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HIS FOUR LETTERS

Once upon a time, there was the birth of the catch phrase of a young boy called me. All I knew how to do then was tell that girlfriend of mine that I could die for her, kill for her, and a couple of other things my lips were eager to tell. I never said those words to misrepresent, it was only me responding to my love-vibe emotions whenever we sat in dark and unfrequented spots. I remember how her mum teased calling me her daughter’s handbag, in fact we were ‘deserved couples’ according to mouths from gossips. She left for the city and returned after her three weeks stay in Lagos state; the blush on her face was lost, and for the first time her conducts fuelled my doubts. She was done with the love song, it was a moment for me indeed, how I wished it was just one of those nightmares — no, it was a short and long lasting pain in my red heart. My offence was that I still belonged to the class of a bicycle rider, climbing trees to fetch palm wines, and a young man who had no city plan. Really? So the reward for loving a girl completely is a noiseless but painful match on my head?? She left me for her new found lover because he was a lagosian, and yes I stood pretty erect thinking of the possibilities or feasibilities of repairing my shattered heart — How it hurts to be in a relationship for fifteen years only to lose it in the space of four words, “I am done here”.

Conditional love, that is the thing of this generation. So glaringly, the lagosian would behold the opening of her two legs — how naive and foolish she was. Cry because of the break up? Hell no, I had more important things to take care of. I normally should have tears leaking from my eyes but the annoyance of the separation took over my body and soul. I could not tell my father about the emotional imbalance, he would tell me to stop being a sissy and assist him in the farm. My mother was not even an option, she would get a dozen of girls from the village that I forget the love of my life instantly — no, that was not the reason, she just wanted a grand child. The chief priest was an option, but my guts reminded me of how many cows and chickens I would tender before the sacral tent of the Wise One just for counselling; it was a God-forbid for me.The home of the pastor was remote from where I stay, but the urgent need to rebalance my life saw me banging at his almost faded and falling supposed iron gate under world breaking minutes.

HOW INTIMATE WERE YOU BOTH?

What a start indeed. Why will he ask me such a question with a very large grin? I hoped he was not asking to hear some sensual gist — “he probably does not get visits as such and wants to hear something other than scriptures”, I thought. So I replied, “very intimate”.

INTIMATE TO THE POINT OF SEX?

How does it work? I really thought God knew my burden, and I felt he wired just the direct answers to the priest in charge. All I smelt was a long sermon topicalized SEX  EDUCATION, and I was so sure God knew I was not with that patience. What was he thinking anyways? Is it possible for two persons fashioned with contrary genders to be intimate for fifteen years without the alive man inserting his pintle into the reddish, sacral, and juicy orifice of his belle? So impossible. With his serious look and body-itching expectation, I had this guilt creeping into my thick veins so I managed to swing a lie hoping he swallows the prevarication without divine revelation. “We had this thing, it was just once”. I said without maintaining eye contact with him.

SOME THINGS HAPPEN FOR A REASON. DO YOU KNOW JESUS CHRIST?

What was I even expecting from him? If I was expecting him to repair my wounded heart by the application of godly punchlines or total subscription to the Holy Bible, then I just deceived myself. The best he could tell me was that a heart break was for a reason; I am not against his comforting words as my aim was just to let out what had been my worries. What got my mouth lettered ‘O’ was the introduction of the question,”Do you know Jesus Christ?” These pastors do not know when to give the sermon a chill, they find it convenient amidst your discommode to slot in stretchy epistles of Christ’s life on Earth. But then, who does not know that Jesus Christ was the man who came to Earth centuries behind short of the amalgam of sperm and egg? Who does not know that Jesus Christ was the man accused of blasphemy, and subjected to 39 lashes of angered whips from aggressive cavalry persons? A man whose only offence was love, a man who saw the world as His “alobam”; the King and the Messiah. I replied, “yes, I know Jesus Christ”.


DO
YOU LOVE JESUS CHRIST?

This was clearly a cue to leave the pastor’s house. He was using me as one of his only-God-knows-how-many opinion polls. My annoyance was that I smelt he was going to ask if I had accepted Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Saviour — a line that I had accepted from I-cannot-count-how-many synagogues. With a breathe in and breathe out, I gave the question deep thoughts… Deep now, and even deeper.

Bible scholars say that Jesus Christ was the lamb that was slain for my sake. I know they said all His messages centered on love. So I gave it broad thoughts as how it touched me. My mind reflected on the happenings in Nigeria — if this was the aim of this man of God, he must have succeeded one way or the other. I love my customs, I love the Nigerian women in their glorious attires, I am a keeper of the oath TO SERVE WITH HEART AND MIGHT, but I hate that I am way too handicapped to restore the already decaying green grass which supposedly stood as our symbol. My ex dumped me like Raina — she lived a pretentious life and dwelt on the higher love; a relationship she shared with my government. Today, the political make up is faced with arduousness, peck of troubles, evil, embarrassment, sentiments, and a greedy godfather. That politician wakes up one morning and decides to fool the proles with familiar jingles FOR YOUR INTERESTS, I LIVE TO FEND. The proles buy the succulent words only to meet hardship and lack as a ripple effect — the few good leaders fight oppression from godfathers, and they end up breaking their strong principles to maintain relevance; it is a choice of relevance over love for the masses. Today, the people from the Eastern part of Nigeria remembers the constricted gospel of Ojukwu simply because they feel neglected by the government, they are tired of screaming and having their eye bags all drooped with sorrowful tears. Today, Nnamdi Kanu counts yet another day in prison, maybe it serves him and the disciples of IPOB right; but just maybe they have a reason to call for secession.What our Government used to back the arrest of Kanu can only be that Nigeria is “one” — are we one? are we not babies in the arms of tigers? are we not residing in Nigeria as strangers? are we not many countries birthed or traced to sentiments but all in one accommodating umbrella (Nigeria)?
Today, I am handicapped and having my hands tied. I am young blooded and very much a youth but the best I can do is gossip the mishaps that has befallen my dear country. I once tried hearing opinions from people I called friends about what we can do to resurrect Nigeria, all they did was stress that Nigerians have corruption as their birthright and if they get up there, they will not dull themselves. So I am bewildered and need no one to tell me that we are in the era where a man loves you because he wants to benefit parasitically from you; the era where love comes your way on a condition; an era where the unconditional love Jesus Christ exemplified lacks jurisdiction. So I look at the pastor, and say “I think I love Jesus”. He smiled and embraced me like I was his prodigal son. I may not have gotten what I expected as he seemed to move away from my emotional issues, but I surely had a time to ponder on things away from that she-wolf. “Let us pray”. He said as he held my hand firmly. The build up of the prayer wowed me as it was a parroting of four letters. 

That moment when you need love, but feel it is just chimerical.

                                    OKOCHA OBED

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Author:

My name is Okocha Obed, you can call me Obeezy. I love to display aesthetics through my ink—I must say writing is my small world. I consider myself a deep writer; I say I am deep because I have discovered that part about myself, even, my fabulous audience share same view. I believe in connecting to all kind of persons as there is always something to learn from everyone. I see myself as an actor; to stay on the stage, I need to think ink. The voice is a reflection of myself and my conscience. I always felt I could be like superman while growing up. It was pretty ridiculous so all I did was dream of being a soldier. It was abortive. So I created a world where I could keep talking about the ills in my community but with other flavours to show I am growing into completeness. keep reading.

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