CHAPTER Eight: STANDING ON THE PROMISE
Sunday morning arrived with that familiar golden haze, sunlight dripping lazily through half-drawn curtains, the smell of rice parboiling from a neighbour's kitchen, the far-off murmur of a church bell.
Liliana fastened her earrings in front of the cracked mirror, adjusting the collar of her pale-blue blouse. Her mother's voice floated from the corridor.
"Lili! Hurry up, we'll be late for Mass!"
"I'm almost done!" she called back, dabbing powder lightly over her face.
Her reflection looked neat, composed, almost delicate. Nothing in it betrayed the restless mind behind her calm eyes, the woman who wrote fierce essays at night, hidden under the name Stormbird, shaking tables across social media.
Online, she was a bold, sharp-tongued, unapologetically feminist.
Offline, she was the polite Miss Liliana Nwoke, the Civic Education and social studies teacher at Holy Faith College, quiet and dependable.
Even her colleagues didn't know she was the same woman people argued about in group chats, the one who wrote:
"If patience were a crown, women would have long worn themselves bald."
She smiled faintly at the thought as she picked up her purse.
The parish was already half-filled when they arrived.
Fans groaned overhead, scattering the heavy smell of perfume and sweat. The choir sang "Standing on the Promises of God", voices blending beautifully with the organ.
Liliana knelt, crossed herself, and tried to focus.
But as Father Benedict's voice droned on about faith, her mind drifted elsewhere, to her recent post about how women fall in love easily, only to be drained by men who never planned to stay.
That post had gone viral. She had even shared it to YouRochi, the women's Facebook group, and by the next day, her inbox was flooded with heartbreak stories, angry rants, messages of solidarity, and a few insults.
One woman had written:
You're saying what we've all been too tired to say. God bless you."
Another said, "This is why men hate you."
Liliana sighed softly, her fingers tracing the edges of her missal. She wondered how long she could keep writing like this — saying the truth and pretending it wasn't hers.
After Mass, her mother went on her usual post-service mission, greeting everyone, laughing, exchanging hugs, promising to "stop by soon."
Liliana stood outside, near the jacaranda tree, watching the dust dance in the sunlight. The air smelled of roasted corn from a nearby vendor, mixed with faint incense from the altar boys packing up.
Then she heard a voice.
Miss Liliana !!
She turned, startled, and there he was.
Emmanuel.
He was dressed simply: a cream shirt rolled to his elbows, dark trousers, wristwatch gleaming. His skin caught the sunlight in shades of bronze, and his smile, easy and self-assured, held something playful beneath it.
She hadn't really looked at him the other day in the principal's office, too angry and embarrassed to notice. But now, standing in the daylight, she saw him clearly: the clean haircut, the sleepy eyes, the faint dimple that appeared when he smiled.
"Emmanuel," she said quietly. "It's been a while."
"It has," he replied. "You looked ready to run that day."
"I was."
He laughed softly. "Don't mind my mother. She tends to dramatise everything she doesn't understand."
Liliana smiled faintly. "She was… very expressive."
"I'm sorry about that. Come on, let me make it up to you. There's a cafeteria down the road. We can talk like normal people this time."
...….
The café was small, quiet, smelling of meat pies and powdered milk. They sat by the window, where sunlight fell through dusty blinds.
A radio hummed low in the corner, playing Ayra Starr's "Commas."
"So," Emmanuel said, leaning back, "how's teaching treating you?"
"Like it always does, too much stress, too little reward."
"Sounds like the whole country," he laughed. "That's why I didn't go into lecturing after my Master's."
"Oh? Where did you study?"
"London. Economics. I just came back. Trying to decide what to do next, maybe start a logistics firm. Or an agri-tech company. Or maybe just breathe for a while before life swallows me."
Liliana sipped her malt and nodded. "You sound unsure."
"I am. Everyone keeps telling me to 'settle down, ' as I should already have a family and a business plan at twenty-eight."
"And do you want that?" she asked.
He smiled faintly. "Sometimes. Mostly, I just want to figure out who I am before becoming someone's husband or CEO."
"That's rare," she said softly. "Most people your age just chase what's expected."
He looked at her for a long second. "And you? What do you chase?"
Liliana chuckled. "Peace. And maybe a good night's sleep."
He tilted his head. "Peace from what?"
"From noise," she said. "From opinions, expectations, everything. You ever feel like everyone's shouting, but no one's saying anything?"
"All the time," he admitted.
There was a pause, comfortable but charged.
Outside, a child laughed. Inside, the fan clicked lazily as it turned.
Then he said, almost casually, "You know, I've been reading that writer everyone's always angry about, what's her name again? Stormbird?"
Liliana's breath caught, but she forced a small smile. "You read her?"
"Yeah. My mom can't stand her. Thinks she's ruining women with her 'radical ideas.'"
"And you?"
He grinned. "I think she's brilliant!!. She makes people uncomfortable, which usually means she's telling the truth. My mom says she's anti-marriage, but I think she's anti-suffering."
Liliana's chest tightened, a strange mixture of pride and fear. "That's… an interesting perspective."
"She writes like she's seen too much," he said quietly, his eyes holding hers. "Like she's lived every story she tells."
She looked away. "Maybe she has."
"I wouldn't mind meeting her," he said.
She smiled faintly, hiding behind her cup. "You probably already have."
He laughed, not catching the undertone. "Then I hope she's as bold as her words."
They left the café later than expected.
The sun was beginning to set, staining the air with a burnt orange glow. Emmanuel's car was parked nearby — a black Corolla, spotless, faintly smelling of citrus and pine air freshener.
He opened the door for her. The moment she sat down, a soft rhythm flowed from the speakers, "Running" by Chike. The air conditioner hissed gently, cooling the leftover heat of the afternoon.
The silence between them wasn't awkward; it pulsed with something unspoken.
"I think I'll stay in Nigeria for a bit," he said after a while. "Start something small, then maybe go back when I've built my own foundation here."
"That's wise," she said. "Most people think the answer is always abroad."
He nodded. "Maybe I'll even marry before I leave."
Liliana glanced at him. "You sound like you're already auditioning candidates."
He smiled. "Maybe I am."
She turned away quickly, staring out the window at the sky, a blend of pink and gold, her reflection faintly visible against the glass.
She could feel his gaze linger a moment too long.
When they reached her street, she hesitated before opening the door.
"Thank you," she said softly.
He nodded. "Same time next Sunday?"
"Maybe."
"Promise?"
She smiled faintly. "Promises are dangerous things, Emmanuel."
"Then maybe we start with hope," he said.
She stepped out, closing the door gently behind her, the air from the car still clinging to her skin, citrus, clean, and something else she couldn't name.
That night, she didn't write in her notepad.
She wallowed in the thought of every moment she had spent with Emmanuel.