Adelola(chronicles of a Nigerian teenager)

3

Like most African or Nigerian homes, on Sundays my family went to church, it was compulsory that everyone in my house went to church. I hated Sunday mornings, it was the worst day of the week. We woke up really early because my house was quite far from the church and my parents were workers in the church. Workers were required to come early, I wasn't a worker but my dear parents forced me to go to church with them. I have somehow gotten used to it ever since I was a child, that was our routine but my hatred for it kept growing every Sunday.

When I was in boarding school, my friends and I went to church whenever we felt like it. It was against the school rules but we either stayed in the dormitory quietly or we hid in empty classes.

I still couldn't understand why we didn't have breakfast before going to church. Sometimes, I stole little snacks and ate them before leaving for church.

The whole concept of not eating before going to church was absurd to me, it was like an intermittent fasting situation. I was always thinking about food in church, how was I supposed to focus on the sermon when my tummy kept on rumbling.

I poured the very cold water on my body after counting one to ten. I was running late already, I didn't have time to boil hot water to have my bath. I scrubbed my body harshly and hurriedly. I was already feeling goosebumps form on my arms.

I wore a purple dress and black heels I wore every other Sunday. I really hated heels but my mom won't hear of it. I could wear them, they were really fancy and fashionable but she made me wear them every Sunday, I ended up hating it.

I never wore makeup to church, I didn't bother because I didn't really know how to do it like a pro and two, I didn't want to draw any attention to myself.

The pimple on my face had reduced drastically, I can't really tell if it was because of the toothpaste but anyway, I'm satisfied.

I put on silver jewelry, I got almost all my jewelry from my mother. They were hand me downs from her, jewelries she didn't like or those that were tarnished.

I heard the incessant honk of my father's car. It was a signal for me to get done with whatever I was doing and join him in the car.

I took one last look at myself in the mirror before leaving the house. I really hated how puffy my face was in the morning. My eye bags were so swollen, it looked like I just got into a fight and was beaten thoroughly with a punch on both eyes. My morning face was very unattractive.

There weren't really handsome boys in my church. There were only two I approved of but I know I'd never stand a chance with them. In my church there was the poor, the middle class, the rich and then the very rich.

The rich and the very rich owned the church, they made huge donations every Sunday and hosted poverty alleviation programs once in a while. My family belonged to the middle class and I was comfortable with that.

The only boys who I thought were worthy of being called handsome belonged to the very rich. They were very snobbish, they didn't speak to anyone other than themselves. I know I'm way out of their league, their mothers didn't approve of me, I knew she didn't like me right from the day I stepped on her expensive shoe by mistake.

She shot me a very nasty glare,the kind of glare that said 'do you realize my shoes can pay your tuition?'

I doubt if anyone classified my church like I did or if people really saw what was going on.

The poor people rendered testimonies of how the rich helped them pay their bills or debt. The pastor praised the rich and was always singing praises in their names, I feel like everyone in church was oblivious of this fact, of course they would, when they were blinded by money.

Then there was the middle class, the good old middle class, we were the most insignificant people in the church,we neither belonged to the poor or to the rich. Many families fell into this category, Amaka and Mrs Smith's family inclusive.

"What is the meaning of this rubbish?" my father barked as I entered the car. "Do I have to wait for you every Sunday?"

"Every Sunday, the same thing, you can't be on time" my mother chimed in.

I was used to their pointless barking every Sunday morning, they complained of me being too late.

"The next time you are late, I will drive off and leave you at home," my father said angrily.

I heard that statement a million times and I wished it would come true. He probably thought leaving me at home would serve as some sort of punishment. If he left me at home, I'd be the happiest person in the world. I'll first satisfy my ever rumbling stomach, probably take a nap or watch TV.

"Hope you took offering?" my mother asked.

Offering was definitely another thing to talk about.

There was this woman in church who belonged to the rich class or group,she always wore a huge gele, during the time for offering, she would dance all the way to the offering basket, showcasing whatever she wore, she was fond of wearing bling bling jewelries which irritated the hell out of me. We were given envelopes to put our offering, she never used hers, she'd rather carry wads of cash to show off. She was very dramatic, in fact overly dramatic.

"Yes," I answered quietly.

My parents still went on and on, talking about lateness to church and all of that, I plugged in my earphones and blocked out their disturbing voices.

The service was well, how it always was. All through, I was thinking of lunch. The pastor preaching was a youth pastor, he was talking about how youths sin, I didn't really care what he had to say. I fed my eyes on what people wore, there were so many unfashionable people in my church, God have mercy.

I could see Amaka at the choir stand, looking all innocent like she couldn't hurt a fly. Mrs Smith unfortunately wasn't in church, I could imagine what her and her poor daughter could be going through.

I glanced at my wristwatch, it had been only ten minutes since that pastor took the pulpit and it felt like thirty minutes. I fought the urge to roll my eyes, this was so much punishment.

"God is moving in our midst today, I can feel him,"I heard the pastor say.

"The youth nowadays deviate from the things of the Lord, they don't pay God's work much attention" he continued to preach, occasionally wiping the sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief.

He looked really choked and sweaty, he wore a three-piece suit on a sunny day, a very very smart choice.

Amaka looked so focused and was taking notes as the pastor preached, who knows, maybe she was actually thinking about all the nasty things she could do to the keyboardist.

"If you're a youth here with a writing pad and pen, kindly raise it up so I can see" the pastor announced.

I sighed, I didn't bother carrying a jotter or Bible with me because I had my phone with me. The only things I kept in my bag were my earphones, little change and a lip balm.

Those who were with theirs waved it in the air for him to see, actually there were very few people who had it. I saw my mother look at me from the corner of her eye. In church I sat really far from my parents, people won't know we were related because I never spoke to them. I knew she would have something to say after the service.

"You see, very few of them have it with them, how are the rest going to jot this wisdom God is passing through me?" he shouted over the microphone.

Wisdom indeed.

I still don't understand why some pastors or preachers loved to shout and raise their voices even when they had a microphone in their hands.

The pastor kept shouting and raving about the things of God and youths turning away from godly things. He probably thought the congregation was deaf with the way he was shouting. I felt really bad for those that sat close to the speakers. If my church had a suggestion box, maybe I'll secretly drop a note there, telling them to switch off the microphone whenever the preacher starts going berserk on the microphone.

Finally the torture was over, people were in small groups talking about only God knows what. I made my way to the car, my parents were very inconsiderate, after a long service, they would wait behind to chat with almost everyone. My mom was the worst, she could spend all day talking about very irrelevant things, forgetting she had children waiting for her.

The parking lot was littered with running kids who surrounded a man who sold ice cream.

I unlocked the car and got inside before anyone saw me and began to ask me questions about university.

Staying in the car was a really bad decision because it was a sunny day and my parents would go crazy if I put on the AC while I waited for them.

In the rearview mirror, I saw Amaka running after the youth pastor. She was hypocritical because she judged people for the same thing she did, she was smart because she managed to deceive everyone around her, to think she was this holy Christian sister, the kind that always said they would keep their virginity till marriage.

I can't make out what she and the pastor are saying but I see her kneel down and then the pastor laid his hands on her head in prayer. Amaka deserved an Oscar!

"So you couldn't wait a little after the service ehn?" my mother asked as she opened the car.

I didn't even see her coming.

I don't reply and stare outside the window.

My dad came in, started the car and drove off. I was expecting them to start scolding me for not bringing a jotter or Bible immediately.

"In fact today's service was wonderful, I felt God's presence move" my mother said to my father.

I felt it coming very soon, the scolding part.

"Did you see that your daughter didn't carry a jotter to write what the pastor had to say or even a Bible?" my father replied to her, his eyes focused on the road.

"I was so ashamed of her" my mother said, raising her voice slightly "When the pastor said they should raise their things up, all my friends' children took theirs up but my own daughter had nothing, the only she cares about is that stupid phone"

She was right, the only thing I cared about was my phone because my phone didn’t have the ability to nag like my parents.

"Did you see Amaka had a jotter and Bible?" my mother continued.

I disliked my parents for this, the comparison. If I compared them to other parents and talked about all the nice stuff other parents can provide for their kids, I wonder how that would make them feel.

"That girl is such a role model, very obedient and diligent"

They continued to talk between themselves.

I plugged in my earphones as usual. My parents should really be grateful, if they knew what these people they kept comparing me to did, they would see I was really a good child.