VESSEL

ππππππ Osaze sat on the edge of the plush velvet seat, one foot tapping anxiously against the floor, his arms folded and unfolded in a loop of restlessness. The soft murmur of chatter had faded, the lights dimmed to a cinematic glow, and the large projector screen had already begun to fill with the first few scenes of The Forge. Yet, unlike Emmanuel, who was already immersed in the film and crunching popcorn without guilt, Osaze’s mind was elsewhere. He hadn't come for the movie. His eyes darted from row to row, squinting through the ambient shadows of the darkened church hall. The space had been brilliantly transformed into a mini cinema—rows of chairs perfectly aligned, the aroma of buttered popcorn mingling with hints of anointing oil and wood polish. The media team had truly outdone themselves, creating a cozy yet sacred atmosphere. Still, all Osaze could think about was Ivie. She had to be here. He could feel it in his chest, like an invisible string was pulling him closer. “S...

As Osaze eased his sleek black Mustang through the gates of Cakes & Coffee Restaurant, the scent of warm pastries and roasted beans met him halfway, a familiar comfort.  The restaurant stood like a quiet gem in the heart of Ojota, where rustic street corners met the slow encroachment of modernity. It was the kind of place that married two worlds with grace, where a market woman could enjoy puff-puff and coffee beside a banker relishing her red velvet cheesecake. Cakes & Coffee wasn’t just a business; it was a bridge, soft jazz played through the outdoor speakers, lilting over the mixed chatter of customers. Families, students, couples, it welcomed them all. The chalkboard menu, hand-drawn and colorful, changed with the seasons. And the air always smelled of hope, butter, and ambition.  Leaning against the wooden arch at the entrance, Emmanuel waited for his cousin, arms crossed, eyes squinting from the sun. His apron was dusted with flour, a badge of honor in the heat ...

She knew before she even saw the sheen of sweat glistening on Rita’s brow that she had an uninvited guest.  Rita stood nervously by the doorway, her breathing shallow, eyes flickering with silent apology. “I’m so sorry, Ma,” she whispered, wringing her hands. “I tried to stop him from going in, truly I did, he just pushed past me.” Ivie nodded, her expression calm, almost unreadable. She had known this day might come. She also knew exactly who awaited her behind her office door.  “It’s okay. Thank you for holding the fort,” she said gently, her voice low but steady. “Please move my 12 p.m. meeting to 4.” Rita hesitated, biting her lip, worry etched into her features. She wanted to ask, will you be okay alone with him? but instead, she gave a tense nod and stepped aside. Ivie inhaled deeply, then pushed the door open. ππππππ “Good morning, Osaze.” Her tone was cool, polite, too polite. She walked in with grace, setting her structured black leather bag onto the couch with d...

Ivie Thomas came expectant. She hadn’t come all this way, physically and emotionally, just to spectate. If she wasn’t serious about meeting with the God her Personal Assistant, Rita Adedeji, spoke of with childlike certainty and unwavering passion, then why had she come at all? The usher who greeted her at the door was a small-framed woman with a bright scarf and a smile that lit up her entire face. Her energy was warm, almost disarming, and before Ivie could overthink it, she found herself being gently guided to a seat in the third row. She obliged with a soft nod and a careful, deliberate step, one hand instinctively resting on her protruding belly for balance. As she lowered herself into the seat, she took a moment to soak in her surroundings. The church was not what she had expected. No gaudy chandeliers or intimidating religious symbols. Instead, the space was defined by simplicity and airiness. The concrete ceiling slanted in elegant angles, forming a concave canopy that curved ...

  "Ma, you should be resting. I didn’t hear you come in.” Rita’s voice was soft but laced with concern as she looked up from her task.  Ivie smiled, a hint of warmth in her expression as she reached into the fridge, pulling out the last bit of cookie dough ice cream. She gestured to Rita to join her, a silent invitation that felt like comfort in the midst of their busy lives. “And you shouldn’t be cleaning my apartment, You’ve done so much already Rita,”  Rita was carefully folding the blankets and placing them into the washing machine just across the hallway. The machine hummed quietly, and through the open door, the view of the glittering five-star resort beyond the balcony was visible, its lights twinkling like stars. Ivie smiled as she handed over the spoon. Rita eagerly dug into the rich, creamy ice cream. "And I intend to do more, Ma. Don’t try to stop me," Rita added with a grin.  Ivie raised her hands in mock surrender, her laughter filling the room. "I woul...

                   Rita could feel the tension in the air as she watched Ivie, her boss, rub her foot absentmindedly, the weight of the decision she'd been carrying for days heavy in her posture. With a reluctant sigh, Ivie lifted her feet off the cool terrace floor, the rough tiles beneath her now feeling too real, too grounding. The terrace was her little retreat, her private sanctuary from the sterile, minimalist furnishings of the rest of the office. It was the only corner of the company that felt like a personal space, with a few more touches of comfort than the basic ambiance that defined the rest of the company’s utilitarian design. She was grateful, though, for Rita. Her assistant had proven to be more than just a diligent worker. After witnessing the storm that had brewed between Ivie and her husband, Rita had shown a rare, tender kind of empathy. Despite the chaos Ivie had been living through, Rita had not forced the issue, had...