The questions I never asked

"Do not take Your Holy Spirit from me".

Saturday night. Yet another failed date night because I just couldn’t decide what I wanted to eat. Now, this poor man is a combination of hungry and angry due to my indecisiveness so, I’ll cook. Before our second date, he asked me what I wanted to eat, I responded, do you want an honest response or a lie? “Honesty is the best policy for any growing ‘friendship’ ” he replied. Ironic because if he meant what he said, I wouldn’t be telling you this story. Anyways, I responded frankly; “I want non soggy indomie noodles, plenty pepper, mixed vegetables, lots of caramelized onions, two pieces of garlic bread and one cold coke”. I thought to myself this man is going to think I am insane. He verified that he really was the man for me by sending me a picture of two boxes of indomie in his house with a reply “plain or chicken and onion”. Within the next hour I saw a car at my gate and a man who came out of it with everything I asked for. He even brought parsley for the garlic bread. Dinners at home have always been our thing. So yes, a failed date night but really this is my idea of a fairytale, the very genesis of our love.

This time however I was cooking Eba and our favourite white soup with fresh catfish and plenty periwinkles. The soup was done but I had to check if he’d finally been able to choose something for us to watch, but of course he was still scrolling. Are you really a couple if you don’t spent one hour searching through netflix to find something to watch? Time was ticking, I have an early start tomorrow so I needed to somehow cook, watch a film on the couch, have meaningful chat with this gorgeous man and head home in 3 hours. I came out a second time and finally we had moved from the home page to a rom-com called “I wish I never met you”.

His kitchen window is directly opposite the gate, so I always get to see Abuja’s night crawlers driving to their secret political parties in the flashiest blacked out cars. This area is extremely wealthy so it’s either a Bentley one minute, a big black Lexus the next or a hideous yellow Lambo. I put the kettle on and made my way to the pantry to grab some garri. I look out the window again window but this time there were a bunch of strange looking cars and men who looked like they were in uniform but I couldn't really tell. I assumed they were probably private security for someone who lives in this apartment block. The kettle began to whistle and the same second I moved to grab the wooden spoon to turn the garri, I heard a loud noise. I rushed out and all the garri grains spilled all over me and the floor. The men in uniform I’d seen a minute ago were now grabbing Richie and pinning him face down on the floor. As his face compressed into the carpet, I rushed over to him thinking "these must be thieves". At the same time, one man charged towards me shouting “come here”. I screamed, “I have something on the fire, please let me go”. He shouted back, “Madam, leave this place right now or we arrest you with him”. As I walked out of his house, Richie mouthed “babe I’m sorry, I’m so sorry”. I still, even today, hear that same kettle whistling at random times. I’m actually not sure if anyone ever put it off.

I had a long night that night. As this officer drove me to an unknown location, I contemplated my life. How could this be my life? Where is God and how did my innocent date night turn into this? My earliest recollection of that evening is sitting in a room with navy blue walls and a broken door handle as the female detective asked, “how did you not realise you are dating a wanted criminal”. “C-R-I-M-I-N-A-L” I whispered with my lips curled. I began to stare blankly at that broken door handle, wondering why it was not fixed. Was that door handle a representation of my own brokenness. Who was I? and again, how was this my life?

She began to ask me what I thought Richard did for work. Yes his name is Richard. If you met a man named Richard in a supermarket on a Sunday afternoon, dressed in a plain white collared and simple ankara trousers, would you not think, this was the epitome of an upstanding young citizen. Anyways, who names their son Richard only for them to be a criminal? She questioned me for an hour, telling me how RICHARD had defrauded 7 American investors of thousands of dollars as he built a fake edu-tech business that never truly existed. You see, growing up around several restrained African women who were so well taken cared of, they all taught me to never ask men questions that did not matter. Whenever I would ask an aunty what her husband did, she would say “ he is a businessman”. Some of them never visited their husbands offices or knew if they had one yet they had been married for decades and that man would leave the house daily to a place unknown. The lack of transparency that littered those relationships was the meditation of my heart and now became my life because I realised that after 10 months together, I actually knew very little about him. He never mentioned so I never asked beyond what I was told, because a good woman enjoys the fruit of her husbands labor and gives God thanks for the work of his hands, right? but what if the work of his hands produces evil?Will you care then or will you still thank God for his many blessings and for being Jehovah Jireh in your life? Because as they say, better to cry in a Bugatti than a run down Camry.

As I sat in the detective's office, my memories plagued me with perfect cinematography. As the devil planted seeds of shame within me, melancholic music began to play with every thought. I heard the laughter of people and the mockery in their voice. One of the thing’s I vividly remember in this moment was his last birthday. I took a picture of him for my instagram story to celebrate him. It was our first birthday together and it felt like the best time to make a case for our love. I tagged him and clicked post, lifted my head up and smiled waiting for when he would see it. His phone lit up and he whispered aggressively “what did you tag me in on Instagram Alex?”, "A story why?" I asked. He said delete it now. I laughed.

He scowled.

I thought this was a joke, maybe he didn’t like the picture right? I asked why? He said, “I don’t enjoy making my relationship public online, it gives people room to speculate about us and quite frankly this is not anyone’s business”. "How noble and caring", I thought. "A man who wants to protect me always." Rubbish.

You’re probably now calling me foolish too and that’s fine. But let me paint our relationship for you and a bit of my past. After I split up with my ex, I promised myself I’d never date a man who had no desire to take care of me. I watched my single mother slave every day, and no, there would be no repetition in my life, this was a cycle I intended to break. 2 months after that breakup, my clearly unhealed soul connects with this absolute gem of a man who promises me the world. Not only does he promise but he offers it. Weekly flowers with notes, groceries, his second driver picks me up for work and brings me back home daily. If I need something, he gets it. But you see, sometimes when you’re running from a burning kitchen, you may end up in the burning house. You must inquire, where did this fire begin? For me, no matter how much I ran, the electrical fault that started the fire was in my soul. You cannot ignore and out-pray a broken soul. You cannot repent a broken soul. You must allow your soul to be healed by God, Jehovah Rapha is His name. The one who listens to our pain, instructs us and only then performs the open heart surgery we try to ignore. Our souls are memory cards that store our lives patterns and mindsets, so you may think you’ve moved on, but the devil knows where it hurts and may bring a new distraction in a different dress but the unhealed soul lacks discernment to see. Be careful what you long for or watch the enemy water the idols in your soul with a new hero that is not God.

They let me go at 7am on sunday morning, I was useless to their case. Church starts at 8. I had two options, I could either go home and cry my eyes out, answer my flesh’s every call, or I could respond in faith and walk, I mean stagger or crawl in the spirit with the little I have in me. As I walked in I saw my department leader, she looked at me, I looked away. I sat at the back, the hall was still empty but sitting here must represent to God how far I felt from him and how much he failed to protect me. I can’t be His child, He would never put his child through THIS. Service starts and my leader walks over and sat next to me. She said no words, asked no questions, just held my hands and let me just scream. She didn't muffle my voice or bother about people hearing me. Rhankfully the choir’s loud singing overpowered my sobbing. Before the service ended, she asked if I wanted to talk, I said no. She said okay. I respected that. Sometimes less is more.

During the week, the news had gotten out to everyone in our social circle. The “God whens” turned into “God abeg” The mourners came and so did the inspectors disguised as friends. “How did you not know”, “Did you not see the signs” and “People had already speculating about Richie but I never thought it would be true”. I stared blank into the $3000 painting on my wall that he bought me as I bitterly remembered that these very people now mocking my decision making, ate the free dinners he would take us all to. They licked their plates and asked for more. They ordered multiple drinks and these same girls took home “seafood pasta” for their lunch the next day. Then, they never asked the questions they do now. Nobody ever asks questions when their mouths are fed but here they are all telling me “they could see the signs”. When God asked Cain where Abel was after he killed him, he said “I don't know, am I my brother's keeper?”– Genesis 4:9. My Cains are here and like Abel I cannot defend myself. As they tease me, it feels like my blood is spilling out of me. Who will keep me now?

Ife watches the entire afternoon of support crumble into an absolute tragedy, and she looks to everyone and says “ I think we should all leave Alex alone”. They all ask “why? we want to be there for her”. As they fail to leave my home, I get my keys and my bag and I leave the house for them. Ife, like the best friend she is, follows me from behind and gets into the driver’s seat. As we drive out, I tell my security, “if all those women are not out in 10 minutes, chase them”, He nods and says “yes ma, no problem ma”. She drives me to church, it’s a quiet Wednesday afternoon. They let us in and as I sit in the pews, I cry. I really cry. This time, not to say woe is me, but to say God I am sorry. To every nudging I ignored, Holy Spirit I am sorry. To every time I saw fresh bloody red flags and I washed them with my souls denial white as snow, Holy Spirit I I am sorry. For the day I held his phone and saw a strange alert of an amount of money I cannot pronounce in words, Holy Spirit I am sorry. For the time’s I could have said, these gifts are too much, Holy Spirit I am sorry. I repent for these idols in my soul, heal me and make me whole. I repent of looking for ease instead of searching for you.

Yes, my soul is still enraged with disillusion but the love of God leads me out daily. The believer has a friend who lives within them and loves so well. That friend instructs, teaches, guides and warns of the dangers ahead. If something feels wrong it probably is, and not because you’re overthinking, but because that friend is a good one. A trusted one. One you can ignore but will never leave you.

David cried in Psalm 51

"Create in me a clean heart, O God,And renew a steadfast spirit within me. Do not cast me away from Your presence,And do not take Your Holy Spirit from me."

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So do I.