"Some meetings are not accidents; they are answers to prayers we didn't know we prayed."
The afternoon sun over Gracefield University was merciless, blazing down like it had a personal grudge against every student. The campus buzzed with movement — friends laughing, vendors calling out "Cold pure water! Fifty naira!", and a loud generator humming like a stubborn bee behind the Faculty of Arts building.
Bright Eze, tall, calm-looking, with a smile that could easily sell toothpaste, walked briskly toward the cyber café wedged between the Student Union complex and the photocopy stand. His laptop had crashed overnight, taking with it the only copy of his 2,000-word assignment due that morning.
"Ah, Bright, you're finished," his friend Luke had teased. "Your lecturer doesn't believe in grace — only deadlines!"
Bright had laughed then, but now, sweat running down his neck, he wasn't so sure grace would find him today.
The café door groaned as he pushed it open. The air-conditioner was pretending to work, and
the smell of overheated computers mixed with the faint scent of instant noodles from the shop next door. Students clicked furiously, muttering things like, 'Why is this internet slower than my grandmother's prayers?'
Bright found a free computer, plugged in his flash drive, and sighed. "Please, Lord," he whispered, "let this thing open."
That was when she walked in.
Adamma.
Her name meant Beauty, and somehow, the name fit before he even knew it. She wore a simple white blouse and jeans, carrying a blue folder clutched to her chest. Her hair was braided neatly, and her face had that gentle glow of someone at peace with herself.
She paused by the counter, asking the attendant something. The attendant, busy arguing with another student about data time, waved her away. Adamma stood there, looking uncertain, her lips pressing into a small frown.
Bright's heart did something he couldn't explain. Maybe it skipped a beat, maybe it just tripped over itself — but something definitely moved.
"Excuse me," he heard himself say. "You can use this system after me. I'm almost done."
She turned, relief washing over her face. "Oh, thank you so much! I thought I'd have to beg that man to notice me."
Bright chuckled. "Don't worry, he doesn't notice anyone unless you're holding jollof rice."
That made her laugh — a warm, genuine sound that brightened the dull café.
As he typed, she leaned slightly beside him, organizing her papers. Her perfume — faintly floral — mingled with the scent of ink and dust. It was distracting. In a good way.
When she finally took over his computer, Bright noticed her document title: 'Faith and the Modern Heart.'
He raised an eyebrow. "Faith? In this generation? You still believe people have that?"
She smiled without looking up. "I believe some people still do. Maybe you're one of them."
"Ah, me?" He laughed. "Faith and I broke up long ago. She said I talk too much."
Adamma giggled. "Then maybe she'll forgive you one day. God still does, you know."
Bright stared at her — half amused, half moved. "You sound like a Sunday morning wrapped in human form."
"Better than sounding like a Monday lecture," she teased back.
They spent almost two hours talking about everything — lecturers who acted like dictators, hostel drama, the struggle of being broke by week two after allowance, and how God somehow kept providing. Every time Adamma spoke, Bright found himself smiling without reason.
When her printing was done, she turned to him and said, "Thank you, Bright. You really saved me today."
"Don't thank me yet," he replied, pretending to be serious. "I charge people I save. My rate is one lunch at Mama Peace's canteen."
She laughed again, shaking her head. "You're terrible!"
"Terribly charming?"
She rolled her eyes, but the blush on her cheeks gave her away. "We'll see about that."
They walked out together, chatting as though they'd known each other for years. The evening sun painted the sky gold and pink, and the soft wind brushed against their laughter.
Just before they parted ways, Bright said, "You know, I think this meeting wasn't random."
Adamma tilted her head, smiling gently. "You're starting to sound like a preacher."
He shrugged. "Maybe I'm just testifying early."
She grinned. "Testify after you buy me lunch first."
They laughed, waved, and went their separate ways — both secretly knowing something had begun. Something neither could explain but both could feel.
That night, Bright couldn't sleep. He replayed her laughter, her kindness, her calm confidence. He whispered a short prayer before dozing off:
> "Lord, if this is You, please make it clear. Because my heart is not ready for another
distraction."
And somewhere, in another part of campus, Adamma whispered her own prayer:
> "Father, if this is Your will, don't let it fade away."
Neither of them knew that Heaven had already smiled.
> "The steps of a good man are ordered by the Lord." — Psalm 37:23