Two Months Before
Part 1 : The Conversation I'll Never Forget
"Omolabake.
"The way my father said my name that evening—soft, measured, heavy with something I couldn't quite identify—made me look up from my phone. We were in the living room. My mother had just cleared the dinner plates. The evening news played quietly in the background.
"Omolabake.Omolabake. Omolabake.
"Three times. That's never good.
"Yes, Daddy?" I answered, trying to keep my voice light even though my heart was already racing.
He leaned forward in his favorite chair, hands clasped between his knees. His reading glasses were perched on his head, and he had that expression—the one that made me feel like a little girl again, except I wasn't. I was 28 years old, a licensed pharmacist with a Master's degree in progress, engaged to be married in three months.
"Have you really prayed about Chris?" His voice was quieter than usual. Not angry—just concerned in that way that makes your stomach drop. "I mean, beyond asking God to bless what you've already decided?
"The question hit me like cold water. I felt my shoulders tense.
"Daddy, I'm not a child anymore. I'm 28. I'm a professional. I can hear from God myself." The words came out sharper than I intended.
He didn't flinch. He just watched me with those eyes that had seen me through scraped knees, heartbreaks, and sleepless nights studying for pharmacy exams. The eyes that had celebrated my first job offer and helped me buy my first car.
"I know you can, Omolabake. I've never doubted your ability to hear from God." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was even softer. "I just... I don't have peace about this. Your mother and I—we've been praying. And I keep asking God to show me what I'm missing, to help me understand why I feel this way. But all I know is... there's no peace.
""But Daddy, you can't even tell me what's wrong with him!" My voice was rising now, frustration bubbling over. "Chris is a good man. He's a Christian. He has a job. His family is lovely. What more do you want?
""I don't know," he admitted, and for the first time, I saw something in my father's face I'd rarely seen: helplessness. "That's what troubles me most. I can't point to one thing and say 'this is it.' But Omolabake, I've learned over the years that when the Holy Spirit removes peace, there's a reason. Even if we can't see it yet.
"I stood up, my phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline. "So what are you saying? That I should call off my wedding because of a *feeling*?
""I'm saying," he said carefully, standing too, "that you should pray. Really pray. Ask God to show you the truth about Chris—not the version you want to see, but who he really is.
"What I didn't say aloud but screamed in my head: Why can't you just be happy for me? Why can't you trust that I know what I'm doing?
My mother appeared in the doorway, having heard everything. She didn't say a word. She just looked at me with sad, knowing eyes that made me want to cry and scream at the same time.
I mumbled something about having work to finish and escaped to my room.
That conversation happened three months into my engagement. I wish—oh, how I wish—I had listened.
©Adebimpe Jumoke Obafemi
Part 1 : The Conversation I'll Never Forget
"Omolabake.
"The way my father said my name that evening—soft, measured, heavy with something I couldn't quite identify—made me look up from my phone. We were in the living room. My mother had just cleared the dinner plates. The evening news played quietly in the background.
"Omolabake.Omolabake. Omolabake.
"Three times. That's never good.
"Yes, Daddy?" I answered, trying to keep my voice light even though my heart was already racing.
He leaned forward in his favorite chair, hands clasped between his knees. His reading glasses were perched on his head, and he had that expression—the one that made me feel like a little girl again, except I wasn't. I was 28 years old, a licensed pharmacist with a Master's degree in progress, engaged to be married in three months.
"Have you really prayed about Chris?" His voice was quieter than usual. Not angry—just concerned in that way that makes your stomach drop. "I mean, beyond asking God to bless what you've already decided?
"The question hit me like cold water. I felt my shoulders tense.
"Daddy, I'm not a child anymore. I'm 28. I'm a professional. I can hear from God myself." The words came out sharper than I intended.
He didn't flinch. He just watched me with those eyes that had seen me through scraped knees, heartbreaks, and sleepless nights studying for pharmacy exams. The eyes that had celebrated my first job offer and helped me buy my first car.
"I know you can, Omolabake. I've never doubted your ability to hear from God." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was even softer. "I just... I don't have peace about this. Your mother and I—we've been praying. And I keep asking God to show me what I'm missing, to help me understand why I feel this way. But all I know is... there's no peace.
""But Daddy, you can't even tell me what's wrong with him!" My voice was rising now, frustration bubbling over. "Chris is a good man. He's a Christian. He has a job. His family is lovely. What more do you want?
""I don't know," he admitted, and for the first time, I saw something in my father's face I'd rarely seen: helplessness. "That's what troubles me most. I can't point to one thing and say 'this is it.' But Omolabake, I've learned over the years that when the Holy Spirit removes peace, there's a reason. Even if we can't see it yet.
"I stood up, my phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline. "So what are you saying? That I should call off my wedding because of a *feeling*?
""I'm saying," he said carefully, standing too, "that you should pray. Really pray. Ask God to show you the truth about Chris—not the version you want to see, but who he really is.
"What I didn't say aloud but screamed in my head: Why can't you just be happy for me? Why can't you trust that I know what I'm doing?
My mother appeared in the doorway, having heard everything. She didn't say a word. She just looked at me with sad, knowing eyes that made me want to cry and scream at the same time.
I mumbled something about having work to finish and escaped to my room.
That conversation happened three months into my engagement. I wish—oh, how I wish—I had listened.
©Adebimpe Jumoke Obafemi
Two Months Before
Part 1 : The Conversation I'll Never Forget
"Omolabake.
"The way my father said my name that evening—soft, measured, heavy with something I couldn't quite identify—made me look up from my phone. We were in the living room. My mother had just cleared the dinner plates. The evening news played quietly in the background.
"Omolabake.Omolabake. Omolabake.
"Three times. That's never good.
"Yes, Daddy?" I answered, trying to keep my voice light even though my heart was already racing.
He leaned forward in his favorite chair, hands clasped between his knees. His reading glasses were perched on his head, and he had that expression—the one that made me feel like a little girl again, except I wasn't. I was 28 years old, a licensed pharmacist with a Master's degree in progress, engaged to be married in three months.
"Have you really prayed about Chris?" His voice was quieter than usual. Not angry—just concerned in that way that makes your stomach drop. "I mean, beyond asking God to bless what you've already decided?
"The question hit me like cold water. I felt my shoulders tense.
"Daddy, I'm not a child anymore. I'm 28. I'm a professional. I can hear from God myself." The words came out sharper than I intended.
He didn't flinch. He just watched me with those eyes that had seen me through scraped knees, heartbreaks, and sleepless nights studying for pharmacy exams. The eyes that had celebrated my first job offer and helped me buy my first car.
"I know you can, Omolabake. I've never doubted your ability to hear from God." He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was even softer. "I just... I don't have peace about this. Your mother and I—we've been praying. And I keep asking God to show me what I'm missing, to help me understand why I feel this way. But all I know is... there's no peace.
""But Daddy, you can't even tell me what's wrong with him!" My voice was rising now, frustration bubbling over. "Chris is a good man. He's a Christian. He has a job. His family is lovely. What more do you want?
""I don't know," he admitted, and for the first time, I saw something in my father's face I'd rarely seen: helplessness. "That's what troubles me most. I can't point to one thing and say 'this is it.' But Omolabake, I've learned over the years that when the Holy Spirit removes peace, there's a reason. Even if we can't see it yet.
"I stood up, my phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline. "So what are you saying? That I should call off my wedding because of a *feeling*?
""I'm saying," he said carefully, standing too, "that you should pray. Really pray. Ask God to show you the truth about Chris—not the version you want to see, but who he really is.
"What I didn't say aloud but screamed in my head: Why can't you just be happy for me? Why can't you trust that I know what I'm doing?
My mother appeared in the doorway, having heard everything. She didn't say a word. She just looked at me with sad, knowing eyes that made me want to cry and scream at the same time.
I mumbled something about having work to finish and escaped to my room.
That conversation happened three months into my engagement. I wish—oh, how I wish—I had listened.
©Adebimpe Jumoke Obafemi
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