In the bustling streets of Lagos, where the call to prayer from minarets mingled with the peal of church bells, four friends navigated life with the ease of brothers. Musa, a devout Muslim from the north, ran a small tailoring shop, his days punctuated by salat and quiet reflections on the Quran. Tobi, a fiery Christian evangelist, worked as a mechanic, always quoting Bible verses while fixing engines. Chidi, an Igbo trader with a penchant for ancestral proverbs, believed in the spirits of his forefathers, blending tradition with a casual nod to Catholicism. And Ayo, the free-spirited Yoruba artist, dabbled in Ifa divination but mostly chased inspiration through his paintings, skeptical of rigid doctrines.
They had met years ago at a university protest, bonding over shared dreams of a better Nigeria. Despite their differing faiths, they gathered every Friday evening at a roadside bar, debating everything from politics to the afterlife. "Allah guides the faithful," Musa would say, sipping his tea. "Jesus is the way," Tobi countered with a grin. Chidi laughed, "Our chi knows best," while Ayo shrugged, "Life's a canvas, paint what works."
One fateful weekend, they embarked on a road trip to the ancient hills of Idanre, seeking adventure beyond the city's chaos. Ayo drove his battered SUV, blasting Afrobeat tunes as they laughed and argued. "Religion answers all questions," Musa insisted during a heated discussion on fate. Tobi nodded vigorously, "Amen! Faith moves mountains." Chidi rolled his eyes, "Until the ancestors whisper otherwise." Ayo chuckled, "Guys, sometimes it's just luck or bad roads."
As dusk fell, disaster struck. A sudden storm turned the winding path into a muddy trap. Ayo swerved to avoid a fallen branch, but the vehicle skidded off the edge, tumbling down a ravine. Metal groaned, glass shattered, and the world spun into darkness.
When Musa awoke, pain shot through his leg broken, he realized, pinned under twisted wreckage. Tobi groaned nearby, blood trickling from a gash on his forehead. Chidi, miraculously unscathed but bruised, clambered out, shouting for Ayo, who lay unconscious against a tree, his arm mangled.
Panic set in as night deepened. No signal on their phones, no passersby on this remote trail. Rain pounded relentlessly, turning the ground to sludge. Musa whispered prayers to Allah, seeking strength. Tobi clutched his cross necklace, murmuring psalms for deliverance. Chidi invoked his ancestors, sprinkling dirt in ritual patterns. Ayo, stirring weakly, muttered curses at the gods for their indifference.
Hours blurred into agony. Musa's leg swelled, infection looming. Tobi's wound festered, fever rising. They shared what little water they had, but hope dwindled. "Where is your God now?" Ayo rasped, his voice bitter. Musa faltered, his faith tested. Tobi's verses felt hollow. Chidi's rituals brought no spirits.
Then, in the dead of night, lights pierced the gloom, a group of hikers, drawn by faint cries. Leading them was an elderly woman, a local herbalist with no professed religion, just knowledge of the land. She assessed their injuries with practiced eyes, barking orders. Her companions, a mix of Muslims, Christians, and traditionalists from nearby villages, fashioned stretchers from branches and vines. They carried the friends to safety, administering poultices and broth without asking about beliefs.
At the village clinic, as doctors stitched wounds and set bones, the friends lay side by side. Musa turned to Tobi, "Brother, it wasn't prayer that saved us." Tobi nodded weakly. Chidi added, "Nor ancestors." Ayo smiled faintly, "Just people. Help from wherever."
In the end, when one is in trouble, religion does not matter. After all, it won't really matter wherever help is coming from. At that point in your life, you don't care about religion, you only want a solution to your problem.
THE END
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