STAINS ON THE CROSS | PART THREE

Days later, sunlight poured over unfamiliar streets as they traveled together, stretching across concrete roads and painted walls. Vehicles passed steadily, engines humming and horns sounding in short bursts, while voices echoed from roadside shops. 

Dust lifted under their steps, rising and settling again like restless witnesses.

Jimmi walked in silent awe, her eyes taking in every detail, while Jemimah moved with confidence beside her. Jemimah gestured openly toward grand houses and wide iron gates, each property standing boldly behind high fences—homes people said belonged to Jesh. 

The gates gleamed in the sun, guards nodded from shaded corners, and the weight of wealth hung visibly in the air.

Questions flowed from Jimmi, cautious yet curious, her voice low but persistent as they stopped strangers along the way. People answered without hesitation—pointing, nodding, affirming ownership with certainty. 

Doubt mixed with wonder, tangling tightly in her spirit, as admiration wrestled with restraint and an unease she could not fully name.

Jimmi spent three days in the house of Jemimah’s parents. The tiled floors stayed cool beneath her feet, and the walls echoed with comfort, laughter, and subtle persuasion. Conversations lingered late into the evenings, soft but deliberate, pressing gently against her convictions. 

By the time they both returned to school, something inside her had shifted, though she could not say exactly when it happened.

Back in Jemimah’s room, evening shadows gathered once more. The hum of distant generators drifted through the open window as orange light faded into dusk. 

Jemimah leaned forward eagerly, her posture alert, her attention fixed fully on Jimmi. Anticipation burned bright in her eyes, and her tone cut into the quiet without delay.

Jemimah (expectant):

“Jimmi... what’s your decision now?”

The question hung in the air like a held breath. Jimmi’s shoulders stiffened as silence pressed in from all sides. The walls seemed to lean closer. Her gaze dropped, and her breath grew uneven as the weight of the moment settled fully upon her, tugging at faith, fear, and fatigue all at once.

A faint pause followed, then her voice surfaced, fragile and uncertain, as though testing the truth aloud.

Jimmi (hesitant):

“I… I have no choice but to marry him.”

The words landed softly, yet their impact rippled outward. Jemimah’s face broke open with delight as she clapped her hands lightly, the sharp sound cutting through the stillness. 

Satisfaction flashed across her face like victory claimed too soon, while Jimmi felt something inside her sink, unseen but heavy. Jemimah’s voice brightened and assured—too quick, too confident.

Jemimah (pleased):

“Good. But before that—you must discard your modest dressing. Makeup, trousers, and modern hairstyles... you must look attractive.”

The room seemed to tighten. Jimmi’s fingers curled around the edge of the chair, knuckles whitening as pressure built within her chest. The air grew heavier, charged with something unsettling, as though a quiet boundary had been crossed. 

Even the distant noise outside faded, leaving only the echo of Jemimah’s words and a dull ache of resistance.

Jimmi exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging as if she were laying something down. When she spoke, her tone was subdued, edged with reluctant acceptance rather than defeat.

Jimmi (resigned):

“If that’s what it takes… I agree. But there’s a five-day program in my church. I’ll remain modest until it ends.”

A pause followed—brief, measured. Jemimah’s lips curved into a satisfied smile, the matter settled in her mind. Outside, the last light of day slipped behind rooftops, and darkness claimed the corners of the room.

Jemimah’s voice calm and certain, wrapped in reassurance that left no room for argument.

Jemimah (assuring):

“That’s fine. After all, the Spirit brings liberty—don't let anyone put you in bondage. It’s late; let me see you off.”

They stepped into the quiet night together. Crickets filled the air with steady rhythm, their chorus unbroken. Shadows stretched long across the narrow path as the gate swung open and closed softly behind them. The metal latch clicked into place, sealing the moment.

Somewhere deep in Jimmi’s heart, a warning whispered—soft, persistent, and unyielding. It followed her steps, clung to her breath, and lingered long after the night swallowed their footsteps whole.

The five-day general programme at Higher Ground Ministry began on a warm morning. Sunlight filtered through tall church windows, casting long bands of gold across the tiled floor. Dust motes floated gently in the beams, drifting like silent prayers.

Ceiling fans hummed steadily overhead, pushing cool air through rows of cushioned chairs already filling with people. 

Outside, buses arrived one after another, doors hissing open as men, women, youths, and children stepped down. Their voices blended into a low, excited murmur that spilled toward the entrance.

Inside the auditorium, worship rose like incense. Hands lifted. Eyes closed. Some knelt on the floor, others stood still, lips moving in quiet prayer. The atmosphere felt heavy yet sweet, as though heaven itself had leaned close, listening.

Jimmi sat beside her parents, her Bible resting on her lap. Her mother reached for her hand now and then, squeezing it gently, while her father nodded in rhythm with the songs, his eyes glistening beneath the lights.

Each time Jimmi rose and walked toward the altar to lead the chorus, the atmosphere shifted. The microphone barely caught her voice before the power of God swept through the hall. Sound thickened. Air pressed low.

Members staggered back into their chairs. Some slid gently to the floor. Tears streamed freely down faces. Cries of “Lord, have mercy!” and “Revive us!” echoed against the walls, mingling with sobs and whispered prayers. 

It felt as though the very air had grown weighty with glory.

Sick bodies were healed. Strength returned to weak limbs. Hearts long broken softened beneath the overwhelming presence of God, as light pressed hard against hidden darkness.

By the final day, testimonies filled the hall. Voices trembled as people spoke of what they had seen. Others lifted their hands, praising God openly for using Jimmi in such an uncommon way, awe spreading like fire among the crowd.

As the programme ended, people gathered their bags, folded chairs, and exchanged farewells. The sound of movement filled the space. Nearby, several young men lingered, watching quietly.

One after another, they stepped toward Jimmi, each speaking with respect, each making his intentions known. Jimmi listened without interruption, nodding gently, then declined every time. Her tone remained calm, her resolve firm.

A young man adjusted his blue suit jacket and drew in a slow breath. His palms were damp. From a short distance, he watched Jimmi speaking softly to an elderly woman. 

When she turned, her eyes lowered respectfully, he stepped forward. His shoulders squared. His voice emerged carefully, carrying both hope and restraint.

Brother (carefully):

“Sister… please, may I speak with you?”

The moment tightened. Jimmi’s fingers closed around her Bible, the leather creasing under her grip. Without lifting her gaze, her reply came quiet but decisive, cutting cleanly through the noise around them.

Jimmi (firm):

“I’m sorry. I’m not interested.”

She shifted her feet, turned, and walked past him—her steps unhurried but final. The breeze from the open door brushed his face as she passed, cool and fleeting.

He stood frozen. Sounds dulled. Laughter and chatter faded into distance. His chest sank as though something precious had slipped through his hands and vanished beyond reach.

Another man, who had been leaning against a pillar, straightened and walked over. His eyes followed Jimmi briefly before settling on the brother’s face, steady and thoughtful. His tone grounded, carrying a certainty that didn’t need force.

Jace (steady):

“Don’t give up. The two of you are meant to be together.”

The brother swallowed, his gaze still fixed on the doorway Jimmi had passed through, dust drifting in the late afternoon light. His voice unsettled, frayed at the edges.

Brother (troubled):

“She didn’t even look at me. Not once. How can that be God’s will?”

Jace turned his head toward the compound, where buses lined up and people climbed aboard, voices calling destinations into the warm air. His voice contemplative, as though the thought had only just finished forming.

Jace (thoughtful):

“Let’s see where she’s going. Sometimes direction gives understanding.”

They walked at a distance. Gravel crunched underfoot. Engines rumbled nearby, dust lifting and settling as voices rose and fell. 

When Jimmi stepped into a bus marked with the name of a nearby town, the brother stopped. His eyes locked onto the sign, burning the letters into memory.

That night, in his room, a ceiling light glowed faintly overhead. The space was quiet. He knelt beside his bed, elbows resting on the mattress, hands clasped tightly. His tone barely rose above a whisper.

Brother (prayerful):

“Lord, I don’t want to touch what you have not given. If this is of you, lead me the right way.”

A few days later, morning sun lit the compound of Higher Ground Ministry in Jimmi’s town. The gate creaked open as the brother stepped inside. Birds fluttered along the church roof, scattering briefly before settling again. 

He smoothed his shirt and entered Pastor Zaccai’s office, where the scent of old books and polished wood hung quietly in the air. 

After exchanging greetings, he took his seat. Across from him, Pastor Zaccai’s fingers interlocked, eyes attentive. The brother drew a measured breath, shoulders settling as if steadying himself. 

When he spoke, his voice was respectful and careful, carrying both reverence and resolve.

Brother (respectful):

“Pastor… I came because I want to do this right. I saw a sister—Jimmi—during our five-day programme. I prayed. I fasted. I believe the Lord has laid her on my heart.”

Pastor Zaccai leaned back slightly, studying his face, then nodded and sent for Jimmi’s parents.

Moments later, Mr. and Mrs. Levi sat opposite him. The room felt heavy. Mr. Levi exhaled deeply, rubbing his palms together as though warming cold hands.

His voice came out low, roughened by fatigue, carrying the weight of long nights and unanswered prayers.

Mr. Levi (weary):

“Pastor… our daughter has drifted.”

He swallowed hard, a faint quiver betraying the sorrow he tried to hold in. Then, with a trembling sigh that seemed to drain the last of his strength, he continued.

Mr. Levi (sighing):

“…the ground she once stood upon is no longer her own. We’ve been crying to God to restore her.”

Pastor Zaccai’s eyes widened. He leaned forward, disbelief clear across his face, the memory of recent days still fresh. His breath caught for a fraction, voice cracked with astonishment before steadying.

Pastor Zaccai (astonished):

“What? Jimmi? Our choir’s leader? Who led the chorus during our five-day revival programme? The power that fell—even I cried.”

Mrs. Levi shifted in her seat, her hands folded carefully in her lap. She exhaled softly, her voice emerging with a gentle, measured tone that carried the quiet ache of a mother's concern.

Mrs. Levi (concern):

“Pastor… it’s not only her heart. Her appearance too. She says she has peace, but… we’re praying. I believe the Lord will bring her back.”

Silence settled over the room, thick and contemplative. 

Pastor Zaccai lifted his gaze slowly, eyes lingering on each face before he nodded once, deliberate. When his voice came, it was low and steady, carrying the weight of conviction and reverence.

Pastor Zaccai (solemn):

“Then we pray on. Let’s not rush God. It will be a testimony that will shake the foundation of the world.”

​A pause followed, the room holding its breath as the silence ripened. Then, one by one, their voices rose together—soft at first, then gaining strength until they rang with a shared, unyielding faith.

All (united):

“Amen.”

Mr. Levi nodded, resolve firming beneath sorrow. He drew a steady breath, letting the weight of the moment settle into his chest. His tone calm, each word carrying careful thought.

Mr. Levi (measured):

“As for this marriage… the brother should not push too far. Until God fully restores her.”

The brother bowed his head, accepting the weight of the words. When he stepped back into the compound, the sun felt hotter against his skin, the ground harder beneath his feet. 

He had come with hope, but he left carrying sorrow—walking slowly, prayer trailing behind him like unfinished breath.

The compound eventually fell quiet again. Dust settled. Birds returned to their songs. And somewhere unseen, heaven continued to watch, waiting for the next turning of the heart.

To be continue...

Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi

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