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Christian Fiction

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“Mum, do we have to watch the Passion of Christ again?” 12-year-old Rebecca asked with a frown. She was sitting on the couch, legs crossed, arms folded in protest.

Jola untied her apron and sat beside her daughter, holding her. She had been on her feet all day, trying to get dinner ready just in time for their annual easter family hangout. Her parents did it while she was growing up, so when she married Jimi, they adopted the tradition. Jimi was out of town for the holidays- something that was becoming too often these days.

“How many times am I going to tell you, Eniola? I am not going with you to the youth camp. It is not my kind of scene.” Jade dismissed her friend with a wave of her hand and looked away. Her friend had been pestering her about going to the camp, and she was more interested in the arcade program organized by some of her friends from college.

I thought we were going to your place!” Mena nudged her friend Daisy as the latter veered off the road.

“Change of plans; I have a surprise for you!”

“Mena stared out the window as her friend drove past Sherman Road. She had known Daisy for about 6 months, but it felt longer than that. Daisy was kind-hearted, loyal and very vocal about her faith. Mena liked her immediately, and a few months later, they became best of friends.

“Stop staring, Leila.” Abby snapped her fingers to bring her Nigerian friend out of her daydream. She was staring intently at a guy; her mouth was slightly open.

“I wasn’t! I don’t even like him like that,” Leila blushed, her lips curved into a smile, showing off her dimples.

“Just talk to him already. You can never tell.”

The 218 will be 10 years this year—10 whole years of real friendship. Tears, sweat, laughter, love, and pain, but one thing has kept us together, the love of Christ. It’s a good day to tell you about how we met, especially for those of you, who don’t know. Please note that this is just my narration, as told from my perspective. About 10 years ago, we had finished our diploma, the strike was over, and we were about to resume 200-level direct entry.  Diploma year was tough for me.

Zara opened her eyes in horror, jumped off the bed and ran to the toilet. She pulled down the toilet seat and threw up as much as she could. It was the same dream. How could she have the same dream intermittently for the past 1 year? The details were the same. A woman in a burnt orange Hijab- holding on tightly to a young girl of about 6 years while pushing 10-year-old Zara away. They were in an apartment and were standing at the corner of the living room. It was dark and difficult to make out the faces.