Posted in TALL TALES


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Self discovery Mario

“What is the price of five sparrows—two copper coins[a]? Yet God does not forget a single one of them. And the very hairs on your head are all numbered. So don’t be afraid; you are more valuable to God than a whole flock of sparrows.’

Luke 12:6-7 New Living Translation (NLT)

Seated in church, again. I am wondering what I am doing in this place. I always thought that if I was going to be an ardent church goer, I would be doing it in a white garment church. They have very very pretty girls and I like the idea of traipsing around Lagos on barefeet with my painted toe nails sticking out from beaneath my overflowing white garment and the tail of hair peeping from the beret or cap or what-do-they-call-it. We frequented it a while during one of my father’s visa-thirst. Service is about to start. I came early. This is my third Sunday in this month alone. Quite unprecedented. I am kinda broke and coming to church means having lunch at Abigail’s house, and I keep thinking I would run into Philip and apologies. I can’t bring myself to call or text. Or that’s what I keep telling myself. I busy myself with replying my chats. The manager of the cake shop wants to know if I am still available. Not happening. I begin to type a response until a voice over the microphone says, ‘let’s be in the mood of worship.’ I roll my eyes, but I get up anyway.


Why should I feel discouraged?

Why should the shadows come?

Why should my heart feel lonely



And just like that, I am listening to my heart beat. It is something I have never experienced before. My heart is speaking to me. Each beat gives away my despondency – how I have lived this long and have nothing to show for it; my regrets – how I would have loved to live in my twenties, and enjoy being a beautiful young girl instead of an unprepared mother to two teenagers and a child; my bitterness – how I have put myself last not out of love, but out of duty and how I would rather have sown my wild oats; my anger – at my Dad for being irresponsible and myopic and so unambitious; my inferiority complex – among my friends, my peers, how I am the least successful, I have no steady job, no educational experience, no talent, no skills; my disgust – with myself, for pretending that I have control over whom I give my body to, when I have had no control over no part of my life; my despair – over my seemingly bleak future, what next for me? Maybe I will wait tables when I travel, afterall, I merely managed a degree here, my loneliness – it is so bone crushing, sometimes I feel like an empty cave, my own thoughts vibrating randomly; my doubts – towards God, my mother paid her tithes and offering and even sowed seeds. I remember when one pastor had quoted the psalms where David had said he would not give God anything that didn’t cost him. My mother took the loan she had taken from the cooperative to get some new items for her trade, and dropped it in the offering baskets. We ate garden egg sauce for the next six weeks. Where was He that time? Where was Jesus when my sister was selling her body to get my mother treated?


So why shouldn’t I feel discouraged? Why shouldn’t I feel like I am buried on the shadows? Why shouldn’t my heart remain unyielding even if Jesus says he loves me, even from when I was a foetus.


When Jesus is my portion

A constant friend is here

His eye is on the sparrow

And I know He watches over me


The song invades my heart. Is this it? If I say yes to Jesus, will my heart be all right? Will everything suddenly make sense? Or has he been there all this while, and I am just accepting his friendship? My legs suddenly feel weak, and I fall to my knees and use my hands to support myself. Maybe it is okay for someone else to watch over me and look after me this time around. For the past ten years, I have been watching over someone or something. Maybe it is time for me to accept that someone else is watching over me. I want it too. I want it very much. I throw my hands in the air, and let the tears fall freely. Not maybe. This has to be it. This is it.


‘Lord Jesus, I believe that you are watching over me. I believe that you died for me. I don’t understand it yet, but I don’t need to, right? I just have to believe and confess, shebi? ‘

I sing because I’m happy

I sing because I am free

His eye is on the sparrow

And I know He watches me


My shoulders shake as I sob my heart out. I have struggled so long, carrying everything, trying to fix things, trying to avoid my parents mistakes, trying to punish myself, being afraid of happiness, because it is fleeting. So I am giving it up to my Lord and Saviour Jesus. ‘Fix me, Lord. Help me to accept your love, I don’t understand it at all, but I believe. So here I am.’


I find myself being pulled up from the ground. It is Enkay. I have made a scene during service. Mario, everly dramatic. I bite my lip to hide my smile as I follow Enkay to the back of the church.


     His eye is on the sparrow

And I know He watches me





A world changer who tells the stories that deserve to be told. Fiction may sometimes be real.

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