Thieving Gods

“Tomorrow is the New Yam festival,” Izi said, kicking the dust with her toes, an ornamented earthen jar sitting on her head.

“I know that,” Nwigbe, her companion, replied.

“I can’t wait for the coming-of-age ceremony happening at the palace court tomorrow. Everyone, including the prince, will be there to watch all the eligible young maidens dance. Even Mister James”—she stopped to spit out the phlegm in her mouth—”that loud, oyibo missionary that speaks as if thick catarrh has blocked his nostrils, has promised to be there; no doubt to persuade us to leave our gods and follow his.”

“Good for you all. I’ll not be coming.”

Izi stopped in her tracks, a scowl on her face, her arms crossed over her chest.
“Why are you like this? Is it because your mother is sick?”

Nwigbe shrugged and spoke in a flat tone, “Why else?”

Izi sighed and resumed walking.
“Have faith, my friend. After all, the traditionalist is doing his best to plead to the gods for her soul.”

Nwigbe had strong doubts about the traditionalist’s effectiveness. Nothing he’d done so far had yielded positive results.
Her mother had woken up with an inhumane scream one morning, her hands clutching her swollen leg. A festering wound mysteriously appeared on her thigh, spreading and eating deep into her skin and bones. She’d been in pain for over six months, growing worse with each passing day.

The two friends eventually got to the stream and fetched water into their jars before heading back to their respective homesteads in silence.

As Nwigbe entered her father’s compound, she immediately sensed that something was off.
Her maternal uncles and aunts were there, speaking to the traditionalist in hushed tones, sighing and shaking their heads grimly. Her father’s face was drawn and pale.

Nwigbe rushed to the small gathering to find out what was happening. Then came the rehearsed condolences.

“We’re deeply sorry, Nwigbe.”

“Your mother was called to the great beyond while you were gone.”

“May her soul rest in the bosom of the ancestors.”

Nwigbe’s heart froze. As she shrieked her heart out, she concluded that the gods must be selfish, cruel beings who stole what wasn’t theirs for the taking.

Nwigbe wished she could do something in the invisible plane of the ancestors, when her time on earth was up, to ensure that families lived long, blissful lives and then died together, leaving no one to suffer grief.

Or, perhaps, since their gods had failed her, she should consider the oyibo missionary’s offer.

At least, his God didn’t require incessant sacrifices. His God, according to him, promised eternal life. In his words, “The thief comes to steal, kill and destroy. He came that we may have life and have it more abundantly.”

The next day, while the rest of the village celebrated and other girls her age danced in the palace court, Nwigbe sat outside her mother’s hut like a statue clad in sackcloth.