Where spirits lead: Chideziri POV

I have a small voice in my head.

I don't remember when it came, i don't even remember when it wasn't there.

I call it—him: Deziri. I think he's a braver version of me. Stronger, reckless, free-r, more daring. 

And right now, Deziri is telling me, very brazenly–in the house of the Lord, to smack this lady.

I almost oblige him, and her.

One more.

 One more nudge, and i will smack this paparika-faced woman into the heavens. 

She has small chinese-y eyes inlaid on skin the colour of icheku fruit pods. Her gown, a blue-black stripped bodice is cinched at its waist in smooth ripples of three's. The bald man beside her could be her husband. 

She started it when the church rose for ' high praise', it being intentionally  quacking and nudging me, probably to force me to dance.

"Because you won't dance." a small thought says in my head.

I ignore him and hold my ground.

She quacks me again, this time with her shoulder, her eyes are a brown twinkle of mischief. She knows she's pissing me off. On a second thought i don't smack her. The mere thought of being held down by those muscled-thugs guarding the altar steps in the name of ushers is not appealing, but it isn't half as bad as that of being '' delivered' by Pastor Gabriel in front of the whole church for demonic possession. 

"Not worth it!" i chant over and over again, until i almost to believe it.

The church is a wild sway of colours, amber here, emerald hue there, fire red and pink there. It is saturated with moist cold breeze from the air conditioners. 

Conqueror's chapel is no joke. 

At its full capacity, it is packed with people, their bodies swivelling vigorously to the rhythm of the music. It can't get any louder. 

My eyes sweep the crowd until i spot a familiar hulking build at the second row. Tobi stands out from the trounge like a tree in the middle of a forest of shrubs (if he grew somewhere else, he could have been a baller), his tawn skin is a sharp contrast to the dark browns all around him. The slow pendulum of his shoulders is the only indication that he can actually hear the music. In that regard he's my role model.

Mumsi should be here. It's the fourth Sunday Sunday in a row since she last came to church. Today, her legs hurt. Last week she was too tired. I can't remember what the week-before that was.

 A part of me wants to squeal with glee every Sunday she cooks up a new excuse, the idea being: Mumsi becomes lax equals Chidi becomes laxer; but there is this look on her face when she says it, a submissive weariness that feels like something in her is broken, something that can never be fixed.

It makes me very uneasy.

"Have your seats majestically in the house of your Father," pastor gabriel's voice booms. Can it get any cheesier?. The answer is yes, when two seconds later he tells us to 'take a moment to welcome our brothers and sisters in the Lord' to church.

If you don't know what that means, it means enduring handshakes and cologne-filled hugs from total strangers.

I groan, full blown psychological pain coursing through my body.

I didn't bring my phone to church, i never do, and I always end up regretting that decision. I should be in Teens church right now with Josie, not bored out of my mind in this mini cathedral. We would be whispering about something now, maybe how the woman with that tight lemon dress is sitting like a mannequin, or the wolverine-claw tribal marks of the other man's face–if i hadn't listened to Tobi.

 His exact words were: Teens church is for 'small-small children'.

At fifteen, i may be the height of a full grown man but i am beginning to think i would have been perfectly fine there, with all the other 'small-small' children. But okay.

I feel myself drift, ever slowly, until only a small part of me in here listening to Pastor Gabriel's rant about " the blessedness of praise: gateway to guidance of the spirit".

Soon all i can hear is the whirl of fans above us and all i can see is the dull layer of oil paint on the walls.

Then i see her.

I see her,because she is not wearing one of those colour splashed ankara gowns that every other female has on. If she was, she still wouldn't have blended in. She is wearing a jeans jacket and leggings that cling to her leg with all its might. Not that i blame it.

I see what you doing there bro.

For a girl, she is on the tall side and her hair is a mess of coal black kinks piled atop her head. Then, as if fate suddenly decided to accept my friend requests, she turns– and looks right at me.

She is beautiful. 

No, She is not.

Beautiful will stop in the middle of an expressway, with cars speeding towards it from both lanes, to stare at her. Beautiful's just a word.

She gives it a new depth, and for the very first time since i can remember, i am not at the church. I am in church: body, soul and if possible spirit.

And somehow, in that moment, i know that when ever i hear the word "beautiful", i will remember that day, and i will remember the girl with skin that trapped the light. She is staring back now, as if she can hear my thoughts, as if her spirit can feel mine across the distance.

Pastor Gabriel's voice booms over the speakers in symphony with my infatuation and for once i want to believe him. Badly.

"When the spirit leads you, you can do no wrong!" He said 

"Hallelujah?"

A thunderous Amen.