Some days ago, at exactly 2 PM, I boarded a bus from Opebi garage in Lagos, heading to Ikeja Under Bridge. I managed to snag a window seat—the perfect spot for an uneventful ride. I pulled out my phone to continue reading Carrie Soto Is Back by Taylor Jenkins Reid—my latest obsession. With the warm Lagos breeze pushing away the stale smell of sweat in the bus, I could almost imagine I was the main character in a new Jade Osiberu film.
Just as I was getting lost in my book, a sharp voice cut through the faint blare of Fuji music from the driver’s radio.
“Ridwan, sit down! I said sit!”
I looked up to see a frazzled young mother trying to juggle her day. She had two children with her: a chubby toddler strapped to her back and a restless little boy who couldn’t have been older than six. With one hand, she balanced a plastic bag full of tomatoes and vegetables; with the other, she tried to keep Ridwan—her older son—from launching himself out of the bus. The boy was full of energy, hopping from one foot to the other. The toddler on her back started crying, probably from the heat.
“I don’t have your time today!” she barked. “I said sit down! Are you deaf?” Her tone was harsh, the kind that could make a child shrink into himself. She yanked Ridwan into a seat near me, her frustration spilling over. And then, the words that made my heart sink: You will not amount to anything if you keep behaving like this. You’re useless. She said it in Yoruba, her native language.
I froze. That sentence hit like a whip. Ridwan’s face fell, and for the first time since boarding, he sat still, staring at his sandals. The rest of the passengers remained silent, each minding their business in the typical Nigerian way. But I couldn’t. How many times had he heard words like that? How many more times would he hear them before he believed them?
The toddler had quieted down now, and the mother took a deep breath, her frustration fading as quickly as it had come. She looked exhausted, like someone carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders. I wondered if she even realized the impact of what she’d just said. Should I say something? After all, it was none of my business—or was it? I felt a nudge in my spirit to do something.
As the bus approached the next stop, I pulled out my notepad and pen and wrote quickly:
“Hi, I just wanted to say that as a mom, you are doing a great job. I know it’s not easy. But I noticed something you said to your son. Words are powerful. When we tell a child they won’t amount to anything, they might start to believe it. Instead, remind him that he is strong, kind, and smart—even when he doesn’t seem to be listening. Speak life over him. And oh, I am a Christian, so I will be praying for you. Please know that God loves you.”
I folded the note and handed it to her as I got up to leave. She looked at me with a mix of surprise and curiosity but took it.
Thirty minutes later, I received a message. It was an SMS from the woman: Thank you. I am ashamed of myself. I shouldn’t have said that, and I wish I could rewind time and erase what I said. Please pray for me.
At that moment, I felt a lump in my throat. I thought about how those few words on a piece of paper could change the way she spoke to her children from that day forward. I thought about how often we overlook the opportunities God gives us to reflect His love, kindness, and grace—not in loud, dramatic ways, but in simple moments of connection.
That’s what it means to live like you have a deal with God. To walk through life knowing that every word, every action, every interaction carries the potential to make a difference. You don’t need a pulpit to preach or a miracle to show His power. We are made in His image, and when we live like Him—kind, patient, forgiving—we reflect Him to the world.
So today, I chose to write a note. Tomorrow, it might be a smile, a helping hand, or simply listening. Whatever it is, I’ll keep looking for those moments—because I know God gives them to us daily.
Article by: Abimbola Otepola
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