F.A.T- Chapter Five

At home, I balanced two steaming plates of jollof spaghetti crowned with boiled eggs. Doing a playful jig, I announced, “Chef Ada at your service!”

Chinaza squealed. I set her plate down and mine beside it. She eagerly gripped her fork. “Not so fast,” I chided. “Pray first.”

She quickly folded her hands. “Lord Jesus, thank You for today’s sermon and this amazing food my big sis made. Thank You for being our provider. Please also provide for the orphans and everyone who doesn’t have hope of a meal. And Lord, bless my sis with a restaurant so she can make even bigger, more delicious meals. In Jesus’ matchless name, Amen.” I burst into laughter, cleaning up the sink as she dug in, her innocence lighting the room like sunshine.

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Later, in the lab, Funke frowned and nudged me.

“Okay, Judas Iscariot,” she teased. Then sighed. “I hate my life.”

“Hey! Watch your language. Take it back.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Now.”

“Fineeee… my life is fantastic.”

I smirked. “That’s my baby.”

She leaned on the lab table, peering into the mess of my twice-failed experiment. “I feel bad for the rabbits.”

“I do too. But you wouldn’t want to go next, would you?”

Her face twisted in disgust. “Never! Have you seen Alfred?”

“Yeah, he’s got bio class.” She lowered her voice, eyes widening. “Okay… but who’s the hunky guy coming this way, three o’clock.”

I didn’t need distractions. With gloves on, mask in place, and my hands deep inside a rabbit specimen, the last thing on my mind was hunky guys.

“Hey Ada,” a familiar voice said warmly.

I glanced up. “Kinda busy, Tunde. Good morning.”

Funke smiled and replied his greeting. Tunde tilted his head. “You always find a way to brush me off. Honestly, you come off as… disrespectful sometimes.”

The words pierced. My hands froze mid-task. Funke, sensing the tension, excused herself. Silence thickened.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” he said at last. His tone was unreadable. My back stayed to him, but my heart sank.

“Tunde—”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry.” The lab door clicked shut behind him.

I exhaled, washing my hands slowly. Was I really disrespectful? Maybe without realizing it. The guilt clung as I packed my bag and left.

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6:30 p.m.

Chairs lined neatly, Bibles stacked, the youth fellowship began to gather. Smiles, laughter, handshakes filled the air. Funke walked in with Tunde; they were laughing about something. My chest tightened, but I pushed it aside. Apologies could wait. We worshipped, prayed, and Tayo led the opening. As everyone settled, I smiled.

“Alright, family. Let’s continue where we left off last week—1 John 3:14. Yes?” Nods circled the room.

I read aloud:

“15. Whosoever hateth his brother is a murderer: and ye know that no murderer hath eternal life abiding in him.

16. Hereby perceive we the love of God, because he laid down his life for us: and we ought to lay down our lives for the brethren.

17. But whoso hath this world’s good, and seeth his brother have need, and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?

18. My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue; but in deed and in truth.”

David jumped to his feet. “Hallelujah!”

The room echoed with laughter and joy. I closed my Bible with a smile.

“We’ll stop here today. Now, what do we understand from God’s word for us?”

Samuel smiled warmly. “That we should fellowship together as believers.”

I nodded. “True.”

Bisi leaned forward, her voice steady. “That we can’t claim to love God if the next person we see isn’t evidence of that love. You can’t harbor hate in your heart and still say the Father resides in you.”

I smiled, deeply moved, when Charles suddenly jumped to his feet. With theatrical flair, he threw his hands wide and declared: “If we as Christians don’t have friends in the body of Christ, if we don’t help one another grow, then we have no LOVE!”

The room burst into applause as he took a bow, grinning. But even amidst the laughter, his words pierced me. The Scripture itself had already struck my heart. I hadn’t been representing Christ with the way I treated Tunde. He hadn’t wronged me in any way, yet I had created an atmosphere of coldness. Thank you, Holy Spirit, I whispered within. You always convict in love.

We continued to share, each person offering insights. Then we prayed for deeper understanding and closed with the grace. As the meeting dissolved into laughter and handshakes, I made my way to Tunde.

“Good evening.”

He stared at me for a moment, surprised, before replying cautiously. His hesitation told me all I needed to know, I must have truly been unkind.

“I’m sorry for my behavior,” I said, my words tumbling out. “I know I sound like a broken record, but I promise that nasty side of me is dead, by God’s grace.” I added the last part deliberately; I knew I couldn’t change by my own willpower.

From a distance, Funke was watching with a mischievous smile. Tunde finally spoke, his voice calm. “I wasn’t offended to begin with. I just didn’t like the aura you were giving me.”

I blinked, confused. He smiled gently. “Okay, let me explain. I’ve come to a point, with God’s help, where I realize that when people are rude or dismissive, it shouldn’t make me angry. It should help me understand them better. When someone treats you wrong, it speaks more about who they are than who you are. But most people don’t know that, so they project their problems onto others, thinking it’s the other person’s fault. Understand?”

I felt my heart soften. “Yes. Got it.” Just then Funke looped her arm through mine. “Okay, lovebirds, time to go,” she teased in her fake country accent.

Tunde chuckled and waved goodbye. Funke gave me a knowing look, spill the gist later, but all I said was, “I apologized. Promised to be better.”

She hugged me tightly. “I love you.”

I laughed. Between Chinaza, Funke, and Alfred, I was beginning to think I was becoming soft from all the hugs.

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The next afternoon, I sat buried under a monstrous textbook Mrs. Iyetule had assigned. The library, with its cool silence and smell of paper, was beginning to lull me into sleep.

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead.” I yawned, turning to see Tunde standing there, radiant in a bold Ankara outfit. His smile said he’d caught me nodding off.

“Good afternoon, Tunde,” I replied, eyeing his clothes. “Nice outfit.”

He glanced at my oversized red-striped shirt and plain black skirt. “Yours too.”

I laughed. “Yeah, right.”

He grinned, then leaned closer. “So… want to take a walk?” “I’ve got a report due.”

“Ada,” he lowered his voice, “you need this walk more than I do. Pocket your shakara.”

I sighed dramatically, then stood up. “Mo ti gbo. Fine.”

Desmond College was breathtaking when you slowed down to take it all in, the glass dolphins glistening by the orchard, ripe fruits dangling like nature’s jewels, the national flag painted with precision, and the pledge engraved in stone. As we strolled toward the back of the library, Tunde led me to a cave I’d never noticed before. It looked ancient, as though the school had been built around it.

“Let’s go in.” I shook my head. “No way. Spiders. Frogs. Snakes.”

“O ye of little faith,” he teased, nudging me forward until I reluctantly stepped inside. To my surprise, it was clean, with stones placed like steps guiding the way. “You’ve been here before,” I accused.

He laughed. “Yeah. I bring all my conquests here.”

“Ewww!” He chuckled and pointed to a spot. “Let’s sit here. You’ll still see the entrance, no monsters.”

I rolled my eyes but sat. We fell into easy conversation. He told me his story, his mother ill, his father battling depression, his own struggle to pay tuition and medical bills, yet holding on to his faith in Christ. I was stunned. “That’s… a lot.”

He smiled softly. “Thank God we have Jesus Christ.”

I nodded, feeling both admiration and conviction. How many times had I misjudged him?

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Later, as I packed up my notes, I found myself praying silently for him. At the bus stop, the conductor shouted destinations in his usual coarse voice. I was about to board when a familiar hand stopped me. Tunde.

“Let me drop you off.”

I followed him, only to be met by a sleek black convertible. My jaw dropped. “Wow.”

He laughed. “I usually park it by the garage and walk to school.”

I shook my head, smiling. “You’re full of surprises.”

“Get in,” he said with a grin, and I did.

“Let’s grab a bite, is that cool with you?” Tunde asked, his eyes still on the road.

I only nodded. Words failed me; my brain was still locked on the fact that I was sitting in a convertible. Not just any car, a Bentley Continental GT Convertible. My kind of heaven. The leather, the polished chrome, the quiet power humming beneath us, it was almost surreal.

“Ada… Ada… Ada!”

His voice pulled me back. I blinked, embarrassed, realizing the waiter was staring at me with a grin.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I rushed. “Fried rice, two pomo, and a full-bodied fried fish.”

The waiter scribbled it down quickly. “Do you want it packed to go?” Tunde asked.

“Yes, please. Is it okay if we eat in the car? I love enjoying my meals without the whole world staring at me.”

His lips curved as though he was finally seeing the real me. “Sure. Why not?”

He placed his own order, and we waited. My eyes, traitors that they were, kept straying to the car parked just outside.

“You seem… stunned by the car,” he said casually.

“Stunned?” I echoed. “Let’s say more than stunned.”

“Why?” He tilted his head.

I stared at him as though he’d asked the world’s dumbest question. “Because this isn’t just a car. It’s a Bentley Continental GT Convertible. The quintessential open-top grand tourer.”

That caught him. His brows shot up, amused, intrigued. “How much do you know about cars?”

“A lot.” I said it with quiet pride.

He folded his arms, skeptical. “Blow my mind then.”

I smirked. Challenge accepted. “Well, for starters, the 6.0-litre W12 twin-turbo engine produces a stunning 582 bhp. It comes with a variable displacement system that balances lower emissions with greater output. The chrome grille alone—iconic, by the way—shimmers like a crown. And don’t get me started on the cockpit. Paddle-shift gear selectors, cleverly designed storage, and that unmistakable Bentley elegance. Trust me, this car isn’t just transport; it’s an experience.”

The waiter returned with our orders, but by now Tunde’s jaw had slackened slightly.

“You’re… different,” he said, almost to himself.

I grinned, reaching for my purse. “What are you doing?” he frowned.

“Paying for my food.” “Don’t bother. I’ll pay.”

“I wasn’t bothered,” I countered sweetly. “And if I’d known you planned to pay, I wouldn’t have embarrassed myself showing the whole world how much I love food.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “You’re impossible.”

“Let’s do Dutch.” I pressed half the cash into the waiter’s hand. The man, clearly entertained, looked between us like we were his favorite drama.

Back in the car, I buckled in and smirked. “Now, where were we?”

“Ah, yes,” he said slowly. “You were about to tell me more. But since you’ve proved your point, maybe you owe me something.”

“Hmm,” I tapped my chin. “How about… your chicken wings?” He groaned. “Not my chicken wings, Ada.”

“Fine,” I said airily, pretending to look away.

“Fiiiiiine,” he dragged the word out dramatically.

“Can you please repeat that?”

“I’ll give you my chicken wings,” he muttered.

I squealed and did a little celebratory dance in my seat. “The chicken wings are mine, the chicken wings are miiiine!”

Tunde chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Okay then. The engineering,” he said slyly.

I froze. My fish was suddenly at stake.

He leaned closer, confident. “The Continental GT Convertible delivers 590PS with maximum torque of 720 Nm from just 1800 rpm. It accelerates 0-60mph in 4.4 seconds, top speed 196mph. Transmission? All-wheel drive powertrain, 60:40 rear bias. Effortless power, exceptional control. And the infotainment system? An 8-inch high-resolution touchscreen with navigation, suspension settings, even smartphone connectivity. Bluetooth, radio, CD, DVD—take your pick.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded. He wasn’t bluffing.

“Now,” he said smugly, “hand over the fried fish.”

With exaggerated reluctance, I pushed the foil pack toward him. “There’s a lot I don’t know about you, Tunde.”

His gaze softened. “And there’s a lot I don’t know about you too.”

Something unspoken hung between us, fragile and heavy. I wanted to ask about his mum, about the struggles he hinted at. Instead, silence wedged itself between us, urging one of us to break it.

I bowed my head, whispered grace, and focused on my fried rice and pomo, while he busied himself with his jollof. But even as I chewed, my thoughts strayed. Beneath the laughter and the teasing, there was something about Tunde, something deeper, something I couldn’t yet name.