… In Church. Lord, We Need to Talk.

By Monday morning, I had already broken one of my own rules.

Don’t get involved with men you meet at church.

Not because church men are bad.

But because I knew myself.

Give me a handsome man with a nice smile and a little confidence, and suddenly my common sense starts attending service somewhere else.

His name was Daniel.

And by 9:17 a.m., he had already texted me.

Good morning, church girl.

I smiled at my phone.

Then frowned.

Then smiled again.

I hated how quickly this man was becoming interesting.

Good morning.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Did you sleep well?

I stared at the question.

It was innocent.

Completely innocent.

So why did it feel like there was something hiding underneath it?

Yes. You?

I would have slept better if I had your number earlier.

I nearly dropped my phone.

This man had moved from church fellowship to trouble overnight.

I typed:

You’re very confident.

His reply came immediately.

Only when I’m sure.

I read that message twice.

Then a third time.

Unfortunately, my brain had already started doing things with that sentence that my Sunday-school upbringing would strongly disapprove of.

I locked my phone.

Opened it again.

Read the message.

Locked it.

I needed help.

So I called my friend, Wema.

She answered on the second ring.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why do you sound guilty?”

“I don’t sound guilty.”

“You sound like you’ve done something.”

I sighed.

“I’ve been texting someone.”

There was silence.

“Who?”

“That guy from church.”

Another silence.

Then:

“Nanjala.”

“What?”

“How long have you known him?”

“Since yesterday.”

“And you’re already calling me for advice?”

“I’m not calling for advice.”

“You’re calling because you like him.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You don’t have to.”

I rolled my eyes.

“He asked if he could see me.”

“And?”

“I said maybe.”

Wema burst out laughing.

“Maybe?”

“Yes.”

“Girl, that’s not a maybe. That’s a yes wearing church clothes.”

I laughed so hard I had to sit down.

“Please shut up.”

“Just be careful.”

“I am careful.”

“You gave a man your number after one conversation.”

“Technically, he got it from someone else.”

“Oh, even worse.”

“How?”

“Because now you can pretend you didn’t give it to him while enjoying the fact that he has it.”

I hated that she was right.

Later that afternoon, Daniel texted again.

So, about that maybe…

I knew exactly what he meant.

What about it?

Does maybe mean I get to see you this week?

I stared at the screen.

Then typed:

Depends.

On what?

I smiled.

Whether you behave.

His reply came almost immediately.

I was planning to.

I raised an eyebrow.

That answer was suspicious.

Very suspicious.

You don’t sound convincing.

Maybe I’m not trying to convince you.

My stomach did that stupid little flip I had promised myself I wouldn’t allow.

I put the phone down.

Wema, who was sitting across from me, noticed.

“What’s he saying?”

“Nothing.”

“Read it.”

“No.”

“Nanjala.”

“No.”

She grabbed the phone before I could stop her.

She read the message.

Then slowly looked at me.

“Oh.”

“What?”

“You’re finished.”

“I’m not finished.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

I snatched my phone back.

Then another message appeared.

Friday. 7 p.m.

I frowned.

He hadn’t asked.

He had simply suggested it with the confidence of a man who apparently believed I was already going.

I typed:

Where?

His response took longer this time.

I’ll pick you up.

I stared at the screen.

Wema leaned over.

“What did he say?”

I showed her.

She looked at me.

Then at the phone.

Then back at me.

“You’re going.”

“I haven’t said yes.”

“You don’t have to.”

And that was the problem.

Because somewhere between the church event, the messages, and that irritatingly confident smile, I had already decided.

I just hadn’t admitted it yet.

Friday suddenly felt very far away.

And I had absolutely no idea what I was going to wear.