Chapter 2 The Lie in His Pocket

Khalid Yusuf didn't traffic in destiny. Destiny was for suckers, for the hopeful, for people clutching Bibles on street corners. Destiny was a convenient lie told by preachers and poets to make the randomness of life, the relentless grind of survival, seem palatable. His world was governed by hustle, by the sharp edge of wit, by the calculated manipulation of desire. Cause and effect, action and consequence those he understood. Divine plans? Not so much.

Yet, as he watched the girl in white Anaya Obiora melt back into the churning sea of bodies at Oil Mill Market, a strange, unfamiliar sensation prickled beneath his skin. She moved differently. Not with the hurried, purposeful stride of market women balancing baskets on their heads, nor the aimless shuffle of the lost. She moved with a quiet, unhurried grace, like a wisp of cloud drifting untouched across a turbulent sky. Untouched. Untouchable. The stark white of her blouse seemed to repel the grime of the street, the dust settling on everything else somehow sliding off her. The scent of her lingered faintly in his nostrils an unexpected, complex blend of warm sandalwood and something sharper, cleaner... holy oil? It was incongruous, unsettlingly potent.

He'd tossed out the club flyer line on a whim, a lazy attempt to crack the serene, pious exterior of the "Pastor's daughter" he vaguely recognized from social media buzz. It was a game, a momentary diversion from the monotony of scouting the market for potential... opportunities. But the spark of awareness in her eyes, the brief, flustered freeze, the defiant whisper it hadn't been part of the script. It had ignited something else. Curiosity, sharp and unexpected. Now, his mind, usually laser-focused on the next angle, the next payout, was chasing the ghost of her. He wanted to know the sound of her name spoken aloud. He wanted to know where that quiet intensity came from. He wanted to know if the defiance in her whisper matched the softness of her lips. The thought was intrusive, unwelcome, yet persistent.

The walk back to the apartment in Elelenwo was a blur of honking traffic and simmering heat. The apartment, shared with Shola and two other guys whose names Khalid often forgot, was a testament to transient lives. Clothes were strewn over mismatched furniture, empty takeout containers littered surfaces, and the air hung thick with the stale smell of weed, sweat, and cheap air freshener fighting a losing battle. The single window AC unit groaned valiantly but did little against the humidity. The Wi-Fi signal, perpetually temperamental, flickered like a dying heartbeat.

Khalid dumped himself onto the sagging couch, the springs protesting loudly. He pulled out his phone, a sleek, expensive model that looked incongruous in the shabby setting a tool of his trade. Ignoring the chaos around him Shola arguing loudly on the phone in pidgin, another roommate blasting Afrobeats from his room he navigated directly to his encrypted messaging app. His inbox pulsed with notifications. Three "mugu" responses glowed promisingly. One, a middle-aged woman from Edmonton whose profile picture screamed loneliness, had taken the bait hard. Khalid scanned her latest message: "My darling Kenechukwu, my heart sings when I see your message! This connection... it feels divine. Like God brought us together across the miles. I've prayed for someone like you. When will you come? I long to hold you, to cook for you, to build our life together. I've managed to gather $2,000 USD. It's not much, but it's a start for your visa process, yes? Just confirm this love is real, my prince."

Khalid felt nothing. No pity, no guilt, just the familiar cold calculation. "Divine." "Prince." The words were cloying, pathetic. Easy pickings. He copied and pasted a pre-written block of saccharine lies from his notes, tailoring it slightly. "My sweetest Adamma, queen of my dreams," he typed, the endearment feeling like ashes in his mouth. "Your words make my spirit soar! Truly, God has heard my prayers and sent me an angel. Your picture is the light of my day. This love is the most real thing I have ever known. $2000 is a blessing, a sign of your true heart! It will go directly to the visa agency fees. Once I have the visa in my hand, my love, we will be married under the Nigerian sun! I promise you this with all my soul. Send the confirmation of transfer, my heart, and let us begin our forever." He hit send, the action mechanical. Another transaction initiated.

Switching apps, he opened Instagram almost reflexively. His feed was a curated chaos – flashy cars he didn't own, stacks of cash (props), expensive liquor, quotes about hustle and success interspersed with vague spiritual platitudes designed to appeal broadly. "God knows my heart," read one caption beneath a picture of him holding a bottle of Hennessy. "Blessings on blessings," under another showing hundred-dollar bills fanned out. A carefully constructed illusion of the life his "mugus" dreamed of providing.

His thumb hovered, then tapped the search bar. Almost without conscious thought, he typed: #ChristInPowerTabernacle. Posts flooded in videos of fiery sermons (a familiar, stern-faced man with piercing eyes Pastor Ejike, Fire Mouth himself), choir performances, youth rallies. He scrolled, his gaze sharp. And then he saw her. Tagged in a post praising the choir's rendition of "Awesome God." @AnayaObiora.

He clicked. Her profile was private, a locked gate. Of course it is, he thought, a wry twist to his lips. The fortress of the righteous. But the profile picture was visible. It was her. Standing tall and serene in that unmistakable white skirt, flanked by other choir members, but her presence distinct. Beside her, partially obscured, was a large banner proclaiming in stark, bold letters: "NO SINNER SHALL GO UNPUNISHED. Malachi 4:1". Khalid stared at the banner, then at Anaya's composed face beneath it. A low chuckle escaped him, devoid of real humor. Oh, the sweet, sweet irony, he thought. The untouchable angel standing beneath a declaration of fiery judgment, completely unaware of the serpent slithering towards her garden. The disconnect was delicious, absurd.

His finger hovered over the 'Follow' button. It was reckless. Stupid, even. Connecting his world, a world of curated lies and digital predation, directly to hers? It was like throwing a lit match into a powder keg. But the memory of her hesitant smile, the challenge in her eyes when she'd defied him about the flyer, pushed him. The curiosity burned hotter than caution. He tapped 'Follow'. The request winged its way into her digital sanctuary.

He tossed the phone onto the cluttered coffee table, trying to appear nonchalant as Shola finally ended his call. "Wetin dey happen, Khalid? You dey follow church girl now?" Shola grinned, nodding at the phone. "That one na serious branding o. Fire Mouth daughter! You wan collect holy ghost fire?"

"Mind your business, Shola," Khalid retorted, but there was no real heat in it. He picked the phone back up, pretending to scroll. Five minutes passed. Nothing. Ten minutes. The screen remained stubbornly unchanged. A flicker of something unexpected disappointment? Annoyance? pricked him. Stupid. What did you expect? Princess ain't checking for the likes of you. He stood up, heading towards the tiny kitchen for water, already mentally shifting back to the Canadian mugu and her promised $2000.

The notification chime stopped him mid-stride. He spun around, snatching the phone off the table. A single word glowed on the screen: Followed. Accepted. Just like that. The gates had opened.

Anaya sat perched on the edge of her narrow bed later that night. The room was neat, almost austere a small bookshelf filled with theological texts and hymnals, a modest dressing table with a single picture of her family, a worn prayer rug in the corner. The only illumination came from a small bedside lamp, casting long shadows. Her Bible lay open on her lap, the pages of Psalms untouched. Her fingers traced the edges of her phone, its screen dark.

She knew she shouldn't have. The moment she'd seen the notification @Khalid Yusuf is now following you a cold wave of guilt had washed over her. Accepting a follow request from a stranger, a boy who looked like that, was a direct violation of unspoken rules. Her father's voice echoed in her mind: "Guard your gates, daughter! The eye is the lamp of the body. What you allow in shapes your spirit!" She could almost feel the weight of his disapproving gaze.

But something... something about the sheer audacity of him showing up, the unnerving confidence that bordered on arrogance, was terrifyingly exciting. It was a sensation utterly foreign to her carefully regulated world of prayer meetings, choir rehearsals, and Bible study. Church boys the brothers who tentatively asked to walk her home after service were respectful, almost deferential. They quoted scripture, spoke in hushed tones about calling and anointing. They were safe. Predictable. Boring, a treacherous little voice whispered.

Khalid was different. His profile, now visible, was a window into a universe light-years away from Christ in Power Tabernacle. Pictures showed him laughing on a sun drenched beach, shirtless, tattoos snaking across his shoulders and arms intricate patterns and script she couldn't decipher. Another showed him leaning against a sleek, expensive-looking car (borrowed? rented? stolen? her mind supplied uncharitably). Quotes like "Hustle hard, pray harder" sat alongside images of designer sneakers and that ubiquitous bottle of Hennessy. There were vague, motivational posts about "securing the bag" and "living your truth." Who was this boy? What truths did he live? The contradictions were dizzying. The "God knows my heart" quote juxtaposed with the blatant materialism felt like a deliberate provocation, a challenge to her own black-and-white understanding of faith.

Her thumb moved almost of its own volition, scrolling through his grid. Each picture felt like a forbidden peek into a world pulsating with danger and freedom. It was unsettling. Thrilling.

A notification popped up, shattering the silence of the room. A direct message.

Khalid: You looked like an angel today. Hope I didn't scare you.

Anaya's breath hitched. The phone felt suddenly hot in her hand. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the quiet hum of the night. She stared at the words. Angel. The word felt heavy, loaded. Was it flattery? Mockery? Both? Her fingers trembled slightly as they hovered over the screen. The warnings screamed louder. Danger. Deception. Worldly entanglement. Her father's sermons about serpents whispering sweet nothings flooded her mind.

But the memory of his eyes, the unexpected flip in her stomach at the market, the sheer novelty of this direct, digital approach... it was a siren song. Slowly, deliberately, her thumbs moved.

Anaya: You didn't. But I don't talk to strangers.

She hit send before she could second-guess herself. The finality of it felt good, safe. A clear boundary drawn.

The reply came almost instantly, as if he'd been waiting, phone in hand.

Khalid: Then let me stop being one.

Simple. Direct. A challenge wrapped in a request. Anaya stared at the words. A small, involuntary smile touched her lips, mirroring the one she'd given him on the street. It felt like stepping onto a crumbling ledge. Terrifying. Exhilarating.

Across the city, in the dim, cluttered apartment, Khalid saw the typing indicator appear, then disappear, then appear again. A slow, genuine smile spread across his face, the first real one of the day. This wasn't a scripted line for a mugu. This was... different. Uncharted territory.

This was how it truly started. Not with a touch, not with a stolen kiss under the Port Harcourt moon. But with a digital request sent into the void. With a hesitant acceptance. With words appearing on a screen in the quiet solitude of their separate rooms. And nestled deep within Khalid's pocket, a physical lie perhaps a fake ID, a burner SIM card, or just the weight of his double life rested heavily. Another lie was already forming, coiled and ready, but this one felt different. This one was for her.