The Confession.

Appearing at the confessional every Saturday became a norm the moment I joined the altar servers. Bro Ikenna, the president of the altar servers in his husky voice would say,

"You have to appear before the Lord unblemished and sinless like the spotless lamb if you are to serve at his altar", so we would line-up to make our confessions before the Priest.

Fr Silas, with whom confession is always short and simple is our favorite. In our usual manner we would start with

"Bless me Father,  for I have sinned" and then rush our sins as though we're speaking in tongues. Fr Silas who is of Ijebu origin and doesn't understand Igbo will ask that, as penance, we say The Lord's Prayer 3 times, Hail Mary 3 times and the doxology (Glory Be To The Father) 3 times, while he says the prayers of absolution. With Fr Silas, I haven't stayed more than three minutes at the confessional. As with him, confession ends in a jiffy. 

Mother would always remind me on Friday night about the confession for Saturday morning, and she would always say,

"You have to be contrite for offending our Lord who is ever ready to forgive you".

I never really appeared remorseful maybe because I go to confessions without knowing what to confess.

The morning mass of this Saturday became unusual as Fr Silas was celebrating the mass with another priest. Just before the final blessing Fr Silas said

"The Provincial superior has deemed it necessary to give us an associate Priest to help in the pastoral duties of this parish".  So immediately after the mass, Fr Jude was at the confessional . 

My friend Kenechukwu, whom I always cherished our discussion of the penance given after confession, was to clear the streak as the first person to attend confession from the new priest

Kenechukwu had stayed beyond our normal 3 minutes and it was already ten minutes.  I was confused.  I tried to think of any other sin Kenechukwu would have committed, apart from lying, fighting and insulting people . I was still in this state when he came out sweating and looking so confused. I rushed to him and in teary eyes he said

"Is it not the same thing I usually say to Fr Silas and he will ask me to say, The Lord's Prayer 3 times, Hail Mary 3 times and the doxology (Glory Be To The Father) 3 times as penance, I said to the new Priest and he asked that I do the Stations of the Cross for seven days and it must be inside the church". 

That was how, with sweaty palms, I left the church to be blemished and full of sin on Sunday.

By Ozor Onyebuchi
buchizzhenry@gmail.com

Odomagana

“Odomagana is a spirit,” they would say

He sat in Papa’s favourite sitting spot in the small hut, clad in a white singlet. He looked at me frowning. “Do you need a hard kick in the ass before you will go and bring the remaining oranges?” my uncle asked before he buried his squinted eyes in the orange he was peeling. 

What is this man even saying? I muttered under my breath. Does it mean that his mind could not read the possibility of Ikebunekpe lurking behind the drum of water opposite the orange tree? or Eveghuri prowling around the stacked mould of blocks very close to the orange tree? 

It was the season for the masquerades and the two masquerades –Ikebunekpe and Eveghuri are commonly known to chase children around with long whips. If I had feared anything about them, it was their long whips and their cackles. The long tortuous mark the whip had left on Chiamaka's back rented a space in my memory. Okechukwu, Mcdon and Christian still bore the fearful marks too. Masquerades are regarded as spirits in these parts and if a spirit could flog a human, the marks the whip would leave on the human’s skin should be spiritual marks and I wasn’t ready to bear such marks. 

I stared at papa's face, searching for any trace of creases or twitches, any sign at all to show he was not serious. His demeanour was stoic. He wasn’t joking. Then I wondered why I didn’t follow mama to her friend’s place.  I wouldn't be facing this imminent danger had I gone with mama. My eyes fought not to look at him again. Any eye contact would poke his memory. Stretching my left hand, I snatched off the floor, an orange that had glided over to where I sat, my heart still beating with fear. I began to fumble with the orange, but it didn’t make him stop. He warned me again and this time he almost pounced on me like a rabid dog. 

I clucked before jumping up from the wooden stool, picked and emptied the little steel bowel beside him, then ambled outside. It was ghost quiet. My heart fluttered with each step that took me closer to the tree. The fact that the heat from the orange sun was still gentle to the skin, and there wasn’t any sign that it would drizzle made it more precarious. It was only the scorching heat of the sun or harsh rainfall that could keep the masquerade off the road. I often wondered how possible it was for a spirit to get drenched in water or burnt by the heat of the sun. I kept watchful eyes as I walked slowly closer to the orange tree, but started from time to time, looking over my shoulder to make sure no one was trailing me.

I got to the orange tree and there wasn’t any masquerade in sight. Heaving a sigh of relief, I threw my little steel bowel to the ground, squatted down and began to pick and drop the oranges into the bowl. One, two and three oranges picked. As I stretched my left hand to pick the fourth orange, a strange hand appeared from behind the tree and grabbed my hand with the orange. The strange hand became Ikebunekpe when I raised my eyes. I felt goosebumps flooding my skin. 

Even though there was vigour in my scream, I am sure it couldn't have risen above its loud cackle. In futility, I tried to pull out my hand. As I struggled furiously, my mouth got closer to its hand, and my teeth sank into its skin, making it flinch. Letting out a loud gasp of pain, it lost its grip. Picking up the steel bowl, I flung it at the masquerade and it landed squarely with a thud on its forehead. Its staggering bought me enough time to dive into the bush. As I ran deeper into the heart of the bush, my eyes quickly scanned the bush for any possible prowling masquerade, while I paid little or no attention to the sharp edges of dead grasses jabbing into my barefoot. When it was apparent that the ‘spirit’ must have disappeared, I paced as fast as possible back to the hut. 

When I narrated my ordeal that evening, they couldn’t help but laugh at me. 

That evening, my other Uncle came back with a wound on his forehead. The wound was fresh and conspicuous. It was like a pebble stuck under the skin of his forehead. When I asked him, he said it was an accident but he wouldn’t say the kind of accident it was. Our eyes kept locking that evening and each time they did, I would feel a pang of guilt. His eyes never stopped communicating this message, “See what you have done to me.”

Since he was never going to admit the fact that I almost blinded him, I kept my sympathy to myself, after all, I hit Ikebunekpe who was supposed to be a spirit in the face, not my uncle.

“Odomagana is a spirit,” they would say. 😂😂😂 

#CHA_writes.

By Chukwebuka Harrison Aninze