Weapons of Warfare

A story by ADEOLA AREGBESOLA

After JAMAICA KINCAID

Let them say you have chosen to become a pagan like your mother because pagan means Parishioners-Are-Going-Against-Normal; the sheepish smiles, subtle coughs, and other tactics you learnt from your sisters-in-the-Lord are as good as weeding a farmland with blade; men will always test your boundaries but don’t panic; although you may have to smile in pretense sometimes because you only weigh 52 kg and have no combat skills; henceforth, mix pepper and lemon juice in a perfume bottle not because it is necessary but rather precautionary; pick a nice floral gown for Sunday; wake up early and get to church before your choir leader; make sure you take the black Bible that Granny gifted you; immediately you get to the choir row, kneel and kiss the seat even if you aren’t praying; get up and sit properly as I taught you to— thighs clasped, dress tucked underneath them; is it soprano you sing in the choir?; don’t ask any questions during Sunday School; I know you pride yourself as the only one who is still full of Bible knowledge amongst your childhood friends; maintain eye contact with the teacher but don’t ask questions as you’re fond of doing— the members will notice your silence and wonder what is wrong; ask the choirmaster to permit you to sing soprano this Sunday so you can sit at the front pew, that way, you can watch the preacher’s every move; try to sing as poorly as you can each time you handle the mic; but my voice isn’t high-pitched and I feel like this drama is unnecessary— for the weapons of our warfare are not carnal; I know you’re hell-bent on being a pious people-pleaser but that won’t get you results; now, this is how to reclaim your dignity in the house of the Lord— not with fists but with wit; send a nasty text to the Preacher’s wife at the exact moment the Preacher screams, “Confuse your enemy” and the congregation choruses, “Die by fire!”; this is how to send a nasty message to your pastor’s wife: 

Dear Mrs. X,

I salute you, our Mother-in-Israel, as you are about to become a mother of many nations. I am carrying Reverend Silas’ child. May the Lord bless the reading of this word in your heart. Amen.

Love,

Sis Sabrina

Watch her face turn pale as she screams in the Holy Ghost; give her your most wicked smirk, like an ogbanje about to leave it’s mother; this is how to smile like an ogbanje; but Mum, I am not pregnant; I don’t want to ruin their lovely family; I see you are hell-bent on being stupid— not on my watch!; what if his wife isn’t with her phone? Haven’t you read it in the scriptures, “He maketh all things beautiful in His time”?; watch it! Her face will turn pale; this is how you know that those spider-like green veins on her face are from the cheap bleaching creams I warned you about; this is how you know that she already suspected the preacher of something; when people are going to greet the Preacher after service, walk straight up to him and whisper loud enough for others to hear, “Your wife knows”; walk away gallantly; sway your hips to the left and right; drop a donation in the wooden box beside the church’s entrance; take one last look at the building and exhale because you will never go there again; walk away quickly because he will try to call you back; if he chases you and everyone gathers, tell them exactly how he tried to rape you, two Sundays ago, when you went to remit the choir’s donation for the leaking roof; Reverend Silas only caressed my lap, Mum; Listen! That they tell you your body is the temple of the Lord doesn’t give the Reverend a chance to enter your “Holy of Holies”; this is how to get him before he spreads lies about you— that you were the one who spread your lap open for him to see; this is how to avoid being labeled a whore by the Lord’s people; but like the people-pleaser you’re hell-bent on becoming, you might run back and apologise to Reverend Silas and his wife, and not follow my instructions; remember, this is how my mother, your granny, fought against men who thought they could get away with unruliness; this is how I, your mother, am still fighting inappropriate doctors at the community clinic where I work;  if this doesn’t work and the church people take sides with him, don’t give up; there are other ways to handle such men; you might walk home with an aching heart but rest easy, we will fight this pervert in preacher’s skin together; but Mum, if a man’s ways please the Lord, He maketh him to be at peace with his enemies; moreover, the Lord preparest a table before me, in the presence of my enemies; Chai! What Lord?; at least we both agree who the enemy is in this warfare.