for the salty spaghetti your daughter prepared

I was only four when you scolded me for not saying a word of prayer before eating; it was the third time in one week you had complained.

"Before eating, always learn to first thank God for the food. Don't eat without praying", you said.

Right after that, I prayed Psalms 23 over my meal, "the Lord is my shepherd, ...he prepareth a table before me..." I recited to the last line.

"Good", you responded, "and let this be the last time I remind you...",

Everyday since then, I thanked God for beans, for noodles, for egusi, for pap, for the stew that had no meat and the ones that did, I thanked Him for the salty spaghetti your daughter, Nkechi prepared. Her meals were always salty. Good thing you would only let her cook on Fridays. I hated Fridays but I loved home, not until father passed away.

Today I am twenty-four, and I can't remember the last time I called God "Father" or "Shepherd". 

My heart has forgotten how to feel at home in a church building.

The first time I told you I had issues believing God, you had just prepared beans for breakfast and it was also the holiday after my final year exams. 

You stared at me with your mouth agape. The shock on your face sent chills down my spine. 

It was also the first time in twenty years you ever heard me use the word "I" and "am" in a sentence that didn't end with my name, "I am tired", I said, "I just want my space... I want a break."

"From God?" You gasped, right before breaking down in tears like I had just bruised open your skin, Nkechi added salt to your wound by telling you how I'd decided not to bear my Christian name in school.

My heart crumbled to see a mountain moving faith like yours melt to tears at the sound of my unbelief.

But I didn't want you to know about my change of name, at least not then, so I stared at Nkechi scornfully before leaving the dining table.

Can you still hear me? Do dead people read letters? I'm sorry I never called  home since then. Couldn't bear to see you tear up because of me. 

I'm sorry I refused to pray over your coffin before the priest laid you to rest; it was painful to watch them bury a mountain like you, so easily like you were some mustard seed.

Can the dead read? 

Dear mummy—

Do dead people know all the answers?

I'd love to know, "Is He more real to you now?", "Does He still prepare tables in the presence of thine enemies?", I'm asking because I still catch myself thanking God for every meal. 

I don't want to, but you've taught my heart to be thankful to God for food. Though I want to believe that filling empty bellies is not the only miracle He's known for— even though the empty space you and daddy left in my heart still echoes with unbelief.

Nkechi keeps telling me it's my fault you died unhappy, it hurts me each time she says it. I guess she has perfected the art of salting open wounds.

She said you would often pray that I find peace, and have the faith to still the raging storms in my heart.

But I never got to tell you, did I? That the Psalms that led me beside still waters had drowned— somewhere in my childhood memory.

I was only four when you scolded me for not saying a word of prayer before eating; I would say you were wise to teach a child the art of thanking a God he couldn't see, for something he could see and taste— now, I would have to trust a God I can't see, for a mother I can no longer see.

You did it, you've made God the only memory I can hold onto whenever I think of you. 

Did you know this would happen?

Does this mean you died happy? Eh mom? Tell me...

© Barnabas Ekpima

 

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Barnabas Ekpima is a poet and storyteller. His works have been published on Writers Space Africa— Nigeria, Otherwise Engaged Journal, and NAELS (UNILAG) Journal.

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