I Missed Family Devotion (?)

I.

I was reading a book, Nikki May’s This Motherless Land, when Mother said to me, ‘Go and call your siblings. It’s time to pray.’

I pick up my phone from beside me to check the time: 9:33 p.m. I went into the first room to call my older brother, and I met him asleep. I went to the parlour to inform Mother that he was asleep. ‘Wake am! He no dey sleep,’ she said. I went back in, slightly shaking his legs until he opened his bloodshot eyes and looked at me. 

‘Mummy said you should come out. We’re about to pray,’ I told him and walked out. Mother was sitting on the longest couch in the parlour. I passed and entered the other room, informing my older sister who was pressing her phone that we’re about to pray and she should come out, and finally, my parents’ bedroom, where Dad was sleeping. 

I shook his legs and he looked at me. ‘Daddy, mummy said you should come out, let’s pray.’ OK, he said and began coming out of the bed. I went to the balcony where my twin brother was. ‘Oya, you come inside. You will not say that you did not hear mummy singing.’

Having done a good job, I went to sit down in the parlour, placing my phone and the book I was reading on the table. Mother had started singing an Igbo song, and we all joined in. 

II.

That morning, the whole house was wide awake. I didn’t sleep the previous night. I was busy scrolling mindlessly on TikTok before Airtel warned me that I have 500MB left. If God is done judging Satan on the day of judgement, he should judge Airtel company next; those people are thieves. 

After that notification, I dropped my phone and stared in the dark. There was light, and in the distance, I could hear water pumping into the tank. While I was still in Benin City for school, I began reading Pat Conroy’s Beach Music and I was determined to finish. I couldn’t remember when I began reading it, but when I looked at how I’ve come, I discovered I’d read up to 500 pages. I felt proud, and was determined to finish it that night. 

I turned on my reading light, and picked up the book from where I left it and began reading. I read it until the last page, page 628. I heaved a sigh and checked the time: 4:43 a.m. 

I slept and was woken up by noises: My younger siblings and their chaotic-ness. Shouting and stamping of feet and shouting. I headed to their bathroom: ‘Shut up! All of you shut up!’

As if on cue, we heard from downstairs, ‘Family! Faaaaamillllyyyy!’

That was Mother! Mother was back from the village with her husband. 

III.

Bags of rice, garri, corn flour, oranges the colours of green and yellow (funny how the green ones were sweeter than the yellow ones), ogbono seeds, lots and lots of ripe plantains. 

Every year, Mother goes to her village where she has a cassava and rice farm. She harvests her cassava and employs people to cut, boil, pound, and fry them. That’s what becomes garri. Same with her rice: She takes them to the local mill house where it’s shelled out of its pods. 

I saw her and her husband, looking dark and tired. ‘Why the two of una black? Una go village go suffer?’ I asked them and everyone laughed. 

My twin brother and I were tasked with bringing these products upstairs. After carrying three bags of rice upstairs, my body was shaking and my heart was beating fast. 

Older sister was in the kitchen frying plantains. They were very ripe and sweet. I ate lots of them and drank water. 

IV.

By afternoon, Mother said she wanted to eat rice, and I should help her cook it. I diced onions and blended fresh peppers, opening tiny small packets of spices. 

I poured a mixture of red oil and vegetable oil before pouring the diced onions. I added crayfish and stirred. I poured in spices and blended peppers and stirred. I did not add anything because I wanted Mother to have a taste of the kind of rice I cook in school. After two minutes, I poured in the already washed rice after I’ve added seasoning cubes and enough salt to taste. 

Turns out the food was peppery and OK. Mother had never told me I cook very nicely, and I never sought praise. Luckily, my older sister kept some of the fried plantain in a cooler, and I ate them with the rice, standing in the kitchen as I made whooshing sounds to cool the peppery sting on my tongue.

I sat in the parlour and looked at my stack of books. Reading Pat Conroy was a lot of work, and I wanted to read something Nigerian. This Motherless Land came to mind. I was on page 13 when I fell asleep. 

V.

Mother was singing another worship song and we all joined her to sing: 

Idi mma, idi ukwu

O Chineke 

Idi mma, idi ukwu

Mma gi zuro oke

After the songs, her husband said the prayers. 

‘Our Father in heaven, we want to thank you for everything. For your goodness, for your kindness, for your faithfulness. Father, we say thank you this evening.’

‘Amen!’ we chorused.

‘We want to thank for a safe journey all the way from the East—’

‘Daddy, thank you,’ Mother chipped in.

‘—down to Lagos. We did not encounter any accident on the road. Even when a problem raised itself, you O Lord, provided a solution. Be thou exalted in Jesus’ name!’

‘Amen!’

‘We want to thank you, O Lord, on behalf of Chidalu. You took him to school and brought him back safely. Eight months, Papa, I did not see this boy, but you kept him, you saw him through, and today, he’s here looking healthy, even though he complains that he doesn’t always see food to eat.’

There was a little chuckle. As Mother’s husband rendered prayers, I opened my eyes, but I stared into nothing. Morning and night devotion was a thing in this house, and you cannot for any reason miss it. Every morning, Mother would wake everyone in the house, using her large rough palms to slap your face if you’re unresponsive. She had a very stubborn set of boys who were either reading a book or playing PS3 in the early hours of the morning until six. 

When I was leaving home, I was happy that I wouldn’t be woken up with Igbo worship songs and slaps if you’re caught sleeping, and worse if you’re asked to pray. Mother might say your prayer is not long enough and would ask that you pray again. Night devotion was something else: She would ask everyone to stand up and hold hands together in agreement. She would raise a prayer point and request that we pray. ‘Louder,’ she would say. ‘Oga, why you no dey pray? If you no pray loud, I no go stop o.’

It’s been more than eight months, and I’m back to this. I didn’t know how to feel, if I still liked or resented it. I rarely prayed, in fact, I don’t pray at all, except when I attend my campus fellowship every Sunday, until I stopped going entirely. 

Mother doesn’t know that I stopped going to church, and whenever she asked, I would tell her that church service was fine. Now, I’m back to morning and night devotion, attending church on Sunday, returning to going for choir rehearsals, and other church related activities. 

‘As we’re about to sleep, we cover ourselves with the blood of Jesus.’

‘Blood of Jesus!’

‘Keep us. Guide us. Protect us. May your name be glorified and magnified. For in Jesus’ mighty name we have prayed.’ 

Amen,’ everyone said. 

‘Let’s share the grace. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, the love of God, and the sweet fellowship of the Holy Spirit…’

At this point, I missed everything: My space, my time, my thoughts, my everything. I missed being away from home. I thought I wouldn’t be able to survive, but it felt like I’ve come to love being alone, being on my own.

I can’t wait to go back to school. It’s not enjoyable being here.