Black Sunday

Chapter Three

On the twenty forth of December, a third year anniversary to the day papa had gotten the job; when the first signs of the Harmattan was creeping in, and the air more thin than it usually was, the breeze even more cold and freezing; it was the period people would usually carry around with them in their purses or bags or pockets Vaseline or lip balm; it was the season of cracked and torn lips, dry and dusty feet, knees and elbows. Farm owners would burn grass and leave them as fertilizer for their soil but more than all this, it was the season when the price of rice, chicken and clothing increased, families went on holidays and parents gave their children money for ‘’Christmas clothing’’ . It was that time of the year with more outings for rich families, and people returning to their villages to celebrate the festival.

The air on the inside of our house was freezing during this period, Christmas lights hung around the masquerade tree outside and an artificial Christmas tree stood within the confines of the family parlour and dining table. The family vehicle- a Buick SUV would turn dustier with each day even though it was cleaned and washed at least once a week. Children playing threw knockouts that sounded like miniature guns, shot three through five times. Guard dogs in compounds were kept in quieter cages and settings because they would bark endlessly at the noisy sounds. The Ogba age grade would have their closing festivals where they would wear wrappers and Etigbos and move around the streets to houses dancing to the music they would make themselves with their little gongs and bells asking for support for the end of year from different family houses.
Churches organised more and more retreats and programmes or carols where the members would dress in red and white.  It was that season.
On December 25th, Christmas day, we would go to church for the usual Christmas festivities. Early morning mass was the only mass we attended. It began at six in the morning and ended by eight that morning. The St. Patrick’s Catholic Church was our little niche on Sunday mornings. Besides Sunday services, the only day we attended longer than eight were the Banza festival, Palm Sunday, New Year and Yearly Harvests.
On Harvests, there would be an open donation from dignitaries in the church and families- Papa was one of them- the dignitaries. I would sit and watch as Papa announced his donations; he would announce them as ‘’an amount which would be made known to the Priest only’’. Mama would be smiling when he made his presentation; from her eyes, I could tell that she was proud of him.
During offering or communion time, even the most outgoing and extroverted persons would march with arms clasped as though in a motion for prayer and slowly moving. We would offer the sign of the cross at intervals and kneel at least once in every service. I would bring a hymn book on days that I wore trousers that could stain easily and I would place the book on the ground where I would kneel.
After service was over, the Pentecostal church at the end of the road played their music so loud, it was heard at St. Patrick’s which was a reasonable distance away from it, at least enough not to be disturbed by them. The blasting of songs that I knew I did not like and would never dance to and I remembered having to go to tell the man who sold DVD’s and CD’s at our street that my dad had complained and had asked me to tell him to reduce the volume (dad had threatened once to arrest him for noise pollution) and I wondered if he would ask me too, to go to the church and ask them to turn down their praise and worship a little; because I would if he asked me to. They played music that was loud enough to wake a sleeping child.
It was so different from how we would worship here at St. Patrick’s Catholic Church; everything was coordinated and almost looked like services were pre-rehearsed. The hymns were pre-planned and written in the monthly bulletin which also carried each week’s message from the Priest with passages, topics and announcements. The Catholic bulletin was sold at the price of one hundred and fifty Naira. Papa made sure Onyinyechi and I each had a copy.

That morning during breakfast, when Papa asked me to pray for the food, I said
‘’Papa I’m not sure I believe in God’’ and for a moment he was silent while everyone on the six chair dining table opened their eyes and stared at me and then to him.  He opened his eyes and looked at me and simply repeated himself, this time calling me by my name ‘’Ndusbuisi, conclude the prayer’’, this time raising his voice a little higher that I wished for a second that I had not said so and that I had waited till I had gotten my own house to say so.
I said the graces but that morning while we ate there was an awkward silence that I knew I wasn’t the only one feeling at the dining table. Papa didn’t say a word that morning and I spent the rest of my evening in my room wondering what Papa would do. Since the day he had gotten his job and we had moved from Emuoha, God was an important part of his life. Papa who was once chief masquerade no longer believed in tradition and had warned some masquerades never to step into our street again.
He would tell us that in such times as this, that we could only have God to pray to for protection and he believed God was the way out for the people who troubled our village. Even though we had moved out over a year ago, papa still prayed everyday that the boys who troubled our city would ‘’repent and be converted’’. He had given many of the people who had graduated from our towns jobs so they could keep off bad groups and gangs. I wondered if he felt betrayed by one of his own; I wondered if he felt I was betraying him by not believing in God. That morning to me felt almost as though somehow I had come out as being gay even though I wasn’t but to Papa, it probably was the same thing- hard to swallow and accept.
The next morning, Papa woke me up.
‘’Prepare your things, I’m taking you to stay with Father Amadi’’
Mama was beside him ‘’who knows if my uncle’s have not been bewitching you. My son, what is the problem?’’.
Papa continued, ‘’I’ve discussed with Father Amadi and you are going to be staying with him for the rest of your holiday, hopefully you will have a change of attitude. The world is an evil place and being without God is like being in front of the battlefield without a weapon to fight with or at least to protect yourself’’.
I stared at papa, as though I had only known him for three years. He no longer attended the New Yam festival or took us home during Christmas. Somehow, he had grown to resent the culture of Emuoha where he had grown up and taught all of us to never have a part in them.
‘’But Papa I am only saying I’m not sure if the Christian God is the real God’’ I said.
I didn’t say much as Papa took my things into the car and had asked me to be ready in twenty minutes’’
‘’Your breakfast will be ready before you are done’’ mama said.
That morning after Papa dropped me off; I had expected to have a long talk with Father Amadi but he simply asked me to get comfortable in my room and if I wanted anything, that I should could see him anytime in his office.