Episode 2

It was the electrician who had been invited to repair a faulty electrical cable in the office.

While the electrician worked, Mr. Jayeola's attention shifted away from me.  I exhaled in relief as the oppressive atmosphere lifted, even if it was for a little while.

I seized the opportunity and frantically typed as quickly as my aching fingers would allow.

Then, without warning, the lights went out.

The office was then plunged into darkness.

I glanced at the clock. 

It was a little after 7:00 p.m.

My fingers throbbed, and my eyes burned from hours of staring at the screen. Despite working without pause, I had managed to type only twenty pages.

Mr. Jayeola had no choice but to dismiss me for the day, instructing me to continue the remaining pages the following morning.

I arrived home that night physically exhausted and emotionally drained. As I lay on my bed, I thanked God for the unexpected escape He had provided through the power outage. Then, almost immediately, my thoughts returned to the email I had left unopened.

My ICAN result.

With trembling hands, I opened my phone, logged into the portal, and entered my

examination details.

"Lord, please..." I whispered.

The page kept loading until it finally opened the verdict awaiting me. 

Failed.

I stared at the screen, hoping I had read it wrong.

I refreshed the page again, but the result remained the same.

Something inside me broke.

I couldn't cry immediately. I simply sat there, numb, as though every ounce of strength had drained from my body. The qualification I had hoped would become my escape route had slipped through my fingers once again.

My heart ached louder with just one question. 

“God, why me?”

By morning, I had already made my decision.

 I got to work and completed the remaining pages of the document.  As Mr. Jayeola wasn't in the office, I quietly dropped my resignation letter on the secretary's desk and walked away.

I packed my belongings, called my mum, and told her everything—my failed ICAN result, my resignation, and my decision to return home.

Returning to my parents' house felt like returning to the starting line.

The weeks that followed became the darkest season of my life. Most mornings, I couldn't find the strength to get out of bed.

I shut down my social media accounts because I couldn't bear watching everyone else celebrate promotions, weddings, scholarships, and answered prayers while my own life seemed to stand still.

I withdrew from people.

Eventually, I stopped going to church.

The Bible that had once comforted me remained unopened. Even prayer felt exhausting. Whenever my mum encouraged me with Scriptures and reminded me that God still had a purpose for my life, I wanted to believe her—but my heart was too heavy to hold on to hope.

My world had shrunk to the four walls of my bedroom—unanswered questions and silent tears. 

One morning, after months of shutting myself away, I decided to step out to buy my medication. It wasn't a grand act of faith. I simply wanted to breathe fresh air for a few minutes.

I had no idea that an ordinary walk to the pharmacy would become the beginning of God rewriting my story.

Just a few steps from the pharmacy, I noticed a young man walking toward me. His eyes were fixed on his phone, earphones plugged into his ears. He was so engrossed in whatever he was watching that he never looked up.

I tried to move aside to avoid him.

It was too late.

He bumped into me.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," he said immediately.

But I barely heard him.

My eyes had fallen on the words boldly printed across the front of his T-shirt.

GOD IS IN THIS STORY.

Everything around me seemed to fade.

He apologized again, but I remained still, my eyes fixed on those five words.

God is in this story.

It felt as though heaven had interrupted my despair.

Perhaps noticing my silence, he gently tapped my shoulder.

“Ma... I'm really sorry.”

I blinked, finally returning to myself.

"Oh... it's okay," I replied softly.

He smiled and continued on his way.

I stood there for another moment before walking into the pharmacy.

Those words followed me all the way home.

God is in this story.

Over and over again, they echoed in my mind.

Then I remembered.

There was a song by Kari Jobe with that exact title.

The moment I got home, I searched for it and pressed play.

“God is in this story...”

It became the soundtrack of my healing.

One of the lines that gripped my heart the most was this:

"If it reads like depression,

He's the One who holds your sorrow.

He won't leave you here alone.

Even in the broken parts,

He holds my heart.

He never fails.

When I'm at my weakest,

I will trust in Jesus."

I listened to those words over and over again until they became more than just lyrics—they became a lifeline.

For the first time in a long while, hope quietly found its way back into my heart.

Today, when I look back on that season, I smile.

The woman who thought her story had ended now has a PhD.

She built a successful clothing and shoemaking brand.

She is a mentor to several teenage girls.

She is happily married and the joyful mother of a beautiful daughter. 

Looking back, I understand what I couldn't see then.

The failed exam.

The toxic workplace.

The resignation.

The depression.

None of those chapters were the end of my story.

They were all working together for my good. 

They were simply pages in a story that God was still writing.

And if you are in a season that feels tough, I want you to hold onto this: 

“The darkest chapter of your life is not the final chapter when God is the Author of your story.”

****

Don't give in to compromise. A delayed promise is better than a destiny destroyed by impatience.

#Truthinfiction 

GRW.