My young battered self followed my mum to the house of the prophetess, the woman whose eye pupils went up each time she pulled folks out to tell them of issues related to them. Their secrets, their plans and what the Lord was saying.
My young self which earnestly sought for love but found none went in the company of my beloved mum and kid brother to the house of the prophetess, we had an appointment with her. On transit, we talked and laughed, we talked about many things, I always enjoyed the company of my mum even though I was really alone.
We knocked on the door that shielded them and her kid opened, we were ushered in, mum, kid brother and I. Received warmly by them we were, comfortably on the sofa we sat throwing slight discussions at each other and giggling until the prophetess came out. The dark chubby ikwerre lady married to an igbo man who always had low cut. I trembled and little, but took comfort in the sofa I sat, the comfort that snapped outta my finger once my mum started talking. In seconds, the dear Woman who'd brought me here laughing and discussing made her self my opponent, she turned three sixty against me, as her moving lips relieved escapades of my act of stubbornness.
'Stubbornness' she calls it, 'defense' I always affirms it is. The only shield guarding the fragile place where my life sat. If I must live, it must be. If I must remain without being vanquished, it must be enthroned, without it, I'd work to death, my skin will rip off, and all that'll remain of me is a deranged young lad which I was slowly becoming. I got the extra beatings, the extra blackmail, the extra work, no I didn't get the acknowledgement and commendations, they were reserved for these kids my dad loved. I was made a maid in my own house and that defense is the only reason why I'm not wearing a rag and denied food like the real maids. I cleared the table my kid brother ate from and if not for my defense called stubbornness I'd clear the table and do the dishes and sweep the house, and do laundry and do everything to please a man who never will be pleased. He hates me. That's no exaggeration, he told me, low enough that the others won't hear, loud enough that my little ears could hear and my heart will form around. He buttress this with his actions, my name was the one that was on the table everywhere they went.
If I will ever live to be anything, I must save my life by myself, I must defend myself, they call it stubbornness; I laugh, it's the hustle sweetheart.
Tale after tale, she laid me bare before the prophetess whose nose now raise. We'd come here as a family earlier, and I was the topic of discussion, even though it was our first meeting, they wouldn't spare my little self, they said all there is to say and added some lies. Lies, yes lies, I am the person who did those things they complain about, I know that which I did and that which I'm framed with. The lady prophet had told me to say sorry to the Lord that first day which I did rather disgusted than really sorry. I should say sorry to the Lord in whose name they torment me justly, and to the man who told me he would employ any ready means to execute me and the government wouldn't ask him questions.
I was ashamed, we were meeting this lady for the first time and that will not be a good introduction. They were quick to introduce me as the bad sheep, and sell me with their words, whilst I'm not permitted to talk, "you're a kid, shut up!"
The prophetess won't spare today, she in one command asked me to kneel down, raise my hands and crawl to her. My innermost crumbled, my bones quake and my eyes gave tears. She ordered a cane to be brought and told my mum to be strong as she deals with me together with her husband.
I took the strokes, it made me tougher, my tears strengthened me in the fact that love and me has no connection whatsoever. She brought her jar of pepper and told me I was going to lick it and bathe with it if I did not confess.
"confess?" I soliloquised. Confessing means telling her my plight, my pain, my sorrow. It will mean 'selling my family' like my parents said, but when they did it against me, it wasn't selling. My lips twitched and my body quaked at the sight of the cane and the information I'd received that her husband is in the military.
How can I start telling her that's the only way I can survive? How can I tell her of the day when I was made to do dishes with my head pounding with ache and my back severing with same ache? How can I tell her of the day I was made to do the dishes with swollen thumb that got pulse in it. How could I tell her that the problem many times wasn't my wrong action but the truth that I'm not accepted? I'd been so badly scolded at home that I tried emulating the character of my other siblings whom they loved just so they will be peace, and I found I was scolded too for the same things they did and didn't receive even a raised voice. As little as I was, I already had tales of heart wrenching plight enough to make a full book, how could I tell this stranger that I felt like dying, and it would be my favorite gift. How can I tell her the pain my heart gets from ceaseless times of tears and my eyes for gushing waters endlessly. How can I tell her the cheekbone visible on my face wasn't a symbol of how ugly I was but the face of the one who'd endured much more than a young child of twelve would.
I confessed, I confessed that "I was responsible for the countless quarrels at home." Even though I wasn't. The quarrels were times when my mum couldn't stand to see how much hate was meted on me. Times when she spoke up for me, times when she became my advocate. It were times when she undo with her words what my dad said to me. When she said "My son will not handle the gun and be a criminal" when my dad said that's how my life would end. I had to confess it to save my life from the excruciating pain the woman of God's whip gave me. I had to confess with tears, tears of pain, tears that had the words my heart wanted to say. Tears that soon gave way for the words to proceed and I spewed my plight to her.
She hushed me, she told me its nothing to be a maid, to wash the plates whilst younger brother slept, to clear the table he ate from, to take orders from him like I was a purchased slave. Sometimes I wondered if I really belonged to that family l. The question that toggled my heart till this moment. All her advice fell on deaf ears, I will live, I will live anyhow. If that's the only way out, then no backing out. She told me to return home and kneel down and beg my dad. To tell him I've been influenced by the devil, and he should forgive me.
Forgive? I'm supposed to be the one to forgive, if there's a using of the devil, they were the used and my innocent self the victim. God began to be distant, he was the reason why they are applauded for mistreating me, he was the reason my dad will tell me those hurtful words and still get the 'you can do with him as you want he is your son' He's the reason my eyes always was wet with water, and my lungs weary from singing my pain. This God that rejoices to see me suffer. My lord was made my enemy by the ones who were to tell me of his love.
The lady prophetess' rod to me was the rod of God, who executes one sided justice. The rod with which words were forced from the mouth of the innocent. Since my mind was yet small to grasp anything, it became my definition of God! The wicked old man, who withholds justice and oppress the oppressed.
Well, thanks to those who told me truth about this God and his Christ, who had now become my God and Christ, whilst lying down today thinking so many thoughts, my mind went to this lady prophetess, and I thought to share!!
Chines Zoe!
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