THE BATTLE FOR A SAINTESS | PART FIFTEEN
Night had settled heavily over the presidential residence. The vast compound lay quiet beneath pale moonlight.
Tall security lights burned steadily along the perimeter walls, casting long shadows across the tiled courtyard.
Beyond the towering iron gates, the distant hum of late-night traffic drifted faintly through the air, mingling with the steady chirping of crickets hidden among trimmed hedges and palm trees.
Inside Orean’s guest room, a ceiling fan rotated lazily above, its blades slicing through the warm night air with a soft rhythmic hum.
Excel held his gaze, her shoulders squared but not rigid, as if she had already crossed the point of turning back.
Something steady rose in her expression, quiet but unflinching, as she let the truth settle fully in the open.
Her lips parted, the admission coming forward with careful sincerity, unhidden and unguarded.
Excel (earnest):
“Since I’ve known you, I felt something inside me. I’ve been praying about it. And to be sincere… it is my desire to marry you.”
Silence expanded across the room. Even the faint hum of the generator outside the residence seemed distant now.
Orean’s arms slowly dropped onto the table beside the open Bible as he stared at her in disbelief, eyes fixed as if trying to confirm he had heard correctly.
His expression tightened, stunned quiet holding him for a brief moment longer before it gave way.
His tone came out uneven, edged with shock and reluctant humor, as if reality itself had shifted beneath him.
Orean (shaken):
“What? You—the president of a whole country—want to marry someone like me?”
His hand lifted toward himself in disbelief, fingers hovering as though pointing at an idea too impossible to fully grasp.
Excel’s lips pressed together, watching him closely as he wrestled with the weight of the moment.
A faint, uneasy smile flickered across Orean’s face as his hand tapped lightly against his chest, the gesture half-incredulous, half self-aware, like he couldn’t believe he had to say it out loud.
His voice came out honest and grounded, stripped of pretense.
Orean (earnest):
“Look at me. I am just a poor man.”
The room’s calm atmosphere tightened, as though the air itself had grown heavier. Excel remained still, studying his reaction with a mixture of patience and quiet determination.
Orean shook his head slowly, shoulders dipping as something pained surfaced behind his composure.
His eyes darkened slightly, as if recalling words he had long tried to ignore, and his tone broke forward with restrained hurt edged in honesty.
Orean (hurt):
“Your people don’t even respect me. Some see me as nothing… even like a dead snake!”
The words carried a sting of truth. The fan above creaked softly as it rotated, and the curtain moved again in the gentle airflow.
Orean leaned back slightly, brows knitting as disbelief settled into his expression, eyes searching hers as if trying to locate the sense in what he had just heard.
A faint, uneasy half-laugh almost formed in his throat before his voice broke through, edged with disbelief and restrained tension.
Orean (disbelieving):
“And you’re telling me you want to marry me? This must be a joke.”
Excel could not hold it in anymore. She burst into soft laughter, covering her mouth briefly as she enjoyed his confusion. The sound warmed the room slightly, easing the tension.
She folded her arms loosely, her shoulders angling forward a fraction as she studied him more closely.
A faint tightening crossed her expression, not sharp—but probing, as though testing the weight of his earlier words against the present moment.
Her voice followed with gentle pressure, careful yet direct.
Excel (gently):
“But you just said, ‘if God brings a sister, you won’t say no.’”
Her eyes sparkled with playful logic as the statement hung in the air. Orean blinked rapidly, caught in the net of his own words.
Excel tilted her head, the hint of a smile tugging at her lips, her gaze fixed on him with quiet mischief.
That smile deepened, her tone light but pointed, the question slipping out with deliberate ease.
Excel (smiling):
“Now that the sister has come… why are you rejecting her?”
Orean opened his mouth to respond, but the words tangled inside him. His hand dragged lightly across his face, thoughts slipping just beyond his grasp.
His lips moved again, voice faltering as uncertainty crept through it, unable to find its footing.
Orean (hesitant):
“…but…”
Before he could continue, Excel lifted her hand slightly, cutting gently through the moment. Her posture straightened, the playfulness fading as something firmer took its place.
Her jaw set, and the softness in her expression gave way to quiet authority, her voice landing clean and unyielding.
Excel (firm):
“No ‘but.’ I’m serious. I’ve said my mind.”
The light above them cast steady shadows on the wall, while the open Bible remained between them like a silent judge of the moment.
Excel’s gaze softened slightly, yet something deeper stirred beneath it, her focus holding on him without wavering.
Her lips parted, the words pressing forward as her tone dropped—intense, intimate, leaving no space to retreat.
Excel (intense):
“I want you to be my husband. Will you open your heart for me to dwell in?”
The room felt smaller now, almost as if the walls had leaned closer to hear the answer.
Orean swallowed slowly. His eyes drifted again toward the open Bible, then back to her face, as though weighing something unseen.
His lips parted, restraint threading through his tone, each word chosen with care.
Orean (carefully):
“Please… give me a little time to think and pray.”
The sincerity in his voice settled gently over the moment. Excel studied him for several seconds, her expression thoughtful, her gaze steady and searching.
Her chin lifted slightly, decision settling into her features, her voice firming with quiet authority.
Excel (decisive):
“I’ll give you time... but only one day.”
The firmness of her decision cut through the quiet room. Orean blinked as if realizing the seriousness of the moment.
Excel turned and stepped past him toward the door. Her shoulder brushed close to his as she reached the handle.
The faint click of her grip tightening broke the stillness, her tone following—firm, controlled, leaving no space for retreat.
Excel (final):
“Tomorrow… I want your answer.”
The door handle turned softly in her hand. The door opened, and the bright hallway light spilled into the room for a brief moment.
She stepped out. The door closed. Her footsteps moved down the corridor, fading gradually into her room.
Orean remained seated exactly where she had left him. The fan continued turning above. The ceiling light continued glowing softly. But inside him, the world had shifted.
Outside the compound wall, a passing car moved along the distant road.
Its headlights briefly swept across the window and reflected faintly across the ceiling before vanishing into the darkness.
Orean exhaled slowly.
His gaze turned once more toward the open Bible. He stared at the page—but he was not reading. The words of Scripture rested before him, silent yet powerful.
And as the night deepened around the presidential residence, the battle within his heart had only just begun.
Silence rested over the polished marble floor and the cream-colored walls as Orean walked to the window and drew the curtains half-way.
Thin moonlight slipped through the narrow opening, laying a silver stripe across the cool tiled floor.
He then walked back to the bed, placed the Bible on the nightstand, and lay awake. A bedside lamp glowed gently, casting a circle of amber light over the folded Bible.
His fingers were interlocked over his chest as he stared up at the ceiling, breathing slowly but with the restless weight of thoughts pressing heavily upon him.
His brow tightened slightly. He turned to one side, then to the other. A soft sigh slipped from his lips as the fan’s low hum circled above him.
His lips parted in disbelief, the words slipping out unevenly, his tone caught between wonder and quiet overwhelm.
Orean (softly):
“Oh my goodness. I… to marry a president?”
The fan continued its slow rotation overhead while the crickets outside chirped steadily beneath the pale glow of security lights.
Orean sat up on the bed, rubbing his forehead slowly as the thought settled deeper into his heart.
The Bible beside the lamp remained closed, its pages unmoving, while the cool marble floor reflected the faint silver beam from the window.
The mattress dipped slightly as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.
The bedside lamp painted a faint golden glow across his face, highlighting the uncertainty flickering in his eyes.
His gaze lingered somewhere ahead, unfocused, as though tracing something beyond the room.
His brow drew in faintly, the thought shaping his tone—quiet, searching, touched with wonder he could not yet steady.
Orean (thoughtful):
“It’s like God is lifting me higher than I can imagine. Could this be His will?”
The air in the room felt strangely still as the words hung there. Outside the mansion walls, a car passed distantly along the road, its fading sound dissolving into the night.
Orean’s eyes drifted briefly toward the Bible, yet his hand never reached for it.
The silence inside the room seemed to lean closer, as if heaven itself waited for the next thought forming in his heart.
He slowly rose from the bed. His bare feet brushed against the cool tile as he began pacing across the quiet room, his gaze lifting toward the ceiling as if searching for an unseen answer.
His steps slowed, something bright stirring behind his eyes as the thought took hold.
A quiet fire crept into his voice, hope rising through it—tentative at first, then gaining shape as the vision unfolded within him.
Orean (hopeful):
“If I become Excel’s husband… I could lead this country back to Jesus. I could preach freely. I could help restore the way of the Lord that was lost.”
The words stirred something within him, filling the room with a growing sense of possibility.
Outside the window, a soft breeze rustled the curtains slightly, allowing the moonlight to stretch a little further across the floor.
Yet beneath the calm atmosphere, an unseen tension quietly stirred in the spiritual realm, like shadows shifting beyond the reach of light.
He paused mid-step, looking upward as though heaven itself might answer.
His brow tightened slightly, uncertainty brushing across his features as his lips parted, the question rising gently, his tone hushed and searching.
Orean (seeking):
“Father… could this be Your will?”
The quietness deepened around him. The fan hummed steadily above while the lamp’s glow trembled faintly across the polished tile.
Orean’s breathing slowed, but the question lingered in the air without reply.
Beyond the mansion walls, the crickets continued their steady chorus, indifferent to the spiritual crossroads unfolding in the guest room.
His voice rose slightly, strengthened now by a remembered line of Scripture taking hold within him, the words anchoring his confidence as they formed.
Orean (confident):
“You said in Your Word, ‘Promotion cometh neither from the east, nor from the west… but God is the judge: he putteth down one, and setteth up another.’”
The ancient words from Psalm 75:6–7 seemed to echo gently through the quiet room. Orean’s shoulders straightened as the verse settled into his reasoning.
The Bible on the nightstand remained closed, yet its truth lingered in the air.
Outside, the moonlight gleamed against the compound tiles, while unseen forces in the spiritual realm watched Orean’s thoughts carefully forming their conclusion.
He resumed pacing slowly, the cool tile whispering beneath his steps. His stride steadied, purpose settling into his frame as his gaze lifted slightly.
His tone followed that resolve, firm and yielded at once, shaped by acceptance rather than hesitation.
Orean (resolved):
“If You are setting me up for greater influence, who am I to refuse?”
The room held its breath. The curtain stirred again as a faint breeze slipped through the narrow window opening.
The silver line of moonlight stretched toward Orean’s feet while the lamp flickered almost imperceptibly.
Though heaven remained silent, Orean’s heart felt persuaded by the logic now forming within him.
He stopped walking. His shoulders eased downward, tension leaving his frame as though the decision had already settled somewhere deeper than thought.
His lips parted with quiet surrender, tone calm and reverent, shaped by conviction.
Orean (calmly):
“Lord… You are a true and living God. Let Your perfect will be done.”
The words drifted into the quiet air like a final seal upon the thought already accepted in his mind.
The fan continued spinning above him, indifferent to the weight of the prayer.
Outside, the compound remained peaceful beneath the watchful glow of security lights, yet in the unseen spiritual realm, the stillness carried a subtle tension—the quiet moment when a door begins to open.
But he did not kneel. He did not wait. He did not ask again.
The thought itself felt convincing enough.
TO BE CONTINUED...
Written by Agbemawle Atsu Norvishi
© All Rights Reserved. Shared freely to bless and inspire.
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