‘touch not my anointed’ (pt 2 / 5)
By: Netochukwu Nwobi
Tags: Africa, Culture, Assault, Church

I was wearing a skin tight off-shoulder jumpsuit, although I was very well aware that it was an abomination in St. Andrew’s catholic cathedral for women to show up in attires other than long dresses or long skirts. I recall my mother from back in my church going days, when she would turn her back to gossip with Mrs. Ekezie. She was a family friend who usually sat on the pew directly behind my family. The ladies whispered about any woman they spotted whose skirt was ‘too short’ or breasts peeped out too much. There was once this newcomer that did the worst thing that any woman at Andrews could have done,

She did not cover hair to the house of the Lord.

All hell broke loose during service on that day, with side comments and insults flying all around the congregation, most of them loud enough for the victim to hear,

Le-Le ohh! Legodu ya! Onye nzuzu! Ndi enemy of distraction! Agenti ekwensu! Ndi nnala muo!

The name calling was unending. It was the most chaotic experience at the house of God. Nobody was paying attention to the order of the mass anymore, to the extent that the usher had to run over to the lady and offer her a handkerchief for her hair. But as far as I could tell from where I was sitting, the handkerchief was dirty. So the lady refused it. Suddenly the elders of the church that were watching began to chant violently in unison, kupute ya puo! kupute ya puo! kupute ya puo!

Just like that, the usher ordered the newcomer out of the service, per the chanting requests of the elders. I must have been about 12 years old when this happened, and after that day I often worried about being the source of such aggravation to the

people of God.

I started insisted on longer church dresses than the ones my mom picked out for me, and part of my daily prayer points became for the Lord to never let me walk that terrifying walk of shame like the visiting woman. But God must have not been listening, because something even worse happened to me. My 16th birthday, my fucking birthday! And that bastard announced my name on the pulpit at the house of God. I thought he was trying to wish me a happy birthday and make the church do the same. After all, it was what he did for most of his church friends on their birthdays. I obviously should have known that we were not friends. After everything he already put me through. And believe it or not, touching me in places that were supposed to remain hidden when you’re only thirteen, was just the beginning. He announced to the congregation that I needed prayers from everyone, because I have been following street thugs and letting them take advantage of my young body. I took off mid service that day. I couldn’t stand the lies and embarrassment. Matter of fact, it was my last day in Nigeria. That it is, until that dreadful doctor’s news at the clinic with my husband. And I knew I had to return. I had unfinished business, clearly.

Truth be told, I had second thoughts of using the gun after I first lodged into the Azikiwe hotel. But walking down that aisle in the St. Andrews catholic church the next day, I sensed that familiar hateful energy …

The lying, perverted slut is back. And is dressed like a slut too…

I carefully approached the front row seats, ignoring the slimy gazes upon my thick afro curls that hung free.

No head tie tying it down, like the Lord expects.

I could not be bothered either, that I was being eyed up and down for my unacceptable fit. I could hear loud gasping and insults in Igbo. Just like with the visiting woman when I was younger. All were music to my ears. The most abominable part to them must have been the way I casually strutted to the front seats while breezing in as late as during the homily.

Because it is such a sin to be late to church that it would be best if you did not show up at all and then return with a good excuse when people asked about your absence at the next service.

When I arrived the front row seat, I squeezed myself into the little space between both of my parents, who stared at me like they had seen a ghost. I avoided eye contact with either of them, fully focusing on the officiating priest.

The prodigal child has returned, my father must have been thinking.

The man loved to speak in parables. As for my mother, I wondered if she was sorry, or even felt any guilt through all these years. Not sorry enough perhaps, since she was still attending that church. Did they even look for me? And did she ever tell daddy the truth she refuses to accept that she knows? I was filled with a lot of unidentified emotions in that moment, so I tried to reach for the inside of my purse to get it over with. Suddenly, I felt chubby soft hands placed over mine, and squeezed them, as if they knew exactly what I was going to do. I could not believe it, that I could still recognize the touch of my mother without looking. I felt this mix of familiar and unfamiliar sensation of her skin against mine, and it was hitting me with an overwhelming wave of emotions. Tear lumps easily formed in my throat. We had been apart for ten years, and yet there I was, feeding on her love from just one touch. A touch that began softening me on the inside, and slowly untied my knots of anger and pain. I struggled to contain the meltdown of the heavy emotions against my chest. Tears formed a glassy layer suspended in my eyes, but I could not dare let them drip. I did not want to let myself become vulnerable, after how far I had come. I had to be strong enough to shoot, but first I had to ask my mother a question. I leaned the side of my head closer to her face, at an angle that positioned my lips right by her left ear. And with neither of us making eye contact, I whispered

‘Mummy –did- you- believe me?’

‘My daughter, please’ she begged me in a trembling voice, then burst into uncontrollable sobbing.

So Ridiculous! What a hypocrite! I thought to myself. I should have known that the woman had not changed. Even in private, she still could not admit to the one thing that traumatized her only daughter’s life. I broke free from her grip and pulled out my gun in returned anger.

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