Father, Catch me lest I fall

“Maybe the fall of man was a test of repentance“.

“Ebube dike, daalu…” I sang with all my energy as I led the congregation in praise.

It is the first thanksgiving Sunday since the lock down and words couldn’t describe how psyched I was. The energy in the atmosphere was electrifying and our Pastor dedicated this particular one hour service to high praise and solemn worship. The previous day, during the choir practice, we compiled a list of songs that would resonate our gratitude to God in our various dialects. Our instrumentalists perfected their transition from one key to another. By the end of our practice, we all had good vibes for the service.

The thanksgiving service was situated outdoors in compliaince with the pandemic guidelines as we were expecting a fairly larger number of people and due to that, the service time was set for the latter morning hours which gave me sufficient time to clean up nice for the occasion.
I put on my newly sowed iro and buba, after my roommate, Danielle, helped with my make up. Just like cherry on the cake, I wore my brightly coloured coral beads and anklets. I took a look at myself in the mirror and I could imagine God saying from heaven, “This is my beloved daughter, in whom I am well pleased with.”

We were just five minutes into the 30 minutes praise session and yet, everyone in the room was hyped and pumped. From the regular dancers to the shy ones, old and young. It was indeed a time to be grateful for everything that God has done for us as a church. Besides, we all missed the fellowship.
The instrumentalists really did not dissapoint as they poured in all their energy; variety of drums, gongs, local flutes, shekere and tambourines . With the permission of the pastorate, we were finally able to incorporate local instruments into the choir so, most of the songs during the praise session were taken in the people’s local dialect; igbo, hausa, yoruba, ogoni, ibibio, efik and so on.

As I switched to yoruba praises, the many handsome men guilded up in agbadas stepped up to help sweep the floor along with some ladies and for some minutes, the talking drum tools it’s mandatory lead.
As the drummer worked his drum, I let my eyes wander a bit across the room, to appreciate the cultural variety represented by each member of the congregation. Our pastor encouraged us to discard of our suits and gowns and represent our culture. Absorbing the joy in the atmosphere, I danced with slow rhythmic movements while scanning the area, looking for what was not lost.
Then my eyes met his, the weakness in my knees. Typical cliché. Dark brown eyes that seem to freeze time. How could I ever forget that? He was just another face in the crowd.

Or maybe not.

From my sitting position on the choir stand, I could get an almost direct view of him without needing to turn my head. I took my time to study his face; dark, long, a prominent jaw line, fairly visible tribal marks, beardless, thick eyebrowed, slim nose with narrow nostrils (unlike mine that can literally take your breath away), full black lips and everything nice.

I like it.

Remembering that I was in church, I tried to remove my gaze from his face. If you have ever scrapped gum from under tables, you’d understand how hard it was for me to redirect my eyes and attention to the minister.

Two, three or maybe four minutes of paying attention to the minister, my eyes pleading with my brain for some eye candy. Diverting my attention to him, I stared shamelessly for a while until he lifted up his gaze to meet mine, locked and loaded.
And like a lion that has spotted his next meal, he gave an endearing smile.

Father, catch me lest I fall.

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What makes you slip might not be a person, it might be a thing.

Thanks for reading ❤️.