For nothing is secret, that shall not be made manifest;
neither anything hid, that shall not be known.
— Luke 8:17

 

He kneels before the cross. I watch him mumble, his lips, those pink, cupid-shaped lips, move soundlessly. I watch him kiss the foot of Jesus. I watch him mumble a few things once again, eyes shut in fervency, his hands in a prayer pose, trembling slightly as a lone tear traces its path down his cheek to his hairy jaw.

His jaw. The memories flood back: me tugging at those hairs, braiding them between my fingers. I shudder, replaying my hands on them.

I watch as he rises and walks down the lines of pews to his seat. The seat purposely reserved for him due to the frequency at which he sat there. His invisible name written all over it. I watch as he takes his seat, his eyes shut in agony, I think. From this angle, I can see it clearly, so I soak him in as I wish, without attracting unneeded attention from those gossipmongers.

Then come the sisters. Falling over themselves to see him. I don’t blame them, really. He is attractive, the light from the fluorescent hitting his face at just the perfect angle. I watch, teeth clenched, as a sister, an usher, walks up to his seat, then offers him a handkerchief, which he accepts with a small, pained smile. Then another scoots closer. Ahem. Her fingers “accidentally” brush his on the armrest. He fakes surprise, pulling his fingers away but not without a smile tugging at his lips. A hidden smile.

Before the closing prayer, one or two more would sway over, tripping over themselves as they ask about his welfare, “Why is he so emotional?” As if they care. As if it’s new.

Mtcheewwww! He has always been emotional! A quality that made him endearing, innocent. Despite his buffed, handsome look, he has a soft heart, a heart of gold, so they think. I almost laugh at the charade.

After closing, he would sit back, waiting for his church mistresses to crowd him and shower him with all sorts of sympathies. Ndo. Sorry oh. Everything will be alright. Have heart. You are a strong man. God will take control. A few attempting, scratch that, most, rubbing his hands and arms in “condolence,” they would say.

Then the preacher would call him, and he would pull himself past the women, all contrived grief and bows and greetings. The preacher would assure him of eternity, life being vanity. How death is part of life, inevitable. How our bodies are just dust, our souls eternal. How we will all meet in eternity. How my body has been missing for the past two weeks. He would cry, pain evident on his face. A few more words of encouragement, then he dismisses him. I will, of course, scoff at the scene. Damn his admirers, if only they knew.

He leaves the church to my black Prado—the one I had bought after saving for 18 months, the one he had claimed as our wedding anniversary gift—my favourite, parked in the garage. As usual, women flit around it, preening and giggling, waiting. As they see him approach, they slip on the mask, utterly sombre. He expects this. So, he acts accordingly. Almost predictable, if you ask me.

After a few kedus, murmurs of sympathy and unwarranted words of encouragement, a side hug here and there that lingers too long, their hands on his shoulders, his arms, longer than necessary; he gets into my Jeep with a solemn look. But if you look closely, you’ll see a smile itching at his lips, ready to curl upward and break across his face.

In my air-conditioned, tinted Jeep, away from prying eyes and wandering hands, he throws his head against the headrest like he always does. And lets out a big laugh. He inserts my flash drive into the music player. My voice floods the Jeep: singing; begging for help. Begging him to stop. Begging for mercy I knew wouldn’t come.

Then with a twisted smile, he zooms off to the place where he hid me.
To the salt and the candles.
To my body adorned in white and red.
To where my body, once pumped with life, now keeps his pockets full.

Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary
the devil walketh about, seeking whom he may devour.
—1 Peter 5:8

 

 

 

 

Photo by Javier Gómez on Unsplash