TWO MONTHS BEFORE

Part 2 : How It All Began

Let me back up.

It was a Tuesday evening in March. I remember because I'd just left a particularly exhausting shift at ACE Pharmaceutical. We'd had a quality control issue with one of our new formulations, and I'd spent hours in meetings trying to resolve it.

All I wanted was to get home, take a hot shower, and maybe catch the 7 PM Back2Eden program at church. That program had become my lifeline—a safe space where Pastor Mrs. Adeyemi taught us about navigating singleness with purpose, recognizing healthy relationships, and not letting cultural pressure rush us into wrong decisions.

Ironic, isn't it? That I'd been attending a program about discernment, and still almost married the wrong person.

But that Tuesday, I never made it to church.

I was driving through Bodija when my car started making a terrible grinding noise. Then it just... stopped. Right there in the middle of the road, with cars honking behind me and rain starting to pour.

I tried to restart it. Nothing.

I called my father's mechanic. Phone switched off.

And then, as if the universe wanted to add insult to injury, my period cramps hit—the kind that makes you want to curl up in a ball and not move for hours.

I sat there in my dead car, rain drumming on the roof, feeling like the biggest failure. I was 28, educated, professionally successful, and I couldn't even keep my car running. I couldn't make it to the one program that was helping me stay sane about being single in a culture that treated unmarried women my age like we had some kind of expiration date.

I put my head on the steering wheel and fought back tears.

That's when I heard the tap on my window.

I looked up to see a man standing in the rain, holding an umbrella. He was dressed in a brown suit—the kind you wear when you're coming from somewhere important or going somewhere important. His butter-colored shirt was getting wet despite the umbrella, and his brown tie was perfectly knotted.

"Are you okay?" he shouted over the rain. "Do you need help?

"I cracked the window. "My car died. I don't know what's wrong with it.

""Let me take a look." He didn't wait for my permission. He just handed me his umbrella through the window, rolled up his sleeves, and popped my hood.

I watched him through the rain-streaked windshield, this stranger who was getting soaked trying to help me. Most men would have just driven past. Some might have stopped to look, realized they couldn't help, and left.

But this one stayed.

After a few minutes, he came back to my window. "I think it's your alternator, but I'm not sure. Let me call my guy—he's a mechanic. He can come check it out properly.

""You don't have to—""It's fine.

I can't just leave you here.

"While we waited for his mechanic, he stood by my car, in the rain, making sure no one hit me from behind. When a danfo driver started yelling at me to move my "useless car," this stranger—I still didn't even know his name—stepped in front of my car and told the driver to go around.

His mechanic arrived about twenty minutes later. The diagnosis: alternator failure, plus the battery was dead. It would take at least an hour to fix, maybe longer.

"Look," the stranger said, "it's getting dark and it's still raining. This isn't a safe place for you to wait alone. Let me wait with you.

""I can't ask you to do that. You were clearly going somewhere." I gestured to his suit.

He smiled. "I was heading home from work. It can wait. Besides, my mother raised me better than to leave a sister stranded in the rain.

"That's when I finally asked his name."Chris," he said, extending his hand through the window.

""Omolabake," I replied. "Thank you for stopping.

""Omolabake," he repeated, getting the pronunciation right on the first try. "Beautiful name. God's wealth has come home, right?

"I was surprised. Most people, especially non-Yorubas, struggled with my name. "You speak Yoruba?

""My mother is Yoruba, father is Igbo. I grew up with both." He grinned. "Which means I got double the culture and double the expectations.

"I laughed despite myself, despite the cramps, despite the rain, despite everything.

We talked while his mechanic worked. He asked about my job, and I told him about ACE Pharmaceutical. He told me he worked in tech, managing digital communications for a firm in Ibadan. He asked if I lived nearby, and I mentioned I lived with my parents in Bodija, which wasn't far.

"Wait, you're a pharmacist with a good job and you still live with your parents?" He said it with genuine curiosity, not judgment.

"Why not?" I replied, a bit defensive. "My parents respect my privacy, I help with bills, and honestly, why would I waste money on rent when I have a comfortable home?

""That's actually wise," he said, nodding. "Too many people move out just to prove they're 'independent,' then struggle to save money. You're smart.

"That comment stayed with me. Most guys my age would have made fun of me for still living at home. Chris didn't.

By the time the car was fixed—almost two hours later—the rain had stopped and it was completely dark. Chris had stayed the entire time. His suit was wrinkled, his shoes were muddy, and he'd missed whatever plans he'd had.

"Let me follow you home," he said. "Just to make sure the car doesn't act up again.""You've done more than enough—

""Omolabake, it's dark. Please. Just let me make sure you get home safely.

"So he followed me home, his car headlights behind me the whole way, like a guardian. When I pulled into our compound and parked, he pulled up behind me and got out.

My mother had been watching from the window—she always did when I came home late. She came out to the veranda, concern written all over her face.

"Mummy, my car broke down," I called out. "This is Chris. He helped me.

"Chris walked up to the veranda and greeted my mother properly—in Yoruba, with the full prostration. My mother's eyebrows went up in approval.

"Thank you for helping my daughter," she said.

"It was nothing, ma. I'm just glad she's home safe.

"I invited him in for at least some water, but he declined. "It's late already. I should get home. I just wanted to make sure she arrived safely.

"Before he left, we exchanged numbers. "Just in case you have any more car trouble," he said with a smile. "Or if you need recommendations for a better mechanic than the one your father uses.

"I laughed and waved as he drove off.

When I went inside, my mother was waiting. "That was kind of him.

""Yes," I agreed. "Really kind.

""Make sure you thank him properly tomorrow," she said.

I did. I called him the next day to thank him again, and we talked for an hour. Then another hour the next day. And the day after that.

Within two weeks, we were talking every day.Within a month, he'd visited my parents again—this time with that expensive wine for my father and the beautiful watch for my mother. My siblings loved him. He made everyone laugh.

Within two months of dating, Chris started attending my church. "I want to worship where you worship," he said. It seemed romantic at the time. Looking back, I realize he was embedding himself into every part of my life—my family, my church, my world.

Chris felt like a gift.

A man who'd literally appeared in the rain when I needed help most.

How could that not be God?

Looking back now, I realize: not everyone who helps you in the rain is meant to stay in your life.

Sometimes, people appear at your lowest moment because you're vulnerable. And vulnerable people are easy to impress.

I was tired of being single. Tired of the questions. Tired of feeling like I was running out of time.

So when Chris appeared, kind and attentive and interested, I saw what I wanted to see.

An answer to prayer.

Not a test of discernment.

© Adebimpe Obafemi

Part 3 drops on Wednesday by 8pm