God of Mercy

by Okezie Nwoka

  Let’s not talk of this.

  “No, Ijeọma. I want to talk about what we have been talking about. Why do you keep avoiding this conversation?”

  What exactly am I avoiding?

  “Ijeọma, we have been in love for nine years now. And for nine years we have been dodging this topic. Ijeọma, I love you, but I am also a follower of Jesus …”

  Then follow him, Ikemba; except do not expect me to forget what is mine. I do not mean to be stubborn, but I cannot (and will not) follow Jesus and Chukwu at the same time.

  “Yes you can, IJ. Our ancestors did not know the name of Jesus because he had not revealed himself to them. If he had shown them his many signs, they would have called him Chukwu’s son. Ijeọma, it is as simple as this … Chukwu is God the Father, and God the Father is Chukwu …”

  No, my love. They are different. Is Chukwu male, or elderly, or white? Does my religion not have power of its own, or do I have to conquer every corner of the world before Chukwu’s name has meaning? Look at what is happening in the name of your god. Look at those children; or have you forgotten? These children are being kept under the orders of the pastor. You all have made Mr. Nwosu your god. Follow your god, and I will follow my own.

  “Ehhh so you want to follow the gods now? What of Anị? Ask any Igbo person and he will tell you that people not fit to live are given to the goddess as a sacrifice. Is death not worse than slavery …”

  Anị is dead in my village.

  “Really? And what was it that killed her.”

  I saved a child, and it killed the goddess.

  The two fell silent–—becoming unsure of who they were becoming.

  “I love you, Ijeọma … I have always loved you … And I want you to marry me …”

  I love you, too, Ikemba, but we must both be careful about what we are doing saying.

  “Why is it that you are not believing my good words?” Ikemba said in Igbo.

  Listen I have my beliefs and you have yours. I understand what you have said, Ikemba; but I have seen my own signs. I know that I love you, too, and that fact will endure.

  “Don’t you know we will one day die! I don’t want my beloved to perish in hellfire because she did not believe in the word of God …”

  Ikemba, when did our ancestors start perishing?

  The two fell silent again, ending the argument as they typically had as Ijeọma turned to her diary without resolve, writing in its pages—not wanting to watch Ikemba return from where he came, yet watching him still—both reminding themselves that they loved each other as fully as they knew how. And though their love did not convert one to the other’s most sacred belief, it sustained them through the years, and created for them a place of refuge—a place to where they could escape when they thought of going home, giving them security when Pastor Nwosu threatened them with punishment—having them hopefully in the morning’s survival; and they remained with each other despite their conflicting beliefs; and they kissed each other with pressing lips, remembering their own love, remembering that it began when he found her looking at him in secret, and when he asked why she did so, he saw her growing more mysterious; and began perceiving those things he knew had laid beyond her eyes—since he was pulled toward her, too—drawn up by her beautiful frame, drawn up by her nighttime-colored eyes—as they spoke to each other, sharing their hearts during the evening meal—falling deeply, then more deeply, attending to those things more precious than a church’s name.

  It was their love which transformed Ikemba, who believed such love came from the hands of Pastor Nwosu. So he protected this love, obeying the will of God as was determined by the teaching of his new church. He had not known that something had changed within him the night he was given the pastor’s acid, and fell silent at memories of that night, when he thought the pastor cast out his many demons—refusing to fight Pastor Nwosu, and beginning to obey the pastor’s words—believing that any follower of Christ was an actual follower of Christ—falling silent as the pastor bruised and burned the newer children—apologizing to the pastor for all his sins, for urinating on him, for attempting to escape; and he was forgiven after he promised to reject any temptation toward disobedience, and to become truer to the ways of Precious Word Ministries.

  It was with such conviction that Ikemba led the children of the Manifestation Quarters into the church sanctuary on Sunday. He had tied them together using the church’s old ropes, and was leading them toward the front of the altar, not hearing them dragging their feet as they went, not seeing their heads swinging low as if too heavy for their bodies.

  “BRING THAT BOY TO ME!” said Pastor Nwosu.

  Ikemba quickly untied a little boy from the rope and led him to the side of the pastor.

  “TODAY! ALL OF YOU GATHERED HERE WILL WITNESS A MIRACLE!” said Pastor Nwosu.

  “AMEN!” cried the congregation. “HOLY GHOST FIRE!” cried the congregation.

  “This boy here has been possessed by evil spirits, and TODAY! I will remove every single one of them. BRING ME THE HOLY WATER!”

  Ikemba left the altar and then quickly returned with a bucket of water and a thick palm branch, leaving them all near the pastor’s feet.

  “WHAT IS YOUR NAME?” said Pastor Nwosu.

  The little boy looked upward and gave no response.

  “AM I SPEAKING TO THE SPIRIT OF DEAFNESS? I SAID WHAT IS YOUR NAME!”

  The boy gazed into the pastor’s eyes, unmoved by the pastor’s yelling; but stood before him, silently engaging in his protest, which vexed the pastor; and led the pastor to begin shaking a boy who was tired of being hurt and touched, who recoiled his head and spat onto the pastor’s face—with mucus-coated saliva running down the pastor’s spectacles, all the way to his lips—as the angry boy frowned, as Ikemba grabbed the boy and threw him onto the sanctuary floor, seizing a cane from an attendant—and beating the boy, watching him quivering at every stroke—hearing him screaming as he was beaten, not feeling satisfied, not feeling satisfied, until the lashes would break his skin—beating the little boy, lashing the reddened child—until his blood became blood which the church gathered could witness.

  “My sso–it is enough, Ikemba,” Pastor Nwosu said. “It is enough.”

  And Ikemba dropped the cane and moved away from the child, looking upward as he went—seeing the silent congregation—noticing the amount of people who had attended the church service that day: the elderly men of the first few rows, the widows sitting near the main entrance, the choir, the many families, the hundreds of families, holding the hands of the ones called their children as he saw bewilderment in their eyes, as he moved away from the children on the rope, toward a far, back corner, to stand within its crevice until the church service had ended.

  And when it had, he found himself on the gravel path heading toward his bedroom—walking quickly, wishing not to be seen—then feeling a soft tap, and turning to see Ijeọma holding a sheet of paper.

  How could you beat that child?

  “He spat in the pastor’s face. He was to be punished …”

  Who, with true authority, says he was to be punished? And if such were the case, why must the punishment come from you?

  “What are you talking about? Haven’t you ever struck these witches and wizards before …”

  No, I have not. How can you possibly call them witches? It has not been long since we were held in the quarters against our will.

  “Yes, but we do not live in the quarters anymore. We have been promoted …”

  Promoted to what? Pastor Nwosu has not given us anything except uniforms and a place to live. We still belong to this church just like the children.

  “I am no witch or wizard, Ijeọma! I am a child of God! And maybe if you were to abandon your pagan ways, you would agree with me. Do you not wear the pastor’s uniform also? You’ve come to chastise me, but aren’t you dressed in pink and white? If you don’t like this church, leave. If you do not like the man of God, leave his house! No one is holdin
g you anymore!”

  Ijeọma turned to move away from him, but he held her by her shoulders and produced an apology; but she did not think it enough—flexing her shoulders, then hurrying away from him—running up the gravel path—until she looked above the roofs of the cars in the parking lot to find another, a large black other, whose wheels were tall and whose windows were wide—one whom Ijeọma remembered as the greatest of the metal pots, whose body bore the letters J-E-E-P—driving quickly onto the lot and producing a person who collected from an attendant’s arms the boy whom Ikemba had beaten—throwing him into the back of the idling car before hurrying away from the lot. And Ijeọma thought she knew what she had seen until she remembered Ikemba’s words and reminded herself that she was nothing like the others, not like the attendant whom she now saw—moving along the gravel path—rubbing the skin on their arms. She was kind, she thought, a kind attendant, a benevolent attendant, it was Ikemba who had changed, recalling nine full years at once: nine years of resisting Pastor Nwosu and his church, nine years of professing something they had both been calling love; and although acid, and starvation, and beatings had changed their bodies, she did not think they had changed Ikemba’s mind, seeing him beating that child, remembering, doubting that he had ever loved; doubting their years of loving had been true; knowing for years that love would be difficult; but not knowing how difficult that love would be; and wanting, somehow, for their love to be easy; then sobering to the truth that love must only be what it can be as she returned to her room, and opened her diary to write:

  DIARY ENTRY #911 8 DECEMBER 1999

  Chukwu what has become of Ikemba and me? I love him and I believe that he loves me too. But when he beat that boy today, I saw him as something else, ruthless, even a monster. I couldn’t believe that a man whom I love so dearly could hurt another person so.

  Chukwu are all men like that? Are all men full of anger and hatred? It seems to be that way. Look at my father. Look at the pastor. Perhaps there are exceptions. My cousin Uzodi has always loved me and he is a man. But after all this time that could have changed. Perhaps there are exceptions, I have now remembered Igbokwe; but who else?

  Chukwu I love Ikemba. Give him back his heart. Bless him with a kind spirit. I want to kiss him, and feel as if you were pulling us into the air. Perhaps you can lift him up and show him the vision. Perhaps you can raise us both, and take us back home, or somewhere else that is not here. Chukwu don’t leave me.

  IJEỌMA CLOSED HER DIARY, AND spent the rest of the afternoon at her post in the Manifestation Quarters. She walked along the corridor, watching the children in the cells, pitying them as they sat in dark corners, silently waiting for the day to pass. And she wished she could open the cell doors and have them run through fields, and wanted to feed them until they grew full and stout, until their spines stopped protruding from their curved backs—not wanting to beat any of them—but desiring for them all to be freed from the cells—and to fly to their truest home.

  And on quiet evenings, when the night was at its darkest, she would take old fruit from the kitchen and give it to the children to eat, finding that she could become acquainted with the younger ones, and learn their names, and offer them to Chukwu in prayer, hearing them say, “Thank you ma,” without caring that she did not audibly respond, without caring that the fruit was nearly rotten as they devoured each piece and yelled out their names, as she raised a finger to her lip, reminding them of silence. And they would smile at her, in the cells and in the dining hall, and she would nod to them, refusing to forget that she had once been as they were, whether in those times of touching the palate of her mouth, or of descending from a flight in the privacy of her bedroom, Ijeọma recalled it—through the eyes of memory—that she had been a child of the Manifestation Quarters.

  And that evening, as she ate her meal in the dining hall, she felt Ikemba sitting next to her, then holding her right hand.

  “I am sorry, my love. I did not mean to speak to you in such a manner …”

  Do not worry, Ikemba. I am not upset.

  “I want you to understand something. Do you not know that it is because of you that I have become like this …”

  So, I have become the root of this problem?

  “No! No! God has blessed me with you, IJ! And I am afraid that if I offend Him, he will take you away. I cannot live with such a thing—so I obey Him, with all that I have, so that we will remain together …”

  Ikemba, it is like I said, I love you. Though you must understand that if you touch any child in the manner that you did this morning, I am not sure that I can continue to remain with you.

  “Okay, you have my word. I will not flog them anymore …”

  Are you sure of it?

  “I am sure.”

  They nodded at each other, and Ikemba joined Ijeọma in finishing their evening meal. And when their plates were empty, they stood from the wooden bench and returned the children to the Manifestation Quarters as Ijeọma walked behind the bobbing line—wearing her pink-checkered uniform, and holding a small cane—leading the children into the cells, then closing the barred doors, watching some collapse onto the cement floor as others began picking their wounds and as many began begging for more to eat. And she turned her eyes; closing the doors; quietly thanking Chukwu to be no longer in the cells; covering her nostrils as foul odors rose; looking past the mottled red sprinkled across the zinc roof.

  And when she heard their voices begging as she turned her metal key, she wanted to tell them she would take them home. But there were no homes to which she could return them, since some were taken off village paths and village roads and several others were sent by their families; and Ijeọma understood, locking the children in the cells because it was her assignment, those were the laws of the church, and the church and the children were now bigger things, and this was the time for survival. And as she slept in her room, seeing a black ocean in her mirror and blue squares streaming along her mounted clock and bedroom floor, her justifications began peeling like the skin of the children pleading in the cells—not letting her go, but encircling her and moving inward—and asking her and begging her and why, why treat us like monkeys, why Ijeọma, why you call us witch, Ijeọma, no give us bread, why not give us bread and yam, let us go, Ijeọma, please, please leave me, leave me, don’t come around me, please, get up from me, get up from me, go to the home of your mother … the world is at war, please I can’t breathe, please go, go, go, as she awoke to the silence and sweat, weeping from a guilt pronounced within herself, condemning her life and her abomination, knowing Ikemba’s words to be good, wondering if Chukwu condemned her, too—and reviled her, too, and rejected her, too—pleading for the leniency of the Most Supreme, pleading for Chukwu’s mercy.

  And she thought of releasing them. She had her own set of keys, and permission to move about the quarters; but there were other attendants who stayed awake each night, patrolling the church grounds; and if they were discovered, they would all be forced to drink acid: a punishment she did not want another person to bear again.

  She began fingering the taut skin around her lips, using her tongue to feel the cavities and bumps of where her mouth’s palate was once smooth, sitting atop her bed and thinking of any name, any face among the attendants with whom she could tell secrets and make plans. But there was no name. Not even Ikemba would understand, she thought, as all the ones with whom she had been kept were now transformed by Precious Word Ministries; there was no dịbịa to speak of new things; Nnenna was not there to help feed the children once the night had grown to its darkest; help of that kind was no longer with her. And she remained in her bedroom, residing with unseen things: Chukwu, Chineke, and chi, and memories of faith, and those responsibilities that did not ask to be given, yet each moment required the most precious care, mercy, love and mercy, life and mercy, rejecting the responsibilities, but watching them return, pleading and pleading for them to go, to let the children fend for themselves, to let them value denial
, defeat and denial, deny, since I did not build the prisons, I did not make this church, so accept it, please, please, accept it, you children, what, what, is there between you and me—

  DIARY ENTRY #917 18 DECEMBER 1999

  Have I become a monster? Have I? Look at what I have done. I have grown into a woman who locks innocent children into prison cells. I thought I was good. I thought you chose me to fly because I was good. But how can someone who is good do evil. Shouldn’t I leave Precious Word? But where will I go? I don’t have any money. I can’t even utter a sound. Chukwu stop this. I ask you to stop it. But it is like I have become like those hateful men. I have become just like my father.

  I do not want those parts of him that are in me. What am I supposed to do? How can I reject him for those things he did? I am doing the same, almost the same. Who is above evil? Perhaps I was never good; but you raised me to the sky …

  Protect those children Chukwu. There is very little I can do for them. Why don’t you protect them? If you want them free, they will be free. But this is not Ichulu.

  IJEỌMA CLOSED HER DIARY AND placed it under her pillow then turned to lie flat on her bed. And when she opened her eyes to a knocking at her door, she saw John forcing his way into her room, with terror in his eyes and a lantern in his hand.

  “Ijeọma, you must listen, and listen well. By the orders of the king and his pastor I have c-c-come to rape you.”

  Ijeọma had not sat up when John had entered, and was now clutching her rappa, remaining still and flat.

  “Keep y-y-your clothes … on,” said John, “There is much more you must know.” John brought his kerosene lantern to Ijeọma’s desk and turned its small knob to bring more light into the room.

  “Ijeọma … I am someone … I am someone too,” John said, looking back to Ijeọma’s bed and seeing that her face was a darkened silhouette, with two eyes for moons.

  “Obi Iroatụ, the king who now reigns over Amalike … H-H-HE is my uncle … he is a wick-k-ked man. A very wicked man. Do you know those boys from your village … who came to this town … and were murdered … My uncle, after shooting them dead … plucked out their organs, and sold each one for millions. That is what he does. That is how my family has been making money for years. They sell bodies, especially those of the children here in Precious Word … They won’t saw or pluck out their body parts, unless they die on the road to the people who have come to purchase them. Haven’t you seen them? … in the big Jeeps … when they throw the children inside of them, and we never see them again? And what of your boyfriend Ikemba; he has remained in the church simply because he is the pastor’s first son, birthed before the pastor was married to any woman. And what of you? … Do you know why the king and his pastor have commanded me to rape you? It is because the king has now fully corrupted the pastor, and has said that the ONLY way the church will finish construction is if you, YOU, produce offspring who can fly. My uncle wants to sell your children to people around the world, so that he can continue making his billions.”