by A. D. Koboah
It felt as if I had turned the corner, expecting my foot to land on earth and finding instead that the ground beneath me had been cut away to leave a gaping hole and a steep fall to my death. I felt that fear as if my foot really was hovering over the edge of an abyss as I struggled to make sense of the sight before me.
Around four or five police cars and around fifteen or twenty policemen were lining the pavement, looking like toy soldiers ready for war. The policeman nearest to me was armed with a rifle and looked diligently out onto the street, only moving to nod or offer a greeting to passers-by who looked at him, and the rest of the policemen lining the street, with curiosity.
I didn’t know why they were there and if anything was taking place that required such a visible police presence, or if they were there in such numbers only as a precautionary measure. But seeing that sight intruding forcefully on what should have been a normal trip to the supermarket on a Friday night, felt like it had the day of the accident. It felt like I had stepped back into that nightmare world.
I didn’t want to be in a world where police and the threat of violence could so casually force its way into our lives on a normal Friday evening.
So I slowly backed away from them and fled back to the deafening silence in my flat. I didn’t leave it again until Sunday evening.
***
Looking at the building from the outside, it would have been easy to assume it was a warehouse. The only visible sign that it was a church was the large banner above the door which carried its name and an excerpt from the bible which read:
"Come unto Me all ye who are weary and heavy-laden and I will give you rest. (Matthew 11:28-30).”
I entered a small foyer and walked towards the sound of music which was coming from a large hall. The hall doors were opened for me by an usher and I stepped into an explosion of noise, of music, singing and voices raised in worship and praise. The church was already filled with people who were all facing a raised platform at the back of the hall. Behind the raised platform were a choir dressed in black and white and a small band.
This wasn’t the sort of church where you came in with a hymn book and sat down in orderly rows to listen to a detached, remote service about a distant God. In this church, God was very much alive and the place was filled with people who were full of the joys of worship, people who were thankful just to praise Him. I felt none of that as I was led to a seat near the back and sat down. I didn’t bother to join in with the hymns, but simply waited for the sermon to start.
The pastor eventually made an appearance to a burst of applause that sounded like rain beating down on the church roof. He was a tall, robust man who had the innocent wonderment of a child when he bounded onto the stage and observed his congregation. His rich, baritone voice boomed out across the large hall as he sang the first few lines of a hymn. The hall was probably full of about a hundred people, but he had a way of making me feel as if he was talking to me and specifically to the unique circumstances in my life as he began singing a hymn about God’s sanctuary.
He broke away from the song, moved closer to the congregation and began to implore us, his heavy voice booming across the entire church building.
“Come into His sanctuary!” he said with an urgency that stirred a primal need within me. “Come into His sanctuary!” he repeated, his eyes searching the congregation, seemingly seeking out those of us that were in need.
He began to sing again. He had sincerity, passion and urgency in his voice as he half-sang, half-pleaded with us.
“Somebody in here needed to hear that,” he cried as a woman made her way to the front of the church and knelt down, praying as tears streamed down her face. “Come into His sanctuary. Lay your burdens down and come into His sanctuary.”
I felt a tear prick the whites of my eyes as I listened to his words and I desperately wished I could step into His sanctuary and lay down this heavy burden that was choking me physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually.
But did I deserve to be let into His sanctuary?
The memory of that moment I had stood in the soft darkness of my mother’s cloakroom with that unconscious wish came to my mind as the pastor continued to sing. The notion that life would be better without Dante. I thought I had pushed it out of my mind the moment I realised it was there. Maybe I had instead succeeded in pushing it out into the world, and the universe had responded and made it a reality by taking my precious charge away from me.
The pastor was still singing. It felt as if only the two of us were in that church and that he was singing to me, imploring me to lay down my burdens and walk into God’s sanctuary.
But did I deserve to be in God’s sanctuary?
I suppressed the tears and as he sang, I felt for the first time since Dante’s death a dull, aching anger. I sat and nursed that anger as he sang and implored us to lay down our burdens and enter God’s sanctuary which was filled with peace, love and joy.
I was so alone. I was always alone. Even though I was in a church surrounded by people I felt isolated from those around me as I sat with anger in my heart and only one word on the tip of my tongue.
Why?
Why this? This is too much for me to endure.
How can you expect me to live through this?
After what felt like hours, but was probably only a minute, I decided not to stay in that church, asking question after question I doubted I would ever get an answer to. So I stood up and walked out of the hall.
I stepped out into the foyer and walked to the main door.
“You all right there, sweetheart?”
I stopped by the door and turned towards the sound of the voice which belonged to one of the ushers, a chocolate-skinned woman in white who had a sunny smile and large, soft brown eyes. I wasn’t sure if she had followed me out of the hall, or if she had been in the foyer when I entered. She was smiling when I turned around, but something she saw in my face made the smile fade and two lines appeared on her forehead as she looked at me.
“Are you okay?” she asked again.
“I’m fine,” I said curtly and moved to the door, but she had started to speak again.
“Are you sure you don’t want to come back inside and hear the sermon?”
She was at my side now and was smiling again even though her smile was nowhere near as brilliant as before.
“There’s always food after the service as well, so why not stay?”
I shook my head and faced the door again.
“All right, but let me give you a leaflet.”
She darted to a table that was to one side and picked up a leaflet. “This is for one of our bible study classes. They’re on Mondays and Wednesdays. It isn’t just a bible study class though. There aren’t that many people there on that day so we get to spend a lot more time with everyone. You can come just to listen, or if you want us to pray for you, we can.”
She scribbled something on the leaflet and held it out to me. “I’ve put my telephone number on there as well, so if you ever need anything or feel like talking, you can give me a call.”
“Thank you,” I said and smiled, even though my smile was probably as weak as hers now was.
She was trying to be nice but there was nothing anyone could do for me.
“What’s your name?”
“Peace.”
“Peace,” she repeated as she looked into my eyes with a smile, this one definitely much sadder.
I took the leaflet and left the church, stepping out into the evening air. I stayed there looking at the leaflet and the name ‘Samantha’ which she had scrawled along the bottom along with a telephone number. I could still hear the muffled sound of the pastor singing and I stayed there for a few moments and listened to those sounds, wishing I really could turn back and let Samantha lead me back into His sanctuary where I could hopefully find some respite from the pain.
I eventually walked away.
There could be no sanctuary for me on this Earth if Dante was no longer on it.
***
That night, with no more sleeping pills and the silence in the flat at a deafening roar, I reached for a packet of paracetamol and headed back to my bedroom deciding that now was as good a time as any to end it all. And as I pushed the tablets out of the blister foil and watched them fall onto the bed like snow drops against the pale blue bedspread, I thought I felt death in the room. I felt it in the shadowy corners, in the shafts of silvery moonlight that filtered freely through the windows uncovered by heavy curtains. It was there in the conspicuous absence of his cot, and most of all, in the silence that pervaded the small flat. I had popped the tablets into my mouth two or three at a time and chased away the bitter taste of the pills with water until my stomach was filled with small white tablets floating in a liquid grave. I did it quickly and efficiently, ignoring the bitter taste in my mouth, wanting there to be no ceremony about my last night on this Earth. I only wanted it to be the last time I would see this room, the last time I would awaken to the heavy load that was heaped on my shoulders. The last time I would carry that load along the long, endless, desolate landscape of my life.
I lay back against the soft pillows, and for a few moments as I drifted between sleep and wakefulness, I imagined that death took on a physical form and slunk out of the shadows to stand over me. I had looked up into its ancient, withered face, its seductive eyes taking me in as its lips curled into an alluring smile. Then it slowly began taking steps backwards, those eyes that held so much promise lingering on me as it disappeared back into the shadows.
Hours later I was suddenly awake, the crushing disappointment at the sight of the eerily quiet room lit by moonlight pushed aside when my mouth began filling with saliva and the heaving began involuntarily. I tried unsuccessfully to suppress the second one, but by the time the third one forced its way through, I was up and staggering to the bathroom before the inevitable flow of regurgitated pills spewed out of my mouth and into the toilet bowl.
I went back and forth between the bedroom and the bathroom a few times before I fell asleep. I spent most of the following day sleeping, only getting up occasionally to use the bathroom.
It was only when I felt a weight pulling down the mattress at the end of the bed that I woke up and realised that there was somebody else in the house. Opening my eyes, I saw long legs covered in jeans dangling over the end of the bed.
“Barbara?”
“Yeah.”
I turned over onto my back and the rest of her body clad in a black jumper and brown leather jacket came into view. She was looking at me oddly.
“What time is it?” I mumbled.
“It’s nearly five o’clock. Have you been sleeping all day?”
“No.”
“I came round at one and you were asleep then. You were in such a deep sleep you didn’t even hear me ring the doorbell or let myself in.”
“To be honest, I’m not feeling all that well today, that’s why I’ve slept so much.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, her brow furrowing, fear flitting across the shadows behind her eyes.
“Nothing, I just threw up a couple of times. It must’ve been from something I ate yesterday.”
“What did you eat?”
”What?”
“What did you eat?” she repeated. “There’s no food in the house, so what did you eat to make you ill?”
“What’s with the interrogation, Barbara?” I said, pushing myself up into a sitting position.
“I’m not interrogating you.”
“Why are you here anyway?” I asked, maybe a little too harshly.
She looked away, seeming slightly crestfallen and I was surprised that she didn’t tell me off for the tone I had used.
“Mum made Banku today. I decided to bring you some.”
Banku was my favourite Ghanaian meal, but she could have been offering crushed glass the way my stomach contorted at the thought of it.
“All right, thanks. I’ll have some a bit later.”
“I’ve done some food shopping for you as well.”
“Thanks,” I said coyly, feeling slightly ashamed of the tone I had used earlier. “You didn’t have to do that. I’ll give you the money—”
“Don’t be silly!” she said getting to her feet.
I got out of bed and followed her into the kitchen, reaching for a glass from the cupboard and pouring myself some water.
“I also went to see one of your lecturers today. Sarah Witherspoon?”
“Yeah?”
“I explained everything that’s happened and she was really sympathetic. She said they can make arrangements for you to re-do the assignments you’ve missed during the summer break. The last term for this year starts in a few weeks and they really want you to come back and finish this year.”
“To be honest, Barbara, I don’t know if I’m ready to go back to uni.”
“I know how you’re feeling—”
“No, Barbara, you don’t!”
She faced me. The anger that was always with her these days looked back at me.
“You don’t think I’m grieving too, Peace? He might not have been my son, but he was a part of my life too. I don’t miss him any less than you do.”
I stayed silent, knowing it was useless trying to explain to Barbara that she would never ever know how I felt.
“I can’t say whether or not you’re ready to go back,” she said, my silence the license she needed to continue. “All I know is that you can’t just stay in this flat, popping those pills the doctor prescribes for you and sleeping your life away. I know it’s hard, but you have to start picking up the pieces of your life at some point. And now is as good a time as any.”
“I don’t know, Barbara. I’ll have to think about it.”
This seemed to be what she needed to hear because she smiled. It wasn’t even a fraction of her usual smile, but it was enough to make me realise I hadn’t seen her look this happy in a long, long, time.
“Good, good. I promise I won’t put any pressure on you. I just want you to think about it. Now go and get dressed. Mummy’s upset because it’s been nearly a week since she saw you last.”
I put my glass down on the kitchen work surface, knowing from years of experience that I would be better off doing what she said.
“Sarah wants you to come in next Thursday and talk to her about the assignments you need to do. I’ll write it down for you so you don’t forget. She also gave me a reading list for next term. I’ll come and collect you on Saturday and we’ll go and buy the books.”
No pressure? I thought wryly to myself as I went to shower and dress.
When I re-entered the kitchen, she was waiting for me with a plate of food and stood over me whilst I ate. I saw her frown when I was only able to eat half of the meal, a frown which deepened when I reached for one of the bottles of prescription medication on the counter. But the look I gave her in return was severe enough to stay whatever she had planned to say on the matter.
When we left the house and stepped out onto the balcony, I looked out over to the small playground in the distance, and even through the haze, I felt a twinge of sorrow. I remembered how much Dante loved playing on the swings. He always used to have this tight little smile, as if the joy he was experiencing as I pushed him back and forth would be enough to make him burst if he didn’t hold some of it in. I would be there pushing him with my arms aching, wanting to take him back up into the flat so I could rest, but loving that strange little smile too much to force him off the swings.
“Hello, beautiful.” A familiar male voice interrupted my thoughts and I realised it was Nigel, a man in his early twenties I always saw around the block. He was very fair, about five foot eight inches tall and had a slight build.
“You all right?” I said as I closed and locked the front door behind me.
“How’s it goin’?” he asked, trying as always to start a conversation.
“You know how it is,” I said dismissively.
; “Well, you always know where to find me if you need anythin’,” he replied with a smile, his eyes lingering on me as he passed us.
“Who’s he?” Barbara asked once he was out of earshot.
“Just some guy who lives on this block.”
“Is that all he is?”
“Yeah, he’s always been friendly, a lot more so since...since—”
“I’d stay away from him if I were you. He looks like trouble.”
I ignored her warning and let her words float away on the evening breeze.
Chapter 22
The exorcism began in the early hours of the morning after a sleepless night filled with bittersweet memories and tears.
Over a day later, I was beginning to realise that the demon that possessed me wasn’t going to go easily. Instead it had dug in its heels and started inflicting pain as my body began to purge itself of the filth I had fed it for nearly two years.
My body was in turmoil as I lay in the gloomy, musty-smelling room, letting wave after wave of agony wash over me. I surrendered myself completely to the unseen exorcist who twisted and pummelled me in order to drive out the demon that was fighting to hold on.
I had been throwing up continuously for over twenty-four hours, my muscles twitched and convulsed involuntarily and my skin kept dancing between a burning feverish heat and an icy chill that seeped beneath the epidermis to my bones. I longed for sleep, but even that was denied to me and although I lay in bed with my red-rimmed eyes closed, my mind continued to churn away tirelessly, refusing to allow my battered body to sink into sleep.
On the whim of the unseen exorcist, my eyes flew open and I was wrenched out of bed and onto the floor to stagger down the corridor. My stomach contracted fiercely when I reached the bathroom and I was slapped to my knees by a brutal retch that sent thick, yellow bile spewing out of my mouth and into the toilet bowl.
