Grief is the Price you pay for Love

Dear God,

So, I was reminiscing about Kaira the other day with a friend, and out of nowhere she hit me with a question that slapped my conscience wide awake:

“If Kaira were your daughter, would you have given away all her children just because you didn’t like the sperm donor?”

I froze. Like seriously froze. I had no answer. My mind began to rewind like a scratched cassette tape. Did we treat Kaira badly? Did we punish her because we couldn’t stomach who she chose? Were we so blinded by our plans for her greatness that we failed to see her pain?

I didn’t have time to defend myself before my friend, like a prosecuting attorney with a personal vendetta, dragged out another case file: her cousin’s family.

Apparently, her uncle was a Big Man. Former commissioner, royal-level swagger, well-spoken children trained to pronounce “schedule” with a British accent and sniff at jollof rice that wasn’t cooked in chicken stock. Their mother, the self-appointed Queen Sheba, ran the palace with gloves of perfume and eyes for social class.

Then one day, their first daughter, the crown jewel, had the audacity to fall in love… with a wine tapper’s son from the next village.

Not a yahoo boy. Not a fraudster. Not even a lazy man. This guy was educated, hustled through school, and tried to make something of himself. But no, the title “wine tapper” ruined his entire résumé.

The girl got pregnant. They forced her to abort it. The emotional damage was lifelong. She never married. Never recovered.

The second daughter, terrified of being branded next, married who they chose: a polished monster in designer shoes and the son of a governor. Her reward? Regular slaps with a slide of silence bought by constant streams of designer wears. With her parents constantly reminding her to “pray through it.”

And that’s when it hit me — who decides who is worthy? Who makes these class divisions? Even in dog-hood, apparently, we do.

I sat there, silent. Wisdom stared me down and didn’t blink.

I remembered one moment with Kaira that suddenly made sense. After the whole Bingo scandal, Oluchi — our house girl — dropped meat bones on the floor. Kaira sniffed them and walked away. She was hungry, but she still had her pride. She only ate when her food was placed properly — in her bowl or on a clean paper. That was her standard.

But Oluchi, furious, shouted at her:
“You are no longer a princess! If you can sleep with that useless ekuke dog, you better eat from the floor!”

I was livid. But deep down, I knew… we had enabled that scorn. Our disappointment bled into our actions, into the air of the house. We made it okay to humiliate her. We forgot that she was still our Kaira.

Did she die of heartbreak?

Was it losing her puppies, or the shame, or the betrayal of our coldness? I wish she could talk. I wish she could tell me how she felt when we pulled away. When we looked at her not with love, but with disappointment. When we let her grieve alone.

And then, Lord, You whispered to me:
“Sometimes your reaction to a mistake is worse than the mistake itself.”

Kaira wasn’t a bad girl. She wasn’t disobedient. She was just… in heat. Literally. Her body needed what it needed. Nature called. And instead of understanding, we condemned. We forgot she was a dog — not a deal or a dynasty.

And isn’t that what we do with people too?

We sit in judgment from our throne of expectations, forgetting to wear the shoes of the other. We forget to check the mirror from their side. We forget that not everyone chooses their story — sometimes life writes the first draft for them.

So, I ask:
Who have you condemned because they didn’t meet your plan?
Who have you abandoned because their choices embarrassed you?
Who have you shut out because their love story didn’t match your fairy tale?

Maybe it’s time to listen. Maybe it’s time to wear their shoes, in your mind, if not on your feet.

If your son failed, maybe find out how hard he treid.
If your daughter got pregnant “out of line,” maybe check how much love she needed and never got.
If your friend disappointed you, maybe look for the wound they’ve been hiding all along.

And Lord, about Bingo…

I used to sneer at him. That scruffy, black-coated, alleyway-hopping Bingo. But who knows? Maybe if life had handed him a leash and a pedigree, he could’ve outshone Mufasa. He didn’t choose where he was born. He just chose to love a princess when no one else was looking.

And maybe that’s the kind of courage we all need. That dare-devil spirit!

So yes, Lord. I forgive Bingo. I forgive Kaira. And mostly, I forgive myself.

And just maybe, like my friend Mercy Kwaramba once wrote in book, Mothers of Angels,

“Grief is the price you pay for love.”

Maybe Kaira paid it.
Maybe I did too.

Not sure about Bingo (Please don’t laugh, Lord)

But love… love deserves another chance.

This is your daughter, Lord, living and learning and checking in.