Testimony Sunday

The following Sunday was testimony service, a tradition at Living Fire Assembly where members stood to share what God had done in their lives. Bimbola sat in the front pew beside Oluwasegun, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles had gone pale, watching Solomon from the corner of her eye as he sat three rows back, patient and unhurried.

He’d made no further threats since their conversation in the library. That silence had unsettled her more than any explicit warning could have. She spent the week waiting for the blow to fall, jumping at every unexpected knock, every unfamiliar number on her phone.

“Does anyone else have a testimony to share?” Oluwasegun asked from the pulpit, scanning the congregation with the warm expectancy of a man who loved this part of service most.

Bimbola’s heart stopped as Solomon rose from his seat.

He walked to the front with unhurried steps, taking the microphone from an usher with a grateful nod. He faced the congregation, and for one horrifying moment, his eyes found Bimbola’s.

“I want to thank Living Fire Assembly for welcoming me so warmly these past weeks,” he began, and Bimbola felt her held breath release slightly. “Especially Pastor Oluwasegun and Sister Bimbola, who have both shown me such kindness.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch just long enough to feel wrong.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about second chances,” he continued. “About how everyone deserves the opportunity to become someone new. But I’ve also been thinking about the people we leave behind when we choose to reinvent ourselves. The people who paid the price for our new beginnings while we moved forward without looking back.”

A ripple of confused murmurs passed through the congregation, sensing an undercurrent they couldn’t quite name.

“I had a sister,” Solomon said, his voice steady despite the storm Bimbola could see building behind his eyes. “She trusted the wrong people. She’s not here anymore because of choices other people made and then walked away from. I share this today because I believe God is patient, but I also believe accountability matters. Sometimes the people closest to us are not who they present themselves to be.”

His eyes flicked to Bimbola one final time before he handed the microphone back to the usher and returned to his seat, leaving the entire congregation, and Bimbola especially, unsettled by a testimony that felt less like praise and more like a warning shot fired in slow motion.

Oluwasegun glanced at his wife, noting how pale she’d gone. “Are you alright?” he whispered.

“Fine,” she managed, though her voice shook.

After service, as members filed out into the afternoon heat, Solomon caught her alone near the parking area.

“That was just a warning,” he said quietly, no trace of the raw grief from before, only cold calculation. “Next time, I won’t be so vague.”

“Solomon, please,” Bimbola said, abandoning pride entirely. “Whatever you think I owe you, whatever happened to Adaeze, I am so sorry. But destroying me won’t bring her back.”

“No,” Solomon agreed. “But it will make sure you finally pay for something, since you’ve spent nine years paying for nothing.”

He walked away, leaving Bimbola standing alone in the parking lot, the Lagos sun beating down on her while the ground beneath her carefully built life shifted further, closer to collapse.

To be continued…

Do you think Bimbola should confess everything to Oluwasegun before Solomon forces the truth out into the open?