All rights reserved. All characters are fictional and if they are similar, in any way, to any real characters, it is merely coincidental. Comments are deeply appreciated.




The noises, from the commotion in the living room, crept into Nse’s subconscious. They shaped her dream, giving it more interesting dimensions. Although, she was still immersed in an entertaining thriller, she was now caught in that delicate zone where she was loosely aware of the real-life disturbances, which threatened to uproot her from her fantasy. Those noises, they were wining –

as she started to turn way, with the baby in her arms, desperate to flee from the hooded man, she felt his raspy voice touch her in a sordid grasp of restraint, “Stop! Drop the baby!” the pungent tone crawled up her skin, leaving her feeling stained, “It’s mine! Mine! Mine!!!” she tried to move, but discovered that her feet would not budge. They were planted firmly to the ground; no, they were sinking into the ground! She was a sitting duck. She was a sinking duck. She was there for the taking – She and the baby. She hunched her body, protectively, over the infant. He would have to kill her first, before he could harm this child. But the hooded man did not take a single step in her direction. He stood fast, screaming, “It’s mine! Drop it!”; “It’s mine, it’s mine, it’s mine! Drop the watch!” Watch? She steeled her body over the magic gold watch, which possessed the power to turn back time. Not a baby anymore, it was a watch. She would not give it up to this creature. He was relentlessly screaming at her, his voice became an irritating whine - the sound of a petulant little boy, “It’s mine! Drop the watch! Mommy, Itoro will not give me my watch!”

Imaobong’s voice cut through the haze, as clear as bells, “Itoro, give your brother his watch! You have yours!” and Nse realized that she was now, definitely, awake. Her sister was getting her children ready for church.


Sunday mornings, Nse slept in. She, usually, did not get out of bed before ten o’clock. Growing up, in her father’s house, this behavior had aggravated her mother, “Sisi, I am not raising you to be a heathen,” she would say, “get up immediately, and get yourself ready to come to church with us!” When Nse was ten years old, she would groan melodramatically, burrowing herself deep between the disheveled sheets, and she would rashly throw out the flimsy excuses:

“But, it’s cold!”;

“I don’t have clothes to wear!”;

“church again? But, I went last week!”

These excuses would hit her mother’s face unkindly – an irritation, like the steady stream of baby urine interrupting a diaper change – and Nse would be dragged, by her ears, out of bed and tossed into the bathroom. She would reluctantly get dressed, hoping that her parents, who did not like to be late for anything, would grow impatient and leave her behind. But they never did. When she was sixteen, she had conveniently lost her religion. “I don’t believe in God anymore,” she would retort in response to her mother’s weekly nagging, “going to church would only make me a hypocrite.” Her mother did not drag her by the ears then. She resorted to submitting special prayer requests to the vicar on Nse’s behalf. Whenever her parents and her sister, Imaobong, were dressed and ready to leave for Sunday service, Nse would interrupt her sleep to watch them drive out of the compound in the battered red Volvo, and she would lock the gates behind them. Then, she would fall back into bed to sleep until ten.


Her father did not mind her stubbornness. He considered it admirable, that his younger daughter had a mind of her own, and did things only when she felt a true conviction for them. Unlike her mother, her father did not believe it to be such terrible hardship to be non-religious. He constantly complained about how commercial churches had become, and how the focus had shifted from shaping moral character and spiritual sturdiness, to obtaining material wealth. He was deeply saddened by the transformation the new churches had undergone. They were now agents of corruption to human decency, even more potent and adept at destruction than the night clubs and brothels were, because people were bound to let down their guard in the house of God. The focus had changed from ‘being good’ to ‘getting goods’. It was his after-Sunday-service mantra. As soon as he came through the door, he would set down his big bible and begin his lamentations: Did you notice the vicar’s latest extortion tactic? Did you notice how many times we were called out for offering? Did you see? Did you see? Did you see? Did you see how much time we spent launching that pamphlet? Her mother would sigh impatiently, “If you don’t like the service, maybe you should stay home with Sisi from now on” But her father did not stay home. He went to church every single Sunday, because he was raised that way. And old habits did die hard.


Although she had worn the label well in advance, because it had been convenient, it wasn’t until her undergraduate days that Nse experienced her first existential crisis, and learnt what it truly meant to be agnostic. She decided that she did, actually, agree with the concept. What was the point of it all? Why had God created Adam and Eve, and then put them in the garden with the tree that bore the forbidden fruit, when he didn’t mean for them to eat it? That notion was as fool hardy as putting a goat and a tuber of yam in the same room, and expecting to find the yam intact, several hours later. Surely, God would be cleverer than that. Unless, of course, the ‘fall of man’ was his ultimate intent. Again, what was the point of it all? Why had man been condemned, in a deliberate set-up, only to be expected to claw his way back to salvation? Why had God not spared the blameless Jesus Christ the trouble of the agonizing journey to the cross, by keeping the snake out of the garden? And why had God, purportedly, given man free-will, if there was even the slightest possibility that man’s Will would contradict with God’s Will? Why did he not simply cause man to do what he wanted in the first place, instead of giving him the burden of free-will which was sure to put him in conflict with God? What was the moral justification for punishing man for exercising the free-will which was inflicted upon him by God? It was a sadistic plot that just did not make sense because God was supposed to be infinitely good. But it was not supposed to make sense because, they say, God works in mysterious ways. And with that ludicrous statement, the application of logic and common sense had been cleverly preempted.

Nse was one of the unlucky ones. She lacked the ability to suspend her reasoning and, therefore, could not achieve the heights of the oblivion, which was necessary to sustain religious faith. She needed logic for her own sanity.

Imaobong had given up trying to get Nse to church. She let her be, just like her father had done. But, unlike her father, Imaobong did not retreat out of respect for Nse’s principles. She simply considered Nse lazy. Lazy and selfish. Imaobong made no distinction between these dressed-up principles Nse up-held now as a twenty-nine year old adult, and those insubstantial excuses with which her sister had gotten off easily as a ten year old child. She believed that Nse lacked the discipline to commit to structure. Relationships required work, and pledging to commit to a separate being from one’s self – be it God, a husband or children – meant that one had to consider their interests and do what was required to remain harmoniously connected with them. Sometimes, Nse wondered if, maybe, Imaobong had a point after all. She was now almost thirty, and still, there were no visions of impending wedding bells. Her protracted spinsterhood worried everyone but Nse herself. Her mother had, literally, worn herself skinny, from the several, drawn-out bouts of fasting, which her pastor had recommended. While her entire family nursed a collective headache over her ‘condition’, Nse only worried during the holidays – in those moments when she would be required to answer the lingering questions that strained family dinners. “Did Essien give you a call? He just came into the Country and he asked about you,” her mother would ask hopefully, “I gave him your number” It was Essien today, it was Abel tomorrow. It was Tony and David and Peter. It was Bassey and Clement and David-number-two. Her mother did not give up.

“Yes, we spoke” Nse would say without enthusiasm.

“And?”

“We have nothing in common”

Her mother would throw her arms up in the air in frustration as she launched into one of her epic lectures. "Nothing in common? You both speak the same language, you both grew up in the same city, and you both love catfish pepper soup. How can you say you have nothing in common?" She would ask Nse to stop being overly difficult. She would remind her that people who had few common interests, potentially, made the most interesting couples. She would point out that people grew into relationships and were never a perfect fit from the start. She would wonder, aloud, if Nse was oblivious to her steadily dwindling fertility. The tick, tock of that biological clock was no longer subtle, her eggs were dropping off their follicles and falling resoundingly hard on to the floor – in reckless abandonment – with the hourly chime.

“If I want a child badly enough, I would adopt one”

“God forbid! Don’t say that!”

“Why not? What’s wrong with adopting one of the many neglected children who desperately need parental care? It’s a win-win-win situation for everyone – for the society, for the child and for me.”


Her mother did not see things in the same way. In her opinion, the decision to adopt a child would be an unequivocal admission of failure. It would be a public declaration that her body was useless – incapable of nurturing life. Her mother would then profess that Nse would bear children – many children – just like her mates were doing, so that their enemies would be put to sublime shame. Child-bearing was, after all, the epitome of a woman’s femininity. It was a necessary rite of passage into womanhood, and a woman who did not bear children remained unverified – she may as well be a man, but without the attached social privileges. According to her mother, it was only acceptable for a woman to adopt children after she must have given birth to, and raised her own. At that point, adoption would be considered a commendable and benevolent act. Her mother spoke for the majority.


“Sisi, I don’t know why you have to be so stubborn!” her mother would lament. “Don’t use your own hands to destroy your life. God wants to do great things for you.”


But Nse liked her life the way it was – without baggage. She was free to take off and go anywhere, whenever she felt like it. She didn’t have to test her own patience by counting the number of dirty articles of clothing she could pick up from around the house. She didn’t have to repress herself to make room for a giant male ego. She couldn’t imagine giving up her independence to live with a random Tony or David or Peter. Maybe, Imaobong was right – she feared structure. Maybe her reluctance to conform to conventional models was merely an unacknowledged element of fear. Or plain laziness.


Nse stretched lazily. The knock on the bedroom door caught her mid-way through an expansive yawn, “Come in!” she called out indistinctly. Ani popped her head in, through the door way, “Good morning, Auntie Nse.”

Nse smiled and patted the free portion to her side on the narrow bed – an invitation to come closer. Ani obliged, but she did not sit down. She was already dressed for church, in a smartly tailored, yellow dress which she did not want to crinkle.

“How’s my all-time favorite niece?” Nse was still languid, having just been roused from sleep.

“I am your all-time only niece”

“Only because I won’t sanction any more nieces. You’re way too special to share me with another girl.”

“Right.” Ani said drily.

“What happened to you? You’ve become cynical. I liked you better when you were young and gullible, and when you believed everything I told you. You’re growing up way too fast.” Nse got out of bed and shuffled towards the adjoining bathroom. “Don’t grow up so fast, Ani, life is prettier when you are a child. Trust me.”

“All good things come to an end.” Ani shrugged her shoulders precociously. She was, at fifteen years old, already as tall as Nse was.

“Well, hold out for as long as you possibly can.” She warned as she began brushing her teeth vigorously.

“Mom, wants to know if you’re still going to be here when we get back from church.”

Nse frowned. “Probably not.” She spoke with froth in her mouth.

Nse had spent Saturday night at her sister’s. It was their first night in the four-bedroom bungalow on Slessor Street, and she had offered to help imaobong get set up in her new home. It had been a long night: they had unpacked countless boxes, and built up several cabinets and contraptions. The women had been raised to be self-reliant and resourceful; they were quite adept at putting heavy-duty tools to work. They had recruited Ani’s services, and kept the five-year-old twin boys sufficiently distracted, to prevent them from interfering with the progress. While they did their heavy lifting, Imaobong’s husband, Samuel, had slept off a nagging migraine. He seemed a lot fragile lately.

“Sisi, we are on our way out” Imaobong came into the bedroom; impatient, as she usually was, she couldn’t wait for Ani to get back to her, “Will you be here when I get back by one o’clock?”

Nse shook her head a little regretfully, “I have to go in to work by twelve” she worked at a radio station as an On-Air-Presenter, while she tried to make something of herself as a writer. “I told you, Anabella Stone will be in the studio this afternoon”

“Why is Anabella Stone interesting?”

Nse spat suds into the wash basin and rinsed off the brush, “She’s not. Personally, I think she’s just another bimbo. But people like her, she’s basically a princess.” Nse emerged from the bathroom to find her sister standing in the middle of the room. Ani was gone. “Isn’t she your BFF or something?”

Imaobong crossed her arms, in self-defense, as she laughed hysterically, “My BFF? What does that even mean?”

“Best friend f –”

“I know what it means.” Imaobong cut in, “She’s not my best friend.”

“Okay. I don’t imagine you two have a lot in common, but you’ve been out, together, several times this month.”

“Yes” Imaobong asserted, “She is our pastor’s wife.”

“I know that.” The teasing glint in Nse’s eyes dissipated as Imaobong held her gaze with unflinching determination, “Drop it!” it seemed to say. “Anyway, I’m cautiously excited to meet her.”

Imaobong nodded gratefully.

“Okay then, I will come by your house later.” She said decisively, “There is something urgent, you and I need to talk about.”

“Okay?”

“It’s important” Imaobong stressed, “And don’t worry, this has nothing to do with finding you a husband. So, don’t try to get out of it.”

“Okay.”



*****

I think u should work on ur punctuations.

dingbang:
I think u should work on ur punctuations.

Well noted. Thank you.

D beginin looks promisin. Fire on honey!!!! Afta u na u

Anabella Stone was stunning. She walked on air, gliding into the studio in her Manolo Blahnik shoes, and the room immediately lost its shine. It was, normally, a neat place – modern and expensively furnished, but you would never know it when Anabella Stone was in the room. The staff fell all over themselves, trying to make her comfortable, “Would you like some tea, ma’am?”; “Is the air-conditioning chilly enough for you, ma’am?”; “let’s get you a better chair, ma’am, this one has very little upholstery on it.” And Anabella Stone suffered through all of the attention with a tinge of boredom.

She was used to this – people, especially men, rushing to do her bidding. Her whole life had prepared her for ultimately blossoming into the Primadonna she now was. She was the only child to result from the brief union between an Igbo chief and his Russian wife. When her mother had refused to relocate from Moscow to Lagos in the late 1980s, her father had remarried. Although she had four half-siblings, it was she who was the center of her father’s universe. He openly favored her over his other children. In his mind, his attention was supposed to make up, in some small measure, for her mother’s abandonment. But, everyone else just assumed that her father preferred her to his other children because she was a pretty mulatto with good hair and beautifully light skin. Her half-sister Nnenna, who was very dark complexioned at twelve years old, had tried bleaching her skin, for the first time, with hydroquinone. The results were devastating. Her mother had been furious and when she queried her daughter about that bold attempt, Nnenna had simply told her that she wanted to be pretty like her sister, Bella. Although her step-mother had always shown her disdain for Anabella without subtlety, after that incident – which she regarded as Anabella’s deliberate attempt on Nnenna’s life – she had, effortlessly, discovered another gear to drive her hatred home. But, delicate as it appeared in its translucent softness, Anabella’s skin was thick enough to repel her step-mother’s affront like Teflon.

Even if her fair complexion had been irrelevant in securing her father’s affections, it deserved full credit for landing her several modelling engagements, and, eventually, the Miss Nigeria crown.

Anabella was now thirty-five, and it had been thirteen years since she gave up stewardship of that crown. Nonetheless, the endorsement deals and the fanfare stayed. Living in the spotlight, she had been coveted by many men – people of enviable social standing – but, when she was twenty-five, she had been deeply impressed by the handsome, ostentatious and infinitely wealthy Daddy Wonder. He was the General Overseer of the Fountain of Living Waters Ministry, and there were many who considered him a saint. He was blessed, by God, with extraordinary gifts, the most profound of which was the power to conduct healing. People came from far and broad to see him. He was, undoubtedly, an important man. But it was not his religious prowess that had made Anabella soaking wet for him. She had only cared about three things, and in order of declining relevance, these were – his money, his extremely busy schedule, and his handsomeness. Hers was a very short list of requirements and she did not feel inclined to compromise at all, so when she met Daddy Wonder at a gala, ten years ago, she had been prepared to let it all hang out – she had been ready to put all of her female wiles to work, in order to win his attention.


Men of God were, first of all, still men. They did not look at a woman like Anabella Stone with spiritual eyes. Once they tore their eyes away from the holy book, they saw exactly what worldly men saw – the dangerous curves that spelt unequivocal doom, which no prayer would save them from. And in a red dress, which clung seductively to her voluptuous body like a second skin, Anabella was the devil himself.

“I know you” Daddy Wonder had said as she sashayed towards the little group, which he had been boring with second-hand testimonies to the goodness of God.

Anabella had smiled knowingly, “Well, you obviously have time to indulge your extracurricular fancies. I am the distraction to your calling, after all.”

Daddy Wonder had gallantly detached himself from the crowd and whisked her into a corner where the world consisted only of the two of them. “It is my duty to keep tabs on the enemy, so I know what I am up against. I am well acquainted with the worldly, yes”

She had looked him unflinchingly in the eye. “So you do consider me evil, then! Do you consider me evil for wearing this dress? – This dress that accentuates my God-given talents?"

Daddy Wonder had only shown a faint hint of discomfort, “I did not say evil, I said worldly”

“What’s the difference?”

Daddy wonder had shaken his head, clueless.

“I looked at you, from that spot over there –” Anabella pointed a perfectly manicured finger in an arbitrary direction, “and I was instantly consumed by deeply sinful thoughts. Would you like to hear what they were?”

Daddy Wonder had smiled and taken a sip of his drink. “A cat with a collar is still a cat. If you’re playing with it, little mouse, you should be prepared to get eaten”

“Then take a bite, Man of God” she invited huskily with a wicked sparkle in her eyes, "I assure you, I taste like heaven”

Hmmm...

"...Nse experienced her first existential crisis, and learnt what it truly meant to be agnostic.
She decided that she did, actually, agree with the concept. What was the point of it all? Why had God created
Adam and Eve, and then put them in the garden with the tree that bore the forbidden fruit, when he didn’t mean
for them to eat it? That notion was as fool hardy as putting a goat and a tuber of yam in the same room, and
expecting to find the yam intact, several hours later. Surely, God would be cleverer than that. Unless, of course, the ‘fall of man’ was his ultimate intent. Again, what was the point of it all? Why had man been condemned, in a
deliberate set-up, only to be expected to claw his way back to salvation? Why had God not spared the blameless
Jesus Christ the trouble of the agonizing journey to the cross, by keeping the snake out of the garden? And why
had God, purportedly, given man free-will, if there was even the slightest possibility that man’s Will would
contradict with God’s Will? Why did he not simply cause man to do what he wanted in the first place, instead of
giving him the burden of free-will which was sure to put him in conflict with God? What was the moral justification for punishing man for exercising the free-will which was inflicted upon him by God? It was a sadistic plot that just
did not make sense because God was supposed to be infinitely good. But it was not supposed to make sense
because, they say, God works in mysterious ways. And with that ludicrous statement, the application of logic and
common sense had been cleverly preempted."

This passage reminds me of 'Doublethink' in 1984.
Dirt under the rug feels like your autobiographical fiction. Are you still searching for meaning? Or have you given up on believing?
Another exceptional story. Keep it up.

coolk:
Hmmm...

Dirt under the rug feels like your autobiographical fiction. Are you still searching for meaning? Or have you given up on believing?
Another exceptional story. Keep it up.

Thanks for reading and commenting. The comparison of that paragraph to 1984 is very flattering.

And that's very astute of you, there are several elements that are autobiographical.

Regarding religion, however, I've gone from devout to agnostic and I'm back to a comfortable place where I value the philosophy of Christ (exclusively). I believe that Christ showed us a way to live in peace and harmony that is beyond criticism.