Newcomers were encouraged to wait behind after the service, and my sisters and I were separated from our mother, sectioned off to join the youths. A girl about my age distributed fliers, reciting a well-rehearsed monologue about the church and its programmes for young people willing to serve God. Then she announced she was stepping aside for one of the leaders – the head pastor’s son – to take over.
It was one of those moments where the world rotated on its axis to a standstill. A bright light had come on in the room and in my universe: months of fantasies and questions answered. Fate did indeed exist.
Perhaps it was because Rodney did not live in London that I felt comfortable flirting with him.
Work had taken him temporarily to Bristol the week after we met and, on the phone, and in text messages, he described the beauty of the city and its superb culture – he was keen on experiencing culture everywhere he went and I found it an admirable quality.
He sent flowers from his favourite florists with notes that accentuated his love for poetry. And yet, I remained unsure.
Then one day, he informed me he was coming to London to visit and I called Zina in panic.
‘He’s fine and he has sense? My dear, that combination is rare these days, even over here,’ she said. ‘Give him a chance.’
‘Dorobucci’ banged out from a speaker somewhere behind her; on her Blackberry Messenger, the one only her closest friends had, her name was DoroZina.
‘I don’t know,’ I said, torn by my own hesitation. ‘Something just feels missing.’
‘Nwakaego, when will you let go of this boy?’
I’d known it was him before he opened his mouth to speak, releasing the voice that had haunted me since the night of the party. Our eyes connected, and for a moment, he froze. The room suddenly felt hot and airless, and my skin prickled with awareness.
I blinked first, realising we were being watched, and stared down at my hands, my mind whirring. I heard him clear his throat to continue speaking, welcoming newcomers to his father’s church.
We were handed cards when the session was over to fill in our names and addresses. People milled around the youth leaders when they were done, asking questions and making conversation.
I marched towards him, wielding my card like a weapon.
‘I’m done,’ I said, pushing it in his face. He did not look at me as he collected the card and tucked it in with the several others in his hand. I did not move along.
‘So, this is who you really are? A pastor’s kid,’ I said, challenging him.
It was then I knew it was possible to see a blush on brown skin.
In London, I did not attend church because it reminded me too much of him, of our time together and how dazzling the world had seemed then, sparkling rays of light dropping from the sky, clothing everything in colour.
He hated his name – Daniel Chukwuemeka Igwe. ‘Who chooses the two most common names possible for their child? Every pastor’s child I know is either David or Daniel and every Igbo man is Emeka or Arinze. Even my surname is common,’ he complained often, and each time, it made me laugh, at how superficial it was, how human. He rolled his eyes when others complimented his looks or his voice, and when I told him he was handsome, he scowled like I’d uttered an insult, but this one thing, this was his Achilles heel.
For him, church was an obligation and he could not understand why I chose to attend voluntarily. My mother rarely attended church after that Sunday but I became a constant, joining the youth ministry even though I’d never participated at our previous place of worship.
‘I enjoy it,’ I said every time, and his raised brow said he didn’t believe me.
Until one day, he leaned in and said, ‘Enjoy it? Or enjoy me?’
A smug smirk lined his lips as a visible shiver ran through me.
As a child, I’d memorised scriptures, committing them to heart, believing the words. I wanted to be good, sinless, perfect before God; an impossible task.
‘God can turn the heart of the most wicked man,’ our Sunday school teacher had preached, citing Pharaoh in the Bible. And it made me pray for my father, that God would make him a different man, keeping a diary of my prayers and a catalogue of changes I sighted in his behaviour. But then he would descend once more into the man I’d come to recognise and I would lose my faith, cursing God and swearing not to believe. Later, I would return, counting my sins and pleading for forgiveness, unable to stop believing because faithlessness left me bereft of the protection of hope.
It was why I returned to church that listless strike season, because it all seemed to be falling apart and I was in need of reassurance that my life was indeed controlled by a being who had my best interests at heart.
I prayed for Zina, I prayed that she would be safe, that her father would change his mind about her marriage, then I prayed for my father, that he wouldn’t change his. Then I prayed for my mother; my prayers for her were haphazard as I was unsure of what to say, scared to leave anything out, exposing her to danger.
When the pastor made altar calls, I was tempted to rush towards him, to renew my faith, launder it, because then, maybe, just maybe life could finally resume.
But Emeka saw church differently, having viewed behind the curtains the cogs turning the wheels of the machine, and it had left him stolidly unimpressed.
‘Is this why you didn’t tell me who you were? Why you ran away?’ I poked that Sunday, refusing to move after handing in my card.
Finally, with a sigh, he rolled his eyes towards me. ‘I did not run away!’ He seemed affronted by the very suggestion.
‘Then what was that?’
He shrugged, a slight raise of his shoulders.
‘Well, I don’t believe you,’ I said, shifting my feet, unsure of what to say next.
He leaned in and lowered his tone, making sure no one else could hear. ‘What’s your name? I should at least know the name of the girl I nearly kissed.’
I blushed, flushing with sudden heat; he would always know how to do that – make me blush.
10
Pastor Kamsi
The version of our story Emeka always told was that I’d refused to let him go after that church service, but the reality had been a natural gravitation, an instinctive connection of adjoining puzzle pieces.
‘Nwakaego, but you can call me Ego,’ I’d said to Emeka that first day and he smiled like he’d expected that to be my name.
