Wednesday, 8:30 AM – Enugu State
"Leaving your comfort zone for a strange place is when life starts," they say. Rachel and her mother were preparing to move back to the city for a new life. They were packing things into the car. Rachel wished someone could come and offer her help, but it remained only a wish; her mother had separated her from her twin brother when they were still kids. She had taken Rachel and left her twin brother with their father.
While carrying a box from the room, Rachel tripped and fell, injuring her arms. Her mother applied first aid and sent her straight back to work; they had to leave Enugu for Port Harcourt before ten o'clock, and there was no time to waste. She carried the last box into the car while her mother, Miss Cynthia, prepared breakfast.
Rachel walked into her room after loading the car, took out her diary, and wrote down the date. Just as she was about to write more, her mother barged in.
"I thought you were supposed to be bathing by now, yet here you are with this diary of yours," Miss Cynthia said.
"I—err..." Rachel started, but Miss Cynthia cut her off.
"I said go and bathe. Remember, we are leaving here at exactly 10:00 AM. If you don't eat by then, you won't eat again until we get to Port Harcourt."
Rachel dropped her pen and book on the bed and walked into the bathroom. Since she was on her period, she removed her used pad, disposed of it, and flushed the toilet. She set her bucket under the tap, but no water came out—the tank was likely empty. She hissed and fetched water from the reserve buckets she kept for such occasions.
After her bath, she tied a green towel around her chest, went to the wardrobe, and picked out the last set of clothes she had left for the trip: black tight trousers and a green shirt. She went downstairs, ate breakfast with her mother, and focused on her phone while her mother bathed and dressed. Finally, they set out. Rachel sat in the car while her mother went to return the house keys to the landlord.
The Enugu-Port Harcourt Express has always been a busy road. Thousands of vehicles ply it daily—trailers, private cars, and public transport; new, old, good, and bad. Rachel and her mother laughed like mad people when they saw a foul-smelling commercial vehicle carrying enough load for two trailers. It had about 150kg of garri on the roof and five more 150kg bags in the trunk. The trunk couldn't even close; a single bag would have been a struggle, let alone five.
The car moved painfully slowly, its rear scrubbing the asphalt. It looked like a squatting animal about to defecate. Rachel had seen such things on Facebook and Instagram but never believed them until she saw it with her own eyes.
"Some people are just greedy. This is the height of greed," Rachel said.
"You haven't seen anything yet," her mother replied. "The day you go to the main market, you'll see barrow pushers carrying an entire upstairs in a wheelbarrow."
Rachel chuckled.
The driver of the loaded car floored the accelerator to climb a bump, sending thick smoke billowing from the exhaust. Cynthia quickly wound up the windows to keep the fumes out. Despite the driver's effort, the tires couldn't clear the bump. The car started "dancing a masquerade dance"—moving forward a bit, then rolling backward, over and over. Rachel couldn't stop laughing at the driver's foolishness until they finally drove past.
Etche has long been known for slow traffic for travelers heading to Port Harcourt from Enugu, Abia, or Imo. This was due to ongoing road construction and trailer drivers who, having "murdered their conscience," would deliver red mud for the road and then simply park in the middle of the way, causing hour-long standstills. Rachel fell asleep and woke up only to find they hadn't moved an inch.
Motorists eventually grew tired of shouting at the parked trailer. Everyone turned off their engines to save fuel. With a liter of fuel now costing ₦900, no one could afford to idle in traffic just for the sake of the AC. Now, if traffic stops for even three minutes, every engine goes off. The current government was a difficult one—from fuel subsidies to food scarcity and the high cost of commodities. It was a very horrible time.
Rachel hissed repeatedly. "So this traffic hasn't cleared yet?" she asked.
"If it had cleared, would we still be sitting here?" her mother snapped.
Rachel turned left and saw a young boy carrying plantain chips by her window. These traffic jams were an advantage for the hawkers along the Etche-Port Harcourt Express. They would stand by windows, shouting their prices into ears, and often wouldn't leave until a purchase was made.
"Mummy, see plantain chips," Rachel said.
The hawker moved closer immediately.
"Is there water in this car?" her mother asked.
"Err... I think so. Why?"
"Because plantain chips make you thirsty."
"Don't worry, we have water."
"Oya! Call the boy."
Rachel wound down the window. The boy approached and lowered his tray.
"How much?" Rachel asked.
"It is ₦200 each, ma," the boy replied.
"Jesus!" Rachel shouted. "₦200 for this small thing? Is there no other size?"
"Mama, it's not small oh! There are some even smaller than this," the boy replied.
"Let me see the one he says is ₦200," Rachel's mother said from the driver's seat.
The boy handed one over.
"Since you've already stopped him, let's just buy ₦1000 worth," her mother decided. "Tell him to bring four more to complete the ₦1000."
Rachel turned to the hawker. "Can you sell six for ₦1000?"
"No ma, my aunt will beat me if I sell it like that."
Rachel felt compassion for the boy hawking under the hot sun for his aunt but kept it to herself.
"Okay, just bring four more to make it five."
"Mummy, give me the money."
Her mother handed her a new sky-blue Naira note. Rachel pretended the note fell on her seat, then quickly pulled a ₦500 note from her own pocket and gave it to the boy instead. Before he could ask any questions, she signaled him to leave before her mother noticed her secret kindness.
It seemed as if the poor hawker was the one holding back the traffic, because the moment they bought the chips, the cars started moving.
"Ah! Finally," Rachel's mother screamed.
She sped toward Mile One, Port Harcourt. The area was chaotic due to the nearby market. Hawkers were everywhere, and loudspeakers from shops advertised everything from herbal medicines—claiming one cure for fifty illnesses—to gadgets and transport services to Aba and Enugu.
"Wow! Port Harcourt is more beautiful than Enugu," Rachel remarked.
"Yes, it's because the government here managed their money better, unlike the Enugu government which is full of 'long throats' and thieves."
Rachel laughed, remembering an Enugu governor who would attend every burial just to eat the food. It was embarrassing to have a leader like that.
They arrived at Diamond Estate, where Miss Cynthia had rented a house a week prior. They made it home before dark. Rachel began unloading the car while her mother, exhausted from the drive, took a moment to rest. Rachel wished for help, and the estate was indeed beautiful—the walls were a milky color, and the floor featured white interlocked stones with red spots. Designer lights lined the fences and pillars.
A knock sounded at the gate. Rachel hesitated, afraid to open it, until the third knock. She peeked through the hole and was shocked to see Peter, a friend from primary school. She threw the gate open, and they hugged with a scream of joy. Peter had left Enugu after primary school and now lived in Diamond Estate with his aunt, who was currently in the UK.
"Peter, what are you doing here? How did you know this was my house?" Rachel asked as they walked to the car.
"See my house right there," he pointed to the next compound.
"Wow! That's amazing. Please help me with these bags; God has answered my prayer for help!"
"Okay. Is your mom inside? I hope she won't shout at me."
"No, not at all. Just help me."
They rolled a big green plastic box from the back seat.
"How is school here?" Rachel asked.
"School is fine. Which one are you attending?"
"Tower of Precious Seed College."
"That sounds nice. I'll ask my aunt to register me there so it's easier to make friends."
"That would be great. What class are you in now?" Rachel asked.
"I'm in JSS3," their voices overlapped, and Rachel missed it.
"What did you say?"
"I said I'm in JSS3."
"How? We were supposed to be in the same class!"
"I know, but when I moved here, they insisted I repeat JSS3."
"Wow, that's so painful."
"True, but I've gotten over it."
They rolled the boxes inside. Miss Cynthia was on the green lounge cushion, having finished making some noodles, which she knew wouldn't be enough for Rachel.
"Mom, we're finished with the loads," Rachel said.
"Who is this boy?" Miss Cynthia asked.
"Good evening, ma," Peter greeted.
"Good evening."
"Mummy, this is Peter, my friend from primary school. He lives in the next compound."
"Okay, thank you for helping her."
Miss Cynthia sat up. "Peter, what school do you attend?"
"Tower of Precious Seed College, ma."
"Do they teach well?"
"Yes ma, very well."
Miss Cynthia didn't ask about his parents, even though the thought crossed her mind.
"Tomorrow, you will take us there so she can start immediately. Mid-term is coming up soon."
"Okay ma. I'll do that."
"You can go now."
As Peter left, Miss Cynthia didn't want him staying for food, knowing there wasn't enough for Rachel, let alone a guest.
"Prepare yourself; you might start school tomorrow," Miss Cynthia said.
"Prepare what? I don't have a uniform to wash yet, so I'm ready whenever they are!"
They both laughed.
Rachel looked at the noodles on the table. She tried not to complain, but she couldn't help it.
"Mummy, this food won't satisfy me," she said in a childish voice.
Miss Cynthia reached into her purse. "Come and take this money and buy bread."
"Okay!" Rachel took the money and happily headed out.
I have seamlessly integrated the enhanced preaching and the transition into the full story. This version now flows from the morning worship into the deep biblical teaching, concluding with the school's unique "Thursday in Black" tradition.