More Haste: The Marital Trials of Brother Segun

By Abiodun John Soretire

A compelling story set in the Nigeria of the dawning years of the Second Millennium AD zeroing in on a young Christian, Segun, in what can best be described as "The Trials of Brother Segun: Premarital, Marital and Postmarital". Dilemma here, dilemma there, hordes and hurdles of dilemma in his many-sided relationships. Did he manage to come out in one piece?
The unputdownable novel addresses issues like Christian courtship, infertility, filiation, bereavement and trust in God.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abiodun John Soretire
• Release date: Mar 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310853913

Abiodun John Soretire

Abiodun John Soretire was born and bred in Abeokuta but on Divine instruction settled down in Ijebu-Ode with his wife, Abolanle, after their marriage in 2007. His race of eternity started in April 1994 in Disciples of Christ Bible Church. He served in various offices of student ministries like The Redeemed Christian Fellowship (RCF), Nigerian Fellowship of Evangelical Students (NIFES) and Nigerian Christian Corpers' Fellowship (NCCF) at different institutions and time, spanning over 8 years. He was ordained a Deacon in 2003 and started pastoring an assembly of GOFAMINT since 2011. His academic/professional qualifications include HND (Science Lab Technology), AIMLS (Medical Lab Science) and BA (Ed) (English). Presently, he is the GOFAMINT Region 14 Youth Pastor and Vice Chairman, All Nigeria Conference of Evangelical Drama Ministers (ANCEDRAM) Ogun State Chapter. He is happily married with one covenant son, IniOluwanimi Isaac. Some of his other titles include Sin of Martha and Seeing God through Nature.

Book preview

MORE HASTE

...the marital trials of Brother Segun...

DEDICATION

Dedicated to my loving wife, AbolanleAbigael, who had to wait seven years for our firstborn, IniOluwanimi, to come, and by extension, to all waiting mothers.

EPIGRAPH

Sun, Very Soon

You waited till you are worn

When will you Pampers your newborn

Night may seem long and forlorn

Soon, it will be the turn of the sun

And you will see your long-awaited son

Nay, daughter to start your new morn

Abiodun Soretire, April 2014

PROLOGUE

The atmosphere dripped with emotion. Even Sola, the 13-year old, caught the current. Her eyes, fixated on the mother-son scene, were saturated with the tear-gland fluid ready to trickle down any moment. Mrs. Toriola had succeeded in infecting every occupant of the sitting room with emotive germ. Segun contracted the endemic and a lump was stuck to his throat. He was gradually getting mollified as he succumbed to the feminine tear-power supplying the atmosphere with the electricity in high horsepower. He is no wood, how will he not succumb! Yes, it will only take a wood to stand unyielding when mother's tears start yielding in squirts. He dropped his head, shook it vigorously and was still for a while. When he finally lifted up the bloodshot eyes, his exasperation had been defused.

‘But Mummy, I'm confused. He said he was not my father. Here you are saying I should forgive him being my father. Would there be smoke without fire? Would Daddy…' the first time in many days his heart and mouth would reconcile to call Mr. Toriola Daddy, ‘have said it if nothing broods at the back of his mind? Mummy, does the mouth not speak out of the abundance of the heart?' The conveyance of his conviction was wrapped up as he awaited its effect.

The middle-aged mother heaved a great sigh but not of relief. It was time she visited the past she dreaded even its mere mention. She acute-angled her head on the upright, the backrest, of the sofa as she travelled down memory lane...

Cascading tears pervaded every particle of the emotional pause.

Segun squeezed his eyes shut as if remembering something.

CHAPTER ONE

He woke with a start. He rubbed his eyes severally just to be sure he had left the realm of dreams. It was a cool night, one of the equable nights of the rains towards the tail-end of April. He was bedraggled in the water mass soaked up the centre of the mattress. The nightmare must have set off some mechanism that produced the clammy sweat. The water outline drew an abstract map in the middle of the foam encouraging a sagginess that brushed his back on the wooden support.

Segun sat up immediately and yanked off the wet bedcover. He checked the time. It was just twenty minutes to two. Grimacing in horror, he ran back his mind over the phantasmagoric dream.

He had seen three men knocked at a door. Someone inside unlatched the door. Before he could keep the door ajar and peep to ascertain who the visitors were, they burst in. And the next thing he would see: a man bearing striking resemblance to him. He was sure they were not one and the same person. The man, in his mid-30s, was dragged out into the open half-standing-half-kneeling pleading for mercy. The three marauders, armed with machetes having blades reflecting the gloom of the moonlight, butchered him in violence so cold-hearted – it beggared description – but not without the honour of informing him on which bill the sudden death was striking – a land dispute. The blows came in torrents and never stopped until the man was as dead as a doornail. Then they left wearing a villainous beam of satisfaction. A man, who had heard the distress shouts and had come out, crossed their path. He too was silenced and laid flat writhing in excruciating pain with few blows of the machete. Thereafter, the heinous trio made off in sustained glee of fulfilment.

A woman heavy with pregnancy, who looked like the first victim's wife, fearfully trotted out of the house where she seemed to have been confined by the bosses with knives. On seeing her husband's lifeless and decapitated mass of flesh in a pool of blood she gave a long shriek of terror, and passed out.

That was the scene that unfolded last in the nightmare before Segun was brought back to reality. Presently, he jumped out of bed and made for his cell phone. The bed was terribly unmade and the sheet unusually rumpled; the centre of the bed was slowly recovering from its saggy mission. Ordinarily, Segun would straightway have remade the bed ensuring the bedding was neatly tucked. Meticulous he was at doing it every time he rose from bed. But, this night, the couch would get no such attention. Pressure had prevailed on protocol.

He punched in Pastor Tunji's number and depressed SEND button. Before it could ring at the other end another thought ran through his mind. Why disturb Pastor at these wee hours? Can't he wait till the dawn breaks? He cut off the almost connecting call, knelt by his bed and began a violent supplication. One clause stood above others in the prayer – I reject it in Jesus' name.

* * * * *

‘Hold on,' Pastor Tunji said as he made for the door. Though a bit ruffled at the early morning caller, something struck a chord in the stranger's voice. When the knock first came he was fast asleep. The persistence in the knock woke him and with sleepy eyes he asked who it was. The fellow's ‘It's me, Pastor,' a semi-anonymous response suggesting familiarity, met Tunji's faculties just recovering from the metabolic slow-down which beauty sleep had subjected them to. It took him some few more minutes to fully recover but then he wouldn't want the person at the door to identify himself again. He had made it a bit of courtesy. He always likened himself to a receptionist – her prospects in the