Something Important

“Sit, please,” Emmanuel said, gesturing to the chairs they’d just vacated, and Tolu obeyed, tucking her diary quickly into her bag, hoping he hadn’t noticed how tightly she’d been holding it.

“I’ve been thinking about the music ministry,” he began, and Tolu felt something in her chest — disappointment, relief, she genuinely couldn’t tell which — settle at the word ministry. Of course. Church business. What else would it be.

“Sister Comfort is stepping back after her transfer to Abuja next month,” Emmanuel continued. “The board and I have discussed it, and we’d like you to take over as full music director. Not just choir mistress. The whole ministry — instrumentalists, ushers’ processional cues, everything.”

“Pastor, that’s—” Tolu blinked. “That’s a big role.”

“You’re ready for it. You’ve been carrying half of it unofficially for two years anyway.” He smiled, the tired kind of smile that still somehow reached his eyes. “I should have made it official a long time ago.”

“Thank you, sir. I won’t disappoint you.”

“I know you won’t.” He didn’t move to leave. The silence that followed stretched a beat too long, comfortable in a way that made Tolu’s pulse do something inconvenient. “How is your father’s health, by the way? Blessing mentioned last month he wasn’t well.”

“He’s improving, sir. Thank you for asking.”

“And your bank job. Still manageable, alongside all this?”

“I manage,” Tolu said, and then, because the silence was becoming its own kind of conversation, added, “You don’t have to ask about my life, Pastor. I know you have a whole congregation to shepherd.”

Something shifted in his expression — quick, almost imperceptible, like a door opening a crack before someone remembered to close it.

“Maybe I want to ask,” he said quietly. “Is that not allowed?”

Neither of them had an answer ready for that, and the moment sat between them a second too long — long enough that when the loft door creaked open again, both of them startled like they’d been caught at something, though neither had said or done anything that required catching.

Deaconess Patience Nwafor stood in the doorway, a clipboard against her chest, her expression carefully, professionally unreadable.

“Pastor,” she said smoothly. “Sorry to interrupt. The board wants your signature on the youth camp budget before you leave.”

“Of course. I’m coming.” Emmanuel stood, straightened his tie, the moment folding itself neatly away as if it had never happened. “Congratulations again, Tolu. Music director. I’ll have Suleiman— sorry, I mean the church secretary — draw up the announcement for next Sunday.”

He left. Patience did not immediately follow.

She looked at Tolu for a long moment — long enough that Tolu felt the specific discomfort of being assessed by someone doing complicated arithmetic behind pleasant eyes.

“Music director,” Patience said finally, testing the words like she was tasting something slightly off. “How nice for you.”

Then she was gone, and Tolu sat alone in the choir loft, her new title sitting strangely heavy in her chest next to something she hadn’t given a title to at all.

To be continued…