CHURCH

The brownish, wooden pews in front of me flaunt different shades of colours. I don't see the heads, bodies, scarves; I just see colours. I am almost always like that in church: lost. My mind wanders to the moon and back simultaneously.

I barely hear the priest but I'm listening to him. Little children blabbing in tongues, screaming in the guise of crying, a million sleepers sleeping, five golden rings. I drift to singing. The old woman beside me gives me a witchy look and I realize that I am singing out loud. She goes back to sleep.

I hate coming late to church. Having to sit  at the back with this bunch of village people who probably missed their way to the village square and decided to rest their aching legs in church.  Some creepy young woman whose gele seems to be ice-skating on her head suddenly throws sanity to the offering box, frees her boobs and invites her cry baby to a 'boobacue'. It seems like the witch-looking oldie beside me is in Jericho already watching in awe as the walls fall down flat. Sleep takes people places, especially church sleep. I bet she would have given that breast feeder a run for her milk with just one stare.
Talking about stares, my eyes can't wait for offering time, to feed on attires. The youths of this church are so mundane, they dress to church like there's an after-party.

I forcefully push aside my mindsnaps to hear a word or two from the priest. He is talking about a politician who asked him to pray for him before elections, and after he won, he completely forgot about him. He adds that humans shoould be like the disciples, willing to evangelize and spread the gospel. I try to connect the Politician's tale to the talk on  evangelism and my brain goes weak and dumb. I give up on the homily.

Seeking something to divert my attention to, I catch sight of a boy walking in with a little girl I presume to be his sister. I think I hear someone mutter something about how God will judge chronic latecomers to church, in a special way. The boy, looking all dapper in his over-ironed blazer, colourful shirt and jeans that beg to be ripped all over, walks towards the back, with a runway gait to trip over a hard rug for. I feel tightness in my chest. The girl in front of me seems to be adjusting her dress and every other thing on her. I want to laugh. The boy then stops at my pew and takes the just-deserted space at the end of the pew after asking if it was occupied. The girl in front of me looks back, in his direction. She steals a glance and faces her front. I know that will become a routine till the end of mass. I know.

My chest's still bolted. Cute boy  seems to be the religious kind. He does a silent prayer, carries his little sister on his laps in such an awkwardly appealing way and fixes his glare on the podium. He is paying attention. I wonder why I can't be like that in church then I tell myself, amidst chuckles, that things will get better when I grow up.

I find mysrlf back in my circus of imagination. My mind's a rollercoaster when a cute boy finds a way to smuggle himself in it. I picture us together, laughing, teasing, caressing, love making. I try to stop the rush of images, out of guilt especially cause its communion time. I can't. I steal a glance at him and our eyes click, he meets my gaze. He smiles, I go blank. I feel the butterflies and tomatoes in my system. I don't smile back. I'm not cheap okirika. Call me hard to get and I won't mind.

Second collection is the real definition of church in auction, priest in action. The priest sells his divine olive oil in the "going-going-gone" manner. I find the whole process annoying.

In a jiffy, mass is over and I head to the car. On the trip back home, we drive past a bar filled with people gyrating. Mum laments about how worldly people miss church for unnecessary frivolities.  Dad  supports her by saying that if an hour or so, spent in God's presence in church is too difficult for mankind to offer, then humans are really spitting in God's face. I sink in my corner. I'm no better than these people at the bar. I  didn't really attend church; I did not show up in God's presence. Guilt tugs at my sleeves, collar, pocket, soul. I close my eyes and pray for forgiveness.

Then, a thought comes haunting, from abyss. Next Sunday, that priest will still show up, weird people will still find their way to my side, another cute boy hopefully. Hopelessly, I start looking forward to all that. Forgive me, Lord.

©Chisom Okwara, 2015.