Swallow, page 17
At first, Johnny was peering into his glass as if he could see naked women dancing inside. Then he watched Rose and me, when it looked as if we were about to fight. He told us both to calm down. “The proletariat,” he said.
“Pro-what?” Rose said. “Who asked you to talk? Your face like tea without milk.”
That was the exact color of Johnny’s skin, weak tea without milk, and his freckles were like tea leaves. But Johnny continued to speak sensibly for a drunk man. “We the masses,” he said. “We the common man. We the people. We deserve the government that we have.”
Our country, our continent, could be everything we dreamed, with enough food, water, health, education, and peace, he said, if only we used the power we had.
Johnny Walker was a graduate of agricultural science. His favorite songs were by Bob Marley and by another Bob he called Dylan. I promised myself that I would go to church as soon as possible, just to pray for him. That was the last time I saw him.
Rose came back before I returned from Tajudeen market. She was sleeping when I arrived and snoring loud. I ironed my clothes for the next day and ate sweet bread and beans. Each mouthful I took was small, so I could keep them down. I tidied my bedroom and noticed a fork between my mattress and the wall. I was sure Sanwo had dropped it there. I slipped my hand between the gap and pulled it out. The fork was covered in dust. I took it to the kitchen and washed it.
Thankfully, we had electricity that night, so I was able to watch the television; first the news and then one local drama without paying attention to either program. I wanted the television on just for the sound. A government War Against Indiscipline advert came on as Rose walked in from her bedroom.
“How now,” I said.
She was wearing a brown wrapper and a pink hairnet on her head. She rubbed her arms. “Too much noise. Too much...”
The jingle of the advert was irritatingly loud. Lateness to work, the lyrics went, jumping bus queues, these were acts of indiscipline. Rose was muttering to herself like an old woman. She dragged her feet to the kitchen and then to the bathroom where she began to cough. She was particular about personal hygiene, and for her, the mucus in her throat was filth.
“Did you speak to OC?” I called out.
I had become used to being on my own and looked forward to the days she left for OC’s place. Her hacking stopped, but she didn’t answer. She had a hangover. If Rose was quiet and complaining about noise, this was the usual explanation. She came out of the bathroom chewing.
“What’s in your mouth?” I asked.
“Ginger.”
Her expression reminded me of Violet’s. They looked nothing like each other until they frowned. They had the same deep crease between their eyes. I heard a thumping sound from our water pipes.
“Are we still swallowing?” I asked.
She nodded. “We have to.”
The government War Against Indiscipline advert ended. A Joy soap advert began. The jingle went, “Hey, Joy Girl...”
“He won’t let us do it the other way?” I asked.
“Won’t. The risk. He says we are a liability. He normally uses women who’ve had children. At least they know the score.”
“What is that?”
She looked up.
“Hm?”
“The score,” I said.
“They know what they need to do. We’re too indecisive, he said. He wants us to get it down our throats or forget about it. I decided to try ginger. Pregnant women chew it for morning sick...”
Her mouth was full. She returned to the bathroom to spit. I heard her say, “Jesus.” Then she came out smacking her lips.
“When will they fix this septic tank, eh?” she said, flopping into a chair.
The Joy soap advert came to an end and another foreign program came on. This one was about a detective called Columbo. I’d seen the episode twice before.
“I saw Johnny,” I said.
Rose eyed me. “Where?”
“Tajudeen market. He was there buying medicine.”
“He’s sick?”
“He’s lost weight, Rose.”
“Malaria?”
“They don’t know. You should have seen him.”
She stretched her leg. “Really?”
“He looked bad. It was no joke.”
She hissed. “Please, don’t mention Johnny around here again. He is a waste of spit.”
She made me so angry. “He said I should greet you.”
“For what reason?”
“He said OC cannot care for you.”
“Who asked his opinion? Did I tell him I cared for OC?”
“He also said you were the only woman he ever loved.”
Rose wiped her face with a hand. The gesture was not convincing.
“Johnny can’t do anything for me,” she muttered. “Don’t talk to me about him again.”
“I was just delivering his message,” I said.
She continued to chew her stick of ginger as if she didn’t care.
I dreamed about Johnny that night. He was striding across our street, looking so handsome in a starched white linen shirt. He was on his way to church. I smelled his cologne, strong, and woke up crying. The dream scared me badly.
How time passed after that. Each day seemed to be chasing after the next. I was trying to swallow. I was alone most evenings because Rose was at OC’s place. She was still bringing up condoms after getting them down her throat. I was unable to get one past the back of my mouth. I’d stopped vomiting, but my tongue would not budge with the weight of a condom on it, not with palm oil, groundnut oil, margarine, water, or Coca-Cola; not lying down, with my eyes shut, or pretending my mouth was filled with toffee, but I kept trying.
On the Sunday before I was to return to work, I went to Godwin’s church. I really didn’t want to. Johnny was the one I decided to go for, to pray for. Godwin was happy to see me though.
“This is a miracle,” he said.
“Verily,” I said, smiling.
“I was so worried when I heard you were suspended.”
“Don’t worry about that. I’m back to work on Monday.”
“I’m happy you’re here. Your boss needs extra prayers.”
“How long is your service?”
“Two hours,” he said. I was just teasing him, and he was used to my rudeness. He was still smiling like the man in the Macleans toothpaste advert. Surely, he would faint if he knew the kind of woman he was going to worship with.
The church was as big as a palace, with white pillars. There were so many cars outside in the car park: Volkswagens, Benzes, and Peugeots. It was like going to happy hour at Phaze Two. Inside the church, the floor was marble and wood; the pulpit was red velvet, the exact color of my skirt suit. The pastor was wearing a black suit, well-fitted. His bald head shone like his shoes. He walked up and down calling God “Gahd.” His accent was American, and he was Nigerian.
The born-again churches were new and becoming popular; I wasn’t sure why. The main difference in their services were the hymns and clapping, and what this pastor called ten percent. “My Gahd is not a poor Gahd!” he said. “My Gaahhd...is a Gahd of abundance!”
He spoke as if God was in a back room, and he’d come to the pulpit to repeat to the congregation exactly what God had said. He was that certain of his message, and his sermon continued in the same fashion: money, money, money. Ten percent of this and that. Tithes. It was there in the Bible, a covenant, and those who did not give were sinners. The church had a prophecy to fulfill through money. Money was power. It was God’s promise that the congregation be enriched and empowered. Those who received God’s promise must fulfill His prophecy, in order for missions and other works to turn around the devilishness in the world. It was devilish to say that people should not give money to the church and to say that poverty made people wholesome. It was also devilish talk to criticize God’s anointed who preached prosperity, and it was time for the congregation to cast out the demon of poverty and let God come into their lives and expand their coastlines.
“Can I get a hallelujah?” he asked.
Members of the congregation responded by shouting, “Hallelujah!” “In Jesus’s name!” “My portion!”
The priest’s ensuing prayer was more like a war cry: “May the evildoers that walk the face of this earth be consumed in the flames of hellfire! May the soldiers of Satan be devoured by serpents, Father Lord...” in a bottomless pit, he said, and the purveyors of witchcraft be pierced by arrows, through their hearts, and the demonic forces that perverted the sacred covenant of marriage fall prey to sickness and disease. May this and that be dashed and crushed and destroyed, all in the name of Jesus.
One woman with a hat as wide as an umbrella collapsed at the mention of the word “marriage.” She was one of dozens. They were single women in search of husbands. We were almost by the door, and I kept peeking at those who were walking in and out of the church. Why did they bend and tiptoe that way? I’d done that before, and people noticed me anyway.
The congregation soon began to sing. A middle-aged woman in a light blue up-and-down skipped from one end of the church to the other during “Count Your Blessings,” and then she sobbed throughout “It Is Well With My Soul.” The man she was with pretended not to see her. I knew he was the cause of her woes. Many of the men rocked from side to side like Godwin, as if they were afraid to let loose. The better their clothes, the nearer people were to the pulpit. The pastor ordered the congregation to speak in tongues after a while. He stretched out his fingers: “I command you, in Jesus’s name! Bombala yatima shati wati!”
The noise became loud enough for me to cover my ears. Open mouths surrounded me. Godwin was saying, “Shambala wato fatayata...” I shut my eyes thinking, wasn’t tongues a gift? Didn’t tongues happen when the Holy Spirit gripped a person? How could a pastor command and suddenly a whole church was gripped and gifted?
Again, I couldn’t understand. We gave our ten percent. Mine was not up to one percent, but I prayed for my mother and for Johnny’s health, and next came a part of the service I was not prepared for, when the choir started another hymn. This hymn I had not heard before and the music was so moving.
Preciously, tenderly Jesus is calling
Calling for you and for me.
The congregation swayed as the choir led them. The singing was so low and full of grief, it carried me high and I almost became dizzy from my sins.
Calling all sinners come home
Come home
Come home
People began to leave their seats and walk up to the pulpit. I tapped Godwin’s shoulder. He stepped aside because he thought I was going to the pulpit for a blessing. I followed the man next to him, right to the end of the pew and walked in the opposite direction, out of the church.
The service was a 4-1-9. If the pastor couldn’t confuse his congregation with his message about money, or scare the hell out of them, or pressure them into speaking in fake tongues, he lured them with the promise of salvation. Who didn’t need salvation? Who didn’t want to be delivered? Everyone needed deliverance once in a while, and for a moment I was almost caught. I blamed Godwin for inviting me to such a church, a con church. Didn’t he know? Couldn’t he see, or was he aware and acting as some sort of shepherd hand anyway? He found me in the car park.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I have to go home.”
“Don’t be afraid,” he said.
I was breathless. I wiped the sweat from my eyes. The sun was too hot. I pointed at the church. More people were on their way to receive blessings from the pastor. They’d formed a line to the pulpit. I could have cried for every one of them.
“They’re brainwashing them,” I said.
“What?” Godwin said.
“Inside there. They’re brainwashing people. They’re twisting their minds. It’s...”
Juju, I thought. The hymn had brought warmth from my stomach and spread it up. I continued to walk. Godwin followed me between cars.
“You’re overcome,” he said.
“I don’t want anything to do with your church.”
“You’re running away from His love.”
“Who is He? I do not know this Gahd.”
Godwin grabbed my arm. I struggled to free myself as if he was about to drag me back in. “I’m not going back there. Your Gahd is not my God.”
“That is blasphemy,” he said.
“They say He loves you. They say He is your...”
“Portion. He is my portion.”
“What does that mean?”
“My destiny.”
I was even more furious. “Are you hearing me? I mean your Gahd is not poor! And they’re taking money from people inside. To give to Him!”
“Mine is not to question.”
“You have to question, Godwin. You must. God gave you brains to. Look at you. You had a woman you wanted to marry. She bled to death. The hospital you took her to had nothing. What was your Gahd doing? What was He looking at when that happened to you? Hadn’t you given your life to Him?”
Godwin reached for me, and I slapped his hand down.
“That’s another thing,” I said. “You need a girlfriend. When was the last time you had a girlfriend, Godwin?”
He blinked, as if he was not sure about my sanity. A lot of people looked at me like that these days.
“When?” I said. “Since your girlfriend died seven years ago? Is that how you expect to be saved?”
I was breathing deeply now. Godwin seemed frightened when I held his hands. I placed them on my chest. At first he tried to make fists but they were weak.
“Y-you bitch,” he said.
That shocked me, but I was glad Godwin called me a bitch because that was exactly how I’d behaved. At least, for once, he was sincere. He went back to his church, and I went home thanking God for sending me there to receive the blessing that overcame me: pure strength. I did not recognize it at first because it came out as anger. Yes, from being duped in a church. Christians expected blessings to come from a pat on the head, water sprinkled on their faces. Why not some other way? And how could a person receive a message if they were expecting them in another man’s language, another man’s books? In complete riddles. How could I receive a message properly if it didn’t come in exactly the way I spoke, from an image exactly like mine, a Nigerian woman just as broke? It was no wonder we suffered and our children suffered; we were praying to the wrong gods. My father was right, and the realization made me laugh. I felt light-footed, as if the Holy Spirit overcame me.
Miraculously, Rose was home. I threw my shoes in the corner, and the sound made her jump. Our sitting room smelled of ginger. She was chewing again.
“When did you come back?” I asked.
“Must you scare somebody?”
I laughed. “I’m so happy! I went to church!”
“You’ve found God or what?”
She had that look on her face, not quite scorn, but I couldn’t care less.
I patted my chest. “I received a message in a stealing pastor’s church. My spirit will not allow me to be a smuggler. I’ve tried and I cannot swallow. I’ve been thinking, ‘Why can’t I do this? Why?’ My tongue won’t move. What is that telling me? That I must have been crazy, very crazy to think of doing such a thing. Hiding drugs in my stomach, getting on a plane to go to another country to shit it out.”
Rose chewed as she spoke. “What spirit? You’ve gone mad, my friend, from poverty. You look as if you’re possessed. You’ve been walking around like that for weeks and now you come here talking about spirits.”
I nodded. “Yes, it’s easy to abuse. You think I can’t abuse you, too? Isn’t that what you like more than receiving gifts? Receiving insults? Why are you back here? Did OC say something else to you this time? Did he beat you on top of it? When will you go back to him? This man who tells you that you are not good enough to smuggle drugs.”
I thought Rose might spit at me. I’d found it hard to say the words, but I wanted her to know I was no fool. She could not treat me like one.
She got up and went to the bathroom. She didn’t make a sound. I heard the tap and the usual thumping of pipes. When she returned, she was wiping her mouth. “God save you that I’m weak today,” she said.
“You’ve been trying to fight me since you lost your job.”
“If any man beats me I will pulverize him.”
“Shut up, Rose. Who cares about him? It’s you I’m talking about.”
She rubbed her eyes until she seemed to agree.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay. What is your problem with me? Say it. Say it.”
“Did you sleep with Salako?” I had to ask.
“What difference will it make? Did you yourself sleep with him?”
“No.”
“Ehen! But today you’re not sure of your job!”
She unzipped her denim shorts and I knew she was in pain once she winced.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“My stomach,” she groaned.
“What have you done again?”
“It’s inside me. Are you satisfied? I swallowed it and kept it down. So what do you want to say about my own spirit?”
I moved toward her as she prodded her midriff. Retaliation had only given me a sense of shame.
“No,” she said, waving me away.
“But you say it pains.”
“Just leave me. I want it to stay down.”
“My sister, don’t go.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not worth it.”
“I have to.”
“We’ll find work. You’ll see.”
She widened her eyes. “Doing what? Do you know what that bloody bastard called me? He said I was a nobody. He said that if I lost my job, I would be lucky to find myself living in a gutter.”
“Why did he say that?”
“That’s between me and him.”
I hissed. “He’s an oaf. He called me a commoner and I didn’t mind him.”
