Hi Friends,
I wrote this post in a hazy period, so it might be the premium thing you get from me. But it is special because, ehm, it addresses a core issue in our society, it opens up the feeling of insecurity and guilt religious people go through in times of doubt, especially when they have done what is or what they think is a sin. Whatever controversial thoughts you read here, please remember this is purely fictional. So, it is only expected.
Anyway, enjoy.
Image Source: mom.me
Shaky hands are as good as dying consciences dangling from atop an erectile. They are only good enough as long ropes of death, acid rain trickling down the skin in slow, sharp measures. Heavy and forlorn, my shaky hands drag behind me like the storm that whirls in my mind tails my footsteps. I can't see the sky, heaven even though I am neck deep in the clouds, in an ecstasy contained only in the bag of air I breathe. I am walking on earth, towing the noisy street of Aguda, Lagos, adjusting my eyes to the meshy sights of posters and billboards on the walls, with a life of their own. I am walking on earth, grinding my coarse feet against the palm of my Aba-made sandals and holding myself steady against the hoarse voice distortions of conductors screaming Ojodu-Berger, Ojota. I am walking on earth, but something tells me I am not on earth, I am beneath it.
I did it again. This midnight. I let the devil get into my pants, crawl all over me, fondle me and then throw me away into the morning like I was wasted dew trickling down the windscreen of a For-Sale vehicle, the one into which children inscribed dirty letterings that read something like, I am dirty, wash me.
If anything else, I, Eniola, needs to be washed. Washed in the blood of Jesus. I have smeared myself real bad. And this time, the stain is not going no matter how much I wash in the bathroom. I can remember me scrubbing hard in the public bathroom while Aunty Chi-Chi is at the door hissing and whispering under her breath about how some people can spend one hour in the bathroom washing a body filled with idoti, a body that will never be clean. Of course, this got to me and I washed harder, letting out tears amidst some inaudible words I kept repeating,
"I wash myself with the blood of Jesus, I wash myself with the blood of Jesus."
But it is not my fault. I don't always willingly open my thighs and let the devil in between to take away my glory. I try to make it not happen. But I am human, I am fallible. And the LORD GOD, He does no one extra favour; He is too big, too high to put one foot off his earthly footstool, stretch his big toes and give you that extra push you need to not yield to temptation. He says he is there, he says he comes as a still, small voice. But who hears a still sound in the middle of a roving, raging storm?
