SAVED BY GRACE- Ep 35

Episode 35- Time heals all wounds.

SOTERIA’S POV

Pastor Uzor’s office smelled of old leather-bound books, polished cedar wood, and the faint, clean scent of lavender oil. It was a space that felt entirely quiet, deliberate, and grounded.

Pastor Uzor sat behind a mahogany desk, his spectacles resting halfway down his nose as he marked a passage in a study Bible.

When he looked up and saw us standing there — Akila dressed in a simple, dark kaftan, and me with my hands clamped tightly over my handbag — his face cracked into a warm, deeply familiar smile.

“Ah, my people,” Pastor Uzor said.

He closed his Bible and gestured to the two plush leather armchairs opposite his desk.

“Sit down, please. Sit down, Akila. Soteria, you are welcome.”

We sat down, the leather creaking softly under our weight. Akila didn’t waste time.

He reached across the small gap between our chairs, his warm hand covering mine, anchoring my fingers.

He looked at the pastor, his jaw relaxed but his posture completely respectful.

“Thank you for seeing us on short notice, Sir,” Akila began.

“As I mentioned on the phone, we didn’t want to make this trip to Adamawa without seeing you first. We are getting very serious about our future, and we want to officially inform you of our relationship for counsel and accountability, sir”

Pastor Uzor leaned back in his chair, a profound, knowing look passing over his face as he looked at our joined hands. He let out a soft, joyful chuckle.

“Glory be to God,” he murmured, shaking his head with a brilliant smile.

“I am glad you are here,” Pastor Uzor said softly.

“A relationship that stays hidden in a corner without spiritual oversight is a relationship that is vulnerable to every passing wind. Akila.”

He turned his focus directly onto Akila, his eyes holding a gentle but unyielding truth

“I cannot tell you how happy I am to hear this today. You see, Akila, I have known you for over three years since you joined this church. And if I am being completely honest, you were not always as committed or as efficient as you have been in these last few months. You used to walk in here like a man carrying the weight of the entire world on your shoulders, completely unyielding.”

Pastor Uzor then turned his gaze directly to me, his eyes shining.

“Soteria, I thank God for bringing you into his life to sharpen him more. The transformation in this man is visible to everyone. But more than that, I thank God for how Akila stood in the gap for you to come to Christ.”

I paused, a sudden emotion rippling through my chest.

I blinked, my mind racing as I looked from the pastor to Akila.

“Sir?”

Pastor Uzor smiled warmly, leaning forward.

“This man took your journey to Christ personally. When you first started coming around, Akila came to this office. He met with Pastor Olive and I. In his words, ‘Please, Sir and Ma, whatever it takes, draw her close. She needs someone to guide and counsel her.’ He constantly interceded for your soul. There were times he fasted just for you to fully heal and be steadfast in your walk with God. I am glad that season also shaped him to be a better man”

A profound wave of awe rushed through my entire body, making my eyes sting with sudden, hot tears.

I turned my head slowly to look at Akila. His face was a deep shade of crimson, his gaze fixed stubbornly on the floor as if he had been caught breaking a rule.

He hadn’t told me this. He had never once bragged about it or used it as a point of leverage during our arguments. He had just quietly, fiercely covered me in the secret place. What a man!!

My heart swelled until it felt heavy in my chest.

I reached out with my other hand, holding his hand tenderly between both of mine, squeezing it with an overwhelming rush of gratitude and love.

He looked up then, his dark eyes soft and incredibly vulnerable as he met my gaze.

“So you see,” Pastor Uzor continued, pulling our attention back with a gentle smile, “you must continue to be each other’s shield. The scriptures tell us in Ecclesiastes 4:9-10 that two are better than one, because they have a good return for their labor: If either of them falls down, one can help the other up. Akila, your strength must be her protection, never her oppressor. And Soteria, your wisdom and grace must be his peace, never his battleground. Guard each other. Sharpen each other.”

He turned his focus directly onto Akila, his eyes holding a gentle but unyielding truth.

“Son, the scripture says a man must love his wife as Christ loved the church and gave Himself for it. That means your leadership in this woman’s life must be defined by sacrifice, tenderness, and patience. You are a strong man, Akila, but your strength must never become a wall that shuts her out or a hammer that breaks her spirit. When you step into a home, you drop the urge to control. You must create an environment where Soteria feels safe enough to speak her mind without fear of hitting a stone wall. Your job is to cherish her, to cover her flaws, and to provide a soft landing for her soul when the world outside is harsh.”

Pastor Uzor then turned his gaze to me, his expression full of a fatherly kindness that made my throat instantly catch.

“And you, my daughter, Soteria,” he said gently.

“You are a gifted, intelligent, and highly industrial woman. Your tongue must be an instrument of healing and grace in this man’s life. A man like Akila carries a lot of silent burdens, burdens of protection, family, and duty. If he comes home and meets a constant battle of words or a spirit that refuses to yield, his heart will eventually grow cold. Your assignment is to be his helper, his confidante, and his peace. Speak life into him. When you see his edges getting sharp, don’t meet him with fire; meet him with the quiet, unshakeable wisdom that comes from a gentle spirit. Honor his heart, and protect his honor in public.”

He looked at the two of us, a small, encouraging smile returning to his face.

“You two have a beautiful life before you. But remember, the enemy doesn’t attack bad things; he attacks things that have the potential to glorify God. Guard your relationship with prayer. Don’t let disagreements linger past sunset. Speak the truth to each other, but always wrap it in love.”

Pastor Uzor stood up from his chair, walking around the desk.

Akila and I stood up automatically, bowing our heads as the pastor stepped closer. He placed his left hand heavily on Akila’s shoulder and his right hand over my head, bridging the space between us.

“Let us pray,” Pastor Uzor murmured, closing his eyes.

“Father, in the name of Jesus, we thank You for this beautiful alignment. Thank You for Akila and Soteria, and thank You for the grace that brought them together. Lord, we commit this relationship into Your holy hands today. May You continue to be the third cord that cannot be easily broken. Give them the grace to be each other’s shield, to walk in absolute truth, humility, and love.”

He pressed his hands down slightly, his voice rising.

“We seal this relationship with the blood of Jesus. We decree that no weapon formed against their peace, their joy, or their future shall prosper. Every root of pride, miscommunication, or old baggage, we command it to dry up from the foundation today. And Father, as they journey to Adamawa for this remembrance, we ask for journey mercy. We clear the highways of any danger. Let this trip be a season of deep family bonding, of healing, and of sober reflection. Let Your presence envelop them from here until they step into Adamawa. Cover their going out and their coming in. In Jesus’ mighty name we have prayed.”

“Amen,” Akila and I whispered together.

When I opened my eyes, the last remnants of past anxiety had completely vanished.

Holding Akila’s hand tightly as we thanked the pastor, I knew that whatever lay ahead on the long road to our future, our foundation was finally built on the Rock.

AkilaHyel’s POV

The rugged, red-earth landscape of Adamawa State blurred past the tinted windows of the rented car, the dry, ancient wind of the northeast sweeping over the chassis as we drove from the airport to the house.

The air here was entirely different from the heavy, bureaucratic humidity of Abuja. It smelled of sun-baked granite, dry savannah grass, and home.

My left hand was draped casually over the steering wheel, but my right hand was entirely occupied.

Soteria’s soft, manicured fingers were slotted perfectly between mine, resting on the center console. Every few miles, my thumb would involuntarily stroke the smooth skin of her knuckles.

Effiom, Amara and Naya were seated behind.

I was looking at the long stretch of the road ahead, but my mind was completely consumed with the happenings of the past few days.

I am going to marry this woman, I thought, the realization hitting my chest not with panic, but with the profound, unshakable solidity of a cornerstone being laid into the earth.

It wasn’t a sudden, fleeting emotional high. It was a deeply absolute conviction.

Two days before we embarked on this trip to my village, I had taken her to see Pastor Uzor. I remembered sitting in his office, the heavy, polished mahogany desk between us, as we told him our intentions.

I remembered how Pastor Uzor had looked at us with the deep, discerning warmth of a father. He had laid his hands over our joined palms and prayed over us.

Walking out of that office, the weight of my past had finally fractured.

Looking at her now, sleeping softly in the passenger seat, her head resting against the leather headrest, the morning sun catching the flawless glow of her fair skin, my heart stretched against my ribs with a volume of love that felt dangerous.

I didn’t want to just call her my girlfriend anymore.

I was already calculating my plans, running through jewelry contacts in my head, figuring out how to blindside her with a proposal she would never see coming.

But before I could secure the future, I had to honor the past.

It was funny how less than a week ago, I had been completely closed off to this entire trip. If someone had told me I would be coming to Hong with a light heart, I would have called them a liar.

I had been completely uninterested in having any kind of celebration for my birthday, and I hadn’t even bothered to know the plans the family were making for my father’s 10th-year remembrance.

But Soteria hadn’t let me wallow in my pain.

I remembered her holding my face in the parlor, looking into my eyes, and forcing me to pull out my phone right then and there to call Wandi for an update.

“You deserve to celebrate your birthdag, baby. And your father deserves to be celebrated too,” she had told me, breaking down my walls with pure love.

The tires of the car crunched over the gravel driveway of the family compound, finally coming to a halt after the long, dusty drive from the Yola airport.

The moment the engines cut out, before I could even open my door, the front veranda of the house erupted.

Mama came rushing down the concrete steps with a speed that completely defied her age.

Her face was lit up with a brilliant smile, her colorful wrapper trailing behind her as she sprinted toward us.

Behind her, three young cousins, the boys my mother had brought from the extended family to stay with her, came running out too, shouting in excitement.

“AkilaHyel! Yarona!” Mama cried out, her voice cracking with pure, unadulterated joy as she reached my side of the car.

The moment my feet hit the ground, she lunged forward, her small, frail arms wrapping tightly around my waist.

She buried her face into my chest, shaking with a deep, emotional happiness.

Naya pushed her door open from the backseat, and Mama instantly reached out with one arm, dragging her into the embrace too.

“Yesu maku albarka, yarana! Kun dawo lafiya!” Mama wept joyfully in Hausa, her hands patting my back frantically. (God bless you, my children! You have returned safely!)

She pulled back slightly, her eyes shining as she squeezed Naya’s cheeks.

“Auta nawa! Ke ce da kanki? Waɗannan idanun nawa sun ga abin farin ciki yau!” (My last born! Is this really you? These eyes of mine have seen something of joy today!)

“Mama, I am here! Ina kwana, Mama!” Naya laughed, her eyes tearing up as she kissed my mom’s forehead.

I stood there, a massive, helpless smile breaking across my face as I looked down at my mother.

I hadn’t seen her in person in five long years. My breath caught slightly in my throat.

She looked so beautiful, though the silver in her hair had grown thicker and the lines around her eyes deeper.

I had been sending money home every single month, ensuring she never lacked a single comfort, and looking at the modern five-bedroom bungalow we had built for her here in the village, a profound sense of fulfillment washed over me.

She didn’t have to stress for anything. She lived like a queen, surrounded by three cousins from my late father’s side and one from her own side who took care of the compound.

She was a happy woman whose only daily chore was happily roasting groundnuts on the veranda just to pass the time.

I cleared my throat, gently turning Mama around to face the rest of our convoy.

Soteria was standing just a few paces behind me, her fingers nervously tucked into the strap of her handbag, with Effiom and Amara standing right beside her, watching the family reunion with soft smiles.

“Mama,” I said, my voice dropping into a proud, gentle frequency.

“Come and meet our guests. This is Amara, our friend, Effiom, my brother and friend from Abuja. And then... this is Soteria, his sister.”

The moment my mother’s eyes landed on them, she immediately wiped her face with the edge of her wrapper and switched entirely into English, her face beaming with hospitality.

“Oh, welcome! Welcome, my children! Thank you so much for coming with my Akila. Thank you for traveling all this way for our Baba’s remembrance. God bless you!”

She stepped forward, warmly shaking Effiom’s hand and giving Amara a tight squeeze.

But when she reached Soteria, Mama paused.

Her wise, sharp eyes scanned Soteria’s flawless, fair skin and the gentle, respectful way she bowed her head.

I leaned down close to Mama’s ear, dropping my voice into a low, private whisper so the others wouldn’t hear.

“Mama... that’s my girlfriend.”

Whack!

Mama’s hand instantly flew out, spanking the back of my hand with a sharp, loud slap that made Effiom and Naya burst into immediate laughter.

“Girlfriend kenan?!” Mama barked, her eyes widening in hilarious, mock outrage as she glared up at me. (Girlfriend, you say?!)

“We don’t do girlfriends here oo, Yaro What is girlfriend? Is that what I taught you? We do wives in this house! Don’t bring that modern taboo word to my compound, kaji ba [you hear]?”

I burst into a loud, booming laugh, my head tilting back as the sheer nostalgia of her words hit me.

She had been exactly this way since we were teenagers; to Mama, the word ‘girlfriend’ or ‘boyfriend’ was a spiritual mistake.

Soteria’s cheeks turned a beautiful, deep shade of crimson, a shy laugh escaping her lips as she looked at the floor, entirely charmed by my mother’s unfiltered spirit.

“Come inside, my children! Come inside out of this sun,” Mama commanded, waving her arms to usher everyone toward the grand veranda.

“Nobody is going to any hotel in this town, oo. I have already prepared all the rooms in this house for you people. The children staying with me will move their mats and stay in my master bedroom. Then Wandi, her husband, and the twins will take the second room when they arrive. Akila and his friend Effiom, you both will take the third one. Then Soteria and Amara, you will stay in the fourth room...”

“Ah ah Mama wait na!” Naya interrupted with a mischievous grin, slinging her arm around Soteria’s shoulder and pulling her close.

“So only Soteria will stay in one room. Wonderful…. Don’t worry, Mama. Me, Amara, and Soteria will just occupy one room together. She won’t be comfortable staying alone.”

Mama looked at the three girls, her laughter echoing across the courtyard.

“Eh! No problem at all! As long as everybody has a bed to sleep on, I am just too happy to have my house full again. Go and wash your faces, food is almost ready!”

Later in the evening, as the dry heat began to cool into a crisp, mountain breeze, the sound of another horn blasted from the front gate.

Wandi had finally arrived.

The compound descended into beautiful, chaotic pandemonium the moment the car doors opened.

Wandi stepped out, looking exhausted but radiant, and her twins instantly charged out of the backseat like loose missiles.

They sprinted across the yard, screaming,

“Uncle Akila! Aunty Naya!” before throwing their bodies straight into our arms.

Timi walked behind them, dragging two heavy boxes, his face splitting into a wide, relieved grin as he traded a firm, masculine embrace with me and Effiom.

Sitting out on the wide veranda later that night, watching Mama happily pass around bowls of fresh roasted groundnuts while Wandi and Soteria laughed over a shared plate of food, I felt fulfilled. The house was noisy, the twins were turning the parlor upside down, and the foundation of the Gaya family felt more solid than it had in a decade.

My birthday was the next day, exactly a day before my dad’s remembrance anniversary, and instead of letting me bury myself in work or silence, the family forced me to come outside.

The night before the main church service, my siblings and cousins had hosted a small, beautiful bonfire in the center of the yard specifically to celebrate me turning thirty one.

I remembered sitting on a wooden bench with Soteria tucked into my side, a bottle of cold malt in my hand, watching the fire crackle against the night with Mama’s watchful eyes on us.

I ignored her. I was not a child but it felt cute having her monitor me.

Wandi had made me a small chocolate cake, and Joseph, my cousin, had led everyone in singing a hilariously loud, off-key birthday song.

Effiom and Amara had joined in, clinking their glasses and cheering.

For the first time in ten years, the shadow of death didn’t choke out the day of my birth.

I had looked down at Soteria, who was smiling up at me under the firelight, and realized God had handed me back a piece of my life I thought I’d lost forever.

Now, the next morning, the heat of the sun heralded the true weight of our mission.

Today marked exactly ten years since the foundation of the Gaya family had cracked. Ten years since my father, the giant of a man who had taught me everything about honor, discipline, and faith, had drawn his last breath.

We drove past the Mandara mountains, the massive, imposing hills standing like silent sentinels over the terrain, until we finally pulled into church for the anniversary service.

The tenth anniversary thanksgiving service was held at the family church. The Church of Christ in Nations (COCIN) in the heart of Hong.

The structure was a beautiful, spartan building made of red brick and high corrugated roofing sheets, sitting right at the base of the rocky hills.

When we walked through the heavy wooden doors, the church was already packed to the rafters.

Community elders in flowing babban riga, old government workers who had served with my father, extended family members, and local villagers filled the wooden pews.

The heat of the morning was thick, but the atmosphere was charged with a deep, reverent electricity.

Wandi, Timi, Naya, and I sat in the front family pew with mama.

Soteria was sitting right beside me, wearing a beautifully tailored, conservative local lace attire, her hair covered neatly with a matching wrapper.

Amara and Effiom sat just behind us.

The service began with the choir, dressed in vibrant local textiles, their voices rising in a powerful, heavy Hausa hymn that rattled the church windows:

“Ubangiji Shi ne Kariyata, kuma Garkuwata...”

The rhythm of the local drums beat against the floorboards, a steady, ancient pulse that seemed to reach straight into the locked vault of my chest.

Then, the presiding reverend called for the testimonies.

An old, gray-haired man in a faded, heavily starched military uniform walked slowly up to the altar.

He leaned against the wooden podium, adjusting the microphone.

It was Major General Danjuma (Rtd.), my father’s childhood friend.

“Ten years,” the old General began, his voice rough and gravelly, echoing through the speakers.

“Ten years since we lost Elder Gaya. Many of you here knew him as a church leader, or a community father. But I knew him in the trenches. During the war in the late eighties, everyone was forced to fight or hold a weapon. When our village was pinned down, Gaya was the man who refused to retreat. He told me, ‘Oga, if we run, who will protect the old men and women behind us?’ He was a man of steadfastness when it came to his duty, but he had the softest heart for his people. He raised his children with that same fire. I look at his son, Captain Akila, sitting here today, and I see the exact same protector. Your father’s legacy is not dead, my boy. It is alive in you today.”

I swallowed hard, my jaw tightening as a hot, sudden pressure built behind my eyes.

Soteria immediately shifted her hand, slipping her fingers into mine and squeezing with a firm strength.

Next was an old woman from the village, walking with a wooden cane.

She didn’t speak into the microphone; she just stood by the altar, her voice carrying through the quiet church.

“When my husband died,” she said in fluent Hausa, wiping her eyes with the edge of her wrapper,

“It was Elder Gaya who paid for my children’s school fees. He didn’t make noise about it. He would just send bags of rice, groundnut and guinea corn to my compound in the middle of the night so I wouldn’t feel ashamed. He was a rich man, but he lived like a servant of the people. We have not stopped praying for his family. We will never stop.”

As testimony after testimony poured out, stories of my father’s quiet generosity, his fierce love for my mother, his unbending faith, my heart melted.

A tear finally broke free, tracking a hot line down my stubbled cheek. I didn’t wipe it away.

I turned my head and looked across my shoulder at Soteria.

She was already looking at me.

Her own dark eyes were swimming with tears, completely moved by the weight of my father’s life.

She raised her free hand, gently using the soft pad of her thumb to wipe the moisture from my cheek right there in the open church.

And then, she smiled. It was the sweetest, most profound smile I had ever seen, a smile that said she saw the frightened, grieving boy inside the commander, and she loved him unconditionally.

A fierce, consuming warmth flooded my entire chest, spreading all the way down to my boots.

Right there and then, surrounded by the echoes of my father’s legacy and the singing of the choir, the final locked into place.

Yes. I am making her my wife.

Soteria’s POV

The wooden pew beneath me felt cold and unyielding, but the air inside the church was thick with a heavy, sacred stillness.

The low murmur of the crowd died down to an absolute, breathless hush the moment the Master of Ceremonies cleared his throat and announced that it was time for the tributes.

A retired major general spoke, followed by an old woman.

“We will now call upon the first son of the family,” the MC’s voice echoed through the ancient speakers.

“Captain AkilaHyel, to give his tribute.”

My breath hitched slightly in my throat. I felt the muscle in Akila’s thigh tighten right beside me.

Akila didn’t move immediately.

He sat there for a fraction of a second, his frame entirely anchored, his jaw locked tight as he stared at the red carpet lining the altar steps.

I didn’t say a word. I just slid my hand across the rough fabric of his kaftan, finding his fingers and squeezing them with everything I had.

He turned his head. His dark eyes were intense, carrying a decade of buried warfare and guarded grief, but as he met my gaze, something in his face softened.

I gave him a small, slow, reassuring nod.

I am right here, the movement whispered.

He let go of my hand, adjusted the shoulders of his kaftan, and stood up.

Watching him walk down the aisle toward the pulpit was like watching a monument move.

His spine was perfectly rigid, but there was an undeniable vulnerability in the slow, deliberate weight of his steps today.

He climbed the wooden stairs, gripping the edges of the podium with his hands, and looked out over the crowded church.

For a long moment, he just looked at his people, old veterans who had served with his father, the village elders who carried the history of this land in their wrinkled faces, and his mother, who was watching him from the front row with her hands clasped tightly over her chest.

“They say time heals all wounds,” Akila began.

His voice wasn’t the booming command tone I was used to hearing when he was barking orders.

“But for me, ten years hasn’t been about healing. It has been about learning how to navigate a world where the giant who mapped out the territory is no longer standing beside me.”

A soft, collective murmur of agreement rippled through the older pews.

“Obeying my father was my very first example of what leadership meant,” Akila continued, his eyes tracking the stained-glass window for a brief second before settling back on the congregation.

“He was my first mentor. He didn’t just teach me how to be a man; he taught me how to be a shield. Every single time I lace up my boots, every time I stand in the gap to protect people who cannot protect themselves, I am simply following the deep footprints he left in this town.”

He stopped. He took a sharp, heavy breath, and I saw the muscles in his neck strain as a raw, violently human crack surfaced in his composure.

“The truth that still burns in our hearts... the reality we cannot erase,” his voice dropped an octave, turning thick and rough with an old, jagged pain, “is that he was taken from us unlawfully. He was taken cruelly, and he was taken before his time.”

The moment the word unlawfully left his lips, a sharp, collective sob tore through the front row.

Mama buried her face into her wrapper, her shoulders shaking violently as the memory of that ten-year-old trauma hit the room.

Across the pews, several elderly women began to wail softly, rocking back and forth.

My own eyes stung with a sudden, fierce burn of tears.

“That reality has often made me angry,”

Akila whispered into the microphone, his eyes finding mine in the crowd, anchoring onto me as if I were his coordinates in the middle of a storm.

“It made me build walls. It made me hard. But standing here today, looking at the family he left behind, I choose gratitude over bitterness. I am grateful for the years we shared, for the discipline he poured into my foundation, and for the absolute honor of being his son. His footprints are still here. And we will keep walking in them.”

He stepped back from the podium, bowed his head respectfully to the altar, and walked down the steps.

By the time he sat back down beside me, his chest was heaving.

I didn’t care who was watching; I immediately reached out, wrapping my fingers through his and holding his hand tightly in my lap, using my thumb to rub the back of his knuckles until his breathing began to level out.

“Next, we call upon the first daughter,” the MC announced softly, cutting through the emotional weight in the air.

“Mrs. Wandi Timilehin, to say a few words.”

Wandi stood up from the other side of Naya.

She was already weeping, her face flushed as she held a crumpled tissue in her trembling hand.

As she walked up to the microphone, her husband Timi gave her an encouraging smile from the pew, watching his wife with a deep, protective love.

“To the world, he was an elder,” Wandi began, her voice cracking instantly into a sob that she tried hard to swallow. She gripped the microphone stand like a lifeline.

“But to me... he was just my daddy. He was the man who never let me go to sleep with a tear in my eye. I was his goat child,” she laughed through her tears, a soft, beautiful sound that made the family pews smile.

“I was the stubborn first daughter who always challenged his rules, but he never handled me with iron fists. He always handled me with the softest velvet. He carried me when I was a small girl, and he carried my anxieties when I grew up.”

She paused, wiping her nose with the tissue, her gaze drifting toward Naya.

“Our family is not complete today,” Wandi continued, her voice rising with a proud, emotional strength.

“Our sister, Kwaala, the second daughter of the house is thousands of miles away across the Atlantic. Because of her military service with the United States Navy, she couldn’t get the operational clearance to fly down to Nigeria for this tenth anniversary. But she is here with us.”

Right on cue, Naya stood up from her seat. She didn’t walk to the altar, but she stepped out into the central aisle, lifting her iPad high into the air so the entire congregation could see the glowing screen.

On the display, connected via a crystal-clear live video call from an international naval base, was Kwaala.

She was dressed in her immaculate, crisp white naval uniform, her cap sitting squarely over her dark hair.

Her face was completely wet with tears, her eyes red as she watched her family through the lens from across the ocean.

“Kwaala sends her love,” Wandi choked out, looking at the iPad screen as Naya turned it slowly so the elders could see.

“She told me to tell the church that even from the middle of the sea, even when the waves are high and she is far from home, she still steers her life by the compass our father gave us in this village. The Gaya children are not together, but our foundation is one.”

Mama let out a loud, emotional cry of from her seat, waving her hand at the screen to bless her distant daughter.

Kwaala raised a trembling hand on the video, blowing a kiss across the digital bridge to her weeping mother, before Naya gently lowered the device, her own face covered in tears.

Wandi walked back down the aisle, completely spent.

The choir stood up in unison, their local instruments. The traditional drums and the beaded gourds, primed and ready.

They lifted their voices into a haunting, majestic Hausa melody, vibrating above our heads.

“Ubangiji, Kai ne Tushen rayuwarmu,

Babu wani kamar Ka a duniya.

Ko a cikin duhu ko a cikin haske,

Hannunka yana riƙe da mu har abada.”

(Lord, You are the Foundation of our lives, there is no one like You on earth. Whether in darkness or in light, Your hand is holding us forever.)

The harmony was so rich, so full of an ancient, unshakeable faith, that I felt a shiver run straight down my spine.

I looked at Akila.

He was watching the choir, his lips moving softly as he sang along with the words, his spirit completely surrendered to the moment.

The presiding Reverend stepped forward to the altar, raising his heavy, robed arms over the front pews.

The entire church fell into an absolute, breathless silence to receive the final apostolic covering.

“Ya Ubangiji, muna miƙa wannan iyali gaba ɗaya a hannunka. Ubangiji, Ka sa albarka a kan Akila da Wandi da Naya da Kwaala. Ka ba su zuciya mai ƙarfi, Ka kuma ba su zaman lafiya da kariya. Duk inda suka sa ƙafarsu, bari alherinka ya bi su. Muna roƙon Ka, Ka ɗauke duk wani baƙin ciki, Ka dasa farin ciki da bege a cikin zukatansu. Amin.”

(Oh Lord, we place this family entirely into Your hands. Lord, place a blessing upon Akila, Wandi, Naya, and Kwaala. Give them a strong heart, and grant them peace and protection. Everywhere they step their feet, let Your grace follow them. We beseech You, take away every sorrow, and plant joy and hope in their hearts. Amen.)

“Amen!” the church erupted, the collective shout rattling the wooden doors.

But the service didn’t end in silence.

The moment the final “Amen” cleared, the drums didn’t stop. They accelerated.

The rhythm turned into a fast, infectious, joyful northern tempo.

The solemnity of the remembrance fractured instantly into pure, unadulterated thanksgiving.

The village women began to dance in the aisles, their wrappers swinging as they kicked up dust.

Joseph, Safiyya, and Karen, Akila’s cousins who flew in last night, jumped up from their seats, laughing and pulling Amara and Effiom into the celebration.

Before I could even adjust my dress, Akila stood up.

A brilliant, breath-taking smile was plastered across his face, his teeth flashing white against his dark stubble.

He grabbed my hand, his grip firm, and pulled me straight out into the central aisle beside him.

“Come on, baby,” he laughed loudly over the sound of the drums, his shoulders already moving to the traditional rhythm.

“Let’s dance for Baba.”

I burst into a laugh, my initial shyness completely melting away under the sheer volume of their joy.

I danced beside him, my steps matching his steady, heavy movements as the entire Gaya family converged around us in a spinning, laughing circle of gratitude.

Looking at Akila’s face under the bright church lights, seeing him completely free, completely healed, and completely whole, I knew that whatever foundation we were building together from this day forward was locked into a rock that nothing on this earth could ever shake.

We danced all the way out of the brick church doors, our hearts entirely light, finally turning our faces toward the warmth of the village home.

My babiesss!!

One mile has been crossed now!!

Onto the next💃💃💃