Chapter 2: No Regret, No Return

“System, abeg, I want to go home.”

Na so I talk am—my voice soft, but loaded with all the wahala of those years.

The long-lost system finally appear for my front.

I feel am before I see am—a strange chill wey follow me like shadow when generator no gree start for night.

“You sure say you wan do am? Na only one chance you get, o. Once you cross, you no fit return to the kingdom where Ayotunde dey.”

The system voice almost get pity inside.

Even machine fit sound like mama wey dey warn pikin not to miss last bus home.

After all, na this same system send me cross a thousand years come this strange ancient era.

Even as I dey hear am, memory of that jump—flash of light, strange clothes, people dey look me like masquerade for New Yam festival—run through my mind. Na so my destiny begin entangle with Ayotunde own.

To meet Ayotunde, to try change his destiny.

I give bitter smile.

“My people talk say if cry pass laugh, e mean say journey don tire person. I really try…”

Ayotunde na famous preacher for history, carrying pastor anointing, slim and cold like harmattan breeze, leaving behind countless sermons for generations, a distant bright moon shining for endless night.

Sometimes, for quiet, when oil lamp dey flicker, I go read about am for old pamphlets—people dey talk say his voice fit calm riot, his hand gentle like water for baby naming. Some even call am white moon for black sky.

But because of his childhood sweetheart, he die at twenty-five.

E pain me, that kind love—one wey fit kill person, but nobody go remember the woman behind the memory.

During these five years, I note every small thing about am, every smile, every frown.

Even the way he dey tap finger when thinking, or the crease wey appear when prayer no gree answer quick. I write everything down—my own secret gospel.

Everybody know, for my eye, na only Ayotunde dey. Before I come here, I don study am for long.

Dem dey tease me for compound—"See Amaka, na Ayotunde dey make am forget food for fire!" Dem no lie. My mind no dey anywhere else.

For am, I forfeit everything.

I leave my old world, my family, and the chance to live simple life. All because I want see if maybe, just maybe, love fit fight fate.

I follow am through rain and sun, climb muddy hills just to visit old church for bush.

Sometimes my wrapper go tear for thorn bush, but I no care. For that man, I go waka any road, no matter how rough.

Because of that, I catch cold, even break my leg.

The village nurse just shake head, “Na love dey worry you.” But wetin woman go do, if her heart no gree rest?

I no fit read those ancient sermon books, but I still use all my savings buy am rare books, just to see am put hand together and give me that small, fleeting smile.

That smile—e warm, but e no ever last. Sometimes I feel say e dey guard his heart like village well wey people no fit fetch from.

At last, for night of the fifth year, he return from palace banquet, poisoned, and broke his vows.

Dem say the drink dey sharp, but betrayal sharper. By the time I realise, e don weak, eyes heavy like rain cloud. The night carry more secrets than palace wall fit hold.

He bite my lips.

That moment—raw, desperate—his hands dey shake, eyes wild. Taste of blood and longing mix, and I feel like world dey collapse.

He talk low-low for my ear.

His breath warm, voice rough, like person wey dey beg God for one more chance. "No leave me." The words still dey ring for my mind till today.

He hold me tight, beg me not to leave am.

I still remember Ayotunde when I wake up.

His eyes red, his whole body like say e don scatter finish.

He wind prayer beads round his trembling hands again and again.

His knuckles white, lips press tight, beads almost dey cut palm. That prayer—deep, broken—na only God fit interpret.

He dey recite Bible verses, dey torture himself, no even wan look my face.

Guilt and faith dey fight for his chest, and I fit almost see am dey choke under the weight. Even as I dey look am, my own heart dey break small-small, like old pot wey dey crack.

I take two deep breaths, force myself to calm down.

The air for the room thick, like eve of harmattan storm. My own tears dey threaten to betray me, so I swallow am down.

Quietly, I dress up one by one.

The silence loud. Each movement, from tying scarf to adjusting wrapper, feel like final goodbye.

“Ayotunde, I go step outside first…”

“Wait.” He frown, call me back with that cold voice.

His voice no loud, but the command inside na like chief talking stick for ground. I stop for my track.

“I don break my vows. I no fit be pastor again.”

“I go marry you.”

His voice soft, but the words echo for my ear like thunder.

Na so hope fit slap person—when you no expect am. I almost forget how to breathe.

I stand there, eyes wide, not believing. My knees almost give way. For one moment, I fit not breathe.

I stood there for long before I realise wetin Ayotunde just promise me.

My heart dey drum like bata, my body dey vibrate as if I chop ogbono soup without water.

My heartbeat loud for my ear, e be like say even my blood turn to thick honey.

I dey dizzy, dey smile like mumu from morning till night, personally dey arrange everything for my wedding to Ayotunde.

Even the old women for compound dey whisper: “See as happiness dey shine for her face, like new bride.”

With sore hands, using unfamiliar brush strokes, I write hundreds of invitations.

Red ink stain my fingers, but I no send. Each invitation na small prayer, begging fate to spare us just this once.

I cut out plenty heart shapes from bright Ankara cloth, hanging them everywhere. Some say na sign of joy, some say na sign of blood. I just dey hope say our own go bring good luck.

The wedding aso-oke I choose always too shine, no fit match Ayotunde’s quiet way, so I dey sew and unsew, searching for the right colour.

I want everything to be perfect.

Even if na last thing I fit give myself for this world, perfection na my own peace of mind.

But—

Our wedding still cancel last minute.

Village gossips no waste time: "Maybe na sign from God." Some talk say evil spirit dey jealous. For me, na heart wey dey break in slow motion.

I touch the scar on my shoulder, still dey pain me.

Sometimes for night, the ache dey remind me of everything I lose. No be every wound fit show for daylight.

I force smile, wipe away tears I no even know say come out.

Even if I fit hide pain from people, my pillow know the truth. That kind silent cry—e loud pass drum.

I find big sandalwood box.

The scent remind me of prayer time, of old churches and hidden hopes. As I open am, my hands dey shake small.

Everything from last five years about Ayotunde—the wedding dress I never wear, the notebook where I write everything about am, even his old agbada—I pack all inside.

Each item, na memory—my own treasure, even if pain dey inside.

Eighteen na age of dreams and fantasies.

That age when person fit believe say love fit bend iron or make king bow. But real life no be Nollywood.

I think the system send me here so I fit find way let am live past twenty-five.

Na so we dey deceive ourselves when hope still dey. But even river get end.

Later, I realise say history no dey change.

My people say, "No matter how long masquerade dance, e go still remove mask." History stubborn like old mama.

No matter how long I stay by his side, he go still follow the fate wey dey history book, sacrificing himself for Adeyemi family.

Some destinies, no matter how you fight am, na like trying to trap harmattan breeze for bottle.

“Host, you really no wan stay?”

The system’s voice low, like rain for tin roof—soft, but e still dey enter.

I shake my head: “When you go fit send me home?”

My voice small, but determination dey inside—like woman wey don tire for market.

“In five days, transmission go start. For these five days, you fit say goodbye to everybody here, so you no go get any regret…”

Five days. Enough to pack spirit, enough to let go, even if heart still dey stubborn.