Things never go the way I plan and I wonder why. Sometimes it seems the universe just lets me do my own conjuring then it spins like a belly dancer and everything will fall apart like Things Fall Apart.
I was far from faith last year. I went on a trek, that trek you make when you want to see life. I was tired of the religious dogma. I have had it forced down my throat like breast milk from a bitter leaf coated nipples on a wailing babe.
I was supposed to be a Godly child, Sunday School was always on point. Everyday the bible we will open during morning devotions and we will repeat the Lord’s prayer after we had said the prayers from our daily manner.
It was a chore I did not like. I despised doing the dishes but to escape this I wouldn’t mind doing the dishes at a Nazi Concentration camp. As long as they let me sleep an extra hour in the morning, that torture will give me a measure of extra pleasure.
Those blissful early morning sleep, when the witches have returned from their meetings and nightmares no longer possible. Usually I would be on a famous Island or sitting on the Iron throne at Kingslanding or cruising in NeverLand in my dreams.
Then Mother’s voice would shriek through the darkness of the night, reminding the cock to crow. I wondered why mother wasn’t a cock. She would easliy bag an Oscar for that.
Mother would insist we all attend morning prayers. Even if you are sick she would hoot you to your feet. Mother is an Owl, her large eyes would roll in their socket floppy flop when she gets angry. The angrier she gets the larger her large eyes get. And nothing gets her angrier than refusing to join the Morning prayers, she would rave and spit fire.
So when I found myself in school last year I was elated. It was the big break I needed, I have been drafted into the NBA of flexing so flexing I must. My faith faded away like harmatten dew disappearing as the sun glides from the East, I was already tired already of it anyway.
I travelled far and wide. Tested so many waters, I could still act the act, walk the walk and talk the talk. I had been feed church excessively that I had kwashiorkor, my water melon head and pot belly of churchiness became my prized jewel. I could easily act church whenever I returned home.
I attended mother’s morning devotions then, actually only my body double did. I was there but not there, and I didn’t want her ranting the few days I would spend at home.
But as we approached the New Year, it dawned on me to change for the better. I couldn’t do the countdown at Mama Uyoyo’s bar? So I danced shoki into the nearest church at 11:50pm, reeking of buzz and shisha. My staggering step was miscrued as being under the anionting. Truely I was under the anointing, I was high, I was an High priest. The bottle my bible, alcohol the Spirit.
I decided I would renew my faith that night. The euphoria at Midnight made me sober and broke my spirit. Without faith I would have no fate and I might join my mates in the grave.
Today is sunday, hungover from Saturday’s night out hug me tight. The clock reads 11:50, but am this time. I should go to church, it’s the first Sunday of the year. Anointing would pour from olive bottles but I was anointed already from liquor bottles.
Next week I would get closer to my faith, I must sorjorn longer in this island, the kwashiorkor has not wanned. I can skip this Sunday and start all over again next week. Next Sunday, not this.
PS: The euhporia of Midnight January 1st, do you still remember what you resolved?