The Gospel According To Spaghetti (2??)
Part 3: Jollof, Judgement, and a Little Bit of Jesus”
Later that week, Priscilla sat on her bed, legs crossed, phone in her hand, chewing dried meat like it had all her answers . Israel—Brother Israel if we’re being church-proper—had been texting her. Not in the "what are you doing?” kind of way, but in the “how can I pray for you today?” way.(Very dangerous.)
This man was trying to slide into her life with intercessory game.Worse part? It was actually working.
She agreed to meet him at the church’s youth fellowship on Friday—against her will and every Yoruba aunty inside her screaming, "Focus on your destiny, not these anointed distractions!"
She showed up in a simple outfit: face glowing, scarf tied . As she walked in, she heard someone shout, “SPAGHETTI QUEEN!”
The whole youth group turned.
She stopped. "Ohhh God, not like this.”
Israel ran up, laughing. “That’s what they call you now. You’ve gone viral in the church group chat,I'm really jealous ".
They spent the evening talking—about God, music, food rankings and those who cried and rolled on the floor during worship songs. And then , he looked at her and said, “You know… you’re not like other girls.”
She tilted her head. “Don’t say it.”
“…You’re a full meal. Like, Amala with gbegiri and ewedu.”
Priscilla blinked. “…Did you just flirt with me in soup language?”
He nodded, unashamed. “Yes. Because you’re seasoned and you're fire.
She was speechless at least this one time.
He handed her a plate of jollof rice with spaghetti on the side—because he listened, and that was spiritual warfare in itself.
She looked at him.
This might just be a soft launch from heaven.(I love him already).
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Part 4: Altars, Aunties & A Little Hallelujah"
By the next month, everything had stopped.
Priscilla was still writing, still vibing to gospel, still shutting down arguments about food superiority—but something changed. Israel was now a regular feature in her life. Not just in texts or after-church gossip, but in prayer calls, shared playlists, and he starred during worship
But the real battle wasn’t spiritual—it was the aunties(the Yoruba aunties!)
One Sunday, after choir ministration (where Israel sang really well.), Aunty Dupe cornered her near the offering basket.
“So… that choir boy. I saw you two laughing. Laughing leads to… feelings. Feelings lead to pregnancy.”
“Ma???”
“I’ve watched Nollywood.”
Priscilla smiled, the kind of smile of rebuke. “Aunty, I am deeply rooted in Christ. And the only thing I’m working on right now is purpose.”
The aunties backed off—partly impressed, mostly confused.
Then the church had a youth talent night. Priscilla read a spoken word piece she wrote about identity, grace, and... Everyone clapped. But Israel? He stood like someone had just been anointed on the spot. After the event, he pulled her aside, under the lights behind the church hall.
“I prayed about you,” he said, very nervous .
She raised an eyebrow. “And?”
“And God didn’t say ‘run.’ He said ‘stay.’”
He pulled something from his pocket—not a ring (abeg, calm down)—but a tiny notebook. The front cover: “Our Prayers, Our Plans, and Maybe One Day... Our Home.”
She smiled, tears filling the corners of her eyes. “You’re such a dramatic Yoruba man.” and I love it.
“I really do.”
They sat in the church, a worship song playing softly in the background. The choir was packing up. The aunties were watching from a distance. The angels? (I don't know).
In that moment, Priscilla realized something:
God had written this story with humor, heart, and spiceee . From spaghetti wars to spiritual love letters, it was all grace, growth, and good food.
Because when you put faith first, everything else? Falls deliciously into place.
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The End.
Or… the beginning?