didn’t plan to be out that day. It was raining—no, pouring—as if God himself was angry. I had just finished from choir rehearsal and was rushing to beat the storm when the skies opened. My white blouse soaked immediately. My Bible, clutched to my chest, was getting wet. I tried to hide under the abandoned bus stop near Mile 11 junction, praying Daddy wouldn’t call. He hated me moving around alone. Especially in places like this. Then he appeared. Tall. Calm. His umbrella wide enough to cover two. He had dimples, but the serious kind. His eyes lingered on me for a moment. “Need help?” he asked, his voice deep and rich, with that Northern Hausa touch. I nodded slowly. He brought the umbrella closer, and for a second, our eyes locked. Something passed between us. Something... forbidden. “I’m Ameer,” he said. “Chidinma,” I replied, hesitating. He smiled. “You’re shivering.” “I’m fine.” We shared the umbrella until we reached the taxi park. I didn’t ask where he was going. I didn’t give him my number. But my heart wouldn’t stop racing. My name is Chidinma Ezeanuna, daughter of Bishop Cornelius Ezeanuna, general overseer of Fire of Zion Ministries International. I was raised to pray in tongues before I could spell my name. I wasn’t allowed to wear trousers, visit parties, or even paint my nails. Daddy ran our home like he ran the church — with scriptures and shouting. But my encounter with Ameer stayed with me. I started seeing him—everywhere. First at the library, then at the food court near UNILAG, then at Cold Stone Creamery on Bode Thomas. Each time, he smiled, gently. Respectfully. Eventually, we spoke. Properly. He told me he was the only son of Sheikh Abdulrahman Musa, the Chief Imam of Lagos Mainland Mosque. An architecture student. Smart. Disciplined. And very much... Muslim. My chest tightened. It was not just religion now. It was tribal too. Igbo girl. Hausa boy. Bishop’s daughter. Imam’s son. We were a disaster waiting to happen. I didn’t tell my parents. Not until Daddy found a Koran in my bag. I had borrowed it—to understand Ameer’s world better. But Daddy didn’t wait for an explanation. “Are you converting to Islam, Chidinma?” His voice thundered, his robe flying as he paced the parlour. “No, sir! I’m just—” “Just what? Polluting yourself with darkness? Don’t you know what the Bible says about being unequally yoked?” Mummy cried like someone had died. My younger brother looked at me like I had joined a cult. That night, Daddy locked my phone and grounded me. He cancelled all my choir solos. I was made to fast for 7 days. But the fire didn’t go out. Ameer kept sneaking messages to me through an old classmate. Each one short but powerful. “I’m praying too.” “My heart still chooses you.” “They don’t have to understand. Just hold on.” And I did. Until Sheikh Musa himself came to know about us. “You want to disgrace this family?” Sheikh Musa barked, slamming his hand on the table. Ameer stood tall. Calm. “I love her.” “She’s a Christian! And Igbo! Their people think we are all terrorists!” “Just like her people think we’re all going to hell,” Ameer said quietly. The Imam’s wife cried. “You’re the only one we have, Ameer. Think of the family. Think of our honour.” He did think. Of me. Of us. But the pressure was rising from both sides. My church declared a 21day deliverance for me. His mosque sent him away to the North for a ‘spiritual retreat.’ They tried everything to separate us. But they forgot one thing. Love is stubborn. We started seeing each other in secret. Hidden from the world. We met at bookshops, in traffic, at weddings where no one knew us. We talked about everything. Faith. Marriage. Our future children. Would they go to church? Or mosque? Would they speak Igbo or Hausa? Would my father ever walk me down the aisle? Ameer once said, “What if we just ran away?” I laughed. “And go where?” “Anywhere love is allowed.” But the world is not kind to those who cross holy lines.