CHAPTER TWO
A hunter must first scout the forest
“Omasilechi, wake up. We need to start getting ready for service.”
Adaora is rousing me up from my sweet nap. I grunt and raise my head, peering at her through sleepy eyes. “What time is it?”
“3:30.”
The service is by 5pm. “It’s too early to start preparing,” I say, promptly lying back down and turning away from her.
I hear her hiss of frustration as the sweet hands of sleep snatch me away for a second time.
When she wakes me up again, it's 4:40 pm. We have twenty minutes to get to church. I head to the bathroom to wash my face and my legs.
Dashing out, I apply her Nivea cream generously on my face, legs and hands. Then I brush my short afro hair with the brush I carry in my bag. I adjust my t-shirt and pull my jeans up. It’s taken me no more than five minutes to get ready. I pick up my bag and turn to her, “Let’s go.”
She is looking at me with an anticipatory smile.
“What?” This girl is planning something. I can feel it in my bones.
“Let’s go, jor,” she says, then picks up a pink, furry bag.
I take a moment to look at my friend. Adaora has her full make-up game on. She is wearing a pink frilly top to match with her bag, a swaying brown skirt and high-heeled boots. She looks like she is going to a party for the rich and famous. “Why are you dressed up like this? No be evening service we dey go?” I ask, frowning.
She bursts into laughter. Even Vivian snorts from her position where she is reading a book on the bed.
“What?” I ask, my gaze swinging from Adaora to Vivian on the bed. Why do I feel like a naive sacrificial lamb being led to slaughter?
Adaora shakes her head, carrying her handbag. “Don’t worry. You will see for yourself.”
Vivian locks the door behind us.
We enter a taxi and head to Olu Obasanjo road at GRA. The driver stops in front of the church building and we alight.
The building is huge and sprawling, painted in muted tan colours that speak class and elegance. Cars are packed everywhere and throngs of people are steadily pouring into the building.
The first girl I see walking into the church is wearing jeans that look like she was poured into it, with a tank top that leaves her chest almost bare. Her hair is long and screams money. And her make-up is to die for.
All this dressing up, just for evening service? In the small church I attend with my mother, we wear old faded shirts, rubber bathroom slippers and tired scarves on our heads. I feel comfortable there, even though Adaora chided me for staying in a church made up of a middle-aged and elderly crowd.
Looking around, it is obvious that I have stayed in my hole for too long. These people are taking things to another level.
Everywhere I turn, a girl more beautiful than the next is sashaying past. It looks more like a modeling academy than a church. And the men, oh the men.
Yummy guys are everywhere, in well-tailored suits or senators. Everywhere I look, bearded, fresh-faced, and scrumptious guys are standing, talking in groups, or alighting out of their cars, looking like fresh-baked bread.
With popping eyes, I tug at Adaora’s hands “Do you people do fashion parades in your church?”
She chuckles, and leads me to the church entrance where beautifully dressed ushers are handing out envelopes. We walk into church and a blast of cool air hits my face, making me sigh in relief. The church is huge, painted white with arches at the altar. Chairs are arranged in a circular design around the pulpit. Giant A.C.s are everywhere, cooling the air.
Adaora leads me to a seat close to a side door and we sit. A light-skinned woman in tailored trousers and heels is leading prayers, speaking in tongues and looking posh while doing it.
The female ushers are dressed in black sequined and sparkling gowns, each face expertly made-up. The male ushers are tall, handsome and well-groomed. I think you have to be a model before you can be an usher in this church.
A middle-aged woman in long, wavy, and expensive hair sits next to me, followed by her husband. He holds her hands as they pray together.
I am entranced. Is this church or a gathering of beautiful people? Who knew that church could be like this?
I glance down at my feet and suddenly remember that I am not one of the beautiful ones tonight. My shirt has a hole by the side, my jeans trouser was bought about a million years ago, and my brown crocs were once white. Beside these people, I look like a housemaid that just came from the village. A frisson of anger passes through my body. Isn’t this all vanity? Why are they dressing up like church is a fashion parade? Focus should be on their relationship with God, not on their outward appearance.
My eyes land on the lady leading prayers with so much passion, and a wave of shame creeps up over my neck. I can’t see their heart, who am I then, to judge?
Besides, why shouldn’t they dress up to come to church? Isn’t God deserving of our best? I have spent too long in my mother’s church. I can’t remember the last time I really dressed up for church. Have I been living under a rock? I feel left behind, like everybody has surged forward and left me in the past.
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