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- Story Listed as: True Life For Adults
- Theme: Love stories / Romance
- Subject: Friends / Friendship
- Published: 01/10/2021
No longer married to Jesus
Born 1995, M, from Enugu, Nigeria.jpeg)
'Why do you want to renounce priesthood?'
Once again feel your skin crawl, the overwhelming beats of your heart like something being sawed into halves, the coursing of emotions through your veins.
Once again try looking into the man's face, the uneven contours of his mouth on which a weird moustache sits, his nose, those big eyes frequently jumping up and down in their sockets, try imagining your hands on them, helping him rearrange those corners like a twisted rope. God must have been callous with his hands while trying to fashion him or with sleepy eyes, a thought breezes past the edges of your mind, leaving you to stifle a chuckle. Perhaps God was clueless enough not to know that one day this being sitting directly opposite you would grow into a man of such repute, a man who would one day stand before His flock and lead them to the promise land. And he wasn't going to do that with a disfigured visage, one not as a result of any accident but occasional frowning and pent-up anger.
Once again allow your clammy fingers to clasp tightly around your plain, white vestment, and try to steady your trembling kneels and fail woefully at it, as your mind wanders off, momentarily groping amidst the darkness, searching for your previous response, maybe a new one, something to say to sound more convincing, to unknot the tension in your chest; still trying not to sound, at the very least, surly.
'Your Lordship, I don't want to sound rude, but I have never been myself the moment I took the sacred vows of celibacy. I don't think I can continue deceiving myself, pretending to be someone I am not.
'Ok, ok. Hold it there! I think I understand your problem. You're missing your parents, right? Let me tell you a short story....You know I felt the same way the day I was ordained a priest—guess that was 1985. I was posted to Kano, I mean the outskirts. I cried that night, and I remember telling my mother of blessed memory, over the phone, that I missed her and everyone at Nsukka. That day, I amoslt left the parish house, but thank God I didn't. She convinced me not to. Else, I wouldn't be your Bishop today. Don't worry, with time, you would get used to Enugu. After all Enugu is where your parents came from. This is your home,' Bishop Nwafor Okezie utters, his mouth curving in a smirk. He's stopped toying with the frayed edges of his moustache. Now, he's plucking out the almost protruding hairs clustered in his nose, and dusting them off on his thick red vestment. Again you're irritated. Not just by this act of his, but the fact that he thinks you're lonely, even though you clearly are, and worst of all that you have a problem.
'Your Lordship, that's not the case here. I'm not missing my parents. All I'm saying is that I am...' your voice trails off, the minute a call is wired in. He doesn't say excuse. Picks up the phone from the shiny table flooded with an array of things—books of different thickness, fat files, a statue of Mary and her baby Jesus, rosary beads lying lazily. Instantly you know what it means. End of discussion! There's no way that call would end early enough for you to hold your patience from exploding, except the caller on the other end decides he's had enough already or the sweet female recorded voice decides to put an end to it, with her usual sorry you cannot complete this call, please, recharge as soon as possible... Still neither of them is forthcoming since Bishop Nwafor sure knows how to flaunt his laughter in a loud but irritatingly enchanting way.
Sadly, you know what you've to do. Just behind you is the door, the same brown, steel door your feet had carried you in through. You would dust yourself to your feet, your face punctuated with a frown as your thank-you-Your-Lordship falls on deaf ears, all the while muting the urge to hiss and perhaps call Bishop Nwafor a big fat goat. Then, you would turn around to take your leave.
Seriously, dismissed just like that? You were expecting him to have at least tried to inquire the reason for this sudden change of mind, barely two weeks after your ordination. And maybe putting an end to your long-overdue suffering by just endorsing your renunciation of the celibate life.
Aside the fact that It was a herculean task trying to make up your mind the previous night, making a mental picture of what to say immediately you arrived the Bishop's house. Aside the fact that you had estimated a 1 hour drive from Trans-ekulu to Nsukka, given that you maintained a consistent speed of 50 Km per hour; but the many potholes made the journey more than an hour and more frustrating. Even as you walk down a dim-lit hall, which leads out of the mansion, away from a small gathering of people, majorly the Catholic Women in their white blouse fluffy around the arms and blue wrappers affixed with their logo, flanking around a young man probably your age, a newly ordained parish priest; and everyone calling the priest's mother Mama Fada, a woman perhaps same age as your mother.
Even now as you walk away from that aura of jubilation and excessive laughter, to where your car sits astride two trees; even as you genuflect before the beautiful grotto of Our lady slightly beside your car, you know your mind is made up. You know you've worn this grief far too long, even the Lord himself knows. Of all the things you know, there's one that's crystal clear—you're no longer married to Jesus.
When you get home, the parish house at St Mary's, that evening, you would ring your parents up at Lagos, to inform them of your decision. Out of the love and respect you still have for them. Mama would pick up and to your surprise she wouldn't let you to drink water and keep the cup in one piece, wouldn't let you take the stairs, straight into your room to blow off steam, before she starts to scream into the phone, loud enough to pierce your ear drums. Then she would start to cry, making it sound so theatrical.
'Mama, I'm sorry you have to see it this way, but I have to leave the priesthood. I can't continue to deceive myself and the flock of Christ placed under my watch. I can't continue to pretend to be someone I am not.' quickly you would say, to kill her words which sound like noise in your ears.
'What rubbish are you saying, Obinna? Gini ki na su?' Her words would sting your ears, yet you are used to her unnecessary rantings.
'Mummy...' you would try to keep her calm, but she wouldn't. Her anger cannot be contained.
'Let me finish. After your father and I did all we can to give you the best life, this is how you pay us? It's that boy, right? I know it's him. You're throwing your calling away because of...' She keeps yelling until her credit gets exhausted.
You know she knows. Bishop, who has been a close friend, the spiritual director of your family, has informed her already. But her knowing does not in any way alleviate the situation, the pain and sorrow enrobed around you since no sooner her call ended than your father's wires in.
But Papa's voice is mildly masculine. He knows the right questions to ask, even the meaningless ones, even though he doesn't want to.
'Obinna!' he calls and you respond like call and response in music,
'Obinna!'
'Obinna!'
'Yes Dad!'
'How many times did I call you?'
'Three times sir!'
'Do you love God?'
'Yes, I do,' you wear your flustered face like a cloth.
'Do you love your mother and me?' This time he clears his throat before inquiring again.
'I do, sir. I love you and Mama.'
For the first time Papa asks if you love him. Izuchukwu. You say yes. And why you love him so much to the point that after many years ago when the two of you (still children) were caught kissing (your first kiss) behind the church, at the toilet, after mass, you still couldn't let go of the memories: his face, that radiate smile of his, the warm feel of his hands over your body.
He wants to know why after twenty-five years you haven't forgotten him, twenty-five years of being forced and left alone within the walls of the seminary, like a bird kept in a cage, and having to deal everyday with the boys who called you a faggot, taunted you for wearing your light-skin with such reckless abandon, your gait like a lady's, and for being less-sinewed to be categorized as a boy. Still some of these boys would come to you, harassing you for sex, and no body believed even if you told your story. Twenty-five years of you trying so hard not to be someone else, someone likeable, yet failing at it. Twenty-five years being separated from Izuchukwu felt like the end of the world for you, if not the end. It felt like being trapped in a pot of boiling water, feeling your skin scald again and again.
It was never your choice to become a priest, never did the womb of your mind, for a second, conceive the idea. You had always wanted to become an Engineer—an ambitious dream you and Izuchukwu had shared. But one day, one unfateful evening, Papa came home for work and decided it was best for you to let go of that dream to become a priest. A decision Mama had talked him into taking the previous night in their room. Like that you were sold to SS Peter and Paul, Bodija, Ibadan. Out of Ikeja, where you grew up along side Izuchukwu, slightly out of the hands of Lagos State but not completely; for your parents only chose to allow you to come whenever it was easter or christmas, most of the other holidays you spent at your aunt's house. They wouldn't want you to come since Izuchukwu attended secondary school in Lagos. Even those times you returned for either easter or christmas, you still felt like a prisoner. They never allowed you to go out to see him. Neither did his parents. Not after that kiss.
A day before Izuchukwu left for the University since he had gained admission to study Mechanical engineering, that evening he came to your place to inform you that he was leaving but you were at your aunt's place at Bodija, Ibadan, and Mama never showed you the letter he left you.
'What are you doing here, this boy?' she yapped, her anger sitting, mostly askew at the corners of her mouth.
'Good evening, mummy! I'm here to check if Obinna is around.'
'Ehe... what is it? He's not around! Anything?' she eyes him, then, tilts her head to the east.
'Sorry, ma. I wanted to inform him that I have gained admission and would be going to the University of Benin tomorrow. Please ma, I would really appreciate it if this letter gets across to him.' She grunted a few words angrily in reply, collected the letter from his shaky hands, and banged the door at him. She ensured there was no sign of him around the house, before tearing open the brown envelope to retrieve the piece of paper. Still at the kitchen, her face squeezed furiously as she read it's content, then she tore it starting from top to bottom, tossing the shards into the dustbin beside her feet.
At last, fate had decided to occasion your meeting with him again, after such a long time. It was one week after you were posted to Enugu to serve as an assistant parish priest helping Father Gabriel the main parish priest, and you met him. He knocked on the door of the parish house, after waiting long enough for the crowd who had come around to greet you to scatter. It was your first Sunday with the parishioners of St Mary's, and your first mass.
You did not ask the usual who's it as you strolled towards the door. Guess you suspected it was one of those Catholic Women who wanted to say Fada welcome! Welcome! in a bid to see what was in Fada's big house, or the choir girls who wouldn't just keep their eyes off you during mass, you noticed, staring intently as if their eyes could undress you, could see the tiny thing dangling in-between your thighs. Especially one of them, Nnoye, who had been around a while ago, unable to control her short legs and hands, going around and touching different things, mostly artworks and a few images of Mother Mary and Jesus and the statues of the Saints. She kept asking father what is this, father what is that, in a way that even a blind person could read the disgust plastered on your face, the-please-you've-overstayed-your-welcome-time-to-leave. Yet not her. The moment you told her you were tired, and that you needed to take a nap, she felt betrayed, sad, and decided to leave, insisting she would come over during the evening.
Shock fell over you the moment you opened and held on to the door. For that brief instance the both of you gazed into the others eyes. You would want to move but an invisible force held strongly to your legs. Your eyes scoured him as did his, as though the two of you were looking for a missing piece. He wore a tight red polo shirt on dark trousers, which hugged the muscles of his hands and legs. Is this the Izu I used to know? Jeez... see how tall he is... you wonder. Deeply. He saw the sprinkles of dark, curly hairs on your chest and legs, the ones your sleeves shirt and shorts failed to conceal. He was surprised. They were not there while growing up. And he used to tease you a lot, about how dry and scanty your body was at sixteen, almost devoid of hairs, especially when he touched your chest.
Finally, the wall of silence was shattered immediately he stepped forward, away from the iron rail on which both hands were rested. He drew closer, closer enough for you to fling yourself slightly backwards, almost tripping off on a step, as though you had seen a ghost. And he caught you, his strong arms wrapped around your slender and curvy waist, while shutting the door with his long leg. Your whole body burnt with unquenchable flames of passion.
Definitely you anticipated a kiss when he bent low, but became disappointed when he retrieved a piece of paper from the floor and slides it unto your palm. You allowed your disappointment to hang around you just as the beautiful perfumed smell oozing off him, long after he had walked past you without saying a word, down a lit hallway, straight into your living room, slouching into the couch.
Soon you braced yourself up and walked to the living room, where you inquired a lot about him, why he left, and all that.
'Tea or Juice or coffee?' you ask with a raise of hand.
'Small Stout would do!' he smiles. That same smile, once childlike, but now strenghted by age and time; nevertheless, charming as always.
You smile in return. 'I don't do alcohol. You know that. Don't you?'
'Guess I should...' he rises softly and begins to walk around in no particular order, his fingers lazily caressing the wall behind you. He stops next to you. And you pause for breath, as though your heart had stopped beating. Suddenly his arms wield tightly around you, his eyes narrowed intently on the papaya colour of your face, the agitated tremor at the corners of your betraying mouth. Glancing up at him, your lips parted, this time trying to convey your refusal, to tell him you're not cheap, only to find your vision blocked as he bent his dark head and his lips came down on your half open ones. The kiss wasn't done in a hurry like the first time. With childlike innocence. You could feel his breath coming warmly, blending with yours, stirring in you a flood of longing such as you had never experienced before. Moaning softly your questions into his ears. Why did you have to leave me, Izu? Why did you leave me? Why did you go away? In a bid to push him away, he holds you tightly.
'I'm sorry, I should have called you. I told your mother before leaving for the University. Truly, I did. I also sent her a letter.'
'What letter?' I never received anything! you pulled gently away from his embrace. In surprise. He was also stunned. Then the both of you took your seats. He talked about handing over a letter to your mother. You became angry. sad. broken. He told you to forgive, to let go as though you were Jesus Christ. When you asked him what he was doing around the parish, scouring his fingers to see if there was a ring, silently praying he was not married, he said he just came around to attend mass. That he came home last week to celebrate Christmas with his parents and siblings. He revealed that he was a Mechanical Engineer, working in Abuja where he lived. A revelation that brought a sadness mingled in tears to your eyes.
'I'm sorry, Obinna. I shouldn't have said that. Please, forgive me,' he apologized.
'Don't say that, Izu. You didn't do anything. I was just getting emotional.'
Once again, Papa clears his throat, cutting you shut, as you try to find the right words in the vocabulary of your mind to explain the reason for this love, this love that has sojourned on despite the opposition. Not even distance could stand a chance. And he says a few words, not a long speech. 'I know you're a man now, an adult. So you know what is good and bad. With that said, you are free to live your life, my son.' Then he hangs the call even before you find your breath and say the words thank you, Papa.
When you look back, surely you know a year has gone by, a year of deciding to quit convincing your mother that gays are also beings created by God, God's own children, wrapped in His love and kindness since she would never come to terms with this reality. A year had slithered like a snake since that day you decided to give up celibacy, to stop being married to Jesus.
Even now as you and Izu hold hands together, walking down the Fleet street of London (where you are studying to get a degree in Aeronautical Engineering) pausing at every junction to take selfies, to kiss, to run around and back into each others embrace, like the time you were kids, the both of you are certain you're ready to begin this journey, pushing the wheels of love as long as the earth remains.
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