By Enyi Nnabuihe

Wake up in the morning, but do not get on your feet. Stab your mattress with your jaw, drill your eyes through your pillow, and talk to your God. He’s there, just trust me and follow the process. Say your prayers whilst on your bed; you can kneel or remain laid down, He doesn’t really give a fuck about your praying posture. Just make sure you pray, sincerely, for at least five minutes, with at least five prayer points; taking into consideration that one of them must be about somebody else, not you or related to you, or even affiliated with you. When you’re done praying, if everywhere is silent, it means He heard you and in less than twenty-four hours you’ll get a reply (positive or negative, reply na still reply). But if so much as one person calls your name, or you’re so unfortunate that it’s at the exact moment you’re wrapping up your prayers that you hear the gyrations from the blender your mother just turned on, it means your prayer will take a little pause in purgatory, and na one month minimum be that.

Turn over if you laid down to pray, lie back down and face the ceiling if you chose to kneel. The objective is to stare at the ceiling till you see something, anything apart from the patterned shades of greys and white. Spend only seven minutes doing this; any more than that, and you’ll fall sleep again, which means you’ll have to repeat the earlier processes all over, which means you’ll lose some sincerity, which means it’ll be a waste of your time. Trust me; you don’t even want to go through this.

Head to the bathroom and brush your teeth before you check your phone, because even though the Bible doesn’t say it, cleanliness should actually be next to godliness. Brush your teeth like your father taught you: up, down, side, in. Then do the same for your tongue. Rinse your face alongside your mouth when you’re sure you can’t taste the egusi you had for dinner, or the whiskey you drank last night because you had trouble sleeping. Close your eyes. Breathe. Stare at yourself in the mirror, and say your mantra: I am Strong, I am smart, I am who God says I am. Trust me; Joyce Meyers and Oprah Winfrey say these exact lines to the mirrors of their own bathrooms. If your mind wanders to them, or someone way more successful than you, don’t chase the thoughts away. Hold them in your chest, breathe them in, convert them to something magnificent, or las las just use them to drive yourself to begin the day. If Joyce Meyers can be a preacher, a mother and whip out numerous New York Times Bestsellers, so can I. If Oprah Winfrey can incessantly empower women, dash out Teslas like groundnuts, and still retain her millionaire status, so can I. Say these, and trust me, you’re on your way to success. It won’t happen suddenly, of course, Baba God is not a magician, but say them first, in expectance of something great and wonderful.

Oust Martin from your mind. He’s a shameless bandit that has infiltrated the boundaries in your brain, and if you think about it, he’s not worth living in your thoughts. Resist the urge to pick up your phone to see if there’s any message from him. Pick up your mind’s blow torch instead, set ablaze firewood stacked atop one another, and make sure he’s roped to the firewood; struggling, shaking, screaming. Wait for him to turn to ash, for the unyielding gale to scatter across the earth every single one of his remains, then pick up your phone. You’re ready to begin the day.

When you get to your door, pause, then slowly and noiselessly turn the knob before you pull. Your little cousin’s ears have been on your door since, so he will stumble to the ground in shame and shock. Don’t be angry with him, breathe. It’s all Martin's fault. Ever since the incident last year, everyone’s been in your shit, subtly furious with you, but worried that you’ll try to harm yourself. So, don’t blame this nine-year old cousin that doesn’t even know what’s going on. Smile coyly, gently, in a way that shows you acknowledge him as a cousin and his shameful self lying pitifully on the floor.

Your mother is in the kitchen, so you don’t need to be there. In about fifteen minutes, she’ll scream “How can Onyinyechi be sleeping at this time?” That’ll be your cue to enter. I know right now you’re thinking of going there and surprising her with your presence and a “good morning”, but how many times have you tried that? And how many times has she responded to your good mornings with a scowl since the incident last year? Onyinyechi, just stay in your lane for now.

Sit at the dining table, and stare at the dust and the breadcrumbs that rest beneath and beside your elbow. Listen for your father’s voice; it should come any moment from now from the direction of the balcony. If you don’t hear his voice, go and check. He should be there, smiling and splattering pails of water on the hood of his Sienna, or squatting and scrubbing his tyres with vigour bountiful enough to wrestle an impetuous rhinoceros. Gaze at this wonder of a man, this man that reminded you of Martin. His deep, rumbling voice that sent chills to your feet as a child. His thick beard. The way he accentuated your name, as he ran his fingers through your hair and thrust as powerfully as he could.

Jesus!

Stop thinking about Martin, and greet your father. After he’s replied “good morning, dear,” with a wave and a fully teethed smile, you can then drift off, whilst rested on the black-painted rails erected to keep you from falling off the two-storey building.

Wonder if your father still remembers the incident last year, if he is forcing himself to forget by pretending to be overwhelmed with joy, or if he’s actually forgiven you for breaking his trust like he said. Wonder what he’s thinking about right now, under that felicific garb he’s wearing. Wonder if you’ve repaired his broken heart, if you’ve said and done everything you need to do to regain his trust, if you can sit on the couch later tonight, with him by your side, and both of you screaming angry, desultory words at Alonso and Azpilicueta like you always did before the incident.

Then, as you wonder, you shall hear: “So, Onyinyechi is still sleeping by eight, and on a Sunday morning?!” This will be your cue to step right ahead into the kitchen.

Roll your eyes in contempt because you can’t help yourself, but make sure you don’t hiss— your mother’s ears are as sensitive as a parakeet's, you know, and by the time she starts wailing at no one and everyone that you’ve become unrecognisable, and you’re not the daughter she raised, you’ll realise that her screams of anguish are so guttural and emotional that you, the victim, could even feel pity for her.

She will be chopping onions on a plate and not the wooden board when you'll walk in. Say you were doing something important. It’s not like she’ll respond, but that’ll be your lead to give her a cold good morning. The colder, the better, the more likely you are to feel less guilty about any ‘betrayed victim' card she throws at you today. You know she gets off on that. Stare at her fingers as she chops the onions, then roll your eyes to hers. Do you see the tears in her eyes? Do you see how she fights to keep her eyes open while she chops? Breathe. Allow yourself to believe that it’s her attempt to restrain her love for you that causes her eyes to leak. Then, breathe again. Remember when she didn’t hide her love from you, then say something under your breath, something about getting that love back.

She will say you should check the rice she’s boiling on the fire. Then, she will say you should chop carrots, green peas and pepper. Then, she will tell you to bring out the cooler that she’ll put the fried rice in and also tell you to rinse it. Without hesitation, do all of these things with a smile on your face. The same smile she always suggested you put on on those stages; for pageantries, debates, spelling bees, plays, and every other stage activity she filled your childhood with. She will not look at you as you do these things with this smile, she will not even lift her eyes from the onions while you’re doing these things, so you’ll wonder how long it’ll take her to cut just two bulbs of onions.

Your brother, with a standing broom and a dustpan in his hand, will come strutting into the kitchen, joyfully whistling the tune to an unfamiliar song. He will head to the store to drop the cleaning tools, then as he stands beside you to wash his hands under the tap, he will dwarf you, and make you feel really awkward. Isn’t this Osinachi of yesterday, you will think, like he’s not been dwarfing you for over four years now. You will look up at him, and smile, and when you will see a stubble on his chin, you will say, “Is that bie-bie?” In an attempt to touch it, he will squirm away from you, like you’re a parasite, and you’ll know that he knows and that like your mother, you’re now unrecognisable to him. Cut the vegetables and get the fuck out of the kitchen before the tears start spilling out from your canthus, gently, like rivulets of foul-smelling sewage.

Don’t think of how things became this way; that’ll only make the tears gush out quicker. Don’t think of how close you and your brother used to be; how he did the things you did, spoke only in the manner you permitted, and without hesitation, did the things you asked him to. Don’t think of your first day in secondary school twelve years ago— how he skidded around, only by your side, and everywhere you went, how he hysterically pulled out three black pens from his pocket and volunteered to write your names on all your notebooks and textbooks, how he locked you in an embrace and cried on your breasts, saying he didn’t want you to go, and that the house wouldn’t be the same without you. Don’t think of any of that, but wonder, with tears clogged in your eyes, what has become of your relationship with him now.

Hold the tears when you get to your room, hold the tears as you take off your satin pyjamas, but let them flow as you turn on the shower and let the threads of lustrous water sink to your scalp, and flow, in oneness, with your tears. Run your fingers through your thick hair, like you are massaging your head to purge suicidal thoughts away. Keep moving your sponged hands in a frisky manner over your body, but don’t do anything stupid. Don’t think of Martin, or Michael B. Jordan, or the Duke of Hastings from Bridgerton. Remember you’re using methylated soap to bathe. Turn the shower back on and rinse yourself off the yellowed lather and this spirit of horniness that wants to slowly usurp you on a Sunday morning.

Stare into your reflection in the mirror as you put on your silver dress. Tuck in your tummy, and watch as it plops back out again like Jell-O. Take off the dress, fling it to your bed, and walk to your wardrobe, weary from wearing and removing church clothes of different materials. The silver dress was the seventh, do not wonder what the eighth will be. Throw your hands on your face, tack your palms to the corners of your lips and drag them upwardly, to a forced smile.

Keep your hands there, until your mother opens your door without knocking and catches you staring at yourself in the mirror, not even close to being fully dressed. Watch as she ignores the tears in your eyes and says something about the silver dress on the bed. Then and there, tune her out and think of who gave you that dress. Martin.

You met him in your second year studying Sociology & Anthropology. He was a Law Student, and boy, did you envy and fancy Law students. On your free periods on Tuesdays and Fridays, you wore white and black, so you’d attend their classes, and for a little while, know what it felt like to be studying law. That was what led to your meeting. On a particular day, he strutted into class late, with three rings on each of his hands, and a blue denim jacket, so immediately, even though you were paying attention to what this Doctor Joel was saying about the Constitutional Law, he caught your attention. It didn’t help matters when Doctor Joel stopped him from sitting and called him to the front. It didn’t help matters when Doctor Joel asked him to take off the rings and he refused, saying they came with his fingers. It didn’t help matters when Doctor Joel scoffed, then looked in your direction and called you to the front to take off his rings.

Your mother will snap her fingers and clap her hands until you come back to earth. Look up at her; at the creases on her face, at her scanty brows. Watch her mutter something as she heads to your wardrobe,  swaying her hips and humming the tune to ‘On Christ the Solid Rock I Stand’. Watch her pull out a red lace and smile at it. She will ask you what happened, when did they go wrong with you. Don’t say anything, just cry. Nothing you say will be a good enough reply after all.

On the ride to church, stare at your phone’s screen. Go to Instagram and sadly look at pictures of your friends you don’t talk to anymore, smiling in winter jackets and others, in fancy dinner dresses much prettier than that silver gown. Say another mantra: I am Strong. I am smart. I shall not be intimidated. Wonder how they’re all migrating, and you’re here, hustling to get a job. Wonder whether they have two heads, or if there’s a babalawo dashing them this visa. While you’re still wondering, leave heart emojis and ‘go, baby girl’ comments on their pictures, so you don’t seem like a hater that double-tapped and skipped. Who knows? Maybe if you act like you are genuinely happy for them, your own would come sooner.

Follow your mother to the choir stall, and drape yourself in a choir robe. Sit down and join the sermon. Smile. Breathe. At least, the people here don’t know. The pastor would say the topic for today is “gratefulness”, and for that, he’s not giving a sermon, so for forty minutes, instead of a preaching, a number of people should come out, give testimonies and show their gratitude to their God.

A woman will come out to give her testimony, but she will start singing about how Jesus embarrassed her with many, many blessings, in this shrill, sonorous, igbotic voice. Do not laugh. Scream “Sing on, sister!” so she has more courage to testify what the good Lord has done in her life. Listen to her testimony of speedy recovery and wonder when you’ll have something to testify, other than how others are in the hospital or six feet under, but His infinite grace allowed you to see a new day. Watch as the woman starts shedding tears, saying that she thought she was going to lose her husband. Feel pity, joy, gratefulness to God, for her.

The pastor will collect the mic after the last person testifies, and he will catapult the congregation into a frenzy with the words, “Pray, pray, pray! Cover these testimonies with the blood of JESUS!”

Spittle and incomprehensible words will start flying from every mouth and tongue. Hands will get so loud and zestful, it would seem like the walls of the church are shaking, and the ceiling is coming down. People will even start rolling on the ground. Close your eyes, don’t look around, don’t laugh. Don’t start speaking in tongues because others are.

Thank God for what He has done for you, for how He enveloped you under his wings of grace and mercy, as you screamed and pushed, till you delivered that child. For how He didn’t let shame befall your family for what you did, and sent someone into your lives, instead, to adopt your baby girl. Thank Him for her, because even though her time of conception couldn’t have been any more inappropriate, she will still, above all, be a blessing.

Remember who you said her father was, Martin. Look around for someone to tell the truth, because you can’t hold it in anymore. Was he really her father, or was it easier to nod and say yes between muffled tears when your mother asked, angrily, squeezing her bosom, if it was that very fair boy that stayed with your family on one Christmas, the one you said lost his parents in an accident? Regret what you did, regret the yes you told her and your father and Martin, but do not take your mind back to that party.

Do not remember how those your friends, who are now adorned in ornate dresses and are encircled by blissful abroad weather, cajoled you to follow them even though you weren’t up for it. Do not remember how one of them elbowed you to the direction of one husky guy wiggling his eyebrows at you. Do not remember that same guy coming to speak to you, with this very poorly feigned Philly gangster accent. Do not remember the grotty smell of martinis and nuts trammelled by his mouth, and set free with his breath while he panted, again and again, above your drunken self. Do not remember crying, slapping his back, trying everything you could to push him off you. Do not remember, thank God!

Thank God for the days that succeeded this happening; for sending your father to you, as you laid, cold and insentient, on your frigid bathroom floors, the sound of water trickling mildly from the showers, and blood splurging from your wrist in a gentle, pulsatile manner. 

Fall on your knees, lift your hands to the skies, and thank Him. You won’t know when the melodies will start rolling out of your lips. Then, as someone will scream at you, like you did that testifying woman, “Sing on, sister!”, you will feel the anointing. You will feel it settle on your head and take over you. You would feel the sublime surge it brings to your insides. And, you will know what that means; your prayers have been answered.

Hurl your purse over your shoulder, head to the back of the church, take out your phone, and tell Martin the truth.

Enyinna Nnabuihe, an aspiring filmmaker, born in 2002 in Lagos, Nigeria, is a Pharmacy student at the Nnamdi Azikiwe University. He is signed to Whipik Stories as a chat story creative, and alongside pouring his heart into poetry on his Instagram page, @enyinnawrites, he has published multiple stories on the platform. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in The Kalahari Review, Cathartic Lit Magazine, Paper Crane Literary Journal, The Master's Review and elsewhere.

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