Still Green Buka

Dinner with a Side of Conviction.

Ebere went to buy food one evening.

The sky was woven in soft shades of pink and violet, slowly surrendering to dusk. The wind carried the faint scent of fried plantain and wood smoke, and the birds whistled tiredly, as though their curfew was near.

The buka stood quietly, a small green structure, the first of four food vendors beside the hostel, if she counted right. Its light flickered faintly, casting a warm glow on the aluminum trays lined across the counter and uneven shadows on the walls.

When she stepped in, something caught her eye.

The place was empty, save for the man behind the counter. His head rested against the crook of his arm, and before him lay an open Bible by. Its pages were thin and slightly curled, the edges browned from use. He wasn’t flipping through; he was resting in it, eyes still, lips moving in a quiet rhythm that sounded like a prayer he had whispered many times before.

He didn’t see her. He didn’t see anything beyond that page.

And in that moment, something inside Ebere paused.

There was nothing dramatic about the sight, yet it carried a quiet weight, like watching someone drink from a well she hadn’t realized she was thirsty for.

To him, it was probably nothing special, just a man reading his Bible in a quiet evening.

But to her, standing at the doorway, something stirred. There was a tug gentle yet firm somewhere deep within her heart.

He had free time, and his first thought was to open his Bible.

She had free time, and hers was to open her phone.

It was a habit she barely questioned anymore, a reflex. Her palm would reach for her phone before she even realized it, to scroll, to laugh, to read something that didn’t matter in the long run, to peek into other people’s lives as though hers needed constant comparison. She had grown used to it. the constant pull of noise and distraction. Spare minutes became screen time. Waiting became scrolling. Silence became something to fill.

But here was a man who chose the quiet.

Chose stillness.

Chose the Word.

A wave of something, shame, longing, admiration, washed through her, all at once. She wondered how long it had been since she had opened her Bible not to prepare a post or find a quote, but simply to sit with it. To rest her head and breathe in its peace the way he was doing.

The smell of suya drifted in from the back. The fan above turned lazily, making a faint clicking sound. Outside, a group of students laughed as they passed by with takeaway packs and plastic spoons. Life was still happening, but inside that small green buka, time felt slower.

The thought came like a soft confession. She wasn’t proud of it.

What if she spent her quiet moments with God instead of the endless scroll of the world?

What if she started and ended her day with the Word, until it engraved itself so deeply that it became second nature?

What if her reflex became reaching for truth, not distraction?

Would her thoughts sound different?

Would her heart be quieter?

Would her peace last longer?

She imagined how her heart might feel lighter, her mind calmer, her spirit steadier, if the first thing she touched in the morning wasn’t her phone, but His presence.

The thoughts lingered as she stood there, suspended between reflection and reality.

“Good evening, sir,” she finally said, her voice breaking the silence.

And though she left with a plate of food that evening, what she truly took away was hunger, not for stew or rice, but for stillness.

For discipline.

For devotion.

For the kind of heart that chooses the Word when the world goes quiet.

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