“…..Sancta Maria mata dei – Ora pro nobis
…..Sancta Johanness baptista”
The litany of the saints reeled out in the background, resounding in the echo chamber that was the cathedral hall. Louis-Mary thought the alto voice of the soloist was amazing, almost making him wish he could turn around and see the person doing much justice to the litany with such heavenly grace, but he could not, no matter how much he wished it.
Today was his priestly ordination. 14 years in the seminary toiling through theology and philosophy, apostolic and spiritual years has led to this very moment. He is finally ready to toil in the Lord’s vineyard as his priest.
Today, was the most special day of all days, when his hard works and perseverance has finally paid off. He has much to be thankful for, many of the people he started this journey with as freshmen philosophy students in the Major seminary are not lying down here with him to be ordained priests in a matter of moments.
He knew his father – Mr Marcel would be somewhere in the congregation now with an aura of pride, his mother would be choking back soft sobs now. He knew that at his local parish back at Umuaro village, the whole town would be in a festive mood, a new priest in the village is always a thing of grand celebration, so far, there have only been 4, he would make them a total of 5.
He thought about the car he would be given today at his hometown parish priestly ordination celebration, he knew it was a tradition to hand over a new car to newly ordained priests but he would still be sure to act surprised when it is finally given to him.
Lying down here, faced down, in a flawless golden arb above an immaculate white cassock, a stole hanging across to the right side of his torso, his priestly classmates lying beside him at every flank, it was a total of 15 finalists being ordained today.
It should be the greatest day of his life, in fact most people are sure of it, but somehow, he is surprised that he doesn’t feel any more better than he did 14 years ago when he was first enrolled into the seminary. A feverish melancholy feeling held sway over him and he couldn’t explain it. Was it the dream he had last night? He has lost count of how many times he has had the same dream through the years; the same crack of thunder, blinding lightening, stump of the earth quaking, an ofo (sacred wood) branch falling at his feet causing the earth to tremble even more, the black ram that sometimes appeared white in some of the dreams – Similar has been his dreams all these years.
The Vicar of the diocese had advised him to dedicate his life to perpetual prayer and meditation during his spiritual year, the dream should stop afterwards. That was years ago. Yet, now, as he is lying faced down at the cathedral grounds, the saints being invoked to descend and bear witness to his ordination to the order of Melchizedek, the dream had woken him up in the wee hours of the morning, he still feels like there was a lot missing from his heart, he couldn’t tell what.
‘Papa nnukwu isn’t here’ He thought.
Papa nnukwu is his grandfather from his paternal side. He had always thought no one understood him better than Papa nnukwu. Maybe he isn’t here in the cathedral because he was a pagan?
No. He dismissed the thought. Papa nnukwu wouldn’t mind going to the Vatican as long as the occasion concerned him, Louis. He always believed he was Papa nnukwu’s favorite grandchild. Though subtle, he always knew he favored him more than his other siblings, they were much closer than every other.
“Nwaigwe” He could hear Papa nnukwu’s voice whisper in his ears, he had always refused to call him by his baptismal name, much to the chagrin of his father who was a staunch catholic and disapproved of anything that had any incline to tradition. Nwaigwe was hewed from Igwe Ka Ala the name of the chief deity of their village traditional spirituality.
“Papa” Mr Marcel would retort “I have told you to stop using that Pagan name on my son. His name is LouisMary, He is a catholic, don’t give him a pagan baptism!”
Papa nnukwu would chuckle. “But I don’t know how to call that English name, Nwani” He would invoke Mr Marcel’s native name to get his son further agitated for his amusement. Louis knew his grandfather did this on purpose, he liked seeing his son throw tantrums and preach to him about Jesus and heaven.
“You know I didn’t go to school like you my son, I can only use our native names” Papa nnukwu added.
“Papa, that is a lie. You are my father, I know what you can do or not, you just like using Pagan names for my son, I don’t like it”
“You don’t have to like it Nwani”
“Stop calling me Nwani papa, I am a catechist of the roman catholic church. My name is Marcel”
“Your name is Nwani, you belong to Ani”
“I belong to Jesus”
“But, you are standing on Ani”
“Earth belongs to Jesus”
“No. Ani is the earth, she is our mother”
Louis usually like these bickering moments, his Papa nnukwu, an old man that was stronger than most people his age, you could tell from his lean frame with a bended upper torso that he was a very tall man in his youth, he spoke softly and without hurry.
His Father, Marcel, on the other hand, would argue with all his might, his green catechist cassock flowing with his gesturing postures.
“Papa, look at what you are teaching my young son, Pagan rubbish”
“He loves to listen to his Papa nnukwu and I don’t know many things like you do, I teach him the things I know”
“Stop teaching my son about your pagan gods Papa, he belongs to Jesus”
“There is no contest between the gods” a cough would interrupt “It is you who keeps fighting for yours”
“Papa, is it not time for you to repent and start coming to the church with us?”
“Repent from what? I have done no evil”
“Yes. But, worshipping any other God but Jesus is a sin, that is evil” Marcel would argue.
“I worship the Gods of my fathers, and in their eyes, I have committed no sin, that is enough for me”
“Why then did you send me to the missionary school in Onitcha, since your Gods were great enough?”
Papa nnukwu would chuckle deeply, another cough, he cleared his throat, reached for his snuff box on his breast pocket, poured a generous amount into his palm, he was never in a hurry to reply.
“I knew the new world demanded education, I wanted my son to have that”
“When I came back bearing a new name, an English name, a new religion, why didn’t you stop me?”
“I always tell you it is not for men to bicker for the gods, the modern God and education suited the new world, now you are a Kataaa….”
“catechist Papa!”
“Eheeeeee, that. It isn’t for me to do the work of the gods for them, if they are okay with you leading life as a Christian, who am I to object?”
LouisMary could hear these arguments vividly in his mind, the good days before he was shipped to the seminary. He remembers how stubborn his papa nnukwu was, how he enjoyed taunting his father every chance he got, he would watch them bicker for minutes, then sneak out through the back road to go meet his Papa nnukwu at the Igwe ka ala shrine, he loved watching him say his evening prayers, pour libation to the gods. He had never seen a more egalitarian and sincere supplication”
“Let the eagle and the kite perch, anyone who insists the other shouldn’t perch should lose its wings”
That was the summary of his prayers. Equality for everyone, both high and mighty, there was room in the world for all to peacefully navigate life and die when their Chi (personal god) calls them.
Louis always looked on with admiration, Papa nnukwu, seated on a small stool at the shrine, his loin cloth tied to a large knot at the waist, a shirt he could swear was once white hanging loosely over his lean frame. Papa nnukwu would masterfully break the Kola-nut, carefully count the lobes, throw one lob towards the gods, eat one lob on the spot, pass the remaining lobes to any other person around the shrine at the moment, if there weren’t anyone, he would put them in his pocket to be eaten later. Sometimes, the prayers came with a sacrifice of fowls, killed, a bit of its blood sprinkled on the Sky God’s shrine, a bit of the feather, then Papa nnukwu would call to him to help him carry the dead chicken home, they would make porridge yam with the meat and enjoy the evening dinner over some Palm wine.
His Father had forbidden him from eating any food brought back from the shrine. His youthful stubbornness always had him sketching elaborate plans to get his fair share from papa nnukwu who would always keep his plate filled with peppered watery yam and chicken at the south end of his iron bed, he would sneak into Papa nnukwu’s room, had his fill of the delicious food, wash any trace of oil from his lips and pretend nothing happened.
The suspecting stares his Father would cast at him when he ever he turned dinner down.
“I don’t want to eat Mama” He would say.
“Eeeeehn. You say? Where did you eat today?’ Mr Marcel would ask.
‘Nowhere Papa, I and Chidiebere ate a bush-rat we killed today at the hunt”
He couldn’t tell if his father ever bought the story or not but it was always enough to keep him out of trouble.
His journey to the seminary began at the Priestly ordination of father Michael Ubanta, the first indigenous priest of Umuaro town. His father had come home ecstatic, Louis could see him from Papa nnukwu’s room door, in his well ironed green catechist cassock, waving into the sky as he walked into the compound from the ordination party.
“Papa welcome” He greeted, stepping out from papa nnukwu’s room where he had been all evening listening to ancient stories.
“Good evening Louis-Mary, where is your mother? Why didn’t I see her at the mission? The CWO president was asking for her” Marcel threw at him.
“She had to go to the health center, I think Ujunwa is not feeling fine”
Ujunwa was the last child of the family and the only female. Mr Marcel and his wife had 3 children. Chima, the eldest was at Lagos learning a trade, Louis-Mary and then Uju who was no older than 6 years old at the time.
“How was the ordination ceremony?” Louis asked
“It was glorious” Marcel injected before Louis could finish “You need to have been there, I don’t know why your mother had to take Ujunwa to the health center today of all days”
“Sounds amazing”
“It was my son. The new priests dazzled and glowed like saints, the ceremony was one of the best catholic masses ever. I sat among the catechists”
“On the alter?”
“Of course, near the alter, catechist is just as important after priests” He adjusted his cassock as if putting it on full display for his son who seem to be forgetting who he was “Do you know this village bought Fr Michael a 504-wagon pan?”
“Choi, 504?”
“Yes, my son. We really spent money on this occasion”
“Hai. He is so lucky” Louis intoned.
“It is not luck, it was the Lord’s doing. He didn’t spend several years in the seminary to have it attributed to luck” Marcel cut in.
“I mean it was by grace”
“Ehheee. You should have seen his mother today, everyone was shouting mama-father, even his father who is a traditional worshipper was answering Papa-father and waving to everyone” He continued “A pagan is now a Papa-father!”
“Good for him” Louis replied.
“The new forms for the seminary just came out, you just finished secondary school, all your mates are getting their forms” He changed the topic with a demanding tone.
“Papa, I’ve never thought about it” Louis informed.
“Why would you? When you spend all your time listening to your grandfather, sneaking off with him to the shrine of a pagan God, taking yourself away from God’s mercy” He paused and peered around a bit “Your classmate JohnCross whom you are an altar boy with has gotten his form, he told me”
“Eeeehn, that is good for him papa”
“If you get your own, is it a crime? Won’t it be good for you too?” He retorted.
“But….”
“Shut up. You are the son of a catechist, if you become a priest, don’t you see how fitting that is? it is your call and it is the only way to free yourself from the shackles of pagan deities your grandfather has tied you into”
“Papa nnukwu didn’t tie me to anything”
“Shut up! What do you know?” He waved his finger at him accusingly “Come to me tomorrow at the morning mass and ask for money to purchase the form, the new seminarian is selling the form, get your own and let me not hear that you overslept. I won’t be alive and watch my Father drag my son to hell fire with him”
Louis-Mary had found himself in the seminary quicker than he had ever imagined. His academic performance at the entrance examination where he topped the list further affirmed to his father, the Catechist, that his son must have had the call.
He could recall how, during his seminary days, his father would not hesitate to remind everyone that he is a seminarian.
“Mr Andrew” He called to the choir master one morning after mass “Praise the lord”
“Ahh, Catechist, Hallelujah”
“I liked the choir songs today” He remarked giving out his hand for a handshake.
Louis was standing beside him in his seminarian cassock, he had visited his hometown for a short holiday.
“Thank you, sir,” The choir master replied. “Ewoo, seminarian, you are here?” He addressed him standing just right next to his father.
“Yes. That is my son, Louis-Mary, a seminarian” Mr Marcel interjected.
“Aaah, I have always wondered who the seminarian who assists in Mass was, I knew his face was familiar but never placed my finger on it” The choir master replied ecstatically “Eeehyaa! So small Louis-Mary is now a seminarian? soon to be father! congratulations catechist, seems your household will produce our newest priest”
“Yes my brother, it is the Lord’s doing” Marcel replied with a broad grin, an air of pride swirling around him.
Now, it all boils down to this moment, this culmination of every single second he had lived through the last fourteen years.
Louis-Mary was ordained a priest, he watched as the Arch-Bishop gave each of the newly ordained priests their first official, priestly brotherly embrace, they had reset their stole to hang on either side of their torso, a uniformed chasuble – there was a standing ovation from the crowd.
He could see his mother waving at him from the second row of the crowded cathedral, Ujunwa who was now a young woman was wiping away tears of joy from her mother’s face. Marcel, his father – the catechist, stood towering above his wife and daughter with shoulders held so high, he wasn’t on his catechist attire, this was one of the few times Louis has ever saw him go without it, he had a golden lace jumper, newly bought and made specially for this occasion. Today, he didn’t want to be addressed as catechist, today, it is Papa-father, he has earned it.
The celebration was intensified back at Umuaro, the village parish true to expectation had organized a grand party to celebrate the fifth catholic priest to ever come from their little town. A honda accord was given to him by the parish.
He celebrated his first Mass, the cheer, the screams from people asking to receive the first blessing from the new priest.
Papa nnukwu had given him a warm embrace when he stepped back home, he was much older now, smaller even in stature, stood with the aid of a stick.
“Papa, your grandson now officially belongs to Jesus” Marcel intoned making it clear.
Papa nnukwu smiled, nodded and stretched out his hand to his son for a handshake.
Louis-Mary woke up sweating from his bed, the same dream, he looked around, he was in his room in his father’s house, though it had a new look, everything was made to suit his new status of Catholic priesthood.
He looked at the little altar at the side of his bed, his cassock and stole hanging just above. He wiped sweat from his face with the duvet. There was a dry chill in the air, it was the harmattan period yet he woke up sweating like he just came off a marathon.
That melancholy feeling gripped him once again, he stood up, reached for his cassock, peered intensely at it, wondering if he could spend his life bearing this untold malice that tore through his soul, this dusky cloak of emptiness that has plagued him through seminary till this very moment, could this be his life till he dies?
The cassock shone bright under the florescent light, he kept it up and continued to peer at it, events of the past decades pouring over his mind, the incessant dreams, the thunder, the blinding wad of lightening, the ram, its soul permeating bleat. He had not seen much of the outlandish power and superiority his father has always maintained resided in Christianity, it was all fear and solemn rituals washed by faith. He had seen men pray with much contempt in their hearts, he has seen the clamor for divine favor mistaken for piety.
Papa nnukwu was right.
“I am NwaIgwe” He muttered to himself “Nwa Igwe ka ala”
The cassock on his hand fell with a slap to the ground, he grabbed his sweat shirt and left the room, the clock quaking at the sitting-room called the time at 4:15am.
He opened the door, it creaked and moaned as if in protest, he walked straight to his grandfather’s room, it was situated right outside his father’s house, an old small house Papa nnukwu had built in his youth, he had insisted on staying there and not join everyone else in the new house his son, Marcel, had built over the years.
Getting to Papa nnukwu’s room, he was seated on his iron bed, his eyes were bright as if sleep was the furthest thing away from him.
“Papa nnukwu……”
“I know my son. I have always known that Igwe ka ala calls you, it is a resounding call that drives men mad if unanswered, you will never feel complete if you neglect the purpose Ala has set for you”
“I have always had this dream, a ram”
“You saw an ofo dropped before you?” Papa nnukwu cut in.
“Yes. How did you know”
“I used to have the same dream when I was younger” Papa nnukwu stood up with a groan holding his aching waist, Louis grabbed and gave him his walking stick, he grabbed a small old bag at the head of his bed, put the handle across his shoulder.
“Follow me” he intoned.
They walked into the dark morning, the cocks were just now beginning the very first crows, the air was chilly, a hazy fog covered the terrain. They walked the bush-path into Ubiakpa, he remembers this road, it led to Igwe ka ala shrine, he has not been here for fourteen years now, not since he enrolled into the seminary. He recalls, he has never felt as happy and content as he usually feels here with Papa nnukwu even in the cathedral, even as he lay before the diocese being ordained a priest.
They entered the shrine, the bush around it was thick, you could barely see anything through, the songs of the crickets had ceased, the air got warmer in an instant, the fog that trailed every path, cleared. Louis walked on towards the shrine, Papa nnukwu stood back watching him.
There was a familiar slash of lightening, a crack of thunder, the little pot at the side of the shrine caught on fire and illuminated the whole scene, he halted in awe, looked back at Papa nnukwu who nodded and gestured him on.
The ram. It can’t be. The same ram stood right at the shrine, its wooly fur shone in the amber light from the burning pot.
“NwaIgwe” Papa nnukwu called in a whisper.
He looked back, again, the old man walked closer to him, always kept his walking stick ahead. Few feet away, he stopped, dipped his hand into the old bag he carried and retrieved it.
The ofo, the same ofo that has haunted his dreams all these years.
“This belongs to you nwam. The choice is here before you, remember, it is never for man to bicker for the Gods”
Louis froze in the moment, somehow, he could feel in his spirit that he was meant to be here, he was much at home here, much at peace and much content. What would Papa say? He could imagine his father’s disappointment. It is not for him to live the ideal life his father envisioned for him, he was not living a life he chose, he was living a life his father chose and the prize was his to revel. He can go ahead and think anything he wants.
He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply and reached for the ofo.
