New York, My Village

by Uwem Akpan

  My face dropped as all the attention strangled me. I studied my jeans and sweatshirt.

  “Though we always give to the needy,” the priest had continued, “Muslims, Hindus, pagans, you name it, during that war the Igbos or Biafrans were eighty percent Catholic. Their Muslim compatriots slaughtered them for believing in the Mystery of the Trinity, the supreme model of diversity, and in the Communion of Saints. In the mere three years of its existence, Biafra, also known as Igboland, was already the most peaceful and homogeneous and educated and democratic nation in Africa. Their enemies fought a religious war within a war, a jihad against our august guests.

  “My dear parishioners, as many of you know, I also have a huge personal and emotional reason for learning these details, something I’ll explain to our guests in our sacristy reception after Mass. I feel very close to Biafra because my grandfather’s cousin, from the Liberties in Dublin in Ireland, a missionary, is buried in a church cemetery in Onitcalasha in Biafra, thanks to malaria …”

  “Onitsha, Onitsha!” we shouted gleefully, like I had corrected the Biafran waiter.

  “Thanks, sorry, Onitsha!” Father corrected himself, bowing to us. “Next year, many of us from my extended family in the U.S. and Ireland and Australia are making a pilgrimage to his grave and to nearby churches, to enjoy the beautiful African liturgical dances. We want to experience their Thanksgiving Masses—nothing to do with eating turkey but celebrating and thanking the Lord! We want to be in that throng, dancing, yodeling, marching toward the altar. Nobody does Roman Catholicism like these Biafrans!”

  HE COMPLAINED, though, that what really galled even the Most High was the fact that we Biafrans were trying too hard to be called Jews—despite all the Catholic Church did for us before, during, and after the war, and all the Irish priests and nuns who lost their lives gifting us the faith. “Why do they think joining the religion of those who killed Jesus would endear them to the world?” he said. “Why do they think dressing in Orthodox Jewish attire is more spiritual than the habits our Irish monks and nuns brought them? To be fair, perhaps, these Biafrans have developed these complicated needs because of all they suffered. But, after all said and done, these Biafrans—the best and the brightest of their continent—are still so oppressed their governors are elected by other tribes. If they plan to build hospitals, they receive death threats. They can’t even fix school roofs, pay salaries, clear garbage in their counties. They’ll be killed if they don’t embezzle the money and share with the chieftains of these spiteful tribes …”

  As the church boiled with anger, Usen wanted to charge up to the altar to let Father Orrin know that “k’enye atuum ewio and bullshit and nnisime” because we were neither Biafrans nor Igbos. “And who fed him this pap about Biafran politicians being better than everyone else?” he fumed. The wife begged him in Annang to take a cue from Tuesday, who did not react. Tuesday begged for patience, promising to correct the priest later. He said his only spin in the sacristy was saying we chose to be here because New Jersey churches were some of the greatest donors to our country, to win more people to our side in case Father asked them to vote to decide whether we stayed or not.

  “You need the patience of an elephant to correct war history,” Tuesday whispered. “As they say, the centipede might have a hundred legs, but he cannot outrun a human being. Look, Americans can’t handle your entire history and diversity in one lump. They don’t even know where Nigeria is—just as you never knew much about Americans before you came, right? So no need to look down on us!”

  Ujai said it was really important that Father Orrin say both in the bulletin and in church that only very evil dogs were killed in Ikot Ituno-Ekanem, not people. Tuesday said she was right. “Girl, why don’t you just shut up like a good Ikot Ituno-Ekanem kid while adults sort out this mess?” Usen scolded her. I grabbed her hand, explaining that Daddy was upset, but he insisted she was being disrespectful.

  “Maybe we should leave?” Ofonime said. “Now that Father Orrin has introduced us as Jews or fake Jews, insisting we killed Christ, how safe are we?”

  “We’ll set things right in the sacristy,” Tuesday said, touching the couple. But, like me, Usen said he was not going to receive Communion while Ofonime and Ujai said they would. Ofonime also added that, well, to educate these Catholics, the Vatican would have to buy spots on Fox News and Rush Limbaugh radio.

  FATHER ORRIN WAS a better homilist than Father Kiobel, which meant he was really good. Toward the end, he caught everyone by surprise by asking the children to stand up. He said pointedly, “Our eternal homework is to love our complex world, befriending people of all colors and orientations.” They stood up and repeated this after him like in a catechism class. Tuesday was very proud of his church. We all poured our hearts into the comfort of the priest’s familiar chanting of the Fourth Eucharist Prayer, and then Usen and I watched others receive Communion.

  After Mass, many welcomed us outside with selfies as if we had just arrived. The old people were emotional about the memories of our war. But when we tried to say we were not Biafrans, they became very confused, as though they had sent the relief stuff to the wrong place. So we gave up and thanked them for everything and told them some family stories of how their charity and novenas kept us alive. They thanked us and condemned the “needless squabble over seats.” And, for the first time, I felt they had finally received me like the rest. When I revealed I was not African American, everyone laughed nervously, bemoaning the folly of prejudice and discrimination. More people joined our group, because we were loud and fun.

  Usen apologized for the f-word.

  “Oh no, a more appropriate f-word usage and timing and place would be hard to find!” someone joked.

  “And if you didn’t make a scene, none of us would’ve suspected the ushers were harassing you under God’s very nose,” another said.

  “Look, we’ve already told Father Orrin there’ll be a complaint made to Bishop Salomone about his comments on Judaism,” someone said. “The bishop can’t tolerate this shit. He is conscious of social issues.”

  “We look forward to seeing you next Sunday,” Mary hollered, rolling in and shaking hands with us. When Tuesday said he always loved her laugh and praised her role in the sacristy, she laughed even more. She revealed she herself had told Father Orrin on my arrival—having watched him snub me continually—that he must allow me to stay for Mass.

  We could not join them in the basement for refreshments because of our sacristy reception. A man brought us coffee in Styrofoam cups. A lady took orange juice and pastries to Ujai and a bunch of kids in the field. They were noisily playing among the Stations and admiring her outfit.

  I texted Molly our change of fortunes.

  No reply.

  CHAPTER 17

  My son is playing with you

  CLIMBING THE STEEP STEPS TO THE SACRISTY FELT LIKE a trip to heaven. It was a big room with lots of vestments, sacramentals, sacred vessels, and unburned incense; it smelled exactly like ours back home. There were two inner doors. The one into the main church was wide open, and the one to his private quarters was closed, with RECTORY written on it. Atop this doorpost was a portrait of the diocese’s chief shepherd, with BISHOP RAY SALOMONE written under it. He was a serious-looking man with a tan complexion, short hair, sharp cheekbones, thin lips, and square glasses. This face told me if the parishioners really dragged Father Orrin to his court, it would be serious wahala.

  But as Father Orrin shook our hands and smiled and asked our names, I prayed the parishioners would not tell the bishop. People give bad first impressions all the time, I told myself. In fact, my heart swelled with the memories of my Hell’s Kitchen neighbors taking me to Chelsea, to reset the bad beginning we had had. It was great to have such beautiful recollections to lean on.

  And, looking at Tuesday’s face, you just knew this reception meant more to him than to us, that his hope that his church was getting our visit right was being realized. Father Orrin himself was upbeat, th
ough he was drained and tired. Now, just in his sweat-soaked Roman collar, his carriage could not be more like Father Kiobel’s. He said he still had to take Communion to the prisoners at a nearby prison before coming back to celebrate the evening Mass. He tried to learn our names and temporarily carried the little boy. He asked whether we needed water. We said no and thanked him for the refreshments outside.

  “Okay, first things first,” he said as he closed the church doors. “Please, does anyone still want to go to confession? I’m sorry we couldn’t do it before Mass. When you, Ekong and Usen, didn’t come to Communion, I felt bad.”

  “Oh no, Father,” Usen said, “I just wanted to have a chance to report the ushers to you. That’s all.”

  “Dr. Hughes, do you want to go to confession for messing up our minority story, ha?” I joked, and everyone laughed. “On a more serious note, Father Orrin, you would never know what this private reception means to all of us … even this toddler will remember your humanity when he grows up. Thank you.”

  “We’re grateful,” Usen said, as I grabbed the priest in a two-handed handshake.

  “You’re welcome,” Father said, blushing, then blowing out his cheeks. “And thanks, too, for being so forgiving of the ushers …”

  “We always knew they were a bit overzealous,” Ofonime said, making everyone laugh again. “By the way, your fellow Irishman, our late Father Gary Walsh, also came from the Liberties in Dublin, though he was buried back in Ireland.”

  “Wow, small world!” Father Orrin exclaimed.

  “He was immense for us,” Usen said. “Schools, hospitals, lots of family visits. He loved our cultures and masqueraders and Awire Womenfolk. He risked everything to protect us in the war. Anyway, we really loved the choir here. And you chanted the Eucharistic Prayer just like our priests back home. Ujai shall remember the befriend-all-people homework forever!”

  “I appreciate the compliments,” he said, touching Ujai’s headtie fondly.

  Tuesday thanked him for the elaborate introduction of Biafra, before setting about to correct him. He took up the Jewish comments first: He reminded the priest of Pope Benedict’s books emphasizing that the Romans killed Jesus, not the Jews. He also insisted the Pope had done away with Limbo, where dead unbaptized babies and Jewish souls had previously been waylaid, unable in our dogma to enter paradise. Father pushed back angrily that the Pope had no authority to destroy Limbo, otherwise we should also do away with infant baptism. He quickly ended the conversation, saying he was squeezed for time. But Tuesday tried to say that, though our die-hard northern Nigerian Muslims had their bullshit and blood thirstiness even in peacetime, they were not responsible for Igbo or Biafran politicians’ malfeasance. But the priest again cut him short. “Okay, I’m sorry I got your war details wrong,” he said. “I, too, come from a long line of soldiers and the pain of war. Please, I meant no disrespect.” Then, after thanking Tuesday for escorting us to the sacristy, he asked him and Ujai to leave while he spoke to the Biafrans. Seeing that we were stuck with the Biafran label, we abandoned altogether that fight to establish our minority identity.

  I told Father immediately I was also African, not African American. He was so shocked he laughed. To be doubly sure, he asked whether the Biafrans knew me. They nodded as I spoke Annang with them, to back up my ancestry claims. But Tuesday was silent as though he had never heard of the language before.

  “Well, Ekong, you can stay, but it’s good you spoke up,” Father said. “Because I was going to ask you to step out also … and then have a whole different conference with you alone.” Ofonime, who was wedging her son astride on her right hip, asked whether she should hand him over to Tuesday. The priest said Igwat could stay. We waited for Tuesday to say he was one of us, since his entire body language wanted this. He kept mute till Ujai dragged him outside. The priest quietly closed the door and apologized that there were no seats.

  “We’re okay standing,” Usen said, searching our faces for consensus. “If our priest who’s already stood through two Masses is standing, we, too, can … Yes, niggers?”

  We nodded.

  “Sir, please, don’t call anyone the n-word in my sacristy, okay?” Father cautioned. “You may be using it as some in-group thing, but it doesn’t sit well with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Usen said with a little penitential bow, his enthusiasm curtailed.

  “We’re sorry,” Ofonime said.

  “That’s okay,” the white American said. “I think we should go right into what I want to tell you, why I invited you. What I’m going to say is not out of malice but after prayerful reflection. After weighing every angle of the key issues here.”

  “Okay,” Usen said.

  We nodded, moving closer.

  “You have really caused us a lot of pain today!” he said frankly, stepping back. “And I wanted to let you know you won’t be coming back here. Since your clothing shows you’ve come from afar, I needed to be gentle and sensitive. But even before Mass, I’d been wracking my brain for the best way and place to let you understand we’re not open to outsiders.”

  “Oh … okay,” Usen said absentmindedly, cracking his fingers.

  “Thanks, then, for your understanding,” he said, relieved, a shy smile almost crossing his face. “You have saved our community from future stress. You’re the real salt of the earth!”

  “You’re welcome, Father, and thanks, also, for your candor,” I said when the other two went quiet.

  “You guys are Liverpool fans, too, huh?” Father said lightheartedly.

  “How did you know that?” I said, laughing.

  “The decal on your car!” he said. “I’m a fan, too.”

  “You are?” Ofonime said, finding her voice.

  “You bet,” he said. “We’re not doing very well this year … Anyway, you guys have a nice day, then!”

  “You’ll never walk alone,” I said, proclaiming our club’s motto.

  “Never!” he responded.

  But when he opened the door to let us out, we did not move. He closed it again and came back into our midst. He looked at us. We looked at him.

  He laughed, a shocked laugh, and smoothed his mustache with both hands. Then he showed us the door again. We took our eyes off him to search each other’s faces. Everyone looked serious for a while, as I tried to decide whom to compare the priest to between Jack and Angela. But it was not comparable, because the Humane Society Two, at least, did not know I had busted their secret phone conversation. Father’s banishment was as blatant as it was unbelievable. We shrugged and collapsed in fits of laughter, covering our mouths with our hands. It was what Chief Zebrudaya, the TV comic who retaught postwar Nigeria how to laugh at each other’s tribal foibles, called “Laughter of Ridiculous.”

  “MY BIAFRAN FRIENDS, maybe a little background would help,” he said gently, nudging Usen, who was still smiling. “The last time we had this kind of division in this parish was during the Vietnam War … Today, I humbly ask you in the name of God not to show up here again, please. I understand your hesitation and shock, mind you. I wish to God I didn’t have to say this. But we need to prepare our folks slowly towards becoming the kind of church you have in mind.

  “There’s an African American Roman Catholic parish on the other side of town, on Lincoln and King Boulevard. While our diocese is closing down parishes for lack of membership, funds, and priests, I want you to know that Bishop Salomone has really bent over backwards to keep our Black church running. We pay their utility bills. We buy them bread and wine for the Eucharist. We give them everything, so it’s not like we’re redlining them. You guys will fit into that equally beautiful church—”

  “Listen, we were never going to return anyway!” I interrupted him angrily. “If you noticed, two of us, Usen and I, avoided your poisoned chalice, excuse the pun.”

  “Fair enough, fair enough, then why didn’t you leave when I sent the ushers to move you?” he said, and I replied by telling him he must be from Argentina, because they
were the ones capable of this kind of racial cleansing and anti-Semitism. He said, well, he was just pointing out the Biafran obsession with Judaism and nothing more. Ofonime said we owed the Jews everything because the Holy Family and huge chunks of our religion came from them. “I just wonder why you even bothered to stay when I sent the lady usher to move you!” Father Orrin snapped. “Listen, I don’t want to talk about the Jews or why the Church is trying to destroy our beautiful theology of Limbo to favor killers of the Savior of the World!”

  “We’re sorry, Father,” Ofonime said, stepping back.

  “Nkudo ujo nsio o,” I said.

  “I assume that means, ‘Have a nice week!’” he said, and reached out for a handshake like a man who had just negotiated a difficult cease-fire. The hand hung in the air till the toddler grabbed two of his fingers and babbled and smiled.

  All this while, Usen had gone unusually quiet. He seemed to be staring at the sadist, but instead was focusing on the wall behind him, his hands behind him, cuffed by shock. The posture tightened his shirt around his torso, his big funny stomach throbbing with his deep breaths. He looked like a man who had abandoned the fight to prove that he was a minority in our homeland and now equally had no energy to begin this arduous push to elevate us to the status of humans. I was afraid Usen could explode in uncontrollable anger as he struggled with the invisibility the priest was dissolving us into, a fight I had waged ever since I arrived on these premises.