God of Mercy

by Okezie Nwoka

  And as Ijeọma and the other children waited outside of the sanctuary door, waiting for Pastor Nwosu to give them permission to enter, they could hear the pastor’s muffled voice rising behind the door, reminding Ijeọma of Ichulu’s masquerades grunting proverbs behind masks and fabrics. So she stood, wanting to see the works that lay behind the gold-colored wood, looking upward but being afraid that she would be punished for wrongdoing, turning her face; not wanting to be blamed; and seeing that the attendants who escorted them were no longer there—that instead there were two large men in a corner, speaking loudly and handling rope—and she wondered if they could tell her what the muffling was, whether if she listened carefully she might hear them speaking Igbo, and hear them speak those things that lay behind the door.

  “Pastor Nwosu says he would like them to enter,” said an usher who had come in from the sanctuary.

  Ijeọma saw the two men approaching her and the others with their rope—and felt them tying it around her waist before they opened the sanctuary door and led them toward the front of a room—where she heard the silence of the people gathered and saw their disapproving glances before she turned her face to the ground; not wanting to be seen; or to exist; or to want anything from being anything; not to fly from being a bird; not to burn from being a sun; not to be a child whom Chukwu had taken; not wanting to follow the pull of the rope—leading her to the stairs of the altar—where Pastor Nwosu had been standing.

  Ijeọma felt the rope tightening around her waist, and she tried loosening its hold by slipping her fingers between the rope and her hip, but it failed. Again, she tried pulling the rope to loosen it but met resistance since the others had been doing the same—each one looking for a way to find ease; and she kept pulling the rope—until a few had lost their balance, and all of them found themselves on the sanctuary floor—falling as though their brittle bones had lost their rigor.

  “It is time for a deliverance!” the congregation began saying, raising their fans within the large sanctuary.

  “It is indeed time,” said Pastor Nwosu. “You see them … these witches and wizards … You see how they have no reverence in the house of Almighty God … tumbling down like drunkards and fools!”

  “We see it, Pastor! We see it!”

  “So then it is time that we raise our Bibles and pray for these children, so that they may know the name of their Maker. Prrray for them! So that they may know the name of Jesus!”

  Ijeọma turned her neck while on the floor and watched the people of Precious Word Ministries stand with their Bibles, seeing as they closed their eyes and forced words out of their mouths aggressively; as if their tongues had become machetes used to fight a vicious beast like Nta, watching as their bodies swayed back and forth; and hearing them make sounds in a language spoken so quickly, she did not think anyone could ever understand it. The conviction with which they prayed reminded her of Igbokwe’s prayers to the gods in the mornings, before her daily consultations; except these prayers held different tones: more audacious, more entitled; and like their English, she did not understand the Igbo that Igbokwe had spoken. It was older than her, ancient and enigmatic; and she began to smile as the rope tightened again, realizing that Igbokwe did not scream to the gods like they were very far; that he seldom screamed at all, and she supposed it was an assurance that came from being consumed by the Most Supreme; and the rope tightened more and more, and the greatest god changed him, the work of the Most Supreme, and now he gives those things which others deny, it does not have a name, a complete name, but I see it … look at it there in Anyanwụ, maybe Igbokwe has seen it before, and that is why he gives those things … those nameless things, as he lives, and she began smiling within the falling sunlight, the rope tightening more and more, pulling neither left nor right.

  It was not known that Precious Word Ministries had ever stayed so silent. It looked toward Ijeọma as she rose powerfully toward a second-story beam with some of the roped children ascending with her; and it looked at Pastor Nwosu for direction on what to do, and what to believe, not having seen its witches and wizards practice their occultism in its holy sanctuary before, with those who had taken secret trips to Ichulu being amazed that Ijeọma could fly in the house of this god, smiling at her ascending body, admiring her beauty and gall.

  “PULL HER DOWN!” the pastor said to the attendants. “I COMMAND YOU TO PULL HER DOWN!”

  And Ijeọma, whose gaze was fixed on a vision of faces, smiling at her with a wholesome eye, was pulled down to the tiled floor of the sanctuary as murmurs spread throughout the large room; with fear and confusion spreading quickly, too, as the congregation turned to its pastor, waiting for him to act, watching him push his spectacles along the hill of his nose, not looking at all toward the face of his congregation.

  “Bring her to me,” Pastor Nwosu said to the attendants.

  And she felt the two large men grabbing her arms—and loosening the rope around her waist—causing her to return to herself and see the looks of disdain among those in the congregation, seeing, too, the wielded disgust of those dragging her to the pastor. But she was happy she rose; she smiled as she rose; she could not focus on the conceit of those despising her, not fearing their scoffs nor heeding their grimaces, but feeling the soft, soft whispers of the one called her chi moving within her chest; tumbling behind her belly, singing a song for the Most Supreme; one of joy, one of hope, one of unrelenting beauty—if a river cannot reveal your face—or a neighbor cannot hold your heart—or a lover cannot wipe the water of your eyes, listen to me, listen me, listen to my whispers, listen to my thoughts—I have listened—chi I have listened—chi-Chineke-Chukwu I have listened through the good word.

  “Members of Precious Word Ministries,” Pastor Nwosu said, looking at the green streamers hanging from the unfinished walls. “Somehow … the principalities of this world have found their way into the house of the Living God. I would like you to stretch your Bibles toward this possessed girl, as I lay my hands on her … to cast out this demon. As you stretch out your Bibles, pray for this child … that she may know our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, that His Blood may purify her … and wash her clean.”

  The congregation erupted with voices heard beyond the walls of Precious Word Ministries. It had not known an act so unabashed; and so it prayed as though bearing witness to a war, or seeing a crazed man enter a shop; knowing its possessed girl could fly, and expecting from their prayers the power to remove her evil; as its pastor believed the same—reminding himself that he was divinely ordained to cleanse Ijeọma and bring her to Christ; clenching his right hand on Ijeọma’s skull and praying more rigorously—shouting his prayer into the microphone, making the speakers blast at full volume, applying more pressure onto Ijeọma’s head–—squeezing it as though he could pop her devils out—like pus from a boil—hearing his congregation yell, “Holy Ghost fire! Holy Ghost fire!” then releasing her head from his grip with great propulsion; and watching her fall backward into the arms of the attendants.

  “THE WITCH HAS FALLEN!” a man said.

  “GLORY BE GOD!” a person said.

  “GLORY BE TO GOD!” the congregation kept saying.

  “HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH!” the congregation kept saying.

  “You see what prayer can do?” said Pastor Nwosu. “Do you see it? Return that child of God with the others. Do not tie her very tightly, because I pronounce, as the Man of God in this church, that many of those demons have already fled from her body.”

  “AMEN!” the congregation said.

  “Amen. Amen,” said Pastor Nwosu, looking now at his congregation. “There is still work left to be done on that girl, but today is the beginning of her breakthrough. Do not fear Satan, you children of God … Do not fear him! Jesus is our Master and He has already overcome every principality that would keep us away from the Living God. Do not be fooled by Lucifer, the Father of Lies. Do not be afraid of him! All of us standing here, we are serving the one true God!”
>
  Music began playing, and the people in the sanctuary erupted into song and dance, trusting the words of their pastor; all of them, except the children on the rope, who were dragged down the red-carpeted aisle and then returned to the cells of the Manifestation Quarters, where they were ordered to sit quietly until the afternoon prayer.

  But the children did not stay quiet, rejoicing at what they called a miracle and a sign from God that they would one day be free. They did not know her name, so yelled, “Flying girl! Flying girl!” from inside the cells, wanting to speak to her, hoping she would respond to them from within the darkness; and when no response came, they chattered among themselves, asking if they had truly seen what they had seen.

  “You saw it!” Ikemba said. “All of us here, we are witnesses!”

  “So she can really fly,” asked a little boy.

  “Yes! Yes! She can fly,” said Ikemba.

  “Believe it, you must believe!” said a teenage girl.

  “Yes I believe, I believe!” said another.

  “Me too! I believe!” said another boy.

  “I believe! I believe! I believe!” was the song of the children.

  “She is a living saint!” said Ikemba. “Never believe this foolish pastor! This girl has real power, holy power that comes from God.”

  And the children believed Ikemba’s words, and continued with their praise and chatter, professing that they believed—over and again—believing in both wonder and truth.

  And as they sang their praises, Ijeọma sat with her chi, nursing the joy she had received from the flight, hoping she would soon fly again. She expelled the doubt of whether Chukwu was with her in exile, believing now that the Most Supreme had not left her—a small grin growing—with Chukwu, she could do the impossible; with Chukwu she would survive her imprisonment, and live a life with happiness; she unraveled her rappa and placed it atop the cell floor, lying prostrate, praying to the Supreme Being, asking for peace and assurance—the kind she saw in Igbokwe when she visited him each morning—the kind she thought opened the world—as wide as Nnenna’s pots—and filling them with all the love and mercy the Supreme Being had given her.

  Quickly the cell door was opened. Ijeọma was pulled from the cell, hurrying to put on her rappa as she was led along the corridors to the chapel where Phyllipa led them in a prayer. She was ordered into the dining hall with the others to eat the afternoon meal; and she ate a small ration of beans without any fear, finishing her meal with no concern for tomorrow’s hunger. And as she reached for the pitcher of water in the middle of the table, she heard footsteps coming from the entrance of the dining hall and saw Pastor Nwosu entering with great force, holding a large cane in his hand.

  “YOU!” he said, pointing at her violently—using his large, wooden cane. “COME HERE AND LIE DOWN!”

  But Ijeọma did not understand him, and looked at the pastor in amazement, watching his eyes grow livid—not knowing he believed her to be insubordinate, feeling one of the attendants seizing her right arm, then pulling it forcefully toward the pastor’s feet.

  “YOU WITCH!” the pastor said, striking Ijeọma’s thigh. “WHEN I SAY LIE DOWN, I MEAN LIE DOWN.”

  He dragged Ijeọma by her hair and kicked her until she was fully prostrate, until her back lay flat against the floor. And he began beating her with the cane—his wooden stick landing across her back and buttocks—as he cried, “YOU WILL BE RELEASED IN JESUS’ NAME! YOU WILL BE RELEASED BY HOLY GHOST FIRE!” watching Ijeọma trembling from each blow, seeing her curling atop the floor; then ordering two attendants to take her hands and feet—beating her until he was tired and turned to the door—flogging her with more than fifty strokes as he approached the door’s handle, believing now that his assurance had returned.

  But Ijeọma was on the floor. She could not move and she could not weep—strapped between the thoughts of flying, and the sores from the wooden cane—thinking she was not to cry since she had heard the songs of her chi—and knowing the pastor had beaten her because she had flown before his people. Fear was the cause, and Chukwu scared him, she knew, Chukwu scared him so greatly, he thinks he can erase the good word, bruising a body that is already bruised, wanting to kill what has already died, one that is waiting to die again, Chukwu, am I to weep, because I will weep when my body bleeds, and the sores become painful, and my flesh is opened for the flies, I will weep even after hearing your melodies, and being taken toward Igwe and his clouds, because I must weep for my body and the one who has given it this pain.

  She pitied him as she cried. And the other children pitied similarly—pitying the pastor since they knew her levitation made his confidence fail, and made his power seem small. They had not seen the man of God look so contemptible, so void of his usual authority—with his spectacles sitting unbalanced, and a corner of his shirt left untucked; and what they reasoned to do with those revelations was laugh—laughing and laughing, all were laughing, hysterically, maniacally, lifting their heads and spreading their lips—cackling as the pastor was preparing to leave the dining hall.

  “COME AND SEE!” Ikemba said while cackling. “THIS BIG PASTOR IS AFRAID OF A SMALL CHILD! WHY, PASTOR? ARE YOU AFRAID SHE CAN PERFORM BIGGER MIRACLES THAN YOU?”

  The pastor turned to Ikemba and said nothing.

  “THIS PASTOR IS A FOOL! HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW THE POWER OF THE GOD HE SER—”

  “Ikemba, sit down and close your mouth,” Pastor Nwosu said.

  “HE DOESN’T EVEN KNOW THE POWER OF THE GOD HE SERVES. THAT IS WHY HE THINKS HE CAN LOCK US UP AND FEED US NOTHING BUT HIS LYING GOD.”

  “I said sit down!”

  “YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW HOW YOUR OWN GOD SPEAKS, MR. MAN OF GOD. YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW … A NUN IN MY VILLAGE TAUGHT ME ENGLISH, MATHEMATICS, AND THE NAME OF A SAINT WHO COULD FLY.”

  “I will not warn you again! Sit down or I will pieces you!”

  “HIS NAME WAS JOSEPH … FROM CUPERTINO … JOSEPH OF CUPERTINO! AND HE COULD FLY. NOW YOU HAVE THIS GIRL FROM ANOTHER VILLAGE, WHO IS DOING THE SAME, AND YOU CALL HER A WITCH. CHEI! YOU ARE A FOOL MR. MAN OF GOD, A GREAT FOOL!”

  Pastor Nwosu dropped his cane, then lunged at Ikemba, quickly wrapping his hands around the boy’s neck, wringing it to break and kill, waiting for Ikemba’s eyes to redden and roll backward, for the breath moving through his neck to cease. They did not. He released himself from the pastor’s grip, and with his available hand punched the pastor in the temple, before watching the pastor lose his balance and stumble about within the walls of the manifestation’s dining hall.

  And the children looked on in awe, laughing at the pastor, hoping Ikemba would strike him again. But before Ikemba could punch him a second time, the attendants descended on him with their canes and dragged him to the cells.

  The room became silent again. After many moments of lying on the ground, Ijeọma was told to rise by an attendant. She lifted herself and began returning to her seat, walking stiffly as she went; not wiping her own tears, looking for Ikemba’s face among the children; and finding that it was not there. She knew he was being punished, and as she looked around, she noticed all the children staring at her and sending smiles and soft laughter as greetings. And she did not want them to look at her in such ways—not wanting any prideful attention. But the children gazed at her anyway, wanting to be acquainted with the flying girl.

  “I want to fly like you,” she heard one girl say as she sat down beside her. “If I could fly like you I would go home to my parents. What is your name?”

  Ijeọma did not answer, and the girl gave her a perplexed look.

  “Why won’t you answer me? Do you not speak English? What is it that is your name,” said the girl in a hushed Igbo.

  And Ijeọma turned, and looked at the girl, putting a hand over her own mouth, and shaking her head: signing that she did not have the ability to speak.

  “It was only this that I wanted to tell you … if you want the pastor to stop beating you … close your eyes.”

&nbs
p; The girl quickly turned her head, and Ijeọma thought she might have upset her; she wanted to ask the girl for forgiveness and understanding, wanted to ask the girl to be patient with her muteness. Though it could not happen; and she moved her eyes, and saw the pastor talking with a group of attendants; and she wondered what he was telling them, wondering if she should prepare herself for another beating; watching as the pastor separated himself from the group and stood at the very front of the dining hall.

  “I will not tolerate any insubordination from you children. Any of you who disobey my authority, and follow the example of that devilish boy, will be dealt with seriously! I am sure I am making myself clear.”

  “Yes sah!” the children responded.

  Ijeọma watched Pastor Nwosu begin walking toward the bench where she was sitting, his spectacles resting on the tip of his nose—exposing his bloodshot eyes—as he snatched her arm, pulling her up from the bench.

  “This flying witch here does not have the power to speak! She is dumb. Do you see now what your satanic practices lead to? Her witchcraft has made her dumb! But my God is a Living God. He will restore her. He will give me the grace to teach her written English. Know that I prophesied it … When I am through with her, the whole world will know her testimony.”