BENEATH THE WHITE OF A FIRSTBORN: UNSEEN, UNHELD, TOO MUCH AND NOT ENOUGH

Chapter Eleven: Altar Service - Another Burden

Two weeks passed like a slow-burning candle—silent, consuming, and almost invisible until you looked closely. The routine had settled into my skin like sweat, and yet, I still didn’t feel like I belonged. I woke. I studied. I marched. I sat with others. I nodded. I smiled when necessary. But it was all surface. Beneath, I remained as I had been in Room Seventeen on that first day—quiet, observant, and weightless in the wrong way.

It was during one of our MOD afternoon drills, under the shadow of the mango trees behind the refectory, that Maryanne leaned close and asked, “Khione, you ever think of joining the altar servers?”

Her question stunned me—not because of what she said, but because of the sudden silence it dropped into my mind. The answer should have been obvious. I was a devout Catholic. I had served in my parish since I was twelve. But here, in this place, where everything already felt heavy, I hadn't even thought of it.

“I haven’t,” I said after a moment. “Why?”

She shrugged, her ponytail swinging slightly. “They’re short of senior girls. Sister Benedicta was even asking around yesterday. I mentioned your name.”

Of course she had. Maryanne meant well. Always did. But I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to add another layer of responsibility to a life already stitched with burdens. MOD training alone stretched my muscles and patience, and nursing school was no gentle tide either. Add altar service? That meant waking earlier on Sundays, attending rehearsals, and learning the rhythm of the school chapel’s sacred expectations.

Still, the thought refused to leave me.

Later that night, back in Room Seventeen, I sat on my bed with my diary in my lap, flipping through blank pages. I hadn’t written in days. I wanted to. But the words refused to come unless I dug deep, and some parts of me were just too tired to bleed again. The moonlight spilled in through the window, soft and silver, and I found myself wondering if God saw me better than people did.

Would He see me if I served at His altar?

The next morning, after lectures and lunch, I walked to the chapel office, my steps steady, even as uncertainty gnawed at me. The small corridor smelled like polished wood and incense. I knocked on Sister Benedicta’s door and waited.

“Come in,” came her soft, musical voice.

She looked up from her desk, glasses low on her nose. “Yes?”

“I’m here to join the altar service, Sister.”

She smiled slowly, like the sun rising behind a cloud. “Maryanne told me about you. Sit down.”

I did.

She asked about my previous altar experience, my parish background, whether I was baptized and confirmed. I answered everything with quiet confidence. It felt like handing over small pieces of myself—ones I’d almost forgotten I carried. She nodded, satisfied.

“You’ll begin this Sunday,” she said, writing my name into the register. “Training starts Friday evening. Don’t be late.”

And that was how it began.

Another burden? Perhaps. But part of me hoped it would become something else—a tether. Something sacred to hold onto in a place where I constantly felt like I was slipping.

---

Sunday came quickly.

I stood in front of the mirror in Room Seventeen, tying my black scarf neatly over my head. The altar robe was still stiff with starch, fresh from the school laundry, and the lace gloves felt unfamiliar on my fingers. Ogechi poked her head in, whistling. “You look like a nun about to fight demons.”

I laughed, a short breathy sound. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Come on. We’ll be late.”

The chapel was already humming when we arrived. Bells rang faintly, the choir whispered final rehearsals, and the scent of frankincense hung thick in the air. I found my place at the side aisle, next to Maryanne and another girl named Amaka. Sister Benedicta gave me a brief nod, and mass began.

It was nothing like home.

Everything felt stricter, more choreographed. I had to watch Maryanne closely to mimic the gestures—the bows, the steps, the way she placed the candle. But my body remembered. Slowly, my hands found rhythm, my steps remembered reverence. I felt... useful.

After the benediction, Sister Benedicta pulled me aside. “You did well for a first time. You’ll adapt fully soon.”

I nodded, unsure how to answer. But deep inside, something had cracked open. Not joy, not pride—just space. Space for stillness. Space to matter.

---

Weeks passed, and the service became part of me. My Sunday mornings now began before dawn, and by the time most girls were just waking, I was already at the chapel, robed and ready. It was exhausting, but strangely grounding.

And yet, even with this new addition to my life, I remained an outsider in many ways.

I noticed it more in the little things—how some girls whispered and paused when I entered a room, how laughter shifted tone when I walked past, how eyes sometimes followed the shape of my body instead of my name. I’d learned to ignore it in secondary school, but here, the gaze felt heavier. Because here, I was not just Khione—I was Khione Nwankwo, the girl related to the school director. The one who lived alone. The one who always walked with her spine too straight, who never truly laughed unless Ogechi cracked a joke sharp enough to make me forget I was being watched.

Even in the MOD group, where I trained side by side with other girls, sweat staining our uniforms, I felt the space between us. Ada was warm and talkative. Maryanne, too. But there were still moments I stood beside them and felt like I was only echoing their light. Never my own.

Chuka was there now. Not just in passing, but there.

He had become a quiet presence in our circle. Ogechi had introduced him more formally during one of our MOD briefings. He wasn’t as loud as some of the other male officers. But when he moved, you noticed. Not because he tried, but because he didn’t. Calm, observant. The kind of boy who watched a room without needing to command it.

Our eyes met sometimes—brief, flickering exchanges during drills or meetings. He nodded. I nodded back. Nothing more.

But I noticed.

One Saturday morning, after our MOD jog around the field, I lingered near the water dispenser. My shirt clung to my skin, and my legs ached from the drills. Chuka walked over, refilling his bottle. Then, without looking at me, he said, “You’re always quiet. But you train harder than half the squad.”

I turned to him, blinking. “Is that a compliment?”

He smirked, just a little. “Maybe.”

I didn’t know how to respond. So I nodded. “Thank you.”

That was all. He walked away. But the words stayed.

---

That night, I sat by the window in Room Seventeen, looking out into the dark. The moon was only a sliver this time. Thin. Like me—stretching, trying to become whole again. I thought of the altar, of the drills, of the girls who called me friend and the ones who didn't. I thought of Chuka's words.

And I wondered: Was I still unseen? Or was I simply not looking at myself properly?

Some burdens don’t announce themselves as weight. Some come disguised as purpose.

I wasn’t sure what the altar service would become to me. But for now, it was something I could do with intention. A thing I chose—not because anyone forced me, but because maybe, just maybe, it could anchor me.

Maybe, just maybe, I could hold all my identities at once—the quiet girl, the altar servant, the MOD cadet, the nursing student—and still be whole.