African Cobwebs

Cobwebs are tiny intricate lines of thread, interconnected to form a work of art woven by the spider suspended in the prism Of edges, that was my definition of cobweb until 2nd of August 2016.
I was in Michael's studio at Bariga, a jolly good fellow enters,
"Hey!" He said, "where is Michael?",.
''Michael just stepped out, he will return soon",. I replied, my eyes glued to my writing, I was having one of them days, poetic inspiration was hitting me from every corner and my ink was flowing faster.
Then, the fellow picks my book and starts prying into it,
"Drop it", I thought, "that is my privacy,a platform for freedom, to express my amateurism without criticism.
" Hmm" he said after reading my poem aloud..
"I don't like spoken word poems, he said with an air of authority, "I prefer core poetry",.
''I will get to that level', I replied with angry defiance.
He was getting ready to go, his right foot twitching as he turns to me,
" Tell Michael that I couldn't waaai...",he paused suddenly, his eyes fixed at the left corner of the Celine, he was staring with mouth agape.
"get me a Broom!, he bellowed.
I ran into the store in a maddened haste and picked the broom, he must have seen a snake.. I thought,fear gripping me.
"Here the Broom", I said, breathing laboriously.
He took it, and began to remove a cobweb hanging on the celine.
"Evil, evil!!!'' he muttered under his breath.
"How is cobweb evil?", I asked..
"This can hinder someone's progress. It is evil. I hate it. ", he answered.
I listened in silence . I could feel the level of anger he felt.
"This is how they killed my father', He continued.
"Watch what you give power over you',. I said to him. And that my statement ushered us into a twenty minutes argument that led us nowhere.

Two weeks later, I arrived at my village for grandpa's burial, we haven't been to the village for months now. The entire house has become a haven of cobwebs.
Before, I began to clean, I watched my dad closer, waiting for him to comment or react to the cobwebs but he felt indifferent about the cobwebs walking through it undisturbed.

Three minutes into my cleaning, I heard a loud scream outside, I ran out in haste, splashing my bucket of water.
In the left corner of our compound, just by the gate, I saw my uncles and my dad bent over something. All I was hearing was "blood of Jesus, holy ghost fire! ".
I ran towards them, my heart pumping in my chest. What could be wrong, I wondered.
I got to them and peered over their shoulders, all I could see was dog poo.

"How can someone come in my compound and excrete? This is no ordinary." That was my dad's voice laced with anger.
"Bad people everywhere", uncle Eddie echoed.
"This is poison. Bring olive oil. Bring Bible" Uncle John said.
Chioma! Chioma, bring petrol and matches.. My dad bellowed. He was sweating like a ram that's led to the slaughter house.
"Daddy, this is dog poo, for God sake, I said.
And at my observation, my uncles and my dad began to roam around the compound like forensic investigators looking for dog foot prints.
"Bia nu, I have seen it', uncle Eddie shouts. They all ran there looking at the dog's foot tracks,joy and relief written all over their faces. Their fear diffused.

We all have our own versions of African cobwebs, one man's food is another's poison.
Africans and their belief system have formed a major foundation in their lives. ... However, we must believe that He that is in you is greater that whatever kind of cobweb. It is your belief that matters, if you believe more in the potency of your cobwebs then it may become effective. As a man thinketh, so is he. Believe firmly in your God's protective capacity and fear thou not of any kind of cobwebs.. Shikena.

With love,
Chioma.