In the name of the Father…
Silence; palpable in the air and weighing heavily on the empty pews of the chapel. The time was thirty minutes past three on a scorching Monday afternoon. The stillness was welcome. Having adjusted the collar of his habit with his right hand, Father Emenike shut the door to the Sacristy and fully embraced the silence. Not one to complain, he however could not deny that he missed the serene environment that Ibadan had offered him. Dealing with the faith of his faithful was not his only job in Lagos. Here, he had to battle the restlessness of the city in their hearts and quiet their ears that they might hear God.
Father Emenike strode down the short flight of steps that led to the altar and was surprised to find another person in the chapel. Draped with a black shawl over their bowed head, knees kissing the kneeler of the prie-dieu in front of The Virgin and her Son; the Father realised that he had not yet been noticed. He stalked towards the figure so as not to interrupt the person’s prayer. The sun cast its light through the glass window above The Virgin, illuminating her as if announcing to all her divinity.
“Good afternoon, Father”, a female voice called out before he could approach.
She lifted her head, unclasped her hands but did not rise from her kneeling position. Father Emenike had reached her and beheld the other occupant of the chapel. His eyes met a middle aged woman whose face had seen better days. Her eyes were heavy and seemed to reject the light that shone on The Virgin. She had no makeup on, so the wrinkles on her face read like palm lines and seemed to tell a story.
This was a face he recognized. It shouldn’t have surprised him. After all she had been coming to the chapel in the afternoon over the last week. She never told him what troubled her so, that she sought The Mother’s intercession so fervently. It didn’t matter to him though; patience and persistence were always rewarded in Christ. The Lord’s words are: Yes and Amen.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Abike”, he replied stretching his hand out for a handshake. “How’s the family?”
“Fine, Father. We remain in God’s hands.”
“As it should be, Madam. He remains ever faithful. He hears you and in his time, he will come to your aid. Remain steadfast and watch your Saviour at work.”
“Thank you very much, Father.” She adjusted the shawl properly over her head and made to face the statue again.
“Bow your head, let me bless you.” Father Emenike said and reached out his right hand to the bowed head of the supplicant mother.
A few minutes and a farewell later, Father Emenike left Mrs. Abike on her knees, head bowed beneath her black shawl, away from the light that showed off the Mother of God. As he walked through the large wooden doors at the end of the chapel, his mind brought up the story of Hannah. He did not know what her supplication was for but he was hopeful, and in his hope, interceding on her behalf. The Lord does not forsake his people.
… And of the Son…
His phone was ringing, a default tone that served no other purpose than to alert him to someone’s need for his attention. He had always found calls that added nothing to his bank statement to be a waste of time but he didn’t have the luxury of ignoring calls, at least not yet. Being the most junior lecturer in his department usually meant that his was the go-to name for errands and what not. Tunde reached into the pocket of his black trousers and picked out his phone. He moved, answering the call, towards the balcony and was not surprised to be met with the cacophony of Lagosians simply trying to make ends meet. It was quieter inside, but not every call should be taken in silent rooms. You never know whose ears are idle.
“Do you know where Mom is?” Tunde spoke into the phone as he rested his palm on the metal railings overlooking Surulere and its residents.
Sweat trickled down his forehead as he raised an arm to prevent it from bypassing his sparse eyebrows into his eyes.
“Oh, that’s true. It is just three-thirty five. Thanks, I will wait a bit then.” He replied to the person on the other end of the call. He slid the phone back into his pocket and made his way back into the pseudo quietude of the room.
His hands brushed against the headboard of a bed as he walked into the room. He pulled his hand to himself, and made a mental note to wash his hands after his visit. Hospitals are huge reservoirs of the infirmities they claimed to heal us of. His eyes dropped to the occupant of the bed; his lacklustre grey hair, sunken eyes and bones fighting to be seen from beneath his sere skin. The dying man on the bed was a wan imitation of the man that Tunde had been raised to fear, grown to respect but never truly loved. Tunde sat on the chair at the foot of the bed, to the right, and just stared at the man he called father.
Mr Gbadamosi, the Chief as he was popularly called, was an astute businessman who had successfully attained what could be called the Nigerian Dream — being able to ask “Do you know who I am?” with the utmost confidence that you are important enough to be of concern. The Chief had conquered Lagos having moved to the city, with nothing and as no one, when he was but a teen. Tunde remembered the nights, few and far between; that his father would spend reminding him that all he had attained was by no means Tunde’s. Tunde would have to earn for Tunde. Tunde feared him then, as you would a man whose tale surpasses him and for whom you’d require a scheduling to see. Being his child was no different. His father made him lack for nothing, except for what Tunde felt he needed the most; a father’s love and attention. Looking back, Tunde realised that his father’s love was monetary because for a man who had had nothing, that was the only thing he felt he had to give.
Tunde adjusted himself on his seat as a nurse came over to check his father’s vitals. They still weren’t quite sure what was wrong with him. And so, what started as just stress had suddenly left his dad bedridden. Tunde stared at the nurse as she dropped the charts and walked away. His eyes caught the figure of a woman walking into the hospital ward. It was not his mum. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer for his mother. Not one to pray often, he was ever grateful for his mother’s staunch faith. Never one to a miss a mass or weekly service, she was — to him — one of the main reasons for his father’s success. Behind every great man, they should say, is a praying wife.
Tunde had come a long way and his respect for his father was only surpassed by that for his mother, which was warmly infused with a love of profound depth. Tunde being a lecturer was not a choice he came to easy, but one he had grown to be content with. Years spent living waywardly without direction had left him with few other options. Only his father’s status and indeed his mother’s prayers had kept him afloat till present. In all this, still, he was of the opinion that the Lord had turned his back on him.
15:45. He dropped his left arm after confirming the time and waved his arms futilely at a fly. His mother would soon be returning from the chapel. Since her husband had been confined to this bed, she had consigned herself to the hands of her Lord. Tunde was grateful for her and hopeful that her prayers would be answered. In his hope, he did not pray; the Lord had forsaken him. She would pray and He would hear; the Lord does not forsake his people.
… And of the Holy Spirit…
Mrs Abike Gbadamosi stared silently at the tiled floor of the chapel, grateful that the sun’s glare was on Mary and not her. She was not a fan of the spotlight and for the past week, she might have well been drowning in it. Being married to The Chief was a task envied by all the young ladies in Lagos but was not as easy as they dreamt or perchance as she had made it seem to their young eyes. Though she would not call herself archaic, she was old enough to have realized that the youth only see money, deny as they may, and not the herculean task being undertaken to secure it. She tugged her shawl closer to her and cracked her knuckles; the crack serving to break her silence if only for a moment.
Although the Chief was feared and respected by a host of people, she was quite certain that none save for her had loved him at any point. Their fear and respect were built on foundations of envy and as such his admirers were also his enemies. She loved her husband and had stood loyally by his side and would continue to do so till he breathed his last. Her love was loyal, what it wasn’t, was forgetful. The knowledge of Chief panting above her younger sister years ago, still, stirred up the well of betrayal. She didn’t care if he may not have sown his arrogant seed around since then but she never forgot. So she had watched and waited while each day the knife of betrayal cut deep cause he pretended like it never happened. She waited and watched over the period he would vanish into his sister’s arms, again and again. She watched with her lips sealed, eyes open and fingers itchy. She had now begun to feel the numbness in her knees but willed herself to remain steadfast. This was not too much to ask of her.
When she heard that her husband had collapsed a week earlier, she felt her heart stop out of sheer disbelief. He had never been one to fall ill, so to collapse was quite the shock. Her love for her husband had made her handle the issue strictly on a need to know basis to avoid spread of his vulnerability. A good wife never exposes her husband’s back to his enemies. She was still that. She was at the hospital when the doctors said that they expected him to wake soon enough. She was there on third day when they, with hushed defeated voices, admitted that at the moment they could not find out why exactly he wasn’t waking up and deteriorating. She was not there the day, the nurses and the doctors agreed that only the Lord could wake him now. They were praying for a miracle.
Dying exposes the duplicitous nature of human beings. They plot your demise while you breathe and then ‘pray’ for your recovery while your body, alone, fights to keep you breathing. Since word got out, nothing stays hidden for long in Lagos; she had been bombarded with well-wishers and their lot — waiting to capitalize on his demise. She was not surprised by any of it. Lagos was after all a jungle, only the fittest deserve to survive.
God rewards the patient and the persevering. A long time ago, she had determined that perhaps life would be better for her were she free from her husband. Love was what kept her from leaving outright. A good supporting actress must support the lead even in her distaste for his lead. His collapse was the answer to prayers not voiced at fellowships and devotions. Maybe God does indeed hear the spirit of man, and woman.
She wiped off the ointment that she had put on her lips earlier this morning before going to see her husband. She believed it already done its work and its damage so far was irreparable. Each kiss of his forehead and lips had bid him back to sleep every morning and they were all unaware. She did not expect their gratitude — all of those whose dream it was to usurp the Chief — but the greatest jobs usually went unrewarded. They could try to pray him back to health if they wanted to. She had prayed and backed it up with action. After all, faith without works is dead.
15:55, she put her phone back in her purse. It was almost time to leave. She did not want to. There was stillness in the church during these times that she couldn’t seem to find anywhere else. Certainly not on the bustling, vibrant streets of Lagos or the pseudo silence of a hospital ward with patients and their relatives trying to be mindful of the other patient who might not be there the next day. The silence was welcome. She looked up at the statue of the Virgin Mary, noting the way the sun cast her pious face in a divine light. She had prayed for so long and when the answer came, she seized it wholeheartedly. The Lord does not forsake his people. She raised her right hand from its resting position beside her thighs and reverently made the sign of the cross. With that, she dropped her shawl from her head, raised her knees and walked out into the noise of Lagos.
… Amen.
Osondu
