightly, her eyes catching Abraham's. For a fleeting moment, their gazes locked—hers filled with worry, his clouded with conflict.
But Abraham said nothing. He turned away, walking into the throng of worshippers leaving the compound.
Desmond's smirk lingered as he watched him go. Emperor whistled low, shaking his head. "This movie just dey start."
And Glory, clutching her Bible tighter to her chest, realized that the peace she had hoped for was unraveling fast.