BETROTHED (12)

Mena poked suspiciously at Amena’s phone as it beeped on the cafeteria table for the umpteenth time and asked, for the umpteenth time, "why aren’t you picking Bro. Chima’s calls?”

Ziba smiled awkwardly at Amena and mouthed a quiet, “I’m sorry."

When Ziba had agreed to lunch before travelling in two days’ time, she had failed to mention that Mena would tag along. Ziba had invited Mena as a common ground. Though she hadn’t told Mena why she wanted her to come along, Mena was more than happy. For her, it was confirmation of acceptance into a friendship with Ziba.

Mena had been surprised when she received the text: “Hey, it’s Ziba. I’m meeting up with someone. It’s uncomfortable for me, but necessary. I would appreciate the emotional support. Thanks."

Ziba didn’t add, “…emotional support from a friend,” but Mena felt the unspoken. As she dressed, she chose a floral, mid-length pinafore gown. Her radiant, medium-deep brown skin glowed beneath the burgundy fabric. Her fuller, voluptuous figure was only suggested by the cut of the pinafore, and she loved it. She paired it with a black top and the vegetable-shaped earrings Papa had bought for her the last time he travelled to Gumba Village before the raid.

She sighed as she packed her midnight-black hair into two neat cornrows. Her heart ached for the people of Gumba. She wondered how many children had been displaced, and realising how close it was to her home sent chills down her spine.

She was meant to travel home the next day. She made a mental note to tell Papa that she had moved it by a day—but not why.

Her friend needed her. Mena smiled.

Amena understood the concept of bringing a friend along to a hangout, and although Ziba’s friend was very chirpy, she found the common ground useful.

“He’s my church member and my friend. I’ll call him back,” she said.

Ziba tried to signal to Mena to stop the intrusive questions, but Mena was already joyfully scrutinising the level of juice the attendant was pouring into her cup.

“I’m sorry… I should have informed you about my situation,” Ziba said softly.

Amena laughed. “It’s wonderful to have her around. Can we pray?”

Ziba hesitated, but agreed. She had prayed often with Mama Yola and the villagers, it was the natural order of things for them. This shouldn’t make a difference.

But she felt the shift as Amena began: "Lord, thank You for making this possible. I prayed, and You answered. I worried, but You calmed the storm. Thank You, God. Guide our conversation. Thank You, Lord. For in Jesus’ name, Amen.”

Her heart turned. Warmth crept in. The tension she had carried into the meeting fizzled out.

She was surprised. Prayer works.

Amena was grateful for the sit-down. Mama Yola had screamed praises to God when she told her they were meeting, and had bombarded her with questions afterward. In all, Amena knew she couldn’t carry the conversation alone, especially seeing how she was avoiding Bro. Chima’s calls.

She needed wisdom from God, and it was evident He had shown up. They spoke about mundane things, keeping the atmosphere light and cheerful, and Ziba was receptive.

Ziba had braced herself for the hard questions: How has it been since your mum died?,  Do you attend a church?, Why don’t you believe in God?, but they never came.

Instead, it felt like she had simply come to eat, gist, and breathe. And for that, she valued Amena.