Chapter 7: The Final Goodbye

I bring out the last thing of Ayotunde’s from my sleeve.

My hand dey shake as I touch the old beads—blood-red, cool, heavy with memory.

A string of blood-red prayer beads.

Na the same beads wey I use rub sleep from my eye, counting each night, wishing fate go change small for my sake.

When the system first send me to this era, I fall from sky, still wear strange clothes.

People run, point. Children laugh, old women cross themselves, call me winch or abiku.

Villagers gossip, call chief men, wan arrest me.

Na only God save me from mob. Fear grip me—no language, no friend, only prayer left.

I hide everywhere, until I see Ayotunde for altar, untouched by dust, dey preach and pray.

That sight save me—light in darkness. His voice rise, calm and strong, dey call lost souls home.

As he wan go back to church, I finally stand before am.

I no fit hold fear again. I jump out, dey tremble.

“Pastor, abeg, save me.”

My voice crack, hope and fear dey fight for space.

“I go repay you.”

My offer small, but na all I get.

Ayotunde say nothing, just let me hide inside his palanquin.

His silence, na yes. He gesture with hand—quick, discreet, no time for talk.

The palanquin small, so I press close to am.

His agbada soft, scent na mix of wood and old books. Even for fear, small comfort dey.

His cold, sandalwood-scented agbada brush my face, I lost for long time.

My heart slow, world quiet. I feel safe for once.

I dey pity such great man fate.

Even from start, I dey pity am—man wey fit save many, but no fit save himself.

When I wan leave, Ayotunde remove prayer beads from his wrist, give me.

That small gesture—wordless, holy. E feel like blessing from above.

“This is my token. If chief men see am, dem no go disturb you.”

I clutch am tight, as if e fit protect me from world itself.

...

I stroke the beads—cold for my palm, heavy with all the nights I spend begging God; no matter how much I want hold on, time to let go.

Letting go na hardest lesson. But my hand still dey linger.

The day before I leave, I find Ayotunde.

He dey sit, dey meditate, early morning light dey dance for his face. I almost lose courage.

I hand am the prayer beads I always wear.

I open my palm—beads dey shine, heavy with all my years here.

I wan lock them for box, but these beads belong to his papa.

Respect for lineage strong—no woman fit claim another man heritage.

After think am, I decide return am to him myself.

If history must move, make e hold its own token.

“These prayer beads too precious. I no need them again, so I dey return am to you. Sorry for all the wahala.”

My voice soft, but sure. I bow my head, hand still dey shake.

Ayotunde dey meditate. He open deep, cold eyes at my words.

His gaze sharp, searching. For small second, I see something flash—regret, maybe?

“You no want am?” His voice sound urgent.

Surprise cut through his calm. Maybe na first time he realise say letting go dey possible.

I think I hear wrong.

My eyes wide, but I steady myself.

Smile, I nod: “Yes, your papa prayer beads. I no suppose keep wear am.”

Small smile, heavy pain. Truth always dey show for face, no matter how we try hide am.

“When you meet someone more important, give them to her.”

I no fit look his face again. My own prayer—silent, final.

This na my last goodbye.

No drama, no tears. Just me, the beads, and weight of five years.

The system say, make I no leave regret.

So I do am all—talk, return, let go. Maybe spirit go pity me this time.

I think he go say something, even if na just one question.

I wait, heartbeat loud, but nothing come.

He no talk, just nod cold, collect beads from my hand.

Na so history fit collect what belong to am, and person go waka like say nothing spoil.

History write say he get pastor anointing, destiny for ministry.

Even if love try, anointing strong pass. Some destinies dey shine brighter than small lantern.

I take last look at Ayotunde cold, handsome face. He really look like living saint, no feelings at all.

Even lines for his forehead, na sign of burden wey love no fit shift.

That’s okay.

Time to accept—sometimes, saint no dey for marriage, only for memory.

Just pretend I never come.

If spirit fit rewind time, maybe pain for reduce. But I dey ready to forget, as best as I fit.