Chapter 7: Chapter 7

Reverend Grace did everything within her might to keep to the promise she made to Moses. She was not the kind of woman that was wooed by the vainglorious things of this world that only waxed and waned. Neither was she weakened by the uphill task of raising her child. She was unafraid of that. She was a valiant and godly woman. She was not like Moses’s gutless mother that abandoned him in the cold. Not minding the fact that she was growing older by the day, with age taking a toll on her, she was still sharp and brainy, and could still remember almost offhandedly, a lot of verses in the Bible. And of particular note was the verse that said: ‘The one who puts his hands on the plough and looks back, is not fit for the kingdom of God.’ She would do anything not to be found unfit after such a long and tiring walk with God.

To Reverend Grace, being ‘unfit’ also meant going back on her words to give Moses the love, care and support his mother could not give him. Moses had since grown under her watchful eyes into a fine, pubescent lad. He was almost a man now. How time flies! Reverend Grace was still finding it hard to believe that sixteen years have passed, since that blessed morning she picked him up. Moses was only sixteen years now, and his face was not only covered with fresh bumfluff, but with great signs of promise. In all the years that have passed, Reverend Grace had not felt an ounce of regret for making that precarious decision of taking Moses as her son. In fact, the mere sight of him always gave her more reasons to live. She had become chirpier, livelier and filled with the indefatigable passion to groom and nurture him to become the best. While Moses in turn, have requited her love by working very hard and being obedient. He was also intelligent, respectful and prayerful. Reverend Grace was certain he would make a fine priest someday. She seriously eyed him for that. However, she had maintained that that bridge was still distant and that it would be crossed at the right time.

The sun that bright morning was yellow. It was Moses’s sixteenth birthday. The convent wore a festive air. Everything looked honky-dory, as unfamiliar music blared from the large speakers of the stereo player. The nuns were pacing about, cooking food and doing other chores, as the three large pots in the fireplace continued to blacken from the smoky heat of the blistering fire. The nuns were cooking jollof rice. And the ones that were best at cutting fast were chopping the cabbage and carrots for the yummy salad. At the extreme of the kitchen’s wall were chickens tied to a log, and squawking at the sight of James’s shimmering knife. James was helping the nuns kill the chickens. He dug a hole in the earth and each time he grabbed a squealing chicken, a faint smile spread on his scrawny face. He would hold the chicken tenaciously, pulling at its plumage, with the sharp knife buried in its throat as he slit it. The blood spewing out of the chicken was directed to the hole in the earth. The pungent smell of blood, mixed with the scrumptious aroma of curry, onions and thyme wafted in the air. The nuns screwed their faces in a repulsive knot, as James slit the chicken’s throats. They watched with horror, as one of the chickens jumped and tumbled, dashing itself violently in the red earth, raising dust and flailing its wings, in a mad dance of death; which it soon stopped and began to wriggle on the ground, as it yielded to the conquering power of death.

‘This one looks juicy and tasty,’ James said, pointing at the chicken, ‘I shall eat the gizzard and the laps.’

‘No, I’ll give you the chicken’s head,’ a dark-complexioned nun called Reverend Amina, said, smiling at James. Reverend Amina was the only nun at the convent with an unfamiliar name. She was from the Northern part of the country, and was one of the fortunate ones to have escaped death in the last massacre, orchestrated by a gang of faceless bandits that attacked her backwater village. The bandits had plundered and raped the young girls in her village, setting some churches on fire. Amina was saved at the nick of time by some gallant soldiers.

‘If I eat the chicken’s head, then it’s a sign I shall die soon,’ James said, cackling. ‘How can an old man like me eat a chicken’s head?’ The nuns burst out laughing, as tears streamed on their faces.

‘It’s OK,’ Reverend Amina said, holding her laughter. ‘You shall have the laps of the chicken. At least, that would be a fair reward for the fair work you’ve done today.’

‘Thank you very much,’ James said, nodding his head like the Agama lizard. ‘You know I truly deserve that,’ James added, as the strong aroma of the jollof rice filled the air. James scrunched up his nose, as his stomach rumbled.

‘Aargh! What kind of trouble is this?!’ he screeched, as he sucked in his stomach. ‘The aroma of the food is beginning to make me hungry. I did not even know Sisters can cook this well.’ The gangly Reverend Maria standing close to James smiled, and then tightened her face, as she walked menacingly towards James. ‘I heard what you said,’ she said, in a firm voice. ‘You said you did not know Sisters can cook so well. Is that a compliment or an insult?’

‘Of course, it’s a compliment,’ James said, smiling. ‘It’s not backhanded.’

‘It better not be, or I’ll make sure you eat the chicken’s head,’ she said, feigning a serious face.

‘Then I shall find a sturdy rope and hang myself on that mango tree,’ James said, guffawing and pointing at the tall mango tree, packed with birds nestling and chirping merrily on it. The nuns laughed, joining in the humor.

Reverend Grace who had been away to bring the birthday cake arrived at the kitchen, sniffing around like a hound

‘Good Jesus!’ she exclaimed. ‘The aroma of the food is irresistible. Call me a glutton if you want, but I must have a taste of it now,’ she insisted, as she reached the nuns in the kitchen. One of the nuns dunked a ladle into the pot and scooped some rice into the ceramic plate. Reverend Grace grabbed it from her and scooped the rice into her mouth. ‘This is so yummy!’ she said, as her eyes beamed. ‘You Sisters cook like you are world-class chefs. In fact, like cordon bleu. The crayfish and pepper are perfect, just like I love it.’

‘It’s Moses’s birthday! So we did the best we could,’ one of the nuns said.

‘Indeed, your best was good enough,’ Reverend Grace replied as she chewed.

When the fury of the scorching sun softened and the cooking was over, everyone was dressed in their finest clothes to give Moses a colorful birthday party. He was the most cherished person in the convent, so it did not surprise anyone that he received plenty of gifts and well-wishes. The calm and quiet convent was in absolute hurly-burly. James was in his best dress. He wore a black trouser and a white shirt; with a bow-tie on his neck and a black shoe in his feet, he seemed like the happiest person in the convent. He danced and smiled like a young girl about to get married to her prince charming. There was gaiety in the air. The hall was decorated with balloons of different colors, which added color to the party. As music blared from the speakers, Moses emerged from inside his room; his black trouser and yellow shirt blending with his light skin. Reverend Grace clasped him when he reached her. While Reverend Joy rose from the chair and began to recite him a short but touching poem:

‘When furious wind howls,

And violent tide turns on us,

And sorrow stalk in our hearts,

As the eerie night threaten,

And friends forsake in treachery,

As foes in chariots approach,

I’ll hold a sword and die by your side’.

The poem made Moses feel woozy. He buried his face in his hands. It looked incongruous to him that Reverend Joy could write him such a lovely poem. Paeans of praise rent the air, as Reverend Amina filled the air with confetti. Moses blushed at the nuns’ love and goodwill. Reverend Grace stood beside him, smiling, and then whispered into his ears and Moses waved at the nuns. He went over and stood at the front and took the microphone.

‘My life has been blissful because of all of you, and particularly because of my sweet mother. I cannot thank you enough for the love you have all shown to me. I can only say that all of you should enjoy yourselves at my birthday,’ he gushed into the microphone.

‘We love you, Moss,’ the nuns screamed with warm smiles on their faces. Just as Reverend Grace took the microphone and spoke.

‘Our elders say, looking at a king’s mouth; that one would think he never sucked at his mother’s breast,’ she started with a sparkle in her eyes. ‘Look at my son. He looks grown-up now. It’s still like yesterday I watched him take his first wobbly step. He’s a rare gift to me and to all of us. For as I know, I have not raised him alone. This is because it takes a whole village to raise a child,’ Reverend Grace said, wiping the beads of sweat on her face. ‘We all are his mother. It is for this reason that we sing:

‘If you hear a child crying, if you hear a child crying,

Come quickly, come quickly,

For is not a child, the child of everyone?’

And turning to Moses, Reverend Grace said: ‘Do not be afraid my child. Our love for you will never turn cold. There is always more from where it has come. I and everyone here, is very proud of you,’ she finished, as she walked over to Moses and held him, and together, they walked towards the tall, creamy, and oval-shaped cake, decorated with shimmering icing. Moses’s name was deftly embossed on it. Candles with fire burnt quietly on it. As Moses cut the cake, a wild applause, fierce and ripple-like, rent the air. James walked into the crowd of nuns, searching for Reverend Amina. He was yet to receive his gizzard and laps of chicken. He paced impatiently; his eyes roving and squinting. Reverend Amina was plodding lazily with a tray of jollof rice on her hands, when James caught the glimpse of her. He hurried up to her, his face beaming with a smile.

‘Where are the gizzard and the laps of the chicken, or do you think I’ll settle for the head?’ he asked her. Reverend Amina smiled.

‘I am coming. I’ve not forgotten that I owe you,’ she said to him, flashing her beautiful gap-tooth at James.

‘Do not keep an old man hungry for too long. You know a hungry man is an angry man,’ James said teasingly, as he touched his stomach. Reverend Amina walked away with the enamel tray in her hand, as James settled on the chair, waiting impatiently, muttering a throaty line with the music, blaring from the stereo player, as the party lingered into the boisterous night.