Millipede Chasing - Part 1

MILLIPEDE CHASING

This story is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

PART ONE

“WOOF! WOOF!” echoed the yapping noise of the dogs on the streets of this small town in Abia state. They were all were barking loudly at the even noisier traffic where no-one ever obeys the rules of the road – that is – if any exist. Here the drivers’ mottos were to the effect of, “Drive through any space you see, even if it’s flying over a sleeping beggar, no one cares.” From bicycles to dilapidated vans riddled by rust and held together with duct tape, the transport of the town bustled, cutting in and swerving in the unmarked roads where there were no designated driving spaces to avoid catastrophic consequences. Yet, there were surprisingly few accidents.

Welcome to Nigeria.

It was Sunday morning, when Christianity’s madness possessed most Igbos. Since the Catholic missionaries brought Jesus Christ with them to the Eastern Nigerians in the eighteenth century, He stayed, and apparently never went back to Heaven again. Igbos just loved this man so much that, in their mad reverence, they built houses for Him on every street, an ode to the One they placed all their faith in.

“CLONK! CLONK!” the high-heeled shoes of the younger women clapped as they ran zealously. They were running as if racing for a prize to be won for those reaching the church first. However, the men seemed more confident in their casual walking, with those shiny polished black shoes they spent so much time on. One may well have thought that they were due at some job interview somewhere. Their faces flushed with anxiety, their hearts pounding very fast as they gripped their Bibles tightly in their right hands. Superstitious as the Igbos were, they took great care never to use their left hands, as that was just inviting bad luck, they believed. All this went about while it was only 8:30 a.m. and the sun was already wide awake, smiling eagerly upon everyone below.

Summer in Africa was almost unbearable. Today was no different in the town as the morning rays bit into the skins of the people, warming them into a moist heat long before the midday swelter. With the arid atmosphere at 32 degrees Celsius it was very hot, drying the nostrils of those who dared venture outside in the bright sun. Some of the townspeople enjoyed the warm weather, but most found it nearly intolerable. Impairing the ability to stay cool, it was the type of weather that drained every droplet of water from you should you dare go unsheltered. Many of the people kept cotton shirts and dresses on to cover their skin and keep the air circulating through. There was nothing worse than a heavy fabric in the punishing sun, but some Igbos disagreed. In this blistering temperature there were some, mostly the married women, who were still very loyal to their traditional attire. They would wear embroidered puffed sleeve blouses, along with two wrappers and plastic-like head scarfs. This is the Igbo pride.

Smelly sweat would trickle down from one’s hair to one’s face. It would run from the face to the chin, the chin to the chest, the chest to the waist where the belt would press heavily on the accumulating wetness before the sharp reeking perspiration would finally meander from the waist to the knees and from the knees would run in tiny rivulets to settle amongst the toes. What an awful sensation it was to feel one’s socks become wet in those posh shoes, fermenting in the heat as one would walk! This was annoying, as most found this unacceptable.

Stinking was not an option when visiting Jesus. Wiping the damage of the heat with a handkerchief seemed like a good idea and most of the church congregation would have the small cloths clutched in their hands for easy access to wipe the diabolical nuisance from their hot brows. The odour of strong perfume filled the air – best prepared for these special occasions.

”I’m going to claim that miracle,” was the message these Christians were broadcasting, adorning themselves with all manner of trinkets to impress. As they poured into the church in groups, filling the seats inside, the choir rose to commence the service. They let out their big voices in praise of Jesus and they sang:

Ibu ngalaba ji isi ndu mua oo (x2)
Chim ji eme onu,ibu ngalaba ji isi ndu mua oo (x2)

You are the pillar that holds my life (x2)
Master Jesus you are the pillar that holds my life (x2). (English translation)

The congregation rose up from their seats and started dancing to the song. Women, men and children clapped their hands as they sang and danced to the fervent gospel song. A short, fair-skinned man who appeared to be in his late thirties was jumping and stamping his feet, shouting, “Jesus, I love you Jesus!” No one stared at him since there were always a few attention-seekers like him in every church. The man continued furiously, now shaking his head in some delirium of passion for his God. He jumped up from his seat to move out in plain sight of all, standing in the aisle that divided the congregation between the right and the left. He was leaping up high and bouncing like a basketball. “You are the One who saved me! I love my Daddy!” he sang, making changes to the lyrics as he went along. His voice rose over the others as if he thought God would hear him first.

Oops … here came the pastor! He moved with authority with his wife beside him. As he walked, his eyes brushed over the congregation as if he was taking stock of who was present. The music stopped. The choir members and the congregation sat down immediately. Silence filled the room for a second with only the occasional throat clearing or cough resounding from somewhere in the sea of faces. The minister looked sternly over his spectacles for a moment and his wife placed her purse and Bible on his empty chair next to her.

“Praise the Lord!” cried pastor Obinna suddenly, his voice thundering through the church.

“Hallelujah!” answered the congregation with a booming reply.

“The Lord is happy to see all your beautiful faces this morning,” the pastor said with a rare smile cracking on his lips.

“Hallelujah!” shouted the congregation. The light-skinned, short man stood up from his seat and cried out, “’The Lord is good! Hallel…l…u…ya…h!” He waved both hands and stamped his feet so hard that the floor vibrated, making quite the spectacle of himself.

Everyone laughed and said, “Amen.”

“Brother, you are very happy today! Come over here to the pulpit and tell us what the Lord has done for you,” the pastor invited, urging the short man to come forward with a mild gesture of his hand.

Ecstatic to have his moment, the man ran toward the pastor like a child running to the embrace of his mother. He jumped proudly onto the raised platform reserved for the pastor and his seated wife.

“Now, tell us what the Lord has done for you,” the pastor asked again, smiling at the giddy church member.

The man plucked the microphone forcefully from the pastor and screamed, “P…r…a…i….s…e the Lord!”

“Hallelujah!” the congregation shouted louder than before. Some sat down while others paid close attention, eager to embrace what the short man was about to testify.

“The Lord was so good to me yesterday. Everyone knows me as brother Sunday, for those who are new to the church. The Lord is very good,” he beamed with glee, panting in the exertion of his excitement. “My wife and I recently had a bouncing baby boy! We have been trying for boys for ten years now. We have six girls,” he said as the congregation answered in ‘Praise the Lord’ and ‘Halleluiah’ while he spoke, “…and I have been fasting and praying and asking God, ‘Please bless us with a son like Jesus.’ Then, when my wife gave birth yesterday, He had answered my prayer …” but before the elated man could finish, a lady rose from the congregation and screamed, “Amen! God is good!” and then she sat down again.

“Thank you, sister. I want everyone to thank God for me – for making me the happiest man on earth,” Sunday requested with his hand on his chest.

The pastor took the microphone from him. “Everyone say ‘Amen!’”

“Amen!” shouted the congregation in perfect unity.

Pastor Obinna turned to the man and asked, “So, where are your Madam and the bouncing baby?”

Smiling and still dancing with joy Sunday answered, “My beautiful wife is resting at home, Pastor. But she will come next Sunday with all my daughters.”

The content pastor patted him on the back and said, “Don’t forget your offering and tithes, you must thank God very well for this blessing.”

“Yeoooo! I thank God,” the man exclaimed.

“You see, God would surely deliver if we are true in our hearts. He knows what we need and the needs of our spirit. Have faith in …”Before he could finish, a hysterical overweight woman, dressed in traditional Igbo attire and wearing sunglasses,rushed into the gathering and shouted, “Thief! Thief! He took my church offering of ₦15000!”

Her voice cut through the merriment as she fell against the pew next to her, shocked and worried with eyes wide in panic. An imposter posing as a churchgoer had followed the woman to the church entrance and seized her bag from her. Surely God must be angry. How dare a common sinner steal from Him? Without a second thought the congregation, consisting of men, women and children, the old, young, rich, poor, large, small, tall, short, all fled out of the church service and raced toward the big wooden double door. The thief was not yet far away from the open gate. Their feet stomped and they screamed at the top of their voices as they ran. It was as if The Rapture was upon them.

The story continue… Part 2 will be posted on the 21/06/2014