CHAPTER 21 – THIS FAMILY CALLED MINE: COLOUR US UP

© Opeyemi Akintunde
As Inspired by the LIVING WORD

The house was quiet. Too quiet for my restless soul.

Deji had drifted off into a light, uneasy sleep on the couch. His phone lay beside him.

The Police had come and asked questions.
We made sure not to include the paintings in our story. We were waiting for Wasiu’s wife to come claim her husband’s body in the morning. The Story we( including my neighbours) concluded to tell everyone who asked was that Wasiu protected the entire families in the compound and died as a hero. He was not willing to give up those he was watching over.

I couldn’t sleep, there was Morayo at the police station, there was Setemi’s dead child. I wandered into the kitchen, but not even the scent of fried plantain…my comfort food…could lift the weight on my heart. I leaned against the counter, scrolling absently through my phone, trying to distract my mind from the deafening silence of Wasiu’s death echoing through our compound. I was hoping to find answers somehow or find comfort. To be truthful, I didn’t know what I wanted…

Then it came…the familiar gold logo of Lighthouse Academy flashed across my screen.

Aunty Favour’s Lighthouse Camp.

A call for sponsorship.

“Partner with us to sponsor 50 children from underserved communities for our next creative camp. Together, we can light up their world…”

I froze.

The picture of smiling children in their branded T-shirts, holding cameras and other creative tools, stared back at me.

Tears blurred my vision.

I remembered why I had fought so hard for the inheritance. Why I had desperately wanted that money beyond my own need for a baby or for peace in my home.

This…
This was the other reason.

I had dreamt of supporting Aunty Favour’s Lighthouse in a big way. I had followed her from afar, drawn by her passion for children, for the less privileged. Watching the way she turned broken stories into bright futures. I always told myself…when the inheritance comes, I’ll give them a million naira. Or more. I’ll be part of that light.

But now… I had paintings I couldn’t even sell, coupled with fear of the unknown hanging over my head like a dark cloud. Fear that someone might show up again, fear that we were being hunted.

I didn’t realize my thumb had pressed the call button on the Lighthouse post. The phone was ringing.

But I wasn’t aware.

I sank to the floor right there in the kitchen, my back against the cupboard, the tears flowing freely.

“God…” I whispered, my voice breaking into a sob.
“God, I wanted to be a tool of comfort in Your hands… I wanted to bring peace to others, help children rise, give hope to the hopeless. But how can I give comfort when I’m uncomfortable? How can I light up the lives of others when my own life feels like darkness closing in?”

The ringing continued, but I didn’t hear it.

“Why does it always feel like just when comfort is about to come, something happens to take it away? Why, God? I don’t want to live for myself… I wanted to help, to do good things with what I’d get… but now, all I feel is trapped. Like I’m holding onto a blessing that has become a curse.”

I sobbed louder, my chest heaving.

Unbeknownst to me, on the other end of the line, Aunty Favour had picked up.

“Hello… Hello? Please, can you hear me?” Her soft, steady voice came through faintly from the phone speaker. But I didn’t hear.

“I just want to be useful to You, God!” I cried. “I don’t want to be fighting for money just to survive! I want to do more… but life keeps stripping me! I’m tired, Lord… I’m so tired…”

“Hello?” The voice came again, patient but louder.

I gasped, realizing the call had connected.

Wiping my tears quickly, I scrambled to my knees and grabbed the phone.

“Hello? I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to call…”

But Aunty Favour’s voice was already wrapping around me like a blanket.

“It’s alright, dear. I heard enough to know you’re carrying a heavy burden. Are you okay?”

I opened my mouth to respond…but the tears came rushing back.

“I… I’m not okay.” I whispered.

Silence fell between us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It felt safe.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Aunty Favour asked softly.

And somehow… without planning to… I began to speak.

To be continued…

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