This post is for my Mummy, the most amazing example of diligence (in every damn thing!), kindness and consistency. She just super-successfully completed a major project she’s been working on and I could not be prouder of her if I tried. Trust me, I tried. Love you momma! I wrote this story for a church paper and so its rather didactic, but I enjoy writing short stories…hopefully someone enjoys reading short stories.

“Now the Gift Wrapping committee will dance out in thanksgiving, presenting their love to God on the altar” the priest’s voice boomed, distracting a daydreaming Imiete, grating his already raw nerves. Imiete wondered if it might not be easier for the priest to simply accost him on his way to church and seize his wallet, as ‘thanksgiving’ appeared to be a euphemism for daylight robbery.

Muttering bitterly, he looked into his now skeletal wallet, pondering the church’s creativity. Their Main Offering took his planned offering of course; he would never begrudge God his offering, only his tithes. He already tithed by paying almost ten percent of his declared salary to a higher authority, the government of Rivers State, in the form of tax. Since God established the government, He could discuss His portion with them. The church then called for Thanksgiving Offering Only for Those Privileged to Witness Another Sunday (only for those people!). And Imiete was compelled to let go of the money he had planned to give Chinwe, his Sunday Girlfriend. Afterwards, the priest called for the Indigenes Offering, and Imiete emptied the week’s lunch money into the box as everyone knew his name was Imiete Jack. The priest continued until Imiete suspected the man had a personal vendetta against him, leaving his wallet light and airy by the end of the service.

He had to admit, the clergy was quite creative! The pressure to give was intermittently aggressive then subtle, the scriptural backing accompanying each call unrelenting and plentiful. The pressure was present and tangible, seated on each pew like a conspicuous congregant. He was quite tired of church as it was. It was really all a scam to him, he only attended to visit with all his friends at once; that cut down on his weekly fuel spent visiting during the week, you see.

Mid-mutter, he caught sight of sister Ibiere’s purple shoes as and the laughter snaked out of his throat before he could control it, to the chagrin of the devout surrounding him. Women sha! Purple?? Her bogus violet sandaled feet marched steadily to the altar like a young cadet at a Navy parade. She was clearly a gift wrapping warrior because she led a small troop of cavorting congregants with a young goat in their midst, clearly more hesitant than its company marching towards the altar. Imiete thought how the goat might be the cleverest of the lot, at least he realised he was being sacrificed at the altar…the others didn’t realise they suffered the same fate as they merrily danced towards the place of sacrifice, surrendering themselves, giving all their wealth at the perceived instruction of God.

Imiete was thankful that he was not so foolish. He came to church simply because it posed a good networking opportunity. Industry titans and community leaders seemed to favour Holy Divinity Assembly and so, he attended to establish a quorum; every flock of sheep needed its standard black. He was disguised in church-regulated garb of course; the obligatory etibo and matching dress shoes. He was fluent in Christainese; making the requisite noises during prayers, humming harmonious hymns as he walked about after church, carrying the biggest and most tattered bible while solemnly striding into church. Yes, Imiete beat the church at its own game. For it was all a game to him, a means of getting up the rungs in Nigeria’s tough financial terrain. If he had to do this to succeed, he suspected that God Himself would cheer him on.

He sat through the service outwardly looking like a sage in deep devotion; singing hymns mechanically and making perfunctory religious gestures as appropriate, hoarding his real self like diesel in December, until the close of this service when the real ‘church’ would begin. He would begin his own church service with praise and worship of the industry leaders he needed to sweeten with flattery, continue with homilies sermonised by individuals so stuffed with wealth their outpoured words gold to the desperate listener, his offering was his best self surrendered in the fervent pursuit contracts and connections, before he would ceremoniously process out and return home filled with the satisfaction of service. Yes this was church, as he liked.

As Imiete hurried out of church preparing to render full obeisance and worship at his second service, he bumped into Mrs. Grey the Chief Financial Officer at Nigeria’s leading rubber manufacturing plant. He had been trying, unsuccessfully, to procure a grant from the company to supply base materials from his small farm in Ngoh.

“Mr. Jack, we are looking for more men to join our Outreach committee on Saturdays!” He would joyfully join the Kiri Kiri Prison Testing scheme if Mrs. Ndali Grey asked him! What better way to evince his dedication and determination?

That is how Saturday morning met Imiete seated amongst eighty nine hapless orphans in a small riverine community fifteen minutes away from Holy Divine Assembly as Deuteronomy 16:17 was being read.

“Every man shall give as he is able, according to the blessing of the Lord your God which He has given you…”

He listened to Mrs. Grey read Deuteronomy 16: 17 and explain that although money was important, giving had to do with more than wealth; it included giving time, commitment, love and resources to God. He watched as the five other committee members poured God’s love on a mangled group of cadaverous orphans. The orphans’ English was so poor that communication was difficult, but when the leader of the motley crew whispered, “We are so broken!” for “We are so broke!” Imiete had to agree. There was brokenness in eyes emptied of hope by the ravages of deprivation, brokenness in the little bodies held together solely by good intentions and sheer force of will, brokenness in the bleak future of violence and starvation that doggedly shadowed the children’s waking moments, polluting their very aura.

Imiete was shocked, fifteen minutes away from the church lay a community crystallised by despair and sinking under the combined weight of dilapidation, joy devastated and shattered dreams. The silence of the community terrified; children played quietly if at all, women seemed to whisper, men sat mute, even the livestock seemed to be on an assignment of troubled peace as they grazed quietly at the rubbish strewn all over the streets. Hunger humbled.

Mrs. Grey was addressing him now. Her voice fervent and quiet, imitated her surroundings.

“Most of the money raised last Sunday sponsors this community. Next week, the church will work somewhere else. Some churches are, unfortunately, armies that kill their wounded soldiers. At Holy Divine Assembly, we try to imitate the Master. Like Jesus, we understand our responsibility to the wounded and broken in God’s army. And so, we dedicate our time and effort to raising communities with the love of God so that in time, these people can establish their own version of a Holy Divine Assembly and reach out to others. You know you don’t light a candle and hide it under a bed…as we have so freely received, we freely give, it’s Matthew 10:8.”

Imiete was distracted by the sudden tug, on his hand, of a doe-eyed little boy.

“That’s Sida” Mrs. Grey said walking to another committee member.

The touch of brokenness had not yet filtered into Sida’s pupils, but there were traces of a stark deprivation that should be extinct from a child’s guileless eyes. Imiete had heard that God spoke in visions and dreams, through people and even via donkey’s speech. Watching the little boy slowly raise his hands in the universal baby signal for, “Carry me!”, Imiete realised that God could speak through eyes; bereft, terrified, innocent eyes.

As he drove back to civilisation, Imiete mused on giving. He had come to church with questionable motives but in one short afternoon, he realised how valuable even an insincerely given Naira note could be to changing someone’s destiny. He remembered Mrs Grey’s urgent words about freely receiving and reciprocating the gift given. “Perhaps, giving is not a favour I do for God or to the church…” he thought as he swerved past raging danfos and demonic okadas, “…maybe I give in appreciation, understanding that today my children could have been Sida.”

“[Remember] this: he who sows sparingly and grudgingly will also reap sparingly and grudgingly, and he who sows generously [that blessings may come to someone] will also reap generously and with blessings.”
(2 Corinthians 9: 6)