Leon shakes his head.
“What?” I ask.
“Told you, man … all that French toast and pasta. You be having them chicks feening over you.”
“It’s not just the food, my man. I have many talents.”
Chapter Four
DIARY OF A MAD BLACK BLOGGER
Guess what, yo? I’m on location. Can’t tell y’all where, but this whole bling-bling-but-I’m-a-man-of-God thing has got me bugging. So, I’m going Malik Yoba (NY undercover, for the televisionally challenged) on this mega-church pastor. I’m gonna get the goods and see if this one particular shepherd is for real. Don’t worry, though, I’m gonna keep y’all posted on all the developments. And if I find out some dirt, I’m gonna help “shine the light of heaven” all up in that piece. Real talk. Maybe, in the meantime, I’ll meet a nice church girl and settle on down. Let me quit playing. I’m out, y’all. Hit me up in the comments section.
Chapter Five
Emoni
I am not a pretty girl. I’m saved, sanctified, and filled with the Holy Ghost … but I’m not pretty.
I stand back from my full-length mirror and squint. Every Sunday morning I do the same self-appraisal, and every Sunday I come to the same conclusion. I’m not a pretty girl.
Wait, let me qualify that statement. I’m not some low-self-esteem-having, fishing-for-compliments basket case. I just know what I see in the mirror.
Daddy says I’m cute, and my mother calls me handsome, as in “Emoni, you are a handsome woman.” But handsome is not pretty. It might actually be the opposite of pretty.
The state of my looks is relevant information because as of right now I am the president of the singles’ ministry at my church, but I’d much rather be the president of the married couples’ ministry. I’m ready for the Lord to bless me with a husband, but obviously, He and almost all of the eligible brothers at my church feel otherwise. And we’ve got a big congregation, too. I just can’t understand how, out of ten thousand members—three thousand of those being men—the bishop’s oldest daughter can’t seem to find a man.
Must be my looks, because everything else in the package is right.
I look like my father. I have the same close-set brown eyes and short lashes, same short stature. I’m twenty-four, with a teenager’s acne and thick hair that looks good in a roller set or bone-straight. My skin is the color of coffee with a little bit of cream, but not enough to make me high yellow, like my sister, Sascha.
Sascha is the pretty one. And my brother, Tyler, is the pretty boy.
The youngest two Prentiss children can stop traffic with their looks. Nineteen-year-old Sascha is the spitting image of our mother’s Creole ancestors, with long, wavy jet-black hair set against skin the color of a porcelain doll. Tyler is twenty-two and has the same complexion as Sascha but wears his curls cut close to his head. His thick eyebrows and lashes accentuate the green eyes that I call a blessing and he calls a curse.
Even though I’m not pretty, I have my own set of blessings. My tiny waist and pop-out behind can stop a little traffic, too. I turn around in the mirror and view myself from behind to confirm that fact. And to top it all off, I have great teeth. Don’t think great teeth are a blessing? Well, wait until you see a cute girl smile with teeth like a shark’s.
Plus, I’m smart. Honestly, my intelligence wasn’t something I really valued until recently. I’d always tried to dumb down when I met men, but that gets old quickly.
I know my daddy, Bishop Kumal Prentiss, values my brainpower. I work full-time for his ministry, and truth be told, I’m the one who keeps everything operating smoothly. I’m the planner of conferences, the queen of damage control, and the go-to person for all questions and complaints.
I have time to do all of this because I don’t have a man.
Sascha swings my door open, like she always does. “Emoni! We are about to be late for Sunday school! How long are you going to stand in front of that mirror?”
Right. Like she really wants to go to Sunday school. She’s just in a rush to see her tacky little boyfriend, Kevin. Not even Sunday is sacred for those two fornicators. They sneak off in between services to park in a borrowed car and do whatever it is they do that leaves passion marks all over Sascha’s neck.
Am I just a little bit jealous of them? No. I’m really jealous. More like seven-deadly-sins kind of envious.
I take one last look in the mirror, let out a sigh, and give up on waiting for my reflection to transform into a pretty one. “I’m ready.”
“Well, then, let’s roll,” calls Tyler from the hallway.
The three of us walk downstairs single file to meet with our parents in the foyer. Even though we don’t ride together, Daddy likes us to leave the house as a family.
My sister and I are wearing standard church apparel. I have on a tailored navy blue suit, and Sascha is wearing a cream-colored dress. Tyler, on the other hand, has on baggy jeans and a Karl Kani button-down shirt.
After appraising his outfit, I comment, “You could’ve at least put on a tie.”
Tyler rolls his eyes. “Don’t start, Emoni.”
“Don’t start what?” I ask. “I’m just trying to remind you that we’re going to church and not the bowling alley.”
I can’t help being a little judgmental. I wouldn’t be a big sister if I weren’t.
Daddy and Mother finally join us in the foyer. Their outfits are color-coordinated, as they always are. A taupe suit for Daddy with an olive-green patterned tie. Mother is wearing an olive-green suit with hat, shoes, and purse to match. They complement each other perfectly.
Our mother, Diana, is a tiny woman, not even five feet tall. Her round face is the same porcelain shade as that of her two youngest children, and her eyes are greener than Tyler’s. She wears her hair in a chin-length roller set and never ever goes a Sunday without wearing one of her pretty hats.
Bishop tries to mediate. “It’s all right, Emoni. Your brother is fine.”
“She’s right, Bishop, he should put on a suit. He looks like a hip-hop hooligan,” retorts Diana.
“We are not having that conversation this morning. I’m just blessed to have all of my children worshipping with me, even though they’re grown.”
People always find it funny that Mother never calls Daddy by his first name in public or even in front of us. After he’d started preaching, she didn’t think it respectful for her to call him Kumal in anyone’s hearing. Sascha and Tyler have taken her lead. They don’t call him Daddy anymore—only I do that.
Daddy assesses us all and smiles. “So are we ready to go?”
“One second,” says Diana.
One of the couch pillows is uneven, and the other is falling to the floor. If Mother doesn’t fix that before she walks out the door, she’s going to be thinking about it all day at church. She’s really weird with her neat-freak thing. I can remember her combing and recombing my ponytails until they were perfectly symmetrical. Sometimes it took hours to get them the way she wanted. I was so glad when she started letting me go to the beauty salon.
Sascha laughs. “Mommy, just leave that.”
Mother ignores Sascha and continues straightening until she feels satisfied. One thing about Mother: She takes great pride in this house, even though it’s modest by mega-church-preacher standards. For a while she pressed Daddy to get her a new home with six bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a finished recreation room. He staunchly refused and used the poverty of many of the members as an excuse. Daddy couldn’t in good conscience live in excess while his members suffered. Mother did not agree, but Daddy wouldn’t budge.
When she’s satisfied with the state of her home, Mother finally says, “Okay, now I’m ready.”
We walk outside to our separate vehicles, Daddy and Mother to their ten-year-old Cadillac, Tyler to his used Ford F-150, and me and Sascha to my used Toyota Corolla. If you ask me, Daddy takes this living-modestly thing to a ridiculous extreme. He refuses to buy any of us a new car, not even a Hyu
ndai or something cheap. True enough that the Cadillac runs well and is still in great condition, but it should’ve been traded in a long time ago.
It’s not that I’m all for pastors living high off anybody’s hog while the rest of the church resides in slave quarters. I’m disgusted by that. But Daddy deserves more! He works tirelessly, never has a vacation, and is always at the beck and call of every member at Freedom of Life. I don’t think anyone would be mad if he upgraded a little bit.
Anytime I bring it up, though, Daddy always quotes the Scripture at Romans 14:16: “‘Let not then your good be evil spoken of …’” He doesn’t want anything to take away from all the good he does preaching the Gospel. That’s why I’m watching him and Mother roll their windows down on this muggy September morning instead of blasting the AC.
Sascha jumps in on the passenger side of my car. Why didn’t she ride with Tyler? “I know you’re driving today,” she says, “but can I use your car later this evening? I’m going out.”
“Why can’t Kevin drive?”
“If you must know, his fuel pump went out. His car is not running right now.”
I’m smirking because I can’t stand Kevin. “So it looks like you two are stranded, because y’all won’t be using my car as the hotel room on wheels.”
“You are so evil, Emoni. I wish Daddy would buy me my own car.”
“He will when you graduate from college. Oh, wait! You dropped out. Looks like you’re going to be hoofing it.”
Sascha rolls her eyes at me and slumps back in her seat. Ask me if I care. Daddy probably will buy her a car, even though she has no intentions of finishing her classes at Clark Atlanta. She’s spoiled rotten.
We ride in silence, which is a blessing, because I like to meditate on God before I walk through the church doors. Since Sascha’s in the car, I can’t talk to Him out loud like I usually do, but I send up a silent prayer.
Sascha and I part ways as soon as we get to the church parking lot. Her friends Gina and Alissa are waiting for her, looking like those two crows from the old Looney Tunes cartoons. They both look at me with disdain, and I return the favor; the feeling is definitely mutual.
Oscar is also waiting, right at the edge of my assigned parking spot. “Praise God this morning,” he says with a smile that is way too big and unnatural. That’s his church smile. He gets on my last nerve.
“Hi, Oscar,” I say as I go to close my car door.
Oscar jumps in front of me, nearly pushing me over. “No. Let me get that for you.”
“It’s just a car door. I am capable of doing that myself.”
Oscar smiles and takes my Bible, purse, and gym bag. I snatch my purse back and give him an evil glare as he gets ready to protest. There is no reason why a man should carry a woman’s purse. Not even if he thinks he’s in love with her and wants to marry her.
That thought makes me shudder. I can’t see myself walking down anybody’s aisle with Oscar, but he is intent on making it happen. I don’t totally brush him off, because even though I’m not feeling him, I don’t see any other brothers stumbling over themselves to get with me. Who knows, maybe the older I get, the better he’ll look.
We step into Daddy’s office, where he has already started the preparations for morning worship. He’s drinking a cup of tea prepared by Sister Ophelia Moore, head nurse and president of Freedom of Life’s gossip ministry. She’s the only one who makes Daddy’s tea the way he likes it—cool enough to drink straight down but still warm enough to open his vocal cords.
“Praise the Lord, Emoni,” says Sister Ophelia.
Without cracking a smile, I reply, “He’s worthy.”
Daddy should’ve replaced Sister Ophelia when she started that vicious rumor about Sascha and her grandson, Kevin. She’d caught the two of them in his bedroom, half naked, and then proceeded to tell everybody in our church family who would listen. If they’d let her, she would’ve made it a church announcement.
For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why she wasn’t embarrassed to drag her own grandson’s name through the mud. Maybe she was happy she could point the finger at someone else’s child for a change.
Daddy was furious, of course, but not at Sister Ophelia. I had never seen him tear into Sascha the way he did. He gave her a lecture that ran the gamut from being displeasing to God to embarrassing our family. I remember feeling sorry for Sascha, but not sorry enough to comfort her. She and Tyler don’t care one bit about the impact of their actions on Daddy’s ministry.
Anyway, Daddy forgave Sister Ophelia and allowed her to remain in her post as head nurse. Mother and I tiptoe around the woman, wondering when she will drop another bomb on our family.
Daddy is just about ready to go out in front of the congregation. He’s singing “Something About the Name Jesus” in a low tone, giving honor to God and warming up his voice.
Daddy is known for the way he can minister the preached word of God and especially for his ministry in song. I’ve personally witnessed God use him to cause people to come to repentance after hearing a song that he wrote and sang.
As spiritually powerful as Daddy is, he doesn’t have a very memorable physical appearance. He’s around five feet seven and not over one hundred and eighty-five pounds. His salt-and-pepper hair is brushed to the back in waves, and dark-rimmed glasses cover his compassionate brown eyes. When he’s not preaching, Daddy is a meek and soft-spoken man, but when the Spirit of God takes over, Daddy is transformed. Under the anointing of God, Daddy is an amazing orator and singer.
To say that I’m proud of my father is an understatement.
Oscar, who besides being my pest, is also Bishop’s armor bearer, asks, “Is there anything else you need, Bishop?”
“Did you tell the sound people to add extra bass when I start?”
“Yes, Bishop, everything is in order.”
“Good.”
After quickly swallowing the tea, Daddy stands up from his desk and holds out his arms. Oscar rushes over to adjust his cuff links and then gingerly places a freshly dry-cleaned and pressed preaching robe over Daddy’s shoulders. When Oscar is done, Daddy nods and motions toward the door. Oscar responds immediately and opens the door to Daddy’s office, allowing three ministers dressed in clergy attire to enter.
One of the ministers takes oil from a bottle on Daddy’s desk and rubs a little on the head of everyone in the room. When he finishes, we join hands and bow our heads for the prayer.
We can all hear the worship service from inside Daddy’s office. The congregation seems to be in an uproar. I can feel the spirit of the Lord as well.
Daddy prays, “Lord, I ask that you use me, your humble servant, this morning. Tell me what to say to your people, Lord. Make me the messenger of your will. Lord, God, I decrease so that you may increase. Let your congregation not see me this morning, but let them see your spirit operating in me. Lord, touch each and every one of them with a word for their situations. Cause souls to be saved and deliverance and healing to take place. I ask these things in the mighty name of Jesus. Let every heart say amen.”
“Amen” comes from everyone in the room.
Daddy smiles and says, “All right, y’all. Let’s go.”
Oscar opens the door, and the ministers exit first. Daddy is next, with Oscar on his heels. I use the other entrance and slip into the congregation unnoticed. Everyone is too busy applauding Daddy to pay any attention to me sitting in a row at the back of the sanctuary.
Daddy takes the microphone from its cradle and says, “I feel the presence of God in this place.”
The congregation responds with more applause and shouts of “amen” and “hallelujah.”
“I can feel him in the atmosphere!” Daddy continues. “Lord, you are welcome today. Let’s give God some praise right now. Give God a high praise!”
I clap fiercely as the congregations’ applause grows louder and the excitement reaches a fever pitch. One woman gets up from her seat and runs down the aisle, rejoicing and sh
outing.
“That’s right, sis! Bless Him!” Daddy implores. “Bless Him! Don’t look at her funny. You don’t know what the Lord has brought her through.”
The woman stops running and starts into another phase of her praise. She jerks and stomps her way into a spontaneous dance. The people sitting near her start to clap in time to the music, which is playing faster and faster.
To the right of me is a young man I’ve never seen before. The sight of him snaps me right out of my praise break, and instantly, I picture him as my boyfriend. I dismiss the thought almost as quickly. He’s the type of guy who dates Sascha.
He seems out of place, with a notepad and a brand-new Bible on his lap. I’m talking brand-new, like he just ripped the shrink wrap off on his way into the sanctuary. He’s scribbling furiously in that little notepad even though Daddy hasn’t started preaching yet.
He must feel me staring at him, because he looks over at me. He smiles, and it takes my breath away. Boldly, he looks me up and down, his eyes resting on my behind. My God, that brother is fine. Where has he been hiding, because I’m sure he’s never been to Freedom of Life.
After service is over, I do my pastor’s-daughter duty and go over to introduce myself to our visitor. Okay, so I’m not usually in a rush to fulfill that particular task, but the fineness of this brother is so exceptional that it’s making me want to step outside the box.
Just as I’m about to unleash all of this Emoni charm on that tall milk-chocolate black man’s answer to the Greek Adonis, I’m cut off at the pass. Dorcas, Mother’s armor bearer and basic irritant, has made it there first. I have never seen Dorcas fellowshipping at the back of the church, where the latecomers usually congregate. Her hungry self must’ve sniffed out fresh man meat from her seat up in the front of the church.
I stand close enough to listen to their conversation without being too obvious.
“Is this your first visit to Freedom of Life?” she asks.
“Yes, it is.”
“Are your wife and family with you this morning?”
The Bishop's Daughter Page 3
