7. "You are going to church today?" My dad repeated the question as if I hadn't heard it the first time.
"Just this Sunday?" Favour asked. There was a smirk on her face.
"Nope. This Sunday and all other Sundays till I go back to school" I said. My answer paralyzed the smirk on Favour's face.
"Okay" my brother said. Dragging the last syllable of the word enough to unravel the naked sarcasm in his voice. I was the only one going to church that Sunday. Everyone else had decided to take a break from Sunday's service. I took the short walk to salvation alone as my church was two stone throws from my home. I entered the church after the pastor had been introduced to spread the bread of life. The first time I heard the word 'bread of life" I thought it was an activity that involved jollof rice or some other form of refreshment. Later I got to know that it was the church's way of describing the Sunday's sermon. The usher directed me to a seat between two old women.
The one on my left slept all through the service. Anytime her snoring threatened to rise above standards, I gave her a tap on the shoulders. The other woman on my right was a character. Her oversabi was threatening. She shouted loud Amens even when no prayer was directed. She talked a lot. She talked about the suicidal increase in the price of goods. Her jaws trembled as she spoke.
I wondered if she was aware that I was staring at them. She talked about her children and the demands from public school. She told me about her husband who ran away from his responsibilities and spent his wages on Ogogoro and cigarette... The miracle was that I observed silence while I was being enlightened by her. I wondered if she knew my Mother. Perhaps that was why she unburdened herself to me. Or did she pour out her heart to every stranger?
The church had its annual Thanksgiving service every first Sunday of December. Hence the topic of the bread of life focused on the bread needed to give life to the celebration. The pastor hinted on Thanksgiving and families who failed to pay tithe and offering. He said a rich man is one who paid his tithe regularly. Timothy would have loved to see this drama, I thought. Timothy is my friend from school. He never ignored a chance to criticize the Christianity practice in Africa. He never failed to remind me that the Christian religion was a propaganda of colonization. I imagined Timothy on the pulpit. His words revealing rejected wisdom and the pastor's mouth split open, his hears falling off from listening to too much blasphemy. The pastor talked about giving and receiving a lot. Our harvest must runneth over the altar of the church, he claimed. God doesn't bless the stingy, he added. I was bored. I expected a doctrine on salvation. The pastor didn't drop the Mike till he announced a billion ways of contributing. From account numbers to phone numbers. The whole sermon was basically a propaganda to get people to donate for the celebration.
I reinterpreted the prayer points. My friend came in late during the sermon. We exchanged eye contact. Daniel. We didn't get a chance to talk till after the service was over. And thank God that it was finally over.
"Guy, your pastor Sha wan cash out this year" I laughed
"Are you for real? Last week sermon was more threatening. He don even calm down sef" Daniel walked and laughed, throwing himself ahead with each bout of laughter.
"He just Dy give us motivational speech back to back" I added.
He asked about school. I didn't give him the regular answer. The cliche answers that usually carried the monosyllabic answer of "Fine". We talk about school, about lecturers, girls, examination and songs. Daniel was one of my oldest friends and the conversation proved that.
Going home, I thought about the sermon. I wondered if the pastor was aware of the plebian population of his ministry. I wondered if he knew that some people had given more than their widows mite. I wondered, as his cheeks turned red from complaining of the low donations and the church's inability to buy three cows, if he knew that his members cooked soups without leaves in them. While he was planning to celebrate harvest with two cows, his herds ate naked dishes. In prayer sessions, they sang without lyrics. Naked tears in their pleading voices of worship.
A Sunday service.
Festus Obehi Destiny.