FORGED THROUGH DARKNESS

All her woes began with the sound of receding footfalls one cold September night in 1991.

Drunk and spreadeagled on the kitchen floor, with eyes half-open and droopy, staring dreamily at the flaking ceiling, she heard the sound above the din of the rain pelting down against the glass window. Somehow, even though delirious by the alcohol she had taken, she twigged that something was amiss, because the entrance to her apartment was locked was locked and the sound was frighteningly strange, like the sound of someone walking on tiptoes. While she lay there semi-unconscious and spent, and wondering if the sound was real or emanating from some drunken place in her mind, she heard the living room door creak open. Her heart lunged in terror. It was abundantly clear now that someone else was inside the house with her, someone who seemed to have carried out their operation and was now leaving. And then the door slammed shut. The person made no attempt to be surreptitious about that one. It seemed calculated to let her know that someone was at the door, or that someone had been inside the house, for the sound the door made when slammed jolted her out of her drunken stupor. But she discovered, in alarm, that she was unable to move: her whole body had atrohied, paralyzed, fixed to the ground like a breathing work of art. She willed herself to rise, to move, to make a beeline for the door and find out who the intruder was, or to run to her room and shut the door. Her heart was pounding now. She was alone and vulnerable, and danger had visited her right in her house, and her muscles had been rendered weak by the alcohol in her systwm and now she couldn't run or hide to save herself.

When she eventually managed to get to her feet and take a few uncertain steps toward the kitchen door, she made the mistake of looking at the floor and at once she felt a flicker of vertigo and lost her footing. She staggered back and propped herself up against the wall, and she stayed in that position for a while, too scared to move and too scared to keep standing.

Flashes of lightning blazed through the window and thunder rumbled outside, adding to the fear resident in her.

"Mummy," she whimpered, even though she hadn't spoken to her mum in almost 20 years. Was she dying? A force outside of her dipped her to a knees and she surrendered to it. Then she got up in a raging gale and began whirling in space, suspended between two planes of existence, with everything rotating, nay, spinning so fast, so maniacally, racking her and tossing her to a place she had never been before. And then there appeared to be a loss of gravity and she began the furious descent downward. It was a free fall and she kept going down and down. Beneath her, a bottomless pit yawned and she shut her eyes in a bid to quell the spasms that rocked her core.

"Mummy!" She cried again.

She realized, in shock, that she had forgotten just about any other word. She wanted to say something different - like David, her lover's name, or Jesus, her Saviour's name, or Peace or Tochi or Malik or Fred or anyone's name at all, anyone close by or far away, who could come now and rescue her from this horrible, lingering nightmare, this danger, no, this death awaiting her at the bottom of the pit she was descending. But the only word that could escape her lips - the only word her brain still remembered - was "Mummy." Totally strange, because she had spent the last two decades hating her mum and cherishing the hatred. The hatred had grown from visceral to pathological, carefully tended and fed each day by her; preserved, reinforced to last through life and in death, to last for all eternity. Whenever she so much as felt a letting up, an unwelcome softening, or sanctimonious scruples within her arising from the impact of random words of street preachers, or that of Reverend Onoja's, she was swift in stoking the flames of hatred by peeling back the layers of her bitter history with her mum, reliving every painful moment, every curse, every depressive bout, and all the tears her mum forcibly extracted from her eyes and forced her to drink so she could taste her own salty bitterness, her own evil, her own sorrow. So without wasting time, she would add faggot to this cherished hatred until the fire cackled and spat, until she felt her body quivering from naked rage, until she felt a weird contentment. Hating her mum was what she had grown to love. So how come "Mummy" was the only word she remembered now?

And she continued to descend, the terror she felt mingled with fury and confusion and sadness. The last time she said "Mummy," and in which her mum hadn't rebuked her outright, was in 1968, when she was six. That was to be the last, because life as she knew it changed the next day on the eve of her dad's birthday, and that was the day he slept and never woke up.

Again, as though compelled to utter it, she cried: "Mummy!"

Now she began to weep. What was happening to her? And who was that person, that man - yes, he walked like a man - who came to her house and tiptoed to the door only to slam it shut behind him? And how did he open the door? Didn't she lock it? Yes, she was muddled but she rememered the part where she locked the door before she started gulping down beer. She rememered tossing the key carelessly and happily on the living room sofa. What was happening tonight? Was she dying? Was this how dying felt like? A fast, senseless, never-ending descent into some dark and terrible pit that had no bottom? What was all this?

Yet again, as if rising from some far away place in her soul, it came again: "Mummy!"

By the time she remembered another word, the name of her lover, David, and before she could try to recall the name of her Saviour, she came crashing down, head first. She bashed it against the cold, tiled kitchen floor and lay still, very still.

She had gotten to the end of the pit.

David stood in the middle of the garden looking up at the sky. The morning sun had just risen and white wispy clouds billowed, moving eastward and disappearing into the horizon. He watched with childlike fascination as though he were seeing the sun and the morning clouds for the first time. But behind that fascination was profound gloom, dark and Stygian. It changed the colour of his eyes, took years out of his face, and made lava-hot tears streak down his eyes. The sadness was boundless and enormous and impossible to fathom, like the sky he was gazing at.

When the sun increased its intensity and the rays attacked his upturned face, he didn't squint, didn't flinch. He stared at the sun - directly - and didn't take his eyes off even when he started seeing nothing but blazing fireworks. And retinas registered no pain.

He thought of yesterday morning. He remembered the flash of steel, how swift and wondrously terrible. He remembered the struggle, the kicking, the doomed, pathetic attempts at getting air. He remembered the hands, black and calloused, like the devil's hand, that grabbed him at the neck, ribs, groin, and eyes. Hands everywhere, all over his body, working their ways into where his soul was, to uproot it, to smash it. His remembered the noxious stench of death; he remembered how he convulsed in reaction to the smell, and how he retched, and how he panicked and begged for mercy.

Still looking at the sun in the way that only a blind man would, he remembered his bravery, his courage. One man against five, he gave a good account of himself. His late father would be proud of him in the grave.

"David, you must be strong, very strong," his father would say, "like the David in the Bible."

"Yes, Papa," he would reply.

"This is a cruel world. You must be ready to fight or you'll be downtrodden."

"Yes, Papa."

"Don't let the world break you. Don't let evil people harm you."

"I won't, Papa."

"My time is fast approaching and I'll soon leave this world. Humans are heartless and evil. I suffered in their hands. Don't let them do that to you, son."

To this, he said nothing. He looked at his father lying on the hospital bed all shrivelled up, at the very brink of death, and he bowed his head and bawled his eyes out.

"Promise me," his father continued, "that you'll be strong, both physically and mentally. Because that's the only way to win the war against the wicknessness in this world."

"I promise you," he replied, "with every fibre of my being, I'll be strong."

And he he had kept that promise, especially yesterday when death demanded his breath. He remembered how brave he was, how fearless. They blindsided him, knocked him down in his living room. And, springing like a man possessed, he gave them a good fight. Even when the steel pierced through his chest and burst his heart open, and when another blow entered his spleen and he yelled and coughed out blood, he fought bravery. Even when he saw nothing but red and black and grey, when sharp things gashed his body in different places and blood spurted out on every side, still he fought bravely. And he won. Yes, he won. He took a man down. Saw the man fall down flat as though felled like a tree, his hand clutching at his throat as death rattles issued out. And he defeated the other four, too. He didn't know how he did it but he defeated them. He saw them bleeding when he stabbed back with the fury of a bull, saw them fall, groaning, panting, staring wide-eyed in disbelief. Lying face down on the blood-splattered floor, he had laughed and mocked them until he could no longer laugh and mock. A chapter had closed and another had begun. He was so strong and brave. His father would be proud.

He brought his eyes down and stared glassily at the bougainvillea, the orchids, the tulips, and the lilies in the garden. Oh, how beautiful and full of life they were. How happily they spread their petals - like the legs of a submissive wife- drinking in the sunshine. How they seemed to smile as they rustle gently this way and that in sync with the morning breeze. David envied them. I wished he were one of those tulips, those bright, beautiful things, firmly planted on the earth and tended, with no worries, no cares, with just the sole aim of their existence being to take up water from the root and take in sunlight, and then beautify the world. But here he was, with tears and sorrow and agony. With a new, mysterious life he didn't understand yet; with his name erased in the most violent of ways; with a fountain of breath, otherworldy inexhaustible, yet full of sheer misery; with a girlfriend, Sharon, who had yet know that her beloved boyfriend was no longer a human being

Reverend Onoja's face was the first thing she saw as she opened her eyes. His face was blurry and everywhere in the room was blurry. She blinked twice and her vision cleared a little, but it did nothing to quell her confusion.

"Sister Sharon." said the Reverend - his raspy, baritone voice was unmistakable - "how are you feeling?"

"Where am I?" she said, bemused, looking about the room. The smell of the room, the bed, the bandage on her head, and the raging migraine she felt made her know she was in a hospital.

"How did I get here?"

"You passed out last night," replied the Reverend calmly, but his eyes were fierce. "A neighbour, bless her, came into your apartment and found you lying unconscious on the kitchen floor, with congealed blood on your head and face, and then raised the alarm."

She swallowed hard. The memories of last night came flooding back. She said nothing but stared blankly at the foot of the bed, trying to frame the moment, to believe that this was really her, alive, breathing. She felt an admixture of gratitude and shame. Reverend Onoja studied her closely.

"You have started drinking again, eh, Sharon?"

"Did I?" She asked, still confused.

"You did."

"Oh, I'm sorry, Reverend. The moment took me."

"But why did you do it? Why did you get drunk?" The Reverend seemed annoyed. "Look how you almost killed yourself."

"I was happy, Reverend. David called in the morning and told me he had finally bought a big house in Port-Harcourt and that I would be moving in with him."

"So drinking is the only way you can celebrate?" Said the Reverend, his face creasing up in a frown. "How about falling on your knees and glorifying the name of the Lord instead of revelling in a drinking bout?"

She didn't know what to say. She only looked at him with apologetic eyes.

"You are a new creature now, Sharon. A child of the Most High."

"I know, Reverend."

"Did you forget that?"

"No, Reverend. I didn't. I'm sorry."

"You shouldn't be drinking, Sharon. Yahweh frowns at that."

"I won't do it again, I promise."

"Let's pray."

"Okay, Reverend."

She closed her eyes and a spectrum of emotions swept over her. She touched her cheek and found tears. When she heard the Reverend's voice say, "Lord, we bless your name," she tightened her shut eyes and tried to focus on Jesus her Saviour, the one who rescued her from that intruder last night, the one who saved her from the wickedness of her own mother, the Saviour she had come to love and worship, even with a heart filled with hatred towards her mother who was wasting away in Ogume, in faraway Delta.

Reverend Onoja was praying but his eyes were wide open and penetrating. He was saying something with his lips but his eyes and mind were focused elsewhere, on the two large things on Sharon's chest. The blouse she wore covered her cleavage but, bless God, they couldn't stop the breasts from asserting themselves through the material, standing ever so proudly as though they were queens who ruled a kingdom, and the Reverend knew, deep down, that the kingdom was Sharon's body: his hips, her behind, her lips, her eyes, everywhere - her breasts ruled them all. Reverend Onoja knew, also, that he was ruled by those breasts. They filled his eyes with glory and his imagination with splendor. They made his crotch bulge in a righteous way, the way men of God were rumoured to have it: that solid, rock-like erection that waged a winning battle against the fabric of their trousers, dripping silvery liquid at the tip, damping holy underwear. He longed to worship in her kingdom, to dwell there until the end of time, until his unappeasable longings thawed.

"We bless your name, Jesus," he continued praying, "that your daughter was saved by Your power from the cold hands of death and given the...."

He kept mouthing prayers but never took his eyes off her breasts. At a point, he paused and Sharon thought he was listening to a message from God, and she focused more on Jesus, with her eyes dropping more tears than she could account for. But the God Reverend Onoja was listening to was the god on her chest, the large soft, succulent god, that he so longed to lay not just his hands and also his life on. In his head he heard the god saying, "Come, come, come." And looking at this god so intently, so furiously, with pure, unbridled lust blazing in his eyes, he said, "Yes, Lord. Yes, Lord." Innocently, Sharon, with her eyes still closed, said, "Oh, yes, Lord," in a way that struck Reverend Onoja as the confirmation that his base yearnings would be sated soon, with Sharon twisting hysterically under him, saying actual yes to his phallic demi-god.

He ended the prayer and Sharon opened her misty, bloodshot eyes. She was startled by the words she heard next.

"Sister Sharon, the Lord said you're beautiful."

Sharon dropped her eyes in shock and embarrassment. But the emotions she felt was soon replaced by awe and gratitude.

"I bless the Lord for making me beautiful."

"Where's David?" asked the Reverend, looking directly into her eyes.

"He told me yesterday that he would be here today evening."

As she said those words she looked around the bed, searching for something.

"Looking for your phone?"

"Yes," she replied, "but it looks like it's not here. Reverend, I need to speak with him. He has to know what has happened."

The look on Reverend Onoja's face was inscrutable, unreadable. He handed his phone to her and stared at her breasts again as she spoke to David. Their sheer size made his heart quake; how would he then react when he saw them in their naked glory? The Reverend's body grew tense, hot as fire. This time he stared intently as though he were looking at something behind her chest, something inside her, something dazzlingly beautiful, like a gemstone, something that seemed within easy reach yet so far away. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and closed his eyes. He was sweating now. His crotch didn't bulge this time but something else had risen in him, and that thing made his shook him savagely. A storm had begun on the inside of him and he struggled to calm it, and he failed. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She was still speaking with her lover. Her lover! How depressing that was. He closed his eyes again, as if to escape a reality that threatened to take his sanity away. Wild tremors coursed through him, drowning him in self-created confusion.

When when he opened his eyes again, his eyes caught her eyes, and she flinched, stunned by what she saw coming out of those eyes.

"Reverend Onoja?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you all right?"

"I've been praying, Sister."

"There's something in your eyes."

"What do you see?"

"It's like a flame."

"It's the power of the Holy Ghost."

"Oh."

The Reverend frowned. "How's David?"

She dropped her eyes, and then looked forlornly at the clock on the wall.

"He sounded strange," she said, looking glum, "like someone I don't know." She looked up at the Reverend. "He wasn't even surprised or shocked when I told him what happened to me last night. He said a lot of things but I couldn't feel any emotion behind his words."

Reverend Onoja shrugged. "Well, perhaps he's out of sorts. Maybe fatigued or something."

"Maybe he's mad at me."

"I wouldn't know," he shrugged again.

There was an awkward silence for a minute or two and then Sharon said: "Reverend, thank you so much for all you've done and are still doing for me. I am eternally grateful."

Reverend Onoja smiled a toothy smile.

"Sister Sharon, I haven't even started yet. I am still going to do more and more and more."