ARÍRE (We Have Seen Goodness)

Rain Does Not Fall on One Roof Alone

🎶So I brought it up in a desperate prayer
Lord, why are you keeping me here?
Then He said to me,
Child I'm planting seeds
I'm a good God
and I have a good plan
So trust that I'm holding a watering can
And someday you'll see
That flowers grow in the valley🎶

The song "Flowers" by Samantha Ebert best describes how I feel writing this chapter. The lyrics are so powerful, and I absolutely recommend that anyone reading this chapter listen to this song.

Happy reading! ❤

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I needed to talk to someone, to unburden my heart, and there was no other person I wanted to talk to at this moment other than Titi.

I quickly wore my orange bubu gown and tied my scarf hurriedly before leaving the apartment. With the ban on okada riders in Lagos, I had to take a danfo to Titi's place in Ojota.

As I approached Titi's apartment, I noticed Iya Musa, the pepper seller with her stall in front of the building, rebuking her son in a voice that carried the weight of her forefather generations.

"Musa! How many times have I told you not to play football in the gutter?" Her voice was a thunderclap, and Musa cowered with a guilty expression.

"Momi, emabinu, it's Yakubu that forced me to play," the poor boy said.

"Na Yakubu dey feed you, abi? You want to be stubborn like your useless father, ehn Musa?"

"Good afternoon, Iya Musa," I greeted her politely.

"Ah, Aríre, good afternoon."

"Iya Musa, please, on my behalf, can you pardon Musa for me? He will not repeat it again. Abi, you will repeat it again, Musa?" I asked the boy, who shook his head vigorously, his eyes pleading.

"Ah! Aríre, this boy too dey stubborn like him useless papa, and I go commot that stubbornness from him with cane."

"Haba! Iya Musa, this one na small child ooo."

"Wetin be your own sef? Na you born am? Abeg, no go put your mouth for my matter. If you don born your own pikin, manage am how you like. After all, the child wey talk say him mama no go sleep, e too go find say him no go sleep."

Her words stung, but I knew I had overstepped my boundaries. "Emabinu ooooo," I pleaded before making my way into the house. As I climbed the stairs, I could hear the joyous laughter of Isaiah as he giggled loudly.

I knocked on Titi's door, and I heard Uncle Gbade's voice informing Titi that someone was at the door.

The door opened, and Titi's face appeared. "Aríre!" she exclaimed, pulling me into a tight embrace. "You didn't tell me you were coming. Oya, come in, come in."

I managed a weak smile and stepped into Titi's cozy apartment. In the living room, her husband, Uncle Gbade, was on the floor, playing with their son Isaiah. The scene tugged at my heart.

"Uncle Gbade, good morning," I greeted, my smile faltering.

"Aríre, good morning. How's the family?"

"We are fine," I replied weakly.

Uncle Gbade excused himself from the room, taking with him an hyperactive Isaiah who was bouncing all around.

Titi led me to the couch, her eyes filled with concern. "What's wrong, Aríre? Your face doesn't look good."

Tears welled up in my eyes as I recounted the ordeal of last night. Titi listened intently, her face darkening with anger.