39. A Distribution of God’s Mercy
Around 8:33 p.m. ET on Wednesday, September 17, 2024, I faced one of those decisions you hope never comes: a hard, instinctive choice in a single, breathless second. I had no option but to steer into an oncoming vehicle. There was a deafening screech — and then nothing. A silence that felt like it might break you.
Then a voice: “Seun, Seun.” It was Steve Okeleji, soft and urgent, asking if I was alive.
Steve and I had just arrived in the U.S, just in time for my birthday. We’d packed a few things for a friend living in Baltimore and planned only to drop them off and drive back. I love driving through the woods — those long, winding roads are a favourite of mine. I shuffle Spotify playlists and let old songs jerk me into a groove whenever the road gets sleepy. That night, we were on a quiet drive, feeling the gathering rain showers, when the car suddenly lost grip. The steering went light. I saw a ditch on the other side of the road and felt the car pulling to the side. I fought the wheel and tried not to brake too hard, but there was nothing to hold onto — the tyres slid, the world skewed, and then impact.
I smashed forward in a 2022 Hyundai Elantra and collided with a BMW. Metal screamed. The front fender exploded into pieces. My phone reached 911 in the woods, and within minutes, a convoy of ambulances and police vehicles wheezed toward us through the trees. I remember the smell of wet road and crushed grass and the cold rush of air after the crash. I remember Steve’s voice again, clearer now: “Are you okay?” The answer came slowly — everything heavy and miraculous at once.
This happened just hours before my thirty-ninth birthday — or, by the clock back home, it already was my birthday in Nigeria. Standing there, watching lights spin and hearing emergency voices, I felt something I can only call the abundant mercy of God. Small, loud, inexplicable grace that arrived in the shape of a friend’s voice, the help that came fast enough, and the fact that we walked away to tell the story.
I do not count myself overly exceptional. I only accept that I have been an extension of God’s mercy. I’ve always felt — and still feel — that I’ve been given stewardship, not ownership. If I had not answered the call, there would have been hundreds of people who might have been inspired by the same idea and the same opportunity to grow it. It reminds me of Elijah: he thought he was the only one left who had not bowed to Baal. God showed him there were many more who stood faithful. That humbles you.
So our work must carry humility. It’s not that we are given the best ideas or that we are the smartest. We are sometimes planted at the right time. It is God who has kept us in favour — not our cleverness. I have seen people raise millions and still fail, losing reputation in the process.
I have also come to respect contentment. Our calling is not to live in the grandest houses, drive the flashiest cars, or parade the most sophisticated timepieces. Even if we do, that shouldn’t be what we throw around. I want my work to stand before me, not a retinue of videographers and spectacle. The work must be more than just glitz and glamour. As my Pastor will preach, we aren’t called to behold line vanities. Everything is for a purpose.
I have counted my blessings: safety in the air and in the woods; God’s abundant provision since 2013, when we have been able to pay every vendor and staff their due; and despite grief and sadness along the way, there’s still an ample space for gratitude. Too often, we tally what we’ve lost and overlook what remains; gratitude withers where attention rests on lack. So, stay grateful, humble, and seek contentment as we behold a blessing to humanity. Let’s remember that it is in God’s distribution of copious mercy and resources that we have been sustained, as Ayinla Omowura said in the iconic “25x40 album”, Oluwa l’opin, kii se agbara- it’s a divine distribution, it’s not solely by our strength.
