written by Chibundu Joyce
Walking into Mum’s room that evening after she washed off the day’s labour in her bath, I couldn’t believe my eyes, the one feature I had always wished I inherited was gone.
The preacher that visited last week spoke extensively on the “coming of our LORD” and how that we are not anything close to ready, was the explanation she gave for cutting her hair. I couldn’t understand.
She was more afraid of “the Lord” than in love with him.
Church service took a different shape from that day, youths dressed in weird looking clothes, everyone wearing a judgmental look, sex partners called out to the altar and disgraced. It wasn’t home any more.
I gradually began to lose myself, I didn’t know who I was anymore, the struggle of keeping my hair “unrelaxed”, the sadness of dressing to meet up to the standard, the ‘holier that thou‘ attitude, the dryness or solemnity as the pastor would put it, was taking a toll on me.
I became a walking shadow of myself, couldn’t pray as usual because God wasn’t happy with the world I was a part of. I was sin conscious and it was eating me up.
Yesterday was the climax, I left church in tears, Bro Isreal has been accuse wrongly and the pastor wouldn’t even listen to him. He was ostracized.