Maduekwe Tochukwu Franklin.
chuxyfranklin@gmail.com.
08109414256.





When mama tapped you mildly on the shoulder, disrupting your meal of rice and stew, and said in a hushed voice amidst fumbling with her lappa, that you would come with her for a revival program later in the evening, you fumed at her quick forgetfulness.

"Had she forgotten so soon the sunday fada refered to Catholics who frequent pentecostal churches, scampering for miracles as "frustrated" and "Miserable"?

But you agreed reluctantly to go with her, not minding that it was mama ofe's church crusade- the dark, slender woman living in a room apartment not far from yours, with her six children, whom mama had incessantly complained of unpaid debts- because deep down, you were convinced that, apart from a quick arrest to father's dwindling business, and prophetic assurances of imminent rich husbands for Sister Ada, you are part of whatever she is scurrying after.

You dismissed that surge of ironic thoughts, and instead, replaced it with a dire hope that this time, right underneath those hollandis wrapped around her waist, she had worn tights, to save the embarrassment of the last crusade; where old women had to spring up from their seats and gather around her, holding wrappers, after she had fallen under anointing.

You had yet to decipher whatever it is she persistently yearns for in other churches that she can't find in our catholic church.
But fada performs healings and miracles too?. You hear him utter on sundays and every other days, "let us pray for the spiritually oppressed", "let us pray for the needy and sick", "let us pray for those with special intentions", and the church is engulfed in a warm, endearing silence.

Maybe it is the ordinariness of fada's prayers- uncharged with sufficient voracity, and the perturbing silence that follows suit- as though it were a gathering of well-to-do men whom prayers weren't worth their thundering out. Their efforts of speech.
Maybe it is it's lack of details and drama; possible signs that the prayers were heading in the right direction; like prophetic utterances interluded in between each prayer point and bottles of annointing oils emptied on the congregation, dripping lukewarmly down expectant faces, and people rolling over one another, and inlaws and stepmothers and old aunties in villages exposed of witchery.

Maybe it is the lack of those melodramas too that makes her half-sit uneasy on the congregation bench in mama ofe's church- as though the tiny fibres of the roughly polished wooden bench pricks her underneath- and stare stiffly across the congregation, at mama ofe.

The crusade program is half way already and things are as though it is yet to begin. Not even the beginnings of the previous programs you had attended- where young pretty girls would scream out from their seats, saying they would confess, and would subsequently talk amidst sobs, of how they had been sent by someone, from somewhere in the underworld to seduce pastors and disrupt events, to the pure disbelief of the congregation.
"The underworlds' had to prepare for power-packed crusades too!!".

But here, in the shabbiness of this church auditorium that looked hastily built- as though they had ran out of funds halfway- the atmosphere is excessively pious, the congregation too sanctimonious, and the pastor- a middle aged man that looked pitifully weighed down on his mismatched coat- is preaching for too long, saying lengthy things about repentance and giving of lives to christ.

'We did not come here to give our lives to christ. We are goddamn charismatics for your information!!" -you could tell what was gathered up in mama's chest, like rough pebbles, threatening to pop out. It was evident in the way she tightened her face to that ugly grimace. The way she flinched and twitched and turned, as though stung by a writhing insect.
And then, you knew that it would not take long. Long enough, before she taps you, this time, a little hardly, and say "Let us go".