"You didn't talk to him again?"
My older brother, Dimeji, leaned in as we stepped out of church, grinning like the devil's apprentice. His white shirt was already untucked, and he was chewing gum like he had no regard for the Holy Spirit.
"Shut up," I hissed, adjusting my scarf and trying not to turn around. But I did. I always did.
There he was.
Michael.
Black shirt. Fitted. Skin so smooth it made my inner thighs itch. He was laughing with some guys near the youth bus, and every time he smiled, I felt a sin form in my chest.
I had liked Michael for two years—two entire years. From the day he played the keyboard during youth week and I swear the anointing touched me in places the Holy Spirit never approved.
We never spoke beyond the basic "hi" and "hello." But our eyes? They had conversations. Full paragraphs. Sometimes even full-blown arguments.
I could feel it—he liked me back—in the way his eyes lingered on my lips when I talked. In the way he stood a little closer than necessary during group prayers. In the soft, teasing smile he gave me when he walked past. Made me wish I joined the choir, just the thought of the constant rehearsal, the side talks, the jealousy and oh yes the silent competition..i just can't.. I'll never do such a thing.
But every Sunday, the same thing happened: I admired him from a distance, swallowed my feelings like communion bread.
I hated it.
Today wasn't any different. I caught his eye again. He gave me that smile. And I gave him that smile back.
And then I walked away—again.
Because I didn't know how to want someone I didn't know how to play.
At least with boys who texted "wyd" at 1am, I had a script. But Michael? He made me nervous. Soft. Vulnerable. And vulnerable wasn't safe.
When we got home, the house was alive with noise, as always.
The twins, Dara and Dayo, were fighting over the TV remote again. "Mummy said no cartoon!" Dara yelled, her hair half-unraveled.
Dayo responded by muting the TV, smirking like a villain in a low-budget movie. "She said no cartoon, not no TV."
"Mummy!"
Dimeji had disappeared into his room before the front door even shut, the coward. And I—good sister that I was—pretended I hadn't heard anything.
I went straight to the kitchen, still thinking about Michael. About how his fingers danced over the keyboard during choir rehearsals. About how he always smelled like cinnamon and danger.
"Ella!" my mom's voice cut through the air.
"Yes ma," I answered, snapping out of the daydream before I boiled my own face.
"Come and greet your father." As if I was the only child here.
I dragged myself to the sitting room, where my dad sat stiffly on the couch, still in his church agbada. Arms folded. Eyes on the muted TV.
"Good afternoon sir," I said softly.
He nodded, barely glancing at me.
Ah. The usual.
You'd think we were strangers who owed each other money the way he acted sometimes. Cold. Distant. Mechanical. Like he was fulfilling some silent contract to be present—but never available.
My mom came in, wiping her hands on her wrapper. "You didn't tell me Sister Caro lost her brother. She expected you to say something in church."
My dad didn't respond.
She tried again. "We're going to visit them this evening. I've already made small jollof—"
"I'm not going," he said sharply.
The silence that followed was awkward enough to choke on.
My mom's lips pressed into a thin line. "You weren't at the workers' meeting. And you've not said a word to your children since we got back."
Still nothing.
I watched her for a moment. The slump in her shoulders. The quiet frustration in her eyes. The way she stared at him like she was begging for something simple—like conversation.
Then she walked away.
I hated the tension. But it had become so normal, we wore it like furniture.
I sat down slowly, pretending to scroll on my phone while sneaking a glance at my dad. His jaw was clenched. His phone buzzed once. He checked it quickly and flipped it face down.
Weird.
He looked like a man carrying a secret.
I don't know what made me think it—maybe the silence, maybe the instinct—but for the first time, the thought crossed my mind:
What if he has another family?
Another woman. Other children. Somewhere else. Somewhere he actually smiled.
The idea felt wild… but also possible.
Because something wasn't right.
And I planned to find out what.
Trust me…I will.