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#NwiloWrites | Week 2: Diary Of A Church Slut By @SaintVinny

Dear Diary,

It’s the second time I am attempting to paint a fair picture of the church I visited today. It is necessary to make it fair. In Nigeria you dare not write anything bad against a church or the fire from above and within would consume your yansh. Women would be ordered to cry to the heavens to make your life miserable. Don’t try God when a Nigerian woman prays. I have seen my mother pray. Hey. It is uneasy. Anyone who offended her and saw her in that state would rush to apologize. There is a lot of “Holy Ghost Fire” than the name of Jesus or the mention of “Bari”. Nigerian women are prayer warriors. They pray when they want a choice man; after they clock thirty-two and when in marriage and the man visits the bed only once in ages.

What am I saying? The church is not bad at all oh. Everything is great. In fact it is my best in Port Harcourt. It is a tent, a pleasure tent. Is that another word for comfort? Dear diary, often times I get confused and write what I may not mean. The church has such air-conditioner that makes me look primitive. I catch cold as often as a Nigerian girls spots an oil worker in a singles’ meeting. But I have been super lazy to write anything about it. It was just a wedding. You see, I wrote ‘just’, as if I am married.

But I didn’t go there to worship God, it was human, women, I mean to write. When a lady is getting married she looks angelic and you practically worship her looks. If she does not look beautiful, amidst the heavy makeup, then you have to give up on that one. Any lady that struggles to be pretty after the application of Mary Kay is hopeless. Truth. That thing makes anyone pretty. I am a witness. The faces shine like my grandmother’s old kettle, scrubbed with a mixture of charcoal and ground egg shell. I did a lot of that in Luubara. Now you know I am ghetto, applaud yourself, bastard!

Neka wedded. He is one of those young men I admire. I terrorise his office often. He has three beautiful single ladies who work with him and they all worship at the Kings Assembly – maybe not all of them, but who cares – they are simply attractive! You now see why writing this piece was in the centre of the good, the bad and temptation? Kings Assembly is on Stadium Road. It is a place that looks welcoming from afar. I like places that are not loud. I like everything moderate, except of course boobs. Thank you for understanding. When the boobs are moderate you tend to be abusive. It shrinks in your services. When it is huge, large and very Nigerian, I mean very plenty, you can afford to be luxurious with it. You can even share with friends. Life is beautiful.

I was at the Kings Assembly today. It is quite a popular church in Port Harcourt. I have resorted to visiting the popular churches that can be found on Google map in case I get missing. Diarists get kidnapped too.

What do you think compares to a wedding? Ehmm. Nothing. It is the life! You were single and somehow someone sensible has come into your life to share in your madness, isn’t that awesome?  I should narrate my ordeal and get moving right? Okay, I am repentant. Dear diary, I attended a wedding today at the Kings Assembly, a church in Port Harcourt. My friend was having the concluded part of his marriage. His marriage? Kai. English is tormenting oh. He had gone to the lady’s village to do the traditional rites. Diary, I think we spend so much money in Nigeria. We engage in three types of marriages at a stretch. Maybe that’s a reason I am still single. There is the traditional, the court and the white. And when divorce comes, all these processes are ignored oh. Pathetic. I get scared to know that I may pass through these phases if I would ever need a woman to share in my madness.

I had planned the wedding. The invitation sat on my desk. It was a fine card. It was like a movie ticket. Kai, diary, Nigerians could be fashionable oh. They decorate everything, including funeral programmes so well that it feels good to die. I have a couple of friends in the church. I was not apprehensive. I took a public transport and alighted at the Air Force Junction bus stop. A very long name for a bus stop you must have noticed. I crossed the double lane road, watching necessary sides of the road. It is heartbreaking when an old man like me gets knocked down. I barely have anything to tell my creator. “Sir, I needed to see how my friend looked in his suit. I’m sorry. If I had my way I wouldn’t have died.” And the big man would stare at me, shakes his head and ask me to excuse him. Nobody would listen to me. No one listens to a writer. I know that. We tend to drag status with God as creators. We create characters that talk, eat and have sex in stories. Isn’t that gross? Why would anyone wish to be a creator?

I walked into the church. I was late. I had no wristwatch. I hadn’t worn any in a long while. My school fee is calculated. I can barely squeeze out some money to get a time piece. Okay, diary, any lady who calls me again for a date must promise me a Swatch wristwatch. Blog owners are too stingy. They like content but have a shallow pocket. Is that an idiom? Nonsense!

The praise session was on. I met two young ushers at the entrance. They led me to a row. I chose my seat. Nobody sat on the row. In front of me was the bridal train. Dear diary, there were four weddings at the church that day. My friend was seated as the number one couple. Others had the other seats. I enjoyed the dances. The maids of honour, or whatever crap they call them, stretched in front of me. They wore divergent colours, depending on the couple they represented. One pretty maid wouldn’t stop looking at me. She had three mobile phones. Diary, why would any young woman use three super expensive mobile phones? One fell down. She did not notice. God did. I did too. I respected God. I touched her. I mean I tapped her hand. She turned. Diary, you should have seen her turn. When these ladies make their hair, and turn at you, it sends signal down the spine. I felt a twitch. I was in the church. I murdered whatever devilish twitch it was. I picked up the phone and handed it to her. The chorus was high. I’m sure she said thank you. I stared at her lips. I could not have noticed the words she spoke. I know the red lips parted and returned to base. She collected the phone and my attention moved up stage.

The choir of the Kings Assembly are good at music, people’s music. I like original songs. When will anyone sing me something evenly composed? I think God is too talented to let the church remix club songs for church purpose. I could not dwell on that. No one can when some very pretty ladies are the choristers. I had not danced in a church in a long while. I tried to bend down. There was some level of starch on my shirt. If I danced so much, I would sweat and that would be unfair to my armpit. I am bad at sweating. I won a prize once, in my dreams. There just may be a map of the African continent beneath my arm, drawn on the shirt. I danced and smiled at familiar faces and a few acknowledged.

The pastor, a man who I painstakingly listened to years ago stepped on the podium. It was my first with him, in person.  A simple man who does not boast of all the wealth God has given to him. On TV he preached in simple shirts. I liked him and it was my first time in his church. He talked in crisp clean English. Diary, there is nothing as inspiring as the perfect use of the English language from the podium. Some pastors talk anything they can join together as words. And they think it is right. And you are a demon when you don’t repeat what had been said in the actual error burdened sentences. The pastor preached from the book of 1st Cor. 13. That book has a lot on love oh. And the man talked about what the couple needed to spice their affair, including sex. He talked about sex in a respectful manner and put necessary wit where necessary. We giggled and learned.

Diary, I did not find many pretty women in the church. Sad. The ushers did not look as speculated. I could see few faces in the choir that made me want to visit a gain. There was this lady, slim with very attractive legs. Diary, do you know the romantic thing about smooth, long legs? You may not want to know. I like the legs so much I kept staring at it while worshiping. The lady vanished when the praise session was over. Dear diary, I could not walk up to her. She had a ring. But lots of ladies adorn their fingers with rings, diary. Not because they are married but it is prophetic. If they had rings it would attract the actual marriage ring. Dear diary, I would be putting on a ring soon. I want to attract one for marriage. I pray a girl comes to my rescue soon enough.

The brides were introduced. I am sorry, dairy, out of the four ladies, only two made my day. My friend’s bride was beautiful. Another tall, busty lady too made it work. Diary, why do people marry very likely un-pretty women? Life is too short to want to spend time looking at uninspiring ladies. They danced into the hall and I could tell their joy. It was uneasy to finally be the last bus stop of any man. Lots of ladies would kill to be in their shoes. The men were reserved. They were the men responsible for the cost of the wedding. And they had to curtail their happiness. They have to spend time analyzing who they had borrowed from and who may come in three weeks for things borrowed.

The marriage commenced. The rings were exchanged and the couples kissed. Emphasis was not placed on the kisses. I did not see clearly how it happened. I know they kissed and it was a little amusing. A man, with the surname as Okon, must have been the most amusing. His English was a bit spiced with tribal accent and he was not tall. His wife was not either and I’m sure their kiss would have been the most exciting. Diary, some people are bad at kissing in public.

I like the Kings Assembly. Its sounds system is enjoyable. I heard the choir does well too on Sundays. And from what I witnessed, I think they would do greatly recording original songs. The pastor is a man anyone can talk to, from what I noticed. I did not meet him but he knew that names of the couple and addressed them mutually. I would not but if I wish to be a member of any church in Port Harcourt, the Kings Assembly would be a spot for me. The ladies may have to improve their looks, even when it is faked; it gives the man some assurance; that he is staring at something that had the potential of being great.

I left the church for the reception where I was bound to find some meal and drink.  People eat at funerals and at weddings; it is almost a sin not to have guests well fed. A friend who I had met somewhere reserve was at a table that eventually became mine. We spoke, hugged and had snap shots. Ladies like photos. They take shots everywhere. My friend snapped food and danced with me when the day was almost over. She is a good dancer with very luxurious boobs. I didn’t mind step on my toenails once my eyes were fixed appropriately on her well decorated chest. I certainly enjoy the company of ladies from Adamawa.

 

 

@saintvinny

 

Nwilo Bura-Bari Vincent has books on Okadabooks.com. Check them out.

 

 

 

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