Action Film
Roseline Mgbodichinma
Roseline Mgbodichinma
When I go to church with mama for mid-week prayers, I wonder who or what is pushing people to fall and cry when nobody is beating them. If they lived in my house, where I chewed cane like roasted corn, they would be somersaulting nonstop. Just because the man of God is touching them, they are falling and breaking church seats. Mama said she will not allow my stubbornness to take her to the grave, even though I know I am a good boy. Each time my name falls from her mouth, I run as if I am chasing a rat till I reach her and kneel before she even starts to speak. I have always been obedient. Just one small mistake I made and she wants to punish me forever. This is my seventh day at church and no matter how much hand the man of God puts on my head, I cannot fall. He says my spirit is strong. Me, I want to go back to running on the street with the neighbor's children, so next time man of God comes I will tumble.
Mama’s favourite chair is now dense and flat, anything can shapeshift when it comes under my mother’s bottom, my father’s current state is proof. My ear can also testify. It buzzes and rings sometimes, it is because I was running from mama’s koboko and we both slipped–she landed on my left ear.
I sprayed mama's American perfume. I saw the seller slide it into her purse. She said it was an oil scent from overseas and I wanted to smell like America. I monitored Mama like in an action film. I came behind the curtains and hid, watching as she brought down her wooden box. She took out a rusted key from between her wrappers and rose the mattress to reveal a padlocked steel box. It made sense now why she was always the last person to dress up. I had planned it, she would be in the backyard picking pepper, and my father would be too busy playing puzzles on the newspaper to notice me. I would run in and run out fast and furious. I dragged my Ghana must-go bag to mama’s bedroom and I began to smear the perfume up and down my trousers and polos. I did not want to come back twice, I scented all my clothes.
It was mission accomplished until I remembered that my favourite khaki shorts hung wet in the backyard. It was in its pocket that the stolen chocolate melted and sizzling dodo became warm. It most of all deserved the overseas scent. I ran to remove it from the clothing line, God knows I did not spend up to 30 seconds outside so I do not understand how I ran into the room to meet Mama sitting on the floor with a whip. She was screaming for the whole compound to hear. She pulled my ears and asked me where I hid all her missing money, wrappers, and jewelry. I could not speak because the perfume scent had filled my throat and the whole room was choked breathless. My head spun around as familiar voices asked me to confess and be free, that if I could waste American perfume, then there was nothing I could not steal. I was officially named the compound thief. The compound people started to name their missing items, even things I had never seen before. They mentioned everything from cooking pots and underwear to earrings and hard currency.
"My hundred dollars just disappeared mysteriously, now I know the thief," Mama Jide screamed and everyone sucked up to her. Mama Jide, the scrap seller, who I was sure had never seen all the naira notes complete. My mother agreed with all the neighbours as she flogged me; it had to be me who stole these items.
My father just stood aside and watched my mother trash the scent out of me. I never understood his need to stay out of my mother’s way even when it involved his own child. Until that one day, he tried to stop her from going out in the middle of the night and she lifted him with one arm. She held his hands and legs together and locked him in the public toilet. That man sat there marinating over shit till she returned. The neighbours had to poop in nylons and nobody dared express their frustration to mama when she returned. She was the thick madam that no one questioned.
She insisted that I soaked and washed all my scented clothes till they were odorless. I wore only a boxer like Pastor John in our compound. I had never seen that man in a full outfit except on Sunday mornings. All types of sisters visited him in the name of deliverance; the carpenter was always coming to fix Pastor John’s bed because it broke every time. His deliverance sessions were accompanied by funny noises. I would place my ear at his window and wonder why the demons he prided himself in casting out kept screaming, I am coming! Instead of them going away. Nobody knew how to mind their business. We knew each other's secrets.
This is the ninth day I have gone without clothes. The sun has refused to soak up the scents on my clothes. I wore only my boxers and followed mama to church for my deliverance as usual. I could not wear any clothes until they were scentless. Today, man of God laid hands on me and I somersaulted seven times. I even began to dance and fall on chairs. I made sure to break as many as possible. When I was done, Man of God said the spirit of stubbornness had left me and he had trapped it in his bottle of anointing oil. Mama danced and praised God like she had just won the lottery.
Papa is dressing my wounds. I have developed bruises from the acrobatics I performed in church. Mama walks in on us and does not say anything. She just hands me my Khaki shorts and walks away.
Mama’s favourite chair is now dense and flat, anything can shapeshift when it comes under my mother’s bottom, my father’s current state is proof. My ear can also testify. It buzzes and rings sometimes, it is because I was running from mama’s koboko and we both slipped–she landed on my left ear.
I sprayed mama's American perfume. I saw the seller slide it into her purse. She said it was an oil scent from overseas and I wanted to smell like America. I monitored Mama like in an action film. I came behind the curtains and hid, watching as she brought down her wooden box. She took out a rusted key from between her wrappers and rose the mattress to reveal a padlocked steel box. It made sense now why she was always the last person to dress up. I had planned it, she would be in the backyard picking pepper, and my father would be too busy playing puzzles on the newspaper to notice me. I would run in and run out fast and furious. I dragged my Ghana must-go bag to mama’s bedroom and I began to smear the perfume up and down my trousers and polos. I did not want to come back twice, I scented all my clothes.
It was mission accomplished until I remembered that my favourite khaki shorts hung wet in the backyard. It was in its pocket that the stolen chocolate melted and sizzling dodo became warm. It most of all deserved the overseas scent. I ran to remove it from the clothing line, God knows I did not spend up to 30 seconds outside so I do not understand how I ran into the room to meet Mama sitting on the floor with a whip. She was screaming for the whole compound to hear. She pulled my ears and asked me where I hid all her missing money, wrappers, and jewelry. I could not speak because the perfume scent had filled my throat and the whole room was choked breathless. My head spun around as familiar voices asked me to confess and be free, that if I could waste American perfume, then there was nothing I could not steal. I was officially named the compound thief. The compound people started to name their missing items, even things I had never seen before. They mentioned everything from cooking pots and underwear to earrings and hard currency.
"My hundred dollars just disappeared mysteriously, now I know the thief," Mama Jide screamed and everyone sucked up to her. Mama Jide, the scrap seller, who I was sure had never seen all the naira notes complete. My mother agreed with all the neighbours as she flogged me; it had to be me who stole these items.
My father just stood aside and watched my mother trash the scent out of me. I never understood his need to stay out of my mother’s way even when it involved his own child. Until that one day, he tried to stop her from going out in the middle of the night and she lifted him with one arm. She held his hands and legs together and locked him in the public toilet. That man sat there marinating over shit till she returned. The neighbours had to poop in nylons and nobody dared express their frustration to mama when she returned. She was the thick madam that no one questioned.
She insisted that I soaked and washed all my scented clothes till they were odorless. I wore only a boxer like Pastor John in our compound. I had never seen that man in a full outfit except on Sunday mornings. All types of sisters visited him in the name of deliverance; the carpenter was always coming to fix Pastor John’s bed because it broke every time. His deliverance sessions were accompanied by funny noises. I would place my ear at his window and wonder why the demons he prided himself in casting out kept screaming, I am coming! Instead of them going away. Nobody knew how to mind their business. We knew each other's secrets.
This is the ninth day I have gone without clothes. The sun has refused to soak up the scents on my clothes. I wore only my boxers and followed mama to church for my deliverance as usual. I could not wear any clothes until they were scentless. Today, man of God laid hands on me and I somersaulted seven times. I even began to dance and fall on chairs. I made sure to break as many as possible. When I was done, Man of God said the spirit of stubbornness had left me and he had trapped it in his bottle of anointing oil. Mama danced and praised God like she had just won the lottery.
Papa is dressing my wounds. I have developed bruises from the acrobatics I performed in church. Mama walks in on us and does not say anything. She just hands me my Khaki shorts and walks away.
Roseline Mgbodichinma (she/her) is a Nigerian writer, poet and blogger who is passionate about documenting women's stories. She is currently pursuing a law degree and actively freelancing. Her work has been published on Isele, Native Skin, Down River Road, Amplify, the JFA human rights mag, Blue marble review, Indianapolis review, The Hellebore, and elsewhere. You can reach her on her blog at www.mgbodichi.com where she writes about art, issues and lifestyle.