Leseprobe
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Macabre
Isioma Jemimah Okonicha
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Belletristik/Erzählende Literatur
Beschreibung
I remembered the scene that’d played out the previous night, with Sister Susan, the chubby youth secretary of another church, who'd accused me of eating the remaining portion of beans they'd reserved, since we’d camped together, and had food prepared by some selected executives which I wasn’t part of.
"What kind of woman is she? I leave her to God.” I said tearfully, as I thought, as if I was speaking to another person.
She was so convincing, that everyone had believed her claim, as she accused me falsely:
“I saw you go through the back, towards the kitchen, but I didn’t expect that from you." she repeated loudly.
My experience at the camp, with Sister Susan, the same woman that I’d helped to carry her bag, on the day we arrived at the camp.
“Can I forget?” I asked myself, “no.” But I’ve forgiven her.
We’re humans after all, and most importantly am a Christian; the same word Brother Thomas, the only friend I made at the camp, had told me, after the disgrace I faced.
“To err is human and to forgive is divine.”
I reminded myself, as I rushed to struggle with the crowd, to board the train that'd already arrived.
I looked up at the setting sun, as I walked towards the main road, to board a taxi, that would take me home, after I'd closed from work. I remembered the strange dream that I heard, the previous night, with an old man in the dream, asking me to look up at the sky, to tell if I saw anything. Before I’d woken up in sweats.
“What was the meaning of that dream?” I wondered.
"The sky was nothing sort of clear, when I'd peeped through my window, at that odd hour of the night. Instead, I saw a cloud that was all blurred and dark, and with little stars, shining back at me.
Why did he ask me to look at the sky, when he knew that I was going to see nothing? What was the meaning of that dream?” I worried because I never have ordinary dreams; they always have their unique meanings, I knew it was a dream I shouldn’t take for granted, but I didn’t have the slightest idea what it meant.
I couldn’t even pray for long hours, like I did before, or even read the bible verses; I’d grown deeply moody, I hardly spoke, and even when I did, it sounded rude. I knew it was time to speak to someone about it, but I was reluctant; that was the lie I told myself. I knew deep within me, that I was enjoying the melancholy moment.
I thought of telling Pastor Timothy; my parish pastor, and close friend, he was like a brother to me because my older sister, Aunt Rukky, was married to his cousin, but I still couldn’t tell him I felt angry, or maybe I didn’t want to look unspiritual to him.
”Uncle Dele good evening,” a middle aged woman, horned and greeted, from a red car, that she drove as she parked beside me, as I stood by the main road. She was a neighbor from the next compound, so I knew her quite well.
“Don’t worry, I will take the bus.” I quickly said, passing and ignoring her, as I hopped into a bus that’d just parked in front of her car, leaving the woman obviously disappointed.
“I’ve been noticing your mood, you hardly call me these days, is everything okay?” My fiancée asked me, as we spoke on the phone, immediately I returned home.
“Yes everything is fine; my mother is disappointed, that she wouldn’t get to meet you again.” I changed the subject.
