Naya and Vince

44

While Stephen and Chijioke watched TV in his room and laughed their asses off, Vincent's gaze shifted to the small altar at a corner of the room

His mother's corner.

He went to his wardrobe to get two candlesticks since the ones presently on the altar were already wasted.

It was Sunday. The first Sunday of February and the second Sunday that he had gone to a church. As he lighted the new candles, Vincent reminisced that feeling he felt when he went to church for the first time in a really long time.

Peace. Of mind. Soul. And Body.

He had remembered how he got goosebumps, the good one, when ever the choir sang songs of praise and worship.

Vincent remembered that familiar way the air filled with the presence of God pressed on him especially during the liturgy of the Eucharist. Like God was tapping him and saying: I'm here.

After his mother's death, he had felt like so horrible, like a murderer even. He used to be an altar boy but after the accident, he just couldn't see himself sitting with the priest on the sanctuary. Guilt and self hate wouldn't let him. His parish priest, Fr. Bart had to call him one day after Sunday mass and ask him why he stopped serving at mass. When he told the old man what was going on in his head, the man sat him down, read scriptures to him and talked to him. Fr. Bart's words honestly worked.

But everything went south during his mother's burial ceremony. Fr. Bart had given him the honour to assist during the burial. An honour Vincent had received wholeheartedly hoping that it would make him stop feeling like he did his mother bad. It unfortunately didn't work as planned.

Vincent lost it during the ceremony. Vincent broke down and cried in pain and anguish like a wounded beast. He couldn't take it. He couldn't believe his mother was dead and it was his fault.

So he ran.

He ran away from the ceremony. From church. And from God entirely. Even when his fellow altar boys came to visit he told Timi not to let them into the house. Including Fr. Bart.

He was angry at himself and God. He didn't understand why God had to let shit happen. Why did his mother have to pay for his mistake with her life?

It took long but then he finally realised, bad things always happen especially because of human choices not because God wants it. And he didn't have to stop his living his life because of it. Sadly, it was easier said than done.

Few days to new year, Stephen had personally dragged Vincent to the hospital where he had his therapy. His cousin had found him crying uselessly as flame licked the altar he had set for his mother. One of the candles had toppled over and was burning the altar's fabric and Vincent just sat on the floor watching and crying. Stephen was so pissed.

Vincent was assigned another therapist that day. A young Muslim woman. The woman had smiled at him when he walked into her office. Her office wasn't plain, formal and monochrome like that of his former doctor. She had hung colourful posters of mental health everywhere and even offered him a lollipop.

"I don't need your sweet." He had said that rudely but her smile never faltered. She offered him a seat and they talked.

Vincent wasn't willing but he didn't know when he poured out his mind to the woman. He poured out a lot on the woman on that first time they met.

Maybe it was because she smiled too kindly at him whenever she urged him to continue. Maybe it was because she never for once frowned or gave a frustrated sigh when he didn't respond to her questions. Maybe because she didn't look at him like he was burdening her with his problem.