/0/88226/coverbig.jpg?v=4bbcdc05b2c35e37bc28bc84c2549dae)
The cavernous space of Christ in Power Tabernacle vibrated, not just with sound, but with palpable energy. It was Friday evening, the air thick with the collective exhalation of a week's burdens and the desperate inhalation of promised grace. The choir loft, where Anaya stood in the front row, was an acoustic crucible. Voices, trained and untrained, lifted high in unison, weaving intricate harmonies that spiraled upwards towards the vaulted ceiling like visible incense.
"Hallelujah! Hallelujah!" The sound was a physical force, resonating in Anaya's chest, making the wooden floorboards tremble faintly beneath her white heels.
The sanctuary throbbed with revival fire. Below, a sea of bodies swayed, clapped with thunderous precision, stomped feet in rhythms that echoed ancestral drums. Hands waved like palm fronds in a spiritual hurricane. At the front, near the altar rail, individuals jerked and trembled under the perceived weight of the Holy Spirit, speaking in tongues guttural, ecstatic utterances that filled the air with an otherworldly cacophony. The scent of anointing oil sharp, medicinal, holy mingled with the damp smell of fervent bodies and the faint, ever-present dust of Port Harcourt.
Anaya sang. Her voice, clear and strong, a lead soprano anchoring the melody, rose effortlessly above the din. Her eyes were fixed on the large projection screen above the pulpit, displaying the lyrics: "There is power, wonder-working power, in the precious blood of the Lamb..." Her posture was perfect, her expression one of serene devotion, the picture of the Pastor's daughter immersed in worship. But her mind? Her mind was a world away, adrift on a turbulent sea of forbidden thoughts.
It had been five days. Five days since the notification. Five days since Khalid Yusuf had slipped past her digital gates. Five nights of fractured sleep and whispered, desperate prayers that felt increasingly hollow. "Lord, take this distraction from me," she would plead, kneeling by her bed, the cool tile biting into her knees. "Cleanse my thoughts. Fix my gaze solely upon You. Break this... this fascination." She would quote scripture about guarding her heart, about fleeing youthful lusts, about the deceitfulness of sin. Yet, every morning, as the weak Nigerian sunlight filtered through her curtains, her fingers would find her phone almost reflexively. And every evening, as the city lights began to glow, their digital conversation would resume, a slow, persistent drip eroding her resolve.
They hadn't met again. Not physically. But his words, appearing in the little glowing rectangle, were a constant presence. Soft, surprisingly patient, like oil poured onto the troubled waters of her conscience. He asked questions no one in her world ever did. "What do you dream about, Anaya? When you're not singing hymns or quoting verses?" She'd hesitated, then typed, the words feeling like a confession: "Medicine. I want to study medicine. In Canada." His reply was immediate, devoid of judgment or the usual dismissive comments about women and careers she sometimes heard: "Smart. You got the focus for that. Bet you'd be brilliant." Simple words, yet they sparked a warmth in her chest she hadn't felt in years. He asked about her faith, not to mock, but seemingly to understand. "This God you serve... is He only about punishment? Or is there room for... second chances?" The question had struck a nerve, echoing doubts she barely acknowledged. She hadn't answered. Not yet. The doctrine of her father's church offered forgiveness, yes, but it was often overshadowed by the looming specter of judgment, the ever-present "NO SINNER SHALL GO UNPUNISHED" banner.
Now, as the choir crescendoed into the final, triumphant chorus "Power! Power! Wonder-working power!" – a vibration, sharp and insistent, cut through the music resonating from the speakers. It came from deep within the small beaded handbag looped over her shoulder, resting on the chair behind her. Her phone. Her personal phone, not the one reserved for church contacts.
Khalid.
The thought slammed into her with the force of a physical blow. Her breath caught. The carefully maintained facade of worship cracked. Her voice faltered for a fraction of a second, a tiny hitch in the seamless harmony. She forced it back, eyes glued to the screen, but the lyrics blurred. The vibration came again. Persistent. Demanding.
Curiosity, a fierce, living thing she could no longer suppress, burned hotter than the guilt, hotter than the fear of discovery. It was a reckless, terrifying impulse. Glancing quickly left and right the other choir members were lost in worship, eyes closed, hands raised she carefully slid the phone from her bag, shielding it with her hymnal. The screen lit up with his name and a single line:
Khalid: I'm outside.
Outside? As in... here? Now? During Friday night service?
Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through her, followed immediately by a surge of something terrifyingly akin to excitement. Her heart wasn't just pounding; it felt like it was trying to escape her chest. Impossible. Reckless. Dangerous. Images flashed: her father spotting him, the congregation's stares, the inevitable scandal.
She couldn't stay. She couldn't ignore it. The dissonance between the roaring worship and the frantic beat of her own heart was unbearable. Murmuring a barely audible excuse about needing the restroom to the sister standing beside her, Anaya slipped out of the choir stand. Her white heels clicked a rapid, staccato rhythm against the cool, polished tiles of the corridor leading towards a side exit. Each step felt like walking towards the edge of a precipice. The sounds of worship faded behind heavy fire doors.
Pushing open the heavy metal door, she stepped into the late evening. The air, though still warm, felt blessedly cooler than the packed sanctuary. The setting sun painted the sky in streaks of burnt orange and deep purple, casting long, dramatic shadows across the church grounds. Parked cars gleamed dully in the fading light.
And there he was.
Leaning casually against the driver's door of a black Toyota Camry that had seen better days, its paint dulled by dust. Sunglasses perched on his nose despite the dipping sun. Black shirt, sleeves pushed up slightly, revealing the intricate whorls of a tattoo snaking up his forearm. The ever-present gold chain glinted at his throat. He looked like sin incarnate parked on holy ground. A walking embodiment of every fiery warning her father had ever thundered from the pulpit.
But then he smiled. Not the smirk from the market, but a slower, more genuine curve of his lips as he saw her. That smile, radiating a warmth and confidence that seemed to push back the encroaching twilight, pulled her forward despite every screaming instinct.
"You shouldn't be here," she said, her voice tight with tension. Her eyes darted nervously towards the church doors, half expecting her father to erupt through them. "If anyone sees you..."
"I wanted to see you in your world," he replied, pushing off the car and taking a step closer. His voice was calm, low. "To make sure you're real. That this..." he gestured vaguely between them, "...isn't just pixels on a screen."
"I am real," Anaya stated, lifting her chin slightly, trying to project a defiance she didn't entirely feel. Her Bible, a forgotten weight, remained buried in her bag.
"Good," he said, straightening fully. The sunglasses came off, revealing those dark, unsettlingly direct eyes. "Then come take a walk with me. Just ten minutes. Promise." He held up his hands, palms out, a gesture of surrender, of harmlessness.
She hesitated. Every internal alarm bell clanged a deafening chorus. No. Turn around. Go back. This is the serpent talking sweet. The image of the banner – "NO SINNER SHALL GO UNPUNISHED" – flashed in her mind. But her feet, treacherous things, felt rooted to the dusty ground. Then, slowly, against the furious protests of her conscience, she took one step. Then another. Away from the sanctuary light, towards the shadows gathering at the edge of the church property.
They walked in silence at first, past the elderly woman roasting corn over glowing coals, the sweet, smoky scent filling the air. Past the young boys hawking sachets of "pure water," their voices calling out listlessly. Anaya kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, acutely aware of his presence beside her, the solidity of him, the faint, clean scent of soap cutting through the market smells clinging to her own clothes. Khalid didn't push, didn't try to fill the silence with empty chatter. The tension was thick, electric.
They reached a quieter stretch of road, away from the immediate church bustle, near a shuttered cyber café with peeling paint and a faded "MTN" logo. The city's constant hum softened here, becoming a distant drone. The orange glow of the streetlights began to flicker on.
"I Googled your father," Khalid said abruptly, breaking the silence. His voice was casual, but Anaya sensed the calculation beneath it. "Pastor Ejike Obiora. 'Fire Mouth.'" He let out a low whistle. "That's some serious branding. Videos of him... intense guy."
She stiffened, a familiar defensiveness rising. "He's a man of God," she stated flatly, her voice colder than she intended. "A true prophet. He speaks the hard truths people need to hear."
"I'm sure he is," Khalid replied, holding up a placating hand. He paused, choosing his next words carefully, his gaze fixed on the cracked sidewalk ahead. "And I'm not here to disrespect that. Or you." He stopped walking and turned to face her fully. The fading light caught the angles of his face, making his expression harder to read. "That's not why I came."
Anaya stopped too, crossing her arms protectively over her chest. The small Bible in her bag felt like a lead weight. She met his gaze, forcing herself to look past the chain, the tattoos, the dangerous aura. "Then why are you here, Khalid?" The question hung in the humid air, heavy with unspoken accusations. To mock? To tempt? To corrupt?
He hesitated. A flicker crossed his eyes – something raw and unguarded. Was it fear? Guilt? Vulnerability? It was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a determined intensity. "Because I can't stop thinking about you," he said, the words simple, stark, devoid of his usual smoothness. "And because..." He took a breath, seeming to wrestle with something internal. "Because I'm not who you think I am."
Anaya uncrossed her arms, her own defensiveness momentarily forgotten. This felt different. This wasn't flirting; it felt like... confession? "Then who are you?" she pressed, her voice barely above a whisper.
He looked away for a moment, jaw tightening, then back at her. The raw flicker was back. "I'm someone..." he started, then stopped, frustration flashing across his face. "I'm someone trying to change," he finally said, the words sounding wrenched from him. "That's all." He held her gaze, his dark eyes wide, almost pleading for understanding, or perhaps just for her to believe him. The boy who lied for a living was offering a fragment of truth so naked it felt like a physical blow.
Anaya stared at him, the silence stretching between them, filled only by the distant blare of a car horn and the rhythmic chirping of crickets. She saw the conflict in his eyes, the sincerity warring with a lifetime of practiced deception. It was terrifying. It was compelling. It felt more real than the roaring hallelujahs still echoing faintly from the church.
"I have to go," she said quietly, the words feeling inadequate. Her father's service would be ending soon; the final prayers would be winding down. She couldn't be caught missing.
He nodded, a single dip of his head. No argument. No charming plea to stay. Just acceptance. "Will I see you again?" The question was soft, hopeful, laced with an uncertainty she hadn't heard from him before.
She didn't answer. Couldn't. Turning, she walked quickly back towards the church, the gravel crunching under her heels. She didn't look back. The scent of him soap, faint cologne, and something uniquely Khalid seemed to cling to her sleeve, a tangible reminder of the precipice she'd just stood upon.
Back inside, the sanctuary was emptying, the fervor replaced by a low murmur of fellowship. She slid into the choir stand just as her father, Pastor Ejike Obiora, stepped up to the pulpit for the final exhortation. His presence commanded immediate silence. His eyes, sharp as flint, scanned the congregation, seeming to linger for a fraction of a second on Anaya as she settled into her seat. His face was flushed, veins standing out on his temples and neck, pulsing with the residual holy fire of his sermon.
"The devil!" he thundered, his voice amplified, bouncing off the walls, "He doesn't always come with horns and a pitchfork! Oh no, brethren! He comes like a friend! Like a soft whisper in your ear! Like a tempting offer wrapped in pretty lies!" His gaze swept over the flock, intense, penetrating. "He comes smelling sweet, talking smooth, promising pleasures of the world! But I say to you tonight!" He slammed a fist down on the pulpit, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "If the serpent talks sweet, it is still a serpent! Its bite carries death! Its venom corrupts the soul!"
Anaya's knees buckled. She sank onto the choir bench, her legs suddenly weak. The words weren't general; they felt personal, targeted, as if her father had seen her walking with Khalid, had heard their conversation. Khalid's raw confession "I'm someone trying to change" warred violently with her father's booming condemnation: "If the serpent talks sweet, it's still a serpent!" Guilt and confusion churned in her gut. She clutched the edge of the bench, her knuckles white. Khalid's scent still clung faintly to her sleeve, an illicit perfume. And deep down, beneath the fear and the guilt, a terrifying certainty bloomed: this wasn't the end. That walk, that hesitant confession, that forbidden proximity... it wasn't closure. It was the spark. The tiny, dangerous spark before the wildfire.