Unseen, Unbroken
By Charles Okonji
What happens when those who are unseen refuse to be silenced? Can resilience and faith break the barriers of injustice? How does one fight for change in a world that looks the other way? Will Kemi’s struggle for accessibility spark lasting transformation, or will the voices of the marginalised remain unheard? When adversity strikes, can faith alone sustain the unbroken spirit? These thought-provoking questions will stay with you as you journey through this compelling novel—one you won’t want to miss.
A City of Challenges
The Lagos sun blazed with unrelenting intensity, its golden rays dancing off the bustling chaos of the Lagos-Apapa Expressway. It was a scene as alive as it was unforgiving. Horns blared incessantly as cars, buses, and motorbikes jockeyed for space on the congested road, their drivers weaving through the madness with the practised ease of survivors. Pedestrians swarmed the sidewalks, darting through gaps in traffic like fleeting shadows, their faces etched with determination and fatigue. The city never paused for anyone—it was a place where only the strong survived.
Amid the commotion, Kemi Tunji sat in her wheelchair, positioned at the edge of the Charly Boy Bus Stop in Gbagada. The seat beneath her was sturdy but worn, a silent testament to years of resilience. Her dark, expressive eyes were fixed on the pedestrian bridge that loomed ahead, an imposing structure of concrete and steel stretching over the snarled traffic.
The bridge was a lifeline for many, offering a safe passage across the treacherous highway below. For Kemi, however, it was an unforgiving reminder of her limitations. She stared at the steep concrete stairs, their sharp angles rising like a cruel taunt. Each step was not just a physical challenge but a symbol of the indifference that defined the city she called home.
Commuters bustled past, their faces set in determined focus. They climbed the stairs with a hurried ease, bags slung over shoulders, children clinging to hands, their lives uninterrupted by the struggles that bound her. Kemi's heart ached, not from jealousy but from the relentless sense of exclusion. The world moved on, oblivious to those who couldn’t keep pace.
Beside her stood Bola, her closest friend and fellow traveller in adversity. Bola leaned heavily on her crutches, a stark figure of determination against the swarming backdrop of Lagos life. Like Kemi, she bore the invisible scars of a society that seldom paused to consider those who walked—or wheeled—different paths.
“Kemi,” Bola said, her voice tinged with frustration and weariness, “these bridges—they weren’t made for people like us, were they?”
Kemi’s lips curled into a faint, humourless smile. “No, Bola, they weren’t. It’s like we don’t exist in their plans, like our needs are invisible.”
Bola sighed, shifting her weight uncomfortably. “Invisible,” she echoed, her tone bitter. “That’s exactly it.”
Kemi’s gaze drifted to the distance, her thoughts pulling her away from the noisy chaos surrounding them. She thought back to a time when life had been simpler, brighter. Born into a loving family, she had once been the embodiment of childhood energy. Her laughter had filled the small house she shared with her parents and three siblings, a melody that brought joy to everyone around her.
But that happiness had been short-lived.
At the age of eleven, the first signs appeared—an ache in her legs, a discomfort so mild it was dismissed as growing pains. Weeks turned into months, and the pain grew relentless, robbing her of sleep and, eventually, of her ability to walk. Her parents had scrambled desperately for answers, visiting doctors, faith healers, and traditional herbalists, but the outcome was always the same: uncertainty.
By the time the diagnosis came—juvenile idiopathic arthritis—it felt almost like a hollow victory. There was a name for her condition, but no cure. The once-vivid dreams she had of running in wide-open fields or dancing at family gatherings faded into the background of hospital visits and whispered conversations.
Now, at twenty-four, her wheelchair had become both a lifeline and a prison. It gave her freedom to move but kept her bound to a world that wasn’t designed for her.
“Do you ever think about how things could have been?” Bola’s voice pulled Kemi from her reverie.
Kemi turned to her friend, her expression softening. “Every day. I wonder what life would be like if...” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “If I could still walk. If I could climb that bridge without thinking twice. But wondering doesn’t change anything, does it?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Bola replied, her voice heavy. “But it helps, sometimes. To dream, I mean. It’s what keeps me going.”
Kemi nodded. Dreaming was a double-edged sword. It gave hope but also carried the sting of what might never be.
A gust of wind swept through the bus stop, carrying with it the acrid scent of exhaust fumes. Kemi adjusted the scarf around her head, shielding her face from the dust kicked up by a speeding danfo bus. Her eyes returned to the bridge, and for a fleeting moment, she felt the familiar pang of helplessness.
But then, she caught sight of something—or rather, someone.
A young boy, no older than ten, was struggling to climb the stairs. His small frame was weighed down by a schoolbag that seemed almost as big as he was. He stumbled, dropping a book, and the commuters around him barely spared him a glance.
Kemi felt an ache in her chest. She reached out instinctively, gripping the armrest of her wheelchair. “Bola, look,” she said, gesturing towards the boy.
Bola followed her gaze. “Poor thing,” she murmured. “No one even stops to help.”
Without thinking, Kemi called out. “Hey, little one! Wait!”
The boy turned, startled by her voice.
“Your book,” Kemi said, pointing to the fallen item. “You dropped it.”
The boy bent to pick it up, his small hands trembling under the weight of his bag.
“Do you need help?” Kemi asked, her voice gentle.
He hesitated, then nodded shyly. “Yes, ma.”
Bola immediately understood. “I’ll go,” she said, handing one of her crutches to Kemi for balance.
With practised grace, Bola reached him and helped him secure his bag. Together, they descended the stairs, returning to where Kemi waited.
“Thank you, ma,” the boy said, his eyes wide with gratitude.
“What’s your name?” Kemi asked.
“David,” he replied.
“Well, David, you’re very brave to climb those stairs all by yourself,” she said, smiling warmly.
David grinned. “Thank you, ma.”
As he disappeared into the crowd, Kemi felt a flicker of hope stir within her.
Bola smiled. “Invisible doesn’t mean powerless.”
Kemi’s eyes welled with tears, but this time, they weren’t tears of frustration—they were tears of conviction. “You know, the Bible says, ‘But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles’ (Isaiah 40:31). Maybe we can’t climb that bridge, but God will make a way for us, just like He makes a way for David.”
Bola nodded. “Amen. We’re not forgotten, Kemi. God sees us.”
And beneath the glaring sun and the relentless noise of Lagos, Kemi resolved to keep fighting—not just for herself, but for every soul the city refused to see.
The Unseen Battle
Navigating Lagos was not merely a challenge for Kemi—it was a test of endurance, a battle fought every day with determination and faith. The city was a labyrinth of noise, chaos, and indifference, and for someone in a wheelchair, it was a battleground. Every journey was fraught with obstacles, both physical and emotional, yet she pressed on, leaning on the strength that only God could provide.
Kemi had long grown accustomed to the painstaking planning required for even the simplest outings. Ride-hailing services were her lifeline, but they came at a steep cost. Each trip drained her limited finances, leaving her with little to spare for other necessities. Attending her lectures at the Lagos State University, Ojo, where she was pursuing a degree in Public Administration, required more than just intellectual effort; it demanded meticulous logistics and a resilience born out of necessity.
Her neighbour’s mini-bus provided a more affordable option, but it was far from ideal. The vehicle was old, its suspension groaning with every pothole—a frequent occurrence on the city’s poorly maintained roads. Boarding the bus required assistance, and Kemi hated the feeling of dependence it forced upon her. Still, she clung to the promise in Philippians 4:13: "I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me." Every ride, no matter how difficult, was a testament to her trust in God’s plan for her life.
On a humid Tuesday morning, Kemi sat by her small bedroom window, adjusting the scarf that framed her round, youthful face. Outside, the neighbourhood was already alive with the sounds of vendors hawking their goods and children’s laughter echoing through the narrow streets. She glanced at her timetable, mentally mapping out her day. It would be a long one, filled with lectures, discussions, and the inevitable struggles of moving through the city.
As she prepared for her commute, her mother, Bolanle, entered the room. Bolanle was a woman of quiet strength, her face lined with the marks of years spent weathering life’s storms. She carried a tray with a steaming cup of tea and a small plate of bread, placing it gently on Kemi’s desk.
“Kemi,” Bolanle began, her voice tinged with concern, “I worry about you every time you leave the house.”
Kemi paused, her hands resting on the wheels of her chair. She turned to face her mother, whose eyes were filled with a mixture of love and fear. “Mama,” she said softly, reaching for her mother’s hand, “I know it’s hard, but I can’t let this stop me. I have to keep pushing forward.”
Bolanle sighed deeply, shaking her head. “Lagos is unkind, my child. People can be cruel. I just wish things were easier for you.”
Kemi smiled, though her heart ached at her mother’s words. “Mama, the Lord never promised an easy road, but He did promise to walk with us. Psalm 23:4 says, 'Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.' That is enough for me.”
Bolanle wiped at the tears threatening to spill over and nodded. “You’re right. I just wish the world could see you the way I do—as someone so full of courage and faith.”
Kemi squeezed her mother’s hand. “One day, Mama. One day they will.”
With her mother’s reluctant blessing, Kemi finished her breakfast and wheeled herself to the front door. Her neighbour, Mr Abraham, was already waiting with his mini-bus. The middle-aged man was one of the few people who had consistently shown Kemi kindness. He greeted her with a warm smile and a cheerful “Good morning, Kemi!”
“Good morning, Mr Abraham,” she replied, her voice bright despite the weariness she felt.
As Mr Abraham helped lift her wheelchair into the bus, Kemi couldn’t help but notice the curious stares of passers-by. She was used to the looks by now—some pitying, others indifferent. She chose to focus on the few that held admiration, drawing strength from their silent support.
The ride to the university was bumpy, the bus lurching with every pothole it encountered. Kemi gripped the armrests of her chair tightly, her knuckles turning white. Mr Abraham glanced back at her occasionally, his expression apologetic.
“I’m sorry for the rough ride, Kemi,” he said as they approached a particularly congested intersection.
“It’s not your fault, Mr Abraham,” she replied, her tone reassuring. “These roads would challenge anyone. But as James 1:2-3 reminds us, 'Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance.'”
When they finally arrived at the university, Kemi felt a wave of relief. The campus, with its wide-open spaces and relatively smooth paths, was a refuge from the chaos of the city. As she wheeled herself towards the lecture hall, she was greeted by familiar faces—classmates who had come to admire her tenacity and professors who respected her sharp intellect.
Inside the lecture hall, Kemi took her usual spot at the front, where the desks had been arranged to accommodate her wheelchair. The day’s lecture was on public policy—a topic she found both fascinating and deeply relevant to her own experiences.
At the end of the lecture, Kemi stayed behind to discuss a point with the professor. Dr Oladipo was a stern but fair man, his sharp mind matched by his deep empathy. He listened intently as Kemi shared her thoughts on the day’s topic.
“You have a unique perspective, Kemi,” he said, his tone thoughtful. “Your experiences give you insights that many of us lack. Don’t underestimate the power of your voice.”
Kemi nodded, his words resonating deeply. “Thank you, sir. I just hope I can use that voice to make a difference.”
“You already are,” Dr Oladipo replied with a small smile.
As the evening settled over Lagos, Kemi sat by her window, watching the city lights twinkle in the distance. The challenges she faced were immense, but so was her resolve. She whispered a prayer, her heart full of hope:
“Lord, strengthen me for the journey ahead. Let my life be a testimony of Your goodness. Let my struggles point others to You.”
She believed, with all her heart, that her battle was not just for herself. It was for others who felt unseen, unheard, and unloved. And in Christ, she knew she would never be alone.
The Turning Point
The afternoon sun hung heavy in the Lagos sky, its golden rays glinting off the roofs of rusting vehicles and casting long shadows across the crowded bus stop. Kemi sat quietly in her wheelchair, the world around her a blur of hurried footsteps and honking horns. She was used to the chaos, the way the city pulsed with life and noise. But today felt different, though she couldn’t yet put her finger on why.
She glanced at her watch. The bus was late again—a common occurrence that no longer surprised her. She sighed and adjusted her scarf, her gaze drifting to the other side of the bus stop, where a woman sat in a wheelchair, her face turned slightly away. Kemi noticed her neatly braided hair, the confident way she carried herself despite the weathered chair beneath her.
The woman turned her head, meeting Kemi’s gaze. Her face was lined with age, her deep-set eyes radiating a warmth that immediately drew Kemi in. She smiled—a smile that seemed to carry both a welcome and a question.
“Hello, my dear,” the woman said, her voice rich and melodious, carrying a hint of wisdom that only age and experience could bestow.
“Good afternoon, ma,” Kemi replied, wheeling herself closer. “Are you waiting for the bus as well?”
The woman chuckled softly. “Waiting, yes. Whether it will actually come is another matter entirely.”
Kemi laughed despite herself, the woman’s humour disarming her. “You’re not wrong about that.”
The two fell into an easy conversation. The woman introduced herself as Eniola Adeoye, a retired school teacher who had been confined to a wheelchair for nearly a decade following a devastating car accident.
“I was driving back from a wedding in Abeokuta,” Eniola explained, her voice calm but tinged with sadness. “The driver of the lorry that hit us had fallen asleep at the wheel. I was the only one who survived in my car.”
Kemi felt a lump rise in her throat. “I’m so sorry, ma. That must have been... unbearable.”
Eniola gave a small nod, her expression distant. “It was. For a long time, I didn’t think I’d make it. Not physically, but emotionally. Losing my mobility was like losing a part of myself. But life has a way of teaching you to adapt, even when you think you can’t.”
Kemi listened intently, her admiration for Eniola growing with every word. There was a strength in her that reminded Kemi of her own mother—a quiet resilience that refused to be extinguished.
As their conversation deepened, they began to share their struggles, their frustrations with a society that seemed blind to their needs. They spoke of the inaccessible roads and buildings, the lack of support for people with disabilities, and the way they were often treated as invisible.
“Kemi,” Eniola said suddenly, her tone shifting to one of urgency, “have you ever thought about advocating for change? People need to hear our stories.”
Kemi hesitated, her fingers gripping the armrests of her wheelchair. “What difference would it make?” she asked, her voice tinged with scepticism. “The government doesn’t care about us. They’ve had years to fix these problems, and nothing’s changed.”
“But they can’t ignore us if we make enough noise,” Eniola countered, her eyes blazing with determination. “Change doesn’t come from waiting. It comes from fighting. We need to demand accessible infrastructure—not just for ourselves but for the next generation. If we don’t stand up, who will?”
Kemi stared at the older woman, her words resonating deeply. She had always thought of herself as strong, but this kind of strength—the kind that called for action, for taking risks—felt foreign to her.
“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
Eniola leaned forward, her expression softening. “You start with your story. Share it. Let people see what you go through every day. And then find others who are willing to stand with you. There’s power in numbers, Kemi.”
The spark in Eniola’s eyes ignited something within Kemi—a flicker of hope, of possibility. For so long, she had focused on survival, on getting through each day. But now, a new thought took root: what if she could do more? What if she could change the narrative, not just for herself but for others like her?
By the time the bus finally arrived, Kemi felt as though her world had shifted. She and Eniola exchanged numbers, promising to stay in touch. As the bus rumbled down the congested streets of Lagos, Kemi couldn’t stop thinking about their conversation.
That night, long after the city had settled into its restless slumber, Kemi sat at her desk, her laptop open in front of her. The glow of the screen illuminated her face as she typed furiously, searching for advocacy groups and disability rights organisations. She discovered stories of individuals who had fought against the odds, campaigns that had led to tangible change.
She came across the story of a man in Abuja who had successfully lobbied for ramps to be installed in public buildings. She read about a woman in South Africa who had used social media to rally support for disability rights, forcing policymakers to take action.
As she delved deeper, Kemi’s apprehension began to give way to excitement. She realised that the fight for accessibility wasn’t just a distant dream—it was something she could be a part of. She might not have all the answers, but she was willing to learn.
The following week, Kemi met with Eniola again, this time at a small café near the university. Eniola arrived with a notebook filled with ideas and contact information for organisations she had worked with in the past.
“You’ve done your homework,” Eniola said with a smile as Kemi shared what she had found.
“I didn’t sleep much,” Kemi admitted, her excitement evident. “There’s so much to do, but I think we can make a difference.”
Eniola reached across the table, placing her hand over Kemi’s. “We will make a difference. One step at a time.”
Together, they began to outline their plan. They decided to start by organising a small meeting with other individuals in their community who faced similar challenges. They would share their stories, identify the most pressing issues, and brainstorm solutions.
Over the next few weeks, Kemi threw herself into the project with a passion she hadn’t felt in years. She created flyers, reached out to local organisations, and even convinced a few of her classmates to help spread the word. Eniola was a constant source of guidance, her experience and wisdom invaluable.
The first meeting took place in the courtyard of a local community centre. Kemi had been nervous that no one would show up, but as the time approached, people began to trickle in—men, women, and even children, some in wheelchairs, others with crutches or prosthetic limbs.
As Kemi looked out at the small but diverse crowd, she felt a surge of emotion. These were people who had been overlooked, dismissed, and marginalised. But here they were, united by a shared desire for change.
Taking a deep breath, Kemi wheeled herself to the front of the group. Her voice trembled at first, but as she spoke, she found her rhythm, her confidence growing with each word.
“We are here today because we deserve better,” she began, her voice steady and clear. “We deserve roads we can navigate, buildings we can enter, and opportunities we can access. But change won’t come if we wait for it. We have to demand it. Together.”
The applause that followed was thunderous, echoing through the courtyard and into the streets beyond.
For the first time in her life, Kemi felt not just heard but seen. She realised that the turning point wasn’t just about the decision to act—it was about the community she was beginning to build, the collective strength that would drive their fight forward.
Raising Voices
Kemi sat nervously in the back of the small community hall, the faint hum of chatter filling the room as activists and advocates for disability rights prepared for the evening’s discussion. It was the first time she had been invited to speak at such an event, and the weight of that responsibility pressed heavily on her chest.
She glanced down at the notes she had prepared, her hands trembling slightly. Though the words were carefully written, she worried they would dissolve into a tangle of incoherence when it came time to deliver them. Her gaze wandered across the room, taking in the faces of those gathered. There were men and women of all ages, each bearing the quiet strength of someone who had lived through hardship.
A tap on her shoulder jolted her from her thoughts. It was Eniola, her ever-supportive mentor and friend, who had insisted Kemi take this opportunity.
“You’ll be brilliant,” Eniola whispered, her voice steady and reassuring. “Just speak from your heart. That’s what people need to hear.”
Kemi nodded, drawing in a deep breath. She knew she was not alone. God was with her. The scripture in Isaiah 41:10 echoed in her mind: “Fear not, for I am with you; be not dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you, yes, I will help you, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand.”
When her name was called, she wheeled herself to the front of the room. The murmuring died down as all eyes turned to her. The weight of their attention was overwhelming, but she reminded herself why she was there—not for herself, but for the countless others who faced the same struggles every day.
“My name is Kemi,” she began, her voice trembling but resolute. “And for as long as I can remember, I have lived in a world that wasn’t built for me.”
She spoke of the challenges she faced navigating Lagos, the endless obstacles that turned even the simplest errands into Herculean tasks. She described the financial burden of accessible transport, the humiliation of being treated as invisible, and the exhaustion of constantly having to prove her worth in a society that saw her as less.
“But I am not here to complain,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “I am here to fight—for myself, for my brothers and sisters with disabilities, and for the generations that will come after us. We deserve roads we can walk or wheel on, buildings we can enter, and a city that sees us, values us, and includes us.”
The room erupted into applause, the sound thunderous and affirming. Kemi felt a swell of emotion rise within her—pride, gratitude, and a deep sense of belonging. For the first time, she felt like her voice had the power to make a difference.
Later that evening, as she sat quietly in prayer, she reflected on the journey ahead. She opened her Bible and read Philippians 4:13: “I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.” She whispered the words aloud, letting them take root in her heart.
It wasn’t long after this that Kemi began attending more meetings and events, each one further fuelling her determination. At one such gathering, she noticed a young man standing off to the side, a camera slung over his shoulder and a notebook in his hand. He seemed to be observing everything with a keen, almost restless energy.
As the event wrapped up, the man approached her, his face alight with enthusiasm.
“Excuse me, are you Kemi?” he asked, extending a hand.
“Yes,” she replied cautiously, shaking his hand.
“My name is Sanni. I’m a journalist,” he said, his tone earnest. “I’ve been covering stories about accessibility and inclusion, but your speech tonight... it was different. It wasn’t just moving—it was galvanising. People need to hear your story, Kemi. Let me write about you.”
Kemi hesitated. The idea of her story being publicised made her uneasy. What if people misinterpreted her words? What if it made no difference at all?
Sanni seemed to sense her apprehension. “I know it’s a lot to ask,” he said gently. “But you have a gift—a way of making people listen. If we work together, we can reach a wider audience. We can make them see what they’ve been ignoring for too long.”
His words lingered with her long after the conversation ended. That night, Kemi spoke with Eniola, who encouraged her to take the leap.
“The world won’t change unless we push it to,” Eniola said. “This is your chance to push.”
A week later, Sanni visited Kemi at her home, his notebook and recorder in hand. Over the course of several hours, Kemi recounted her life story—her childhood, her struggles with accessibility, her mother’s unwavering support, and the turning point that had set her on this path.
“You’re remarkable,” Sanni said as he packed up his things. “I’m going to do everything I can to make sure people hear your voice.”
True to his word, Sanni’s article was published in one of Lagos’s leading newspapers a fortnight later, accompanied by a striking photograph of Kemi. The headline read: “The Unseen Lagos: One Woman’s Fight for Accessibility, Inclusion.”
The response was immediate and overwhelming. Readers flooded the publication’s website and social media platforms with comments, many expressing outrage at the city’s neglect of its disabled population. Others shared their own stories, creating a wave of collective voices that could no longer be ignored.
For Kemi, the experience was surreal. Strangers stopped her on the street to thank her for speaking out. Advocacy groups reached out, eager to collaborate. And yet, amidst the praise, there were also whispers of scepticism and criticism.
“Do you really think one person can make a difference?” someone asked her at an event.
“I’m not just one person,” Kemi replied firmly. “I’m part of a movement. And movements change the world.”
As the journey continued, Kemi encountered discouragement. Promises made by officials often went unfulfilled, and the pace of change was frustratingly slow. There were days when she felt like giving up, when the weight of the fight threatened to crush her spirit.
One evening, she confided in her mother, who sat beside her and took her hand. “You’re not shouting into a void, Kemi. You’re planting seeds. And seeds take time to grow. Just because you can’t see the changes yet doesn’t mean they aren’t happening.”
Kemi sighed, resting her head against her mother’s shoulder. “I feel like I’m carrying this burden alone.”
“You are never alone,” her mother said softly. “God is with you. Galatians 6:9 says, ‘And let us not grow weary while doing good, for in due season we shall reap if we do not lose heart.’”
Kemi closed her eyes, letting the words wash over her. She whispered a prayer of gratitude, knowing that her strength came from the Lord.
Months turned into a year, and the movement Kemi had helped spark began to yield results. Ramps were installed in several public buildings, new buses with wheelchair access were added to the city’s fleet, and conversations about accessibility became a regular part of public discourse.
Through it all, Kemi remained at the forefront, her voice unwavering. She had learned that change was never easy, but it was always worth fighting for. And though the road ahead was still long, she knew she wasn’t walking it alone—God was with her every step of the way.
A City Awakens
The scorching Lagos sun hung heavily over the state secretariat as Kemi and her fellow advocates gathered, their voices mingling with the restless hum of the city. Though their hearts burned with a desire for change, they had resolved that their approach would be different—not through protest but through dialogue, persistent advocacy, and faith in God's ability to move hearts.
A few days earlier, they had sat together in Bola’s house, grappling with a crucial question: How should Christians respond to injustice? Was public demonstration the right path, or was there a better way?
“We must be careful,” Tunde said, his forehead creased with worry. “As Christians, are we truly called to the streets in protest? Should we not rely on prayer and peaceful petitions?”
“I hear you, Tunde,” Bola replied, leaning forward, “but faith without works is dead. James 2:17 is clear on that. How can we claim to follow Christ and yet ignore injustice?”
Kemi nodded. “Proverbs 31:8 commands us to speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Are we not fulfilling this commandment by taking a stand?”
Another advocate, Fumilayo, tapped her fingers against the table. “Jesus did not shy away from confronting injustice. He overturned the tables of the money changers in the temple because they were exploiting the people (Matthew 21:12-13). Isn’t our struggle similar? We are demanding fairness and accessibility.”
Tunde sighed. “I just worry that we might be perceived as rebellious. What if the protest is hijacked by miscreants? Some people might use it as an opportunity to cause destruction and harm others.”
Bola placed a hand on his shoulder. “Isaiah 1:17 tells us to seek justice and defend the oppressed. But we must also act wisely. What if, instead of protesting, we engage the government through dialogue? If we send delegates and communicate effectively, we might achieve more.”
There was a moment of silence as the group pondered his words. Then, Kemi spoke. “You’re right. I’ve seen protests turn violent, even when the original intent was peaceful. Proverbs 14:29 says, ‘Whoever is patient has great understanding, but one who is quick-tempered displays folly.’ We must seek change, but in a way that honours God and brings true transformation.”
After much discussion and prayer, they agreed: They would not take to the streets. Instead, they would adopt a strategy of dialogue. They would write letters, hold meetings, and send delegations to the government. They would persist in their advocacy, trusting in God’s timing and wisdom.
The following week, Kemi and a team of representatives arrived at the state secretariat. Dressed in their best, they exuded confidence, not from themselves, but from the conviction that they were on a mission for justice.
Inside the boardroom, government officials sat with skeptical expressions. A middle-aged bureaucrat adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “We understand your concerns, but these changes require time and resources. The government has many priorities.”
Kemi took a deep breath, recalling Isaiah 1:17: “Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed.” With renewed courage, she spoke.
“We are not asking for luxuries,” she began. “We are asking for dignity—for ramps on pedestrian bridges, buses that accommodate everyone, and policies that include rather than exclude us.”
The officials exchanged looks. Some nodded in agreement, others remained skeptical. One of them leaned forward. “But how do we ensure that these changes don’t strain the government’s limited resources?”
“With all due respect, sir,” Bola interjected, “small steps make a big difference. If we prioritize accessibility in infrastructure planning, costs will be minimized over time. Moreover, Proverbs 3:27 says, ‘Do not withhold good from those to whom it is due, when it is in your power to act.’ This is within your power.”
The discussion continued for hours. The advocates cited research, shared personal stories, and quoted scripture. The government officials listened, some visibly moved by the testimonies.
As the delegation exited the meeting, they felt a mix of hope and frustration. They had been heard, but would words translate into action?
Weeks passed. The advocates refused to let the movement fade. They wrote letters, followed up on meetings, and engaged the media. Kemi worked tirelessly, sacrificing sleep, but she knew persistence was necessary. Galatians 6:9 encouraged her: “Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up.”
One afternoon, as Kemi sat at Charly Boy Bus Stop, she noticed a group of construction workers gathered around the pedestrian bridge. Her heart skipped a beat. Metal railings, concrete, and what looked like the foundation of a ramp lay before them.
Tears blurred her vision. She could hardly believe it.
Bola, who had just arrived, noticed her expression. “Kemi, what is it?”
Kemi pointed. “Look, Bola. They’re building a ramp.”
Bola turned and gasped. “Oh my God, Kemi. We did it. They listened.”
Tears streamed down Kemi’s face. “We made them see us, Bola. We made them see us.”
Bola squeezed her hand. “This is just the beginning, Kemi. There’s so much more to do.”
Kemi wiped her tears, nodding. She knew Bola was right. The ramp was a victory, but there was still a long way to go.
News of the ramp spread, reigniting energy within the movement. Sanni, the journalist who had first covered their cause, reached out for a follow-up interview.
“How does it feel to see the results of your advocacy?” he asked.
“It feels like hope,” Kemi answered. “But also responsibility. Philippians 2:4 says, ‘Let each of you look not only to his own interests but also to the interests of others.’ This isn’t just about one ramp. It’s about building a city where everyone belongs.”
The article was published with a photograph of Kemi and Bola standing before the construction site. The headline read: A Step Towards Inclusion: Advocates Win Fight for Accessible Infrastructure.
As days turned into weeks, Kemi looked ahead. The city was waking up. The ramp at Charly Boy Bus Stop was just the beginning. The road was long, but she was not walking it alone.
“For the battle is the Lord’s” (1 Samuel 17:47), she whispered, her heart filled with renewed faith and purpose.
Lessons Learned
Kemi sat by the window in her modest flat, gazing at the bustling streets of Lagos below. The sounds of the city—car horns, the cries of street hawkers, and the distant hum of conversations—floated up to meet her. It was chaotic, messy, alive. Yet, for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel overwhelmed by it. Instead, she felt a quiet pride.
The ramp at the Charly Boy Bus Stop was complete. It stood there like a silent monument to resilience and hope, a physical testament to the power of persistence. But as Kemi reflected on the journey that had brought her here, she realised the ramp symbolised something even greater: a beginning, not an end.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft knock of Bola on the door.
“Kemi, you’ve been staring out that window for hours. Everything all right?” Bola asked, stepping inside with two mugs of steaming tea.
Kemi smiled and accepted the mug gratefully. “Just thinking. About how far we’ve come—and how far we still have to go.”
Bola sat beside her, her expression warm but knowing. “You’re allowed to take a moment to celebrate, you know. That ramp didn’t build itself. It’s there because of you, Kemi. Because of us.”
Kemi nodded, her grip tightening around the mug. “I know. It’s just... I keep thinking about all the people still out there struggling, the ones who feel invisible, the way I used to feel. I want to make sure they know they’re not alone.”
Bola placed a hand on her shoulder. “And they do, Kemi. Because of your courage, they’ve found theirs. Don’t underestimate the ripple effect of what you’ve started.”
Kemi sighed. “I just wonder sometimes if I have the strength to keep going.”
Bola smiled knowingly. “Isaiah 40:31 says, ‘But they that wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint.’ You’re not in this fight alone, Kemi. God has been with you every step of the way.”
Kemi’s phone buzzed on the table, pulling her out of her thoughts. She glanced at the screen and saw a message from Tunde, one of the young activists who had joined their cause early on.
Tunde: Kemi, check the news! They’re talking about the new policies again!
She quickly reached for her laptop and opened the live stream of a local news channel. The anchor’s voice was steady but filled with interest as she announced:
“The Lagos State Government has unveiled a new initiative aimed at improving accessibility across the city. The plan includes the construction of ramps and lifts on all major pedestrian bridges, the introduction of low-floor buses, and the implementation of a training programme for public service workers to better understand the needs of persons with disabilities.”
Kemi’s breath caught in her throat. She exchanged a look with Bola, whose eyes were already glistening with tears.
“This is it,” Bola whispered. “This is the change we’ve been fighting for.”
Kemi nodded but felt a bittersweet pang. “It’s a step in the right direction, but we can’t stop now. Promises are easy to make; keeping them is another story.”
“Nehemiah didn’t stop when he built the wall,” Bola added. “He remained watchful. We must do the same.”
The following week, Kemi was invited to a government roundtable discussion on infrastructure reforms. She sat across from officials, some of whom she knew had siphoned public funds in the past. The tension in the room was palpable.
One official, Mr. Olumide, leaned forward, his voice dismissive. “Retrofitting older buildings for accessibility is too costly.”
Kemi met his gaze firmly. “With all due respect, what is the cost of a human life? Matthew 25:40 reminds us, ‘Whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’ If we neglect the vulnerable, we neglect Christ.”
The room fell silent. Another official, Mrs. Adebayo, shifted in her seat. “We are doing what we can with the resources available.”
Kemi nodded. “And yet, funds meant for development have been diverted. Proverbs 29:2 tells us, ‘When the righteous are in authority, the people rejoice; but when the wicked rule, the people groan.’ Can you not hear the groans of the people?”
A murmur rippled through the room. Some officials lowered their heads. Mr. Olumide cleared his throat, visibly unsettled.
“The Bible says in Luke 3:14, ‘Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation and be content with your wages.’ We have a responsibility, not just to the law, but to God, to use public resources for the good of the people,” Kemi continued.
One of the younger officials, Mr. Dapo, exhaled deeply. “She’s right. We have the means to do better. We just need to prioritise the people over personal gain.”
Mrs. Adebayo’s expression softened. “Perhaps... it’s time we re-evaluated our actions. We can’t change the past, but we can choose differently now.”
Kemi saw the flicker of conviction in their eyes. Zacchaeus had repented when confronted with his corruption, vowing to return what he had stolen (Luke 19:8). Could they do the same?
One evening, Kemi received a call from Adeola, a mother of a disabled child.
“I just wanted to thank you,” Adeola said, her voice trembling with emotion. “Because of the ramp, my son can now go to school without me carrying him. You’ve given us freedom we never thought possible.”
Tears filled Kemi’s eyes. “Glory be to God,” she whispered.
As she lay in bed that night, Kemi reflected on her journey. She had faced opposition, doubt, and exhaustion, but she had also seen faith move mountains.
“The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in Him, and He helps me.” (Psalm 28:7)
She was no longer the woman who felt invisible. She had found her voice, and in doing so, she had inspired others to find theirs.
Her story had become a beacon of hope, not just for Lagos, but for anyone who had ever felt overlooked or underestimated. It was a testament to God’s power and the enduring fight for justice.
And so, amid the chaos and challenges of Lagos, Kemi’s journey continued—guided by faith, powered by community, and fuelled by the unshakable belief that with God, change was not only possible but inevitable.
