God of Mercy

by Okezie Nwoka

  Perhaps it must be that I believe as Ikemba believes, that all of Precious Word is good and that all of Amalike is good. It would be a lie. Yet there are those who attempt to live within the emptiness of a lie. And perhaps this lie will give me more peace than I already lack, or allow me to sleep when it is time to sleep. For I do not know what my life has become or where it is going. I fear Chukwu, I fear; and I am afraid of a thing I cannot name those many uncertainties which lay in the tomorrows yet to come those uncertainties which carry the certainty that I must suffer, that I must truly suffer and never survive it, and that will be my end. And yet, Uzodi taught me the difference between a wanted truth and the good word. The difference, he said, is that the good word first arrives with sorrow more bitter than the greatest kola nut, but a wanted truth comes only with vanity, and vanity alone. If now is the time for bitterness, let it quickly pass away. Though my mind and heart know of something true: it is unusual and unfair that I was not taken like the others, and something will be done to correct this

  9.

  IT WAS NOT THE SOUNDS of cocks crowing that awoke Ijeọma but the blast of a deafening bell, rung to precede dawn’s sky.

  “Get up! Get up! It is time for you to rise!”

  A large female attendant in a pink-checkered dress walked through the corridor with a long cane and bell—her loud voice, and louder bell—disrupting the children sleeping in the Manifestation Quarters—especially Ijeọma, who had not known of a sound so crass. The gongs used in Ichulu bore a timorous sound, which made Ijeọma revere the message of the clinging metal. The sound of Amalike’s bell seemed irresponsible, and Ijeọma covered her ears with both hands—not getting up, but lying on the floor—waiting for quiet to return—clutching her ears, still hearing the noise—but remembering her dream: Nnenna was cooking soup and asked her to feed Chelụchi, as Ọfọdile sat with visitors in his obi and Nnamdị danced a dance with other boys. Ụzọdị was somewhere she could not remember, while Ezinne, the one called his mother, sang as she swept the compound’s earth. It was a wondrous dream, and Ijeọma refused to rise from the floor until such dreams returned and pulled her down to sleep.

  “Did you not hear me! I said get up!”

  The large attendant quickly raised her cane—and beat the legs on Ijeọma’s body. She raised it again, and beat Ijeọma for not promptly rising from the floor—beating her as she recalled this to be the cell of the flying witch, the cell of the girl most diabolical, and she refused to show any signs of fear but beat Ijeọma—until her cane cracked in two, shouting “Holy Ghost fire! Holy Ghost fire!” beating her then with a wooden beam—then a plastic-covered chain—beating Ijeọma until her hands were weak, exorcising demons before dawn—even as she shivered from the beating, on the ground she shivered and waved her hands for the beating to stop, and screamed and screamed for someone to hear, and felt the prickly sides of the wooden beam piercing through her back, and the dense weight of the plastic-covered chain, bruising and breaking what had been bruised and broken before, and she nodded her head, three times and then three times again, surrendering over and again, but the beating continued, and she remained on the cell floor—clutching the brim of her metal bucket, then letting it go—and when the beating stopped, quickly rising and watching the attendant pointing to two buckets and feeling the attendant force the buckets into her hands.

  She was pulled out of the cell and into the corridor, and she saw the other children who were kept in the Manifestation Quarters—seeing that they stumbled, painfully shifting their weight from one leg to the other—seeing that she, too, was doing the same: a consequence from the beating; a consequence from the stony floor on which she slept at night; a consequence of Ichulu fading from her footsteps—all of which began dwelling in her heart as she moved through the lightless corridor—following the children outside, all with two metal buckets—following them as they led her to the church borehole behind the Manifestation Quarters.

  And as she waited with them by the rusted pipe to fetch her share of water, she saw some emptying their defecation buckets—with green specks falling on their arms and lips and murky waters plopping onto the ground. The bucket she held was empty, brought through hateful coercion; and not wanting to think of that morning’s attendant, she looked down to her throbbing leg and found it to be reddish in color, with no broken skin, but behaving as though blood would burst forth from its swelling.

  “Who beat you,” she heard him say, hearing bright conviction in his voice.

  Ijeọma looked upward to see the one who had spoken, and saw it was a boy; whose skin was as the night, whose stature had her believe he was a warrior in groom.

  “Will you not answer me? I asked who beat you?”

  Ijeọma remained silent—staring into the boy’s narrow eyes, eyes which made him seem wiser than many—not knowing how to answer him, so tightening her hold on the bucket handles—and moving away as she began looking upon the borehole. She could feel his gaze: it pierced her back, and she swallowed into her chest as she filled the bucket with the water falling from the borehole, as she turned from him—praying she had the courage and ability to ask the boy with black skin his name.

  And when it had been filled to the brim, she placed the showering bucket atop her head; and put the second bucket in her hands; and made her eyes avoid the boy with black skin while following a young girl to the clearing where the other girls were bathing. She could see the boys showering from where she stood; their penises limp; their buttocks firm and plain; and she saw, too, the girls’ developing breasts; and did not want to be naked within their sight. It was not Idemili. The water was not the body of the divine—and the other girls bathing were watching her, she thought—even with their dull and expressionless eyes—and if she could see all of them—they could see me, too—and they would laugh in the way, the other girls laughed—those girls on the hill at the market square—those girls whom Chinwe had named as friends; so she stood by the buckets—staring at the purple mud through sad and fluttering eyes.

  “Girl! YOU! Girl! If you do not begin your shower eh, I will flog you to pieces!” said one of the attendants, who began shouting more threats at Ijeọma and began approaching her with his cane—who watched as she quickly removed her rappa with terror seizing her face, who smiled a smile and left Ijeọma once she squatted by the bucket, and cupped her hands, and began cleaning herself like the other children did, washing under her arms, and behind her neck, and inside her mouth, not caring if the other girls noticed her, or spoke to hear, not hearing the clanging of the metal buckets, or the splashing of water hitting the grass.

  And after showering, Ijeọma and the other children were returned to the cells and began dropping their buckets at the command of the barking attendants—hurrying out of the cells, walking quickly because the attendants pointed their canes—to the center of the corridor. She made a line with the others—and they were led to a parallel corridor within the Manifestation Quarters—where the pastor had built a chapel for the building. They walked through a dark hallway and veered right toward the chapel’s iron door; and once the door was opened and the line passed through it, Ijeọma walked through the door’s frame and saw red and green cloths hanging from the chapel’s walls, and orange flowers pinned to the corners of the chapel’s windows and benches. And she followed the line to the first row of benches and sat at the command of an attendant speaking through his cane—then heard soft footsteps coming from behind the chapel’s door.

  “Good morning,” the person said as they opened the door—smiling at the children, revealing the gap in their front teeth—as they moved to the front of the chapel, wearing a blue cotton dress with white lace sewn about its edges and a small blue cloth resting atop their head.

  “For those of you who are new and do not know who I am, my name is Mrs. Phyllipa Nwosu, and I am the wife of the pastor. I am here to pray with all of you this morning. Please, bow your heads and close your eyes.”

  Ijeọma did as t
he other children did, bowing her head, then closing her eyes, and wondering at the meaning behind the gestures. She heard the person wearing the dress say many things in English, and when the person coughed a light cough, Ijeọma raised her head and saw that all the heads were still bowed, save one: the boy with black skin, the boy from the borehole. And she did not think that he had ever bowed his head, believing the boy with black skin to be stubborn, knowing he was defiant to the traditions of Amalike and its god; and she continued looking at him, wanting him to turn around so she could see his narrow eyes once more. Though he did not, and when Mrs. Nwosu finally ended her prayer every head had been raised, and the children were herded directly to the quarters’ dining hall to eat their morning meal.

  An attendant told Ijeọma to sit at a wooden table, where metal bowls and silverware were placed before her. By her left hand was a girl who smelled of fresh dung, and by her right hand was a boy with missing teeth—one too old to have them missing through childhood. And as she looked to her left hand and watched the girl and began wondering how her stench could be after bathing, she saw the smeared stains on her rappa and understood, watching then as an attendant came to where she was sitting and placed a ration of gray yam and a spoonful of stew on her plate. She almost screamed when she saw the attendant leaving with the remaining food, seeing the rations given to the other children and signing softly in the air: abomination, abomination; more was given to Ichulu’s goats—signing while turning to her plate and watching the gray yam—one no bigger than a tiny river stone—not knowing what to do with the silverware as she watched the other children cutting their tiny yams in half. The meal was not sensible neither did it honor reason; and her thoughts had refused to thank Chukwu for the yam, as she lifted it with her fingers, before swallowing the gray lump.

  “Ikemba! Ikemba!”

  Ijeọma heard a crashing sound, and saw an attendant screaming at the boy with black skin.

  “You satanic animal!” screamed one of the attendants, as Ikemba threw another plate against the ground, bringing the entire room to silence. The attendant used her heavy cane to strike Ikemba on his head. And when her continuous beatings caused him to collapse onto the floor, she dragged him toward the cell, hearing the other attendants order the children to continue eating, warning them that Ikemba’s insubordination would not be tolerated should any of them dare repeat it.

  “The church pays for your food!” they said.

  “You must respect what you eat!” they said.

  “You must not give in to your evil inclinations!” they said. But Ijeọma did not hear them as she thanked the gods, and thanked Chukwu, for letting her learn the name of the boy with black skin.

  She was returned to the dark cell in which she was kept; dark because the morning light was blocked by the full, thick branches of an ngwu tree shielding the cell’s window. And she sat in the darkness, thinking of Ichulu, wondering at Ichulu’s affairs, and if they had forgotten her, hoping that Igbokwe convinced Ọfọdile to allow her to return home; yet somehow hearing, too, the words of a dwelling thought: you will never again touch the earth with your feet, or drink water from Idemili, or fly in the market square, or see the face of Chinwe, or the love of your mother, it will be so, it will be, I know it will be so—and she sat trembling in the darkness, with anger and with melancholy—believing the whispers of those words.

  She quickly denied the music of Ichulu within her: the light tones of morning greetings and evening farewells, the trebles of an accolade when elders say, “Well done,” the rising and falling and rising and falling of a single word, a single sound, heard in the music being played when Ichulu spoke its Igbo.

  And she could not pray; she tried, over and again, to pray for herself and the others but could not lift her hands to speak of hopeful things, to ask for their survival in a hateful place; she could not find strength to do it, after hearing that dwelling thought; to return home to their families, for Chukwu to protect them; she could not do it, to protect Ikemba who was beaten that morning; to dive into supplications, and forget where she was; to ask for food and water and more food and more water, asking for a chewing stick to wipe her mouth clean for a river; for the sun, for those things that make a place holy, that day she could not do it; and she touched her skin, holding it, feeling its smoothness, grabbing a fold, and feeling how it snapped: slipping through her fingers and returning to the bone; and she wept in the darkness, ignoring the rats scurrying on the floor, knowing her reality to be true.

  The bell rang again.

  “It is now time for the afternoon prayer!” an attendant said as the doors to each of the cells were opened.

  She and the others were moved to the chapel to pray a prayer led by another attendant. She bowed her head and closed her eyes with the others, learning the traditions of this new place; trying to survive it, bowing her head, and listening to the sounds coming forth from the attendant’s mouth, reluctantly discerning their tones and patterns, irritably trying to understand.

  “Amen,” said the attendant.

  “Amen,” replied the children.

  Amen, Ijeọma mouthed, bitterly tasting the textures of new speech.

  “Now form a line!” the attendant said. “You are going to eat your afternoon meal!”

  Ijeọma and the others obeyed the attendant, scuffling into a line and moving to the dining hall, where their rations were even smaller than that of the morning. She winced at the spoonful of white rice on her plate, knowing it would not be enough; watching the other children take their spoons and put their rice into their mouths, ending their meal as quickly as it began. And looking for more food, and finding none, she ate as the others did, then took her metal cup and filled it with water kept in a pitcher on the dining room table.

  And after drinking water that was filled with dust, she realized that the boy with missing teeth was no longer in the dining hall. And as she began searching the hall for him with her eyes, she saw Ikemba sitting a few tables from her and thought he might throw his dish in protest again. But he was sitting peacefully, uttering not a sound; and she smiled, wanting to be near him; finding courage, then lifting herself to the soles of her feet; when suddenly all the attendants and children began standing alongside her.

  “Children of the Manifestation Quarters,” Pastor Nwosu said, once he fully entered the dining hall. “I hope that you are receiving your portion of the Holy Spirit today, and that our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ is moving within you. If not, it means that those demons are still in control of you. If you are allowing evil to possess you, you are not only an enemy of God, you are an enemy of this church. You must know that none of you shall be released until you change your ways and join in the redemption of God’s Word. Until you accept Jesus as your personal Lord and Savior, you will never be free, whether or not you are in the Manifestation Quarters. I have come to remind you that this coming Sunday, I will attempt to remove the demons which have possessed some of you through the blood of Jesus. But if any of you want to repent now, the road is clear. All you must do is speak.”

  The room was silent, and Ijeọma was not sure if any of the other children understood what the pastor had said. She looked about her and saw many heads wavering as if preparing to fall, and saw many eyes puffier than a tall man’s thumb; with lesions marking ashy-white skin, mottled with blood stains and pus.

  “You, mistah man of God … you are a fool!”

  Ijeọma turned her head and saw Ikemba rising.

  “No demon has possessed me,” Ikemba said. “It is you who are possessed. You say that you worship Jesus? It is a lie! Would Jesus lock children inside cages? Would he? … Ehhhhh, no answer? Your god is evil, but my God is good. My God’s name is Christ Jesus. My Jesus is the God of Life, whereas yours is a devil.”

  Ijeọma saw Ikemba continue speaking—even when the pastor walked to where he stood and slapped him over and again, and seized an attendant’s cane to strike him on the head—striking him until he fell to the gro
und. And she sat tensely, wishing she could understand what Ikemba had said, wishing him no pain, wishing Ụzọdị had taught her more than one English word.

  “I will not tolerate blasphemy in this house of God!” Pastor Nwosu said. “All of you have been sent here by your families because of your evil. It is by the power of my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ that all of you will be set free. If you choose to believe the blasphemies spoken among you, you will never leave this place. Have you heard?”

  “Yes pastor!” the children said.

  “Good. Now, finish your food,” the pastor said, leaving the dining hall as the children were hurried into the cells, including Ijeọma, who sat in a corner of the dark space, recalling what had transpired. If Ikemba was injured, she did not know, and she prayed for the ability to speak to him through the bars of the cell. He would answer her, and the two would be able to converse, and laugh, amid the great darkness of the Manifestation Quarters. But she believed it to be an untenable prayer, one which she doubted in the grave silence of the Manifestation Quarters, where neither the songs of birds, nor the hum of mosquitoes, nor the whisper of a prayer were listened to among the children waiting in the darkness, some with knees pulled to their bowed heads, waiting for the silence of Manifestation Quarters to numb the bitter aches slowly forming within their chests.

  And then the bell was rung, and the evening prayer was prayed, and the evening meal was served. The sun went down, and the bell was rung, the sun rose; and the bell was rung again. With showers came the bell; and the bell came with eating and solitude and giving thanks to God. And after three days of these repetitions, Ijeọma knew what the day would be—not requiring a bell to remind her.

  10.

  SHE WAS THINKING OF CHUKWU when she rose that morning, waiting for Chukwu, waiting for the Most Supreme to carry her home like the nza birds that left her window; or like Solomto, who returned to Ichulu after being taken to a foreign land. She lay on the floor of the tiny cell, waiting for her chi to remove her from it, patiently waiting—dismissing each discontentment that said her waiting was prolonged—not knowing which threats the attendants had barked to her that morning; not knowing why the borehole’s water was colored in blue; not knowing the name of the ONK! ONK! sound coming forth from the metal rams and gliding pots echoing throughout the church parking lot; wondering why there were so many of them that day parked haphazardly in the clearings where she showered; not understanding the music of the guitar, the keyboard, or the drum seeping from behind the sanctuary door when the ekwe made hollow knocks; and the ogene joined with its metallic timbre and weight; when the udu grounded it all, through its deep and spirited bellows; not knowing that the day was Sunday morning at Precious Word Ministries church.