Unholy

Here folks, a short story to compensate for the long break from our beloved Genesis.

Ada shifted uncomfortably in her seat as the Pastor spoke. She wondered why the man kept punctuating his sentences with fornication.
Forni-cation. Funny-cassion. Foni-cashun.
The word turned around in her head. This was her fourth Sunday attending the church and the man’s sermons seemed to revolve around that topic. Like it was the only sin that riddled the ‘body of Christ’.
“When you go to a brother’s house at night, don’t you know you’re inviting sin? Inviting forni-cation?” the Pastor yelled.
Ada wanted to tell him that even when you went in the afternoon, when the sun was at its peak, fornication was always invited. Sometimes it came uninvited, unbidden, unannounced.
She could testify to that. She let her eyes stray to the choir stand, it was somewhere she’d been avoiding since the Pastor started screaming funny-cassion. But now as she dared look, she moistened her lips as the memories bombarded her.
It was supposed to be an interview, an opportunity to know more about the choir, to know how well she could sing, to know how motivated she was to join the choir.
It was her friend Nene, who was in the choir who had suggested that she join. She had even introduced her to the Music Director.
“It would help you develop your voice and work for God,” Nene said with excitement.
Nene was very good at convincing people so she had stood no chance when the girl had embarked on a join-the-choir crusade.
He had invited her to his house;
“I normally interview prospective choir members,” he said with an easy smile which made his face look better.
He had told her to come by 2pm on Saturday because he had rehearsals by 5pm that evening.
As she looked at him now, sitting in the front row, eyes fixed intently on the Pastor, she wondered how someone could be so ugly and yet so beautiful.
She recalled the hardness; of his chest and in his groin and she felt her body tingle.
She had gone to his house that day with all intentions to join the choir. She’d met him fully clothed and welcoming and she remembered thinking how his eyes were too close together. How he was too lanky with a tiny waist. She remembered thinking that God had probably compensated him for his looks by giving him the voice of a nightingale.

He had offered her a drink- Coke, if you please. Just to relax, before we get into business.
One hour went by and they had still not ventured into talking ‘business ‘, the more Ada tried to steer the conversation towards the choir, the more he pretended not to notice.
“Tell me about your family. How many siblings do you have?”
She wondered what her family had to do with her singing capacity.
And then he had gotten up at a point and turned on the stereo.
“Music, good for the soul.” he said.
He forgot to add for the body too.
It had happened in a flash, like she saw in the movies; one moment they had been sitting on the rugged floor, talking about mundane things, non-sexual or romantic things, and then the next his mouth had covered hers. Abruptly silencing her.
That was what thrilled her, the fact that he didn’t ask permission, that he took without asking.
The Pastor was right; stolen bread was indeed sweet.
At first she didn’t think, she couldn’t. He was kissing her senseless. His tongue playing with hers in a way she had never, never imagined.
And when she eventually began to gather her wits, he stopped.
She was breathless. His kiss had done that to her. She shut her eyes like a virgin, unsure and ashamed of herself. Ashamed that she had let him. And yet not wanting the moment to end.
And like he’d read her thoughts, he leaned in for another kiss. This time she welcomed him.
By the time his hands strolled to her green blouse and fumbled with her buttons, she knew she had no willpower to stop him.
And when he entered her, she screamed Jesus first, then his name, all in one breath.
Odogwu!
Thankfully the stereo was loudly blasting Frank Edwards ‘Thank God I Made It’.
Ada remembered thinking how ironic it was that they’d made love with that song playing in the background.
By the time they lay spent on the red rug, Ada imagined that the rug smelled of sex, of sin.
The next time she really looked at him, she saw not his ugliness, but a certain beauty. A beauty that came from giving pleasure.
And she wondered again, whether this was how the Spirit led people.
After having mind-blowing sex with the man and screaming his name in ecstasy, they would conclude that they were being led to marry him.
It had to be blasphemy; it had to be sin to get such fulfilment from sex. No wonder God had restricted it to marriage.

“So, did I pass the interview?” she turned to him, hoping he had enjoyed it as much as she had. She wasn’t an expert, not like him anyway considering that the number of lovers she’d had could be counted on just one hand.
He nuzzled her earlobe, tickling her.
By the time they went for the second round, Ada was convinced she would marry him. After all, a good marriage was sustained by a great sex life. If only she could have this for the rest of her life; she knew she would worship him. Worship at the altar of his little god- which was actually quite big.
And every night – and day maybe – he would take her to heaven.

“So what are we now?” she whispered, her feet curling into his.

“One,” he replied, kissing her again.
She chuckled to herself as she looked at him with his bushy eyebrows, looking so prim, proper and holy in his white plaid shirt.
She planned to visit him after service today, later this evening. She hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since their encounter a week ago.
She had to convince him that they were just right together.
Her attention was jerked back to the service as the Pastor said he had an announcement to make.
“There’s a wedding in our church. Pra-ise da Lord!”

She joined in the resounding hallelujah.
“Two of our members are tying the knot in a few months. They just informed me. Let us rejoice with Brother Odogwu, our able Music director, a man after my heart. He will be getting married to Sister Mariam. Please step forward both of you.”

As both parties approached the altar, Brother Odogwu beaming with pride and Sister Mariam, a shy petite woman clad in a sweeping skirt; there was a commotion at the back of the church.
It seemed a sister had just fainted or fallen under the anointing; no one could tell for sure.

THE END

Mimi. A ( C) 2014

The Club Of God-Fearing Men – 2

When he was six, Genesis had given his life to Christ before the congregation of children. It was his first attempt at that and he could faintly recall the childish excitement that had plowed through him as he stood among others, bowing his head and repeating those words after the children teacher.
He had taken the life back fifteen days later, or so he believed, when he had stolen a piece of meat from his father’s covered bowl of soup.
His father was not religious, it was his mother that took him and his brother to church every Sunday while his father sat at home, smoking cigars and reading the sports section of the papers.
He had once asked who named him Genesis and his mother had confessed that she had always wanted to name her children after significant books of the Bible. She had named him Genesis because he was the first; named his brother Matthew because he was the beginning of new things a.k.a new testament. She had admitted that if she had a girl, she’d have named her Ruth or Dorcas, the purple woman.
In a way, Genesis appreciated his name and the illusion it often created. People automatically assumed that he was a good person whenever he mentioned his name. After all, how could one answer a name as significant as Genesis and still be bad?
He had his first girlfriend when he was eleven; her name was Amarachi and she was two years older with breasts the size of agbalumo which he was awed by; her skin was the colour of one who barely escaped albinoism- yellowish red. She was the newest girl in class, older than most of them because her father was a contractor who moved around a lot, causing adverse effects on his family.
Genesis had known he was very good-looking early in life; his mother boasted about her sons every moment possible. She would stand them in front of the rectangular mirror in her room and tell them they were the most beautiful boys’ a mother could ever wish to have. She would proceed to point out the ‘beautiful’ parts of them. Their pointy nose, their nearly-pink lips, their straight legs, their full head of hair and their brains.
‘You are both very intelligent, do you know?’ she would say. ‘My children cannot be dummies. If anybody calls you dummy, tell them you are smart.’
By the time Genesis was eleven, he was a confident boy, comfortable in his skin. He knew what he was and nobody could take it away from him.
Till date, he mentally thanked his mother for building that confidence in them.
He gave his life for the third time when he was fifteen. The church his mother had been attending then had done an outdoor movie show where they played the movie ‘Burning Hell’.
The movie had been so vivid and fear-inducing that even those who had given their lives to Christ before, rushed out to give it again the moment the Pastor made an altar call.
Genesis couldn’t sleep for three days without hearing the sounds of those screams from hell. And each time he woke up, he begged God to forgive him and not throw him into hell.
The fear lasted exactly two weeks and he began to slip back into his old ways. The dreams stopped, the memory of the movie faded and he slowly but surely took his life back from Christ.
Since then he hadn’t given it again. He had sailed through university living the life of a man who liked his women, who knew what he had to offer and who wasn’t willing to relent on the fullness of life.
Genesis liked games and most of all, he was smart. That was another reason the ladies liked him. He was the one they came to for tutorials when exams were closing in.
The challenge of nailing a spiri-koko sister was one that sent adrenaline rushing through his veins. He was twenty-five, still virile and not looking to start a family so soon. Games like these, were what made life very interesting.
As he got ready for church that day, he replayed his plan in his head again.
He had not shared with his friends his strategy.
He would find the church, attend service there, twice at most and then miraculously ‘give’ his life to Christ in public glare. He would be touched by the sermon and kneel in reverence before God. His acting had to be top-notch to convince any potential prey.
A true spiri-koko woman, would not want to pass him up. He wasn’t just good looking; he had now confessed Christ in front of the church successfully denouncing his unbelieving ways. They would rejoice for him
She would no longer see the do- not- be unequally -yoked scripture as a barrier.
And he didn’t plan to target the choristers. Those ones with their cheap notice-me tactics, were all for the taking. One strike and they would fall without a challenge.
His plan was fool proof. He was sure that he won’t even need to approach the sisters with the abrasiveness of a hunter, they would come to him. Then he would pick his challenge.
He whistled to himself as he knotted his tie. First rule of the game; look responsible. A responsible unbeliever is more likely to get attention than a haphazardly dressed one.
‘I don set o,’ he called out, to Sly.
‘Which church you dey enter today?’ Sly emerged, dressed poorly, in Genesis opinion.
‘Hin dey Opebi side. I been see am as I dey come from work on Thursday,’ he opened his cupboard, took out a shirt and threw it at Sly. ‘Guy change that shirt, abeg. Why you dey fall my hand na? Na church you dey go, you wan make dem look you like pesin wey something dey worry abi?’
Sly shrugged, pulling off his own shirt. ‘De church wey I dey go, na so dem dey dress.’
‘That shirt no be am at all. E no follow abeg. Change am. Simple. And next time you wan come spend weekend for hia, carry beta cloth come.’
In two minutes, they were ready. While Sly slid into blue loafers that matched his jeans; Genesis wore his suede shoe that he kept for special occasions or work.
He had a good feeling about today, about this church. It might be the one.
His fingers tinkled with excitement as he locked the door behind them and set out.
Hello ladies, here I come.

To Be Continued.

Mimi. A. (C) 2015

My Lagos Experience: James Bond

 

Before I came to Lagos, I was terrified of the place. I silently vowed to myself again and again that I would never have cause to stay in this city. Even if I did come, it would be for a short visit that would be spent indoors.
You see, sometimes man plans but God well…executes.

I traveled to Abeokuta sometime last year for a program, my trip was a connecting one. I had to stop by in Lagos first before proceeding to Abeokuta. We ended up in Lagos by ten pm.
Nothing scared me as much as Lagos at night. Do you know the stories I’ve heard? The merciless pickpockets? The thieving touts?

So, you see I had cause to fear. Before I got down from the bus, I had prepared myself; I emptied my pockets and my handbag. Emptied the contents into me(don’t ask).
In my mind, I was like; okay, so if they snatch the handbag, the least they’d see is an empty wallet and a novel.
Unfortunately my wallet was too large to be kept somewhere on me, so I took out my ATM card and my money and well…protected them. C’mon, a gal’s gotta protect her stuff eh?
You see, the thing about being a writer is that your imagination can sometimes run ahead of you. Most times even.

My imagination began to torment me, I imagined being waylaid by a group of touts, I imagined them searching me, I imagined them taking my darling phone and soon I began to shiver with fear. An irrational fear, I know.

There were so many people around I was overwhelmed. Everywhere I looked, I saw people. I mean, what the heck?
Somehow though I survived that one day and thought that would be my last encounter with Lagos, for a while at least.
But like I said, man plans…
Work took me to Lagos a few weeks ago. And trust me, it was far from temporary.
The thing is, by the time I arrived, I’d had plenty time to prepare myself mentally, an experience that made me understand that everything starts with the mind. The human mind is the battlefield, if you win the battle in your mind, be rest assured it’s won everywhere else.
That’s what I did. I sat my inner man down and laid the cards on the table:
A) Stay in your comfort zone and be useless.
B) Take the risk and move, be useful.

I chose B. My inner man chose B and we began to prepare. Before, whenever anyone spoke about Lagos and it’s ills, I would shake my head in derision and turn away. However as soon as I realized I was going there soon, I changed. My reply would be optimistic and upbeat when people asked how I would survive.
My mind came around slowly but surely and by the time I landed in Lagos I was ready.
The fear wasn’t entirely eradicated, yes but a new emotion had overshadowed it. Determination.

Photo Credits:smartercitieschallenge.wordpress.com

 

Weeks later, I am in Lagos and I marvel at the changes that have occurred in me.
You see, I have semi-bow legs. Not the well rounded type but the type that looks like they couldn’t decide whether to curve or be straight and they ended up somewhere between. Yes, that kind.
I love them.
Now, in the weeks I’ve been in Lagos, I am afraid I shall be losing the bow in my legs soon. Why, you ask?
Because I walk. Jeez, I walk like I’m going to heaven, like the gates are being closed and I need to make it in before they shut.
I walk darn fast. I walk with a purpose even though I’m just going to buy water. I think I have forgotten how to stroll, how to enjoy leisurely walks like I did in Abuja.
Why?
Because in Lagos, everyone is in a hurry. You do not wear heels and walk like your legs are porcelain. You will break, I tell you.
Once, I was walking on the road and someone pushed (quite rudely) past me and my first instinct was to turn and demand an apology. Trust me, if it were in Abuja, you would get that apology. But here, by the time I looked back, the perpetrator was still rushing forward like nothing had happened. Like it was normal.
And then it dawned on me. It was normal to them.
I won’t lie to you, these days I push past pedestrians without qualms. Even when something winces in me, urging me to turn and deliver an apology, I remind myself that the victim will not be expecting that apology therefore he/she has moved on.
Yes, Lagos is changing me.
I would wear heels and jump into moving Danfos.
I am my own James Bond. Lagos has taught me to jump into moving buses and still manage not to fall over. It has taught me to scale those high road demarcations on the express(what are they called? Curbs?), even in my skirts.
The first time I did it, I smiled as I landed. A certain adrenaline coursed through me that made me laugh to myself as I proceeded to cross the road. When last had I done that? I truly really felt like James Bond or maybe Steven Seagal, or Jackie Chan.

Perhaps you should try it some day. Don’t use those silly pedestrian bridges, cross the highway. Feel the wind in your ears as you dash between oncoming cars. Skip over the curb and run again.
It would remind you of when you were six when nothing mattered except play.