DAY START
DAY START NOVEL
CHAPTER ONE
The Early Knock
Mornings, for Sunday, had always held a quiet sanctity. Not because of the sunlight that slipped shyly through his curtain blinds, or the melody of birds weaving songs outside his apartment window. No, it was something deeper. To him, every dawn was a doorway—either into purpose or into distraction.
The room stirred with life slowly. The faint snoring that had filled the air faded as a rooster crowed in the distance, joined by a chorus of early birds. Then came the shrill buzz of his alarm clock, slicing through the calm. Sunday groaned as he turned on the bed, the mattress creaking under his weight.
“Oh my God…” he murmured groggily, rubbing his eyes. “I thought I changed this alarm to 6:15. 5:10 is becoming too early for me abeg…”
Still, he sat up with a sigh and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
“Well, I’m up already,” he muttered. “Let me just pray…”
He bowed his head slightly, closed his eyes. “My God, the Father of all, I thank You—”
Rrring! Rrring!
His phone vibrated noisily beside him. Sunday frowned. “Who is calling this early?” he grumbled, reaching for the device. His irritation softened as he saw the caller ID.
Beatrice.
His eyebrows rose. “Wow… it’s been ages since I heard from her.” He hesitated for a moment, then answered, clearing his throat. “Hello?”
“Hi booboo!” came the cheerful, unmistakable voice.
“Beatrice?” he said, momentarily stunned.
“Oh, you still have my number?” she teased.
“Yes, I do,” he replied, his voice settling into a familiar rhythm.
“Aww, that’s so sweet!”
Sunday chuckled. “How are you doing?”
“I’m fine… sorry for calling so early,” she said. “I hope I didn’t disturb anything?”
“Nothing that important, dear.”
“Or… did I wake you?”
“Not really.”
“Okay…” Her voice paused. “I don’t have much credit—can I send you a voice note on WhatsApp?”
“No problem,” Sunday said, a soft smile forming. “I’ll be expecting it.”
“You’re such an amazing friend.”
“Stop it, jor.”
She laughed, light and playful. “Stop it—I like it, right?”
“Come on, jor… I’ll be waiting to hear from you.”
“Okay dearie,” she said, and the line went dead.
Sunday exhaled slowly, his thoughts drifting. It’s really been a long time. Where has she been? Then he shook his head, bringing himself back to the moment. “Anyway… what was I doing again? Right—praying.”
He closed his eyes. “Lord Jesus, good morning—”
But his spirit stirred uneasily.
Many people don’t realize how powerful the start of a day can be. The enemy doesn’t always arrive like a storm. Sometimes, he tiptoes in quietly, disguised in a familiar voice… a friendly face… or an unexpected call.
“Wake up, O sleeper, rise from the dead,” Scripture says, “and Christ will shine on you.”
Sunday had meant to begin the day in prayer. But the past had his number—and it had called early.
And then it rang again.
This time, it was a WhatsApp call. He looked at the screen. Beatrice.
He sighed, half amused. “Again? Beatrice…” He looked upward, murmuring, “Holy Spirit, I’m sorry. This lady must really want to say something.” He picked up.
“Hello?”
“Sup sup!” she chimed.
Sunday smiled. “It’s been a long time, Beatrice.”
“Yeah… a really long time, right?”
“Where have you been?”
“Hmmm… my dear, I’ve been somewhere oh,” she said cryptically. “But that’s a story for another day.”
“Really? That serious?”
“Kind of,” she said. “I miss you. Your talks… your jokes… our hangouts.”
Sunday’s smile faded slightly. “Well… you just disappeared.”
“But I’m back, my dear.”
“You’ll still have to tell me where you’ve been.”
“I will.”
“I’m listening.”
Her tone shifted, quieter. “But promise me… this stays between us.”
“You know you’re safe with me.”
“I trust you sha.”
“Very good.”
She took a breath. “Anyway, what happened was… I traveled to Egypt.”
Sunday blinked. “Egypt?”
“Yeah.”
“For what?”
A pause. “Hmm… I met this guy… we got talking sha…”
“Okay?”
She was just about to continue when the call crackled, the connection fading. “Hello?” Sunday asked. “Are you there?”
“Sunday…” her voice returned, hesitant now.
“Yes?”
“I’m not sure I should talk about this over the phone.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I just got back yesterday. I’m lodging in a hotel around Ikeja… trying to cool my head.”
“Ikeja?” Sunday said, surprised.
“Yeah.”
“That means… you’re not far from me.”
“How do you mean? Osogbo is far, abi?”
“Actually…” Sunday said with a small laugh, “I relocated to Lagos last year.”
There was a pause. “Wow!” she exclaimed.
“I now live inside Magodo Estate.”
“What? Mago what??” she shrieked. “Sunday… you’re now a Yahoo boy!”
Sunday’s voice was suddenly firm. “Excuse me?”
“Yes—I said it with my full chest!”
“Beatrice, you’ve always known me,” he said calmly. “I’ve always been focused on God. And He’s been faithful. I’m not a Yahoo boy. I’ve never done anything illegal. I live well… and I live right.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Hmmm… Sunday… you mean you’re still following God all these years?”
“God never fails,” he said simply. “His timing is not our timing.”
Her voice softened, breaking just a little. “Hmm… I feel terrible right now. We need to talk. Can you send me your location?”
“I will,” Sunday said.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll be expecting you.”
“Okay.”
“Bye.”
Beep.
The call ended. Sunday stared at the ceiling, heart full and thoughts stirring. A door had opened this morning—just not the one he’d planned to walk through.
And his day… was no longer his alone.
CHAPTER TWO
Before the Day Speaks
The slow tick of the clock seemed louder than usual.
A soft ambient tune played from a speaker tucked away on a dusty shelf, weaving through the early stillness of Sunday’s apartment. The music was gentle—reflective and warm, the kind of sound that called the heart to remember.
The morning had already been broken by Beatrice’s unexpected call. Yet now, Sunday sat alone again, hands resting on his knees, staring into the open silence.
The day hadn’t even truly begun, and still, it felt like he’d already lived through something sacred… and something unsettling.
There are days, he reflected, when the battle starts before your feet touch the ground. Days when not every call is just a call, and not every voice from the past comes without motive. Some arrive as divine assignments—others, cleverly disguised distractions cloaked in nostalgia.
Today, Sunday stood at a threshold.
He had risen to pray, to align his heart with heaven. But life had stepped in. Still, he knew that God wasn’t only present in the perfectly carved moments. Even in the cluttered start of a messy morning, grace remained.
His mother’s voice often echoed in his heart, and today… it did so quite literally.
Rrring… Rrring…
The phone rang again. Sunday glanced at the screen. Mummy.
His brow furrowed slightly. “Ah—who’s calling again?” he mumbled. “Mummy? By 9:30 a.m.?” He picked it up. “This must be important.”
He answered, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he sat up straighter. “Hello, mummy.”
Her voice came through, calm and tender. “My son, how are you this morning?”
“I’m fine, mummy. And you?”
“We thank God, my dear. I was just thinking about you… and something dropped in my spirit. Can you talk for a moment?”
“Yes, mummy. What’s on your mind?”
“You know I’ve been praying for you, right?”
A small smile pulled at the corners of Sunday’s mouth. “One hundred percent sure of that.”
“Good,” she said with a soft chuckle. But then her voice grew weightier. “But hear me, son—my prayers for you are powerful. But your prayers for yourself?” She paused. “Even more powerful.”
Sunday leaned back against the headboard, her words landing heavy. “Hmm… I hear you, mummy.”
“That’s why I felt led to ask…” she continued. “Have you really been praying for yourself?”
He hesitated. “Yes, I’ve been trying…”
“Sunday,” her tone shifted gently, but it was firm.
“Yes, mum?”
“How do you start your day?”
He opened his mouth but paused, unsure of what to say.
“You know we are to redeem the time—for the days are full of evil,” she said. “So I ask again: how do you really start your day?”
Sunday blinked, stunned by the timing of her question. “Mummy, it’s like you’re in my room right now. That’s exactly what I was just—”
Beep.
The line went dead.
Sunday stared at the phone, surprised. “Hello? Mummy?” But there was only silence. He frowned, then nodded slowly.
I think I get it.
There, in the quiet that followed, something shifted inside him. A realization as clear as daylight:
I need to be intentional. Every morning… before the world speaks, God must speak first.
The phone buzzed again.
Rrring…
Another call. But this time, Sunday didn’t rush to answer. Instead, he sat still, letting the lesson settle deep within.
“Sometimes, divine reminders come wrapped in missed calls.”
Sunday had heard the message—louder than any ringtone:
Start with God.
Before the day begins.
Before old flames reach out.
Before distractions rise and cloak themselves in urgency.
Because what you do first…
Defines what follows.
As the call continued to ring and the music shifted into a deeper, suspenseful hum, Sunday stood up slowly. The day wasn’t just beginning. It was unfolding. And he had a choice to make:
Be distracted by the past…
Or grounded in purpose.
CHAPTER THREE
Scars and Scents of Redemption
Morning had found its rhythm.
The city hummed softly outside—horns in the distance, footsteps on gravel, and the familiar call of street vendors announcing their wares. Inside Sunday’s apartment, the air was calmer—thick with reflection, scented by prayer and the faint aroma of yesterday’s Egusi stew.
The phone rang again, jolting Sunday out of his thoughts.
He frowned as he reached for it. “Ah—Ade again?” he muttered, rubbing his temple. “What does this idiot want so early?”
He answered with a tone that was more fond than frustrated. “Hello, Ade.”
“Heyyy baba o!” came the playful voice on the other end.
Sunday couldn’t help but laugh. “You this nonsense boy. What do you want?”
Ade fired back, “You dey craze! Na so you go greet your elder?”
“You no well, abeg. Bastard.”
Ade chuckled. “Omo, you dey house?”
“Yes na. Why?”
“I wan show. Make breeze touch my body small.”
Sunday rolled his eyes. “Wetin happen to the breeze for your house?”
“Ah-ah, no question me, jor! You get food?”
“Egusi still dey fridge.”
“Ehnn?! Just talk of that soup and pounded yam don dey my mind already.”
Sunday smirked. “Then buy yam. The pounding machine still works.”
“Okay na, I dey come. Prepare yourself.”
“No wahala.”
The call ended, and the room fell quiet again. Sunday stared at the phone, half-laughing, half-annoyed.
“Nonsense boy…” he muttered. “Okay, what was I even doing before he called?”
But before the thought could settle, the phone rang again. This time, the name on the screen froze him for a second.
Beatrice.
He hesitated, then answered. “Hello?”
Her voice was calm, direct. “Sunday, I’m at the gate.”
He sat up straighter. “Really? Tell the security man you’re coming to flat 7. Tell him you’re here to see me.”
He could hear the faint background sounds—metal gates, footsteps, a brief exchange.
“Oga Sunday, na you?” Abdul, the gateman, asked.
“Yes Abdul, good morning. Please let her in.”
“No wahala, oga.”
The call ended, and reality began to race ahead of him.
“Ah!” Sunday exclaimed, scanning the room with a sudden burst of anxiety. “This lady is here already? See how rough everywhere is—she’ll insult my life!”
He jumped to his feet.
The mop came out. Water rushed from the tap. A flurry of motion followed—cleaning, sweeping, whistling nervously. He didn’t want her to meet him sitting. Let her meet him busy. Responsible. Presentable.
A knock came.
“Just a minute, please!”
He wiped his forehead, took a calming breath, and opened the door.
There she stood.
“Beatrice babe,” he said, his voice warm despite the nerves.
She stepped in, her eyes scanning the space in wide-eyed admiration. “Wow… Sunday. Look at your place.”
“Thank you,” he replied.
She smiled, stepping closer. “You deserve a hug. Come here, baby boy!”
He embraced her gently, smiling as she added, “Hmm… I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, dear. Be careful, the floor’s still wet.” He stepped aside. “And by the way—you look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She glanced around again. “This space is… impressive. I love what I’m seeing.”
“Please, have a seat,” Sunday offered. “Want something to eat? Bread? Tea? I can make rice if you’d prefer.”
She waved a hand dismissively as she sat. “Forget food for now. I came for gist.”
He chuckled. “Okay.”
Leaning forward with eager eyes, she asked, “So tell me… how did all this happen? I know the spiritual side—you always loved God. But spare me that part—give me the real story.”
He settled into his chair. “Alright. After I got fired from that old job—remember that place?”
“Of course.”
“I sank into depression. It got so bad, I nearly gave up on everything… including life. But I cried out to God. For direction. For purpose.”
She tilted her head, listening.
“And one day,” Sunday continued, “He led me into logistics. Just like that.”
“One order turned to many. An elderly man I delivered to became like a father—he led me into something bigger. He saw Christ in me… and I helped him find Christ too.”
Her eyes widened. “Wait… This apartment?”
“It’s a gift from him,” Sunday said simply. “His birthday gift to me—for helping him find eternal life.”
Beatrice’s lips parted softly. “That’s… incredible.”
“We bless God.”
She hesitated, then asked, “So… how far? Wife?”
Sunday laughed. “Wife? Not yet.”
“Ehen? You dey run things? Don’t lie!”
“Stop it, Beatrice.”
“Swear say no girl don ever ‘do the do’ here!”
He shook his head, amused. “Come on… I’m a born-again child of God.”
She smirked, impressed. “Wow. You’re doing well.”
“By God’s grace.”
But then, her tone shifted. Lower. More vulnerable. “Maybe if I had waited on God like you did… I wouldn’t have fallen into the wrong hands.”
Sunday leaned forward, his voice gentle. “Talk to me. What happened in Egypt?”
The room grew still.
The narrator of heaven leaned in with them, and time slowed.
Beatrice’s voice trembled as she began. “To cut the long story short… I met a guy. Claimed he loved me. We got close—real close. He talked about relocating—said Canada was the plan. He even helped me get an international passport.”
Sunday listened quietly.
“I followed,” she said. “Then he said we should go to Egypt first—for a weekend getaway.”
“Hmm… I’ve heard that story before,” Sunday said softly.
“Exactly,” she whispered. “Then I got there and realised—it was never about vacation.”
A shadow crossed her face. “Sunday… he took me there to sell me. I was trafficked.”
His breath caught. “What?!”
“Yes.” Her voice cracked. “Turns out they were part of a network—scouting women, luring them from other countries, then enslaving them. I was sold… like a commodity.”
Sunday sat still, absorbing the weight of her pain.
“I saw hell,” she said. “I lost count of the men who touched me. I was their cook, their cleaner, their toy… They stripped me of everything—dignity, hope, voice.”
He swallowed. “God… Beatrice.”
“They warned me,” she said quietly. “My parents. But you know how we can be… youthful pride, big dreams. I wouldn’t listen.”
“So how did you get out? Were you released?”
She hesitated. “No… I escaped. Through a guy—one of the guards. It’s a long story, Sunday. A long, dark road. But I thank God I’m alive to tell it.”
Sunday leaned closer. “Beatrice, I’m sorry. Truly. You’re strong. You’re still standing.”
A sudden knock at the door made them both jump.
Beatrice’s eyes darted. “Are you expecting someone?”
“Yeah,” Sunday said. “A friend.”
“Oh, okay.”
Sunday called out, “Who’s that?”
But something hung in the air now. A tension. A question.
Was this just a friend?
Or another twist in a morning full of meaning?
In a world that chews up the innocent and spits them out broken,
God still writes redemptive stories—
One scar at a time.
Beatrice had returned, not whole, but healing.
And just as her pain found a voice…
A knock came.
But is every knock safe?
Every visit, divine?
Chapter 5: Pounded Yam and Healing
Laughter has a strange way of tiptoeing into silence, slipping into spaces grief once occupied—as though heaven itself whispers, “You’re still here. You’re still human.”
Sunday barely had time to process Beatrice’s confession before the knock came again. The door creaked open, and in walked Ade, beaming and holding a white plastic bag.
“Look at this guy!” Sunday said, eyeing the bag. “You actually bought yam?”
Ade raised it triumphantly. “I no dey lie—real pounded yam level today. Good morning, jare.”
Sunday squinted at the wall clock. “Morning? Bro, it’s 12:15 p.m.!”
Beatrice, amused, turned from where she sat and offered a warm smile. “Hi there.”
Ade paused, his eyes darting from Sunday to Beatrice. “Ah! No wonder my guy no realize say time don waka. Good afternoon, madam—or are you still in the morning too?”
Beatrice chuckled. “Me? I’m well into the afternoon. He’s the one still in dreamland.”
Ade laughed. “Na so. We all don wear that shoe before.”
Sunday, shaking his head, gestured between them. “You people are unserious. Ade, meet Beatrice—my long-time friend. She just got back into the country. Beatrice, meet my nonsense friend, Ade.”
Beatrice extended her hand with a smile. “Nice to meet you… nonsense friend.”
Ade took her hand and grinned. “Oh! You got jokes—I like that. We gather dey mad small-small.”
“Sorry o,” Beatrice said, laughing. “Just joking.”
“No offence at all,” Ade replied. “I catch the vibe.”
Beatrice nodded, shifting to a more formal tone. “Let me behave myself now—nice to meet you, sir.”
“Ah! Pleasure’s mine,” Ade said, with a playful wink. “I hope he’s told you that you’re beautiful?”
Beatrice laughed again, her face softening with the ease of shared humor. “Thank you.”
Ade turned to Sunday. “Please help us adjust this guy’s brain small. He needs it.”
Beatrice nodded sagely. “I’m getting the memo.”
Sunday rolled his eyes. “Excuse me, the both of you—behave yourselves!”
As if on cue, another knock came at the door. Sunday frowned.
“Wait… who’s that? I’m not expecting anyone.”
“Oh!” Ade said casually. “My package.”
“Your what?” Sunday asked, eyebrows raised.
Ade turned towards the door and called out, “Come in, the door’s not locked!”
The door opened again, and light footsteps echoed on the tiled floor.
“Hello!” a soft voice called out.
“Yeah, come baby,” Ade said brightly. “Let me introduce you. This is Sunday, my guy—we live together. And that beautiful one is Beatrice, his longtime friend.”
He turned to the others. “Guys, meet Rose—my babe. Feel at home, dear.”
Rose smiled warmly, her presence gentle yet vibrant. “Nice to meet you both.”
Beatrice’s smile widened. “Welcome, our wife o! Let me just tell you now—these two are stubborn. To survive them, you’ll need orientation.”
Sunday blinked. “Wait, I’m confused… what’s going on here?”
Beatrice waved him off dramatically. “Our wife! Forgive my appearance—I was actually on my way out. But since you’re here, I’ll stay back a bit.”
She turned to Ade, folding her arms. “Ade, what about the yam?”
“As agreed, I bought it,” he replied. “Na pounded yam day today!”
“And what soup are we using?”
“The egusi in the fridge now!” Ade said, already opening cupboards.
Beatrice narrowed her eyes playfully. “The one you said you cooked?”
“Correction—I lied. Sunday cooked it.”
Beatrice gasped, hand over her heart. “Ah! You lied to me?”
Ade laughed. “Small lie. Forgive me now.”
Sunday raised his hands in mock surrender. “What is this madness?”
“You’ve been annoying me since,” Beatrice said with a smirk, “but I forgive you. Here—take a kiss.”
She made a quick kissing sound in the air. Ade jumped like a victorious child.
“Give them! Omo their papa!”
“Ade?” Beatrice said, suddenly turning stern.
“Yes, mummy?”
“For lying about the food, I shall punish you.”
“Abeg, no vex!”
“Your punishment: Carry everything you brought, lead me to the kitchen, fetch all I need, escort me to every room—open the door, let me walk in and out, then return to the kitchen. After that, bring your babe to join me in the kitchen. I rise!”
Ade saluted with exaggerated flair. “Court!”
Sunday burst out laughing. “You guys are mad.”
Ade turned to Rose. “Come, your majesty. Sorry baby Rose, this is how our madness manifests in this house.”
Rose smiled, stepping forward. “Honestly? I’m loving this vibe already. It’s perfect.”
“I’ll be back,” Ade said, grabbing the yam and heading towards the kitchen with Beatrice.
As the two disappeared, Rose lingered beside Sunday.
“Hi Sunday,” she said.
“Hey… how are you?”
She leaned slightly forward, teasing. “You look shocked. Still in character? The short drama is over, sir.”
Sunday chuckled. “Honestly? I’m in shock for real.”
Rose laughed. “Then you’re definitely the lead actor in this movie. The energy here? It’s a full production.”
He smiled, shaking his head in disbelief. “Ha ha… what is going on here?”
And just like that, the heaviness that had once filled the apartment seemed to lift. What was once a room haunted by sorrow now hummed with laughter, kindness, and community. From trauma to teasing, from tears to warmth—God had brought healing, not with thunder, but with yam, laughter, and the soft presence of friends.
But as the door closed behind their laughter, another question hovered in the air:
What happens when new hearts step into old stories?
Who, truly, is ready for what comes next?
Chapter Six
Laughter in the Afternoon
They say joy comes in the morning, but sometimes it arrives at noon—arms full of pounded yam and a grin wide enough to break tension. That’s how Ade returned, pushing open the apartment door like he owned it, a nylon bag of yam in one hand and playful energy in the other.
“Ah-ah! This guy actually bought the yam for real?” Sunday exclaimed, eyebrows raised.
“No be joke, my guy. Na pounded yam sure pass today,” Ade replied with a confident smirk. “Good morning jare.”
Sunday glanced at the wall clock. “Morning? Bros, it’s already 12:15pm o!”
A soft chuckle emerged from Beatrice who had been lounging nearby. “Hi there.”
Ade turned to her with mock surprise. “Ah! Now I see why my guy forgot time. Good afternoon, madam—or are you also pretending it’s still morning?”
“I’m very much in the afternoon,” she said, eyes twinkling. “He’s the one lost in time.”
Ade laughed. “E clear. We all don pass that road before.”
Sunday shook his head, amused. “You people are clowns. Ade, meet Beatrice—my longtime friend. Just came back from abroad.”
Beatrice extended her hand. “Nice to meet you, nonsense friend.”
Ade grinned, taking it. “Ah! I like this one. We go relate well. No dull moment.”
“Sorry o,” she said, teasing. “Just catching cruise.”
“No wahala. I dey onboard already.”
“Okay,” she said, shifting to a more formal tone. “Let me behave—nice to meet you, sir.”
“The pleasure’s mine,” Ade replied. “I hope this guy has told you how fine you are?”
“He’s trying small,” Beatrice said, brushing off the compliment with a laugh.
“Abeg help us reset his brain. E dey misbehave sometimes.”
“I’m beginning to see signs,” she said with a chuckle.
Sunday interjected, trying to rein in the banter. “Ah-ah, two of you—face front, please.”
A knock interrupted them.
Sunday frowned. “Who’s knocking? I’m not expecting anyone.”
“Relax. It’s my package,” Ade said casually.
“Your what?”
Ade raised his voice. “Enter, the door’s open!”
The door opened, and soft footsteps followed.
“Hello!” a woman’s voice called out.
“Come in, baby,” Ade said warmly. “Let me introduce you.”
He gestured around the room. “This is Sunday—my roommate and padi. That’s Beatrice—his friend from way back. Everyone, meet Rose—my person.”
“Nice to meet you both,” Rose said, her voice soft but assured.
Beatrice smiled. “Welcome, our wife o! These guys can be stubborn, but we’ll train you.”
Sunday blinked, looking confused. “Wait, someone explain what’s going on here?”
Beatrice chuckled. “Don’t be confused, dear. I was leaving o, but now that our wife is here, I’ll hang around a little longer. Ade, how far with the yam?”
“As planned, I got it. Time to pound.”
“What soup are we using?” she asked.
“Egusi—inside the fridge.”
“The one you said you cooked?”
Ade gave a sheepish grin. “Correction—Sunday cooked it. I only supervised.”
“So, you lied?”
“Small lie. Na packaging. I be marketer.”
Sunday groaned. “Una don start again.”
Beatrice pretended to be annoyed. “You annoyed me, but I forgive you. Come, take a kiss.”
She leaned in and pecked his cheek. The room erupted in laughter.
“But for lying,” she added with mock severity, “you shall be judged.”
“Ehn! Court case?” Ade asked, feigning fear.
“Yes o. You will:
– Carry all you brought to the kitchen
– Fetch everything I need
– Take me to all rooms like a queen on inspection
– Then return with your babe to help me cook.”
“I rise,” she concluded with dramatic flair.
“Court adjourned!” Ade announced.
Sunday laughed, shaking his head. “Are you two okay like this?”
Ade turned to Rose. “Come, your majesty. Rose baby, this is how madness takes over this house.”
“Honestly? I’m loving it already,” she replied. “This vibe is perfect.”
“We’ll be back,” Ade said, leading her away.
Rose paused to greet Sunday. “Hi Sunday.”
“Hey, how are you?” he replied, still slightly dazed.
“You look like you’re still in character. The play is over o,” she teased.
“I’m genuinely in shock.”
“Then you’re the lead actor here,” she said with a laugh. “I already feel the story shaping up.”
Sunday managed a smile. “Seriously… what is going on in this house?”
Chapter Seven
Old Wounds, New Fronts
Not every return feels like home.
Sunday stood at the edge of the kitchen, arms crossed, staring at Beatrice like she’d just morphed into someone else. The air was heavier now. The humor of earlier moments clung to the walls like echoes, fading fast.
“Beatrice,” he said slowly, “what’s this game you’re playing?”
“Game?” she fired back, her voice sharp. “Really? You want to stand there and pretend this isn’t your lifestyle?”
He blinked, confused. “What are you talking about?”
She laughed, but it wasn’t joyful. “Come on, Sunday. I’m not a child. I’m a street babe—you know that. Let me just say what’s on my mind.”
Her tone dropped. “This is your house. I know. But your friend? He’s using your space to run things… which means you’re probably into the same thing too. I looked at your bed and thought—hmm, this must be where the action happens. Now I’m here… waiting to be the next girl on the list.”
She paused, her expression hard. “You get protection? If not, better go get some.”
Sunday felt his chest tighten. “Beatrice… no. That’s not what this is. This is all a misunderstanding—this whole vibe is fake. Just a front.”
“Please,” she said with a sarcastic scoff. “I know the game. I’ve been on the streets long enough. And guess what? I’m in.”
“In what?” he asked, voice rising with concern.
“In the game, Sunday,” she replied coldly.
From the distance came the faint sound of laughter, maybe a soft romantic tune humming from a phone speaker. It made her smirk.
“Oh, it’s about to go down,” she said. “You know what?”
“What?”
“I’m turning off the gas. Let them finish round one, we’ll do ours, and then I’ll continue the cooking. Win-win.”
“Beatrice, stop,” he said, voice firm now. “I’m not in for this. Just stop it.”
A knock came at the door.
“You expecting someone?” she asked sharply.
“No.”
“Maybe it’s one of the girls you slaughter on that sacred bed of yours,” she snapped.
“Enough, Beatrice. That’s nonsense.”
“Let’s open the door then,” she dared him. “I’d love to see how you’ll explain to her that the mother of the house is already here.”
Sunday sighed deeply and began walking toward the door.
Another knock—louder this time.
“I’m coming…” he muttered.
And in that moment, it wasn’t just a door he was opening. It was a collision—between the wounded past and an unready present.
Because pain, when unhealed, becomes a lens—twisting truth into suspicion, and affection into manipulation.
Sunday wasn’t just facing Beatrice.
He was standing before the version of her that didn’t know how to be loved.
And he wasn’t sure if he could survive that kind of war.
Chapter Eight
The Reckoning
The weight of past choices doesn’t always knock. Sometimes, it breaks the door down.
It was midday, but the light in Sunday’s apartment seemed to dim as if the walls themselves anticipated judgment. The air grew thick just moments before the front door groaned open—not the gentle swing of welcome, but the jarring shove of a trespasser.
Beatrice turned at the sound, her voice catching in her throat.
“Oh my God… Ray?”
He stepped inside with a quiet, measured calm that chilled the room.
“Hello, Beatrice,” he said, voice smooth as satin, but eyes hard as steel. “Nice to see you again.”
Sunday stood rooted to the floor, his instincts flaring. “Who are you, please?”
Ray smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Hello, lover boy. How are you?”
Beatrice’s eyes darted wildly. “Ray, please… don’t do this. Let the poor boy go.”
Ray turned to her, gaze razor-sharp. “Oh really? What have you told him?”
“Nothing!” Beatrice cried, voice trembling. “We’re just meeting today. Since you arrived—nothing happened!”
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “Okay… you, boy.”
Sunday swallowed hard. “Yes, sir?”
“What did she tell you?”
There was silence. And from down the hall, faint, unmistakable sounds—laughter, the creak of bedsprings, a hushed moan.
Ray’s attention shifted, and his lips curled into a cruel smile.
“Oh… we’ve got company.” He motioned toward the hallway. “Lead me to the source. Move. Now.”
Sunday obeyed, legs weak, heart thundering. They reached Ade’s room. Ray didn’t knock. He kicked the door open.
Ade shot up, tangled in bedsheets. “Guy, are you mad?! Why would you barge in like that—”
Then he saw the gun. His bravado evaporated.
Rose clutched the sheet to her chest. “Jesus!”
Ray’s voice oozed sarcasm. “Calling God during fornication? That’s rich.”
Ade raised his hands slowly. “Oga, please…”
“I’m not here for you,” Ray said, stepping further into the room. “I’m here for Beatrice.”
“What?” Ade’s voice cracked. “I don die today…”
Ray ignored him. “She’s an old associate… from Egypt. She betrayed me.”
Beatrice stumbled in, tears already welling. “Ray, I didn’t! I swear I can explain—”
He didn’t raise his voice. That made it worse.
“Akeem is dead.”
The words fell like bricks. Beatrice collapsed to her knees.
“No… Oh my God…”
“You used him as bait to escape,” Ray continued coldly. “He was captured. And in the center of the yard, they cut off his head. Now my family is caged. If I don’t kill you, they will all die.”
Beatrice sobbed uncontrollably. “Please… Ray…”
Ray turned slowly, his gaze sweeping over the room. “You weren’t supposed to drag others into this… but now, your company knows too much.”
“They don’t know anything!” she screamed. “Let them go!”
His eyes fell on the Bible resting innocently on the center table. He raised an eyebrow.
“Well, look at that. Hand it to me.”
Ade scrambled to pick it up, holding it out with shaking hands. “Here, sir.”
Ray opened it, letting the pages flutter.
“So,” he said, “who here is the child of God?”
No one answered.
He looked at Sunday. “What’s your name?”
“Sunday, sir.”
“I asked earlier: what did Beatrice tell you? Think carefully before you answer. This is the Bible.” He raised it. “I pray every day. I believe no harm will fall on me where this Word is present. But the same Bible says: ‘All liars shall have their part in the lake of fire.’ So… for your safety—don’t lie.”
Sunday broke. “Oh God… I’m sorry. Lord, I get it now. I disobeyed You. Please forgive me… I’m truly sorry.”
Ray nodded. “Amen.”
Rose, her voice frantic, cut in. “Sir, please! Today’s my first time here. I be street girl o! I fit work for you—anything you want! Just please—”
A gunshot cracked through the room.
Ade screamed. “Ha!”
Sunday collapsed to the floor, sobbing. “God! Please, Lord have mercy!”
“Oga, please!” Ade begged. “We’ll be quiet! Don’t kill us! I beg you!”
Another gunshot. The scream this time came from Beatrice.
“Ray! Please! Don’t do this! They didn’t deserve this! It’s me you want. Take me!”
Sunday clutched his head. “Lord, I’m sorry. I didn’t start my day with You. I was wrong. Forgive me!”
A third shot rang out.
Beatrice fell to the ground, weeping. “Please, Ray. I’m the one you should’ve killed. Not them!”
Ray stood still, then opened the Bible and read aloud:
“‘Be ye therefore followers of God, as dear children.
And walk in love, as Christ also hath loved us, and hath given himself for us…
But fornication and all uncleanness… let it not be once named among you…
Redeeming the time, because the days are evil…’”
In the distance, sirens began to wail.
Beatrice’s head snapped up. “Ray! The police!”
He didn’t flinch. “That should be the least of your worry, sweetheart.”
His phone buzzed. He pressed it to his ear.
“Hello, boss. I’ve found her. She has company—three of them. Shall I switch to video so you see I’ve completed the mission?”
A voice crackled through. “Switch.”
Ray turned the camera.
The boss laughed. “Look at you, Beatrice. Rayman!”
“Yes, boss.”
“Bring her alive. Switch to Plan B.”
“Right away, sir.”
The call ended.
Beatrice’s voice was barely a whisper. “Ray… please…”
His demeanor shifted—colder, more final.
“Looks like you still have time—hours, days, weeks… maybe years.” He holstered the gun. “Let’s go home.”
She shook her head, tears streaking her face. “Ray… just kill me.”
He scowled. “Stop the nonsense. Get dressed. The jet’s waiting.”
She stared at the floor. “Oh God… my life is a mess.”
He walked to the door. “Let’s go.”
Their footsteps faded.
Epilogue
The Light Still Calls
Sin never leaves quietly.
It hides in shadows, festers in silence, and waits for its moment to strike.
Beatrice tried to outrun her past. But it was faster.
Sunday, Ade, and Rose—caught in her chaos—were left in ruins, bleeding not just from wounds, but from broken truths.
But heaven isn’t far from those who cry.
Even in the darkest hour, a single whisper—“Lord, forgive me”—can pierce the night.
There’s always a choice:
To keep walking in darkness…
Or cry out for light.
“Redeeming the time, for the days are evil.”
Choose the light—while there’s still time.
THE END
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