CHILD OF GOD.

                            By Hymar David.

       It was 1998. The year Ebbe Sand and his Danish compatriots destroyed the Super Eagles in the second-round stages of France 1998. The year Sani Abacha died and my father and his friends celebrated, filling our parlour with beer, loud conversations, music and laughter. It was the year my best friend Elijah received Jesus into his heart and started avoiding me.
       We met one afternoon at school as I was doing my best to stand up to Jamiu. Jamiu was in Primary three, but he had the body of a primary six pupil. He was a half-wit bully who repeated classes and dusted his punishments like the strokes of cane were caressing his palms and back.
       I was walking towards where some boys were playing football, licking a lollipop and resisting the urge to bite into it so I could get to the gum in the middle. A hand reached out from behind me and smacked the sweet away.
       Jamiu was grinning when I turned to face him, an animal grin that I badly wanted to attack. I stood there, anger burning so hard in my chest it made me struggle for breath. I was in Primary five, but I might as well be a Primary two pupil to him.
       “You wan fight?” he barked at me.
       “Yes,” a voice behind him said.
        We turned and this fat boy with a tough face was standing there.
       Jamiu stared from me to Elijah then back . He looked like he was calculating his chances in a fight versus both of us. Then apparently deciding he wasn’t going to win, he backed off and started walking away.
       I stared at the boy. He didn’t say anything, he bent and picked the sweet and started blowing away the sand.
       I was touched. “I don’t want it again,” I said.
       He smiled as he slipped it in his mouth, sucked at it for a while then took it out and spat out sand-tinged spittle. Then he put the lollipop back in his mouth.
        I just stared.
       “My name is Elijah,” he said.

                          ***

       The Sunday Elijah got born again, it was drizzling outside. Our mothers had wrapped us in sweaters and we tucked our hands inside. Elijah was sitting two rows in front of me. Sister Ruth, the wicked usher, always separated us whenever we came to church.
       I wasn’t paying attention to Pastor Nehemiah as he preached. I never paid attention to anything at church. Upfront, Elijah was sandwiched between the Pastor’s wife and a man who wore the same clothes to church every Sunday. Pastor Nehemiah’s voice rose with holy fire, filling the church. He was talking about giving our lives to Jesus. About good and bad. Heaven and hell. The children of satan and the children of God.
       When he asked those who wanted to become children of God to stand up, I saw Elijah stand along with some other people and I chuckled, because Elijah was worse than I was in his attitude to church. Elijah who  my father called the antichrist.
        After church, I walked up to him and poked him on the shoulder.
       “Elijah, let’s go pluck mango from Ulu house before they close from church.”
       He looked at me in a way I had never seen before. “No.”
       “No?”
       “I am a child of God now.” he said.
        I watched him walk away, walking home without me for the first time in the many months we have been friends. I watched him, expecting him to turn around suddenly and burst into laughter at my expression.
         I am a child of God.
        Elijah didn’t come to my house that evening to play football. He didn’t speak to me the next day in class. He kept his face glued to Sugar Girl till break time when he went to sit alone, far from everyone else. Because Pastor Nehemiah said that children of God shouldn’t move with sinners and children of the world.
        “I never see dat your friend since,” mama said one afternoon, “him travel?”
        “No,” I shook my head.
        “Him no well?”
        “Him well.”
         I started avoiding him too. I felt angry and disappointed. Angry at Pastor Nehemiah, angry at God who took people’s friends from them. Angry at myself for feeling hurt and miserable. Angry at Elijah for making me feel like a sinner.
        One Friday, two weeks later, I was walking home from school, swarmed by white-on-blue uniforms and chatter and a feeling of nostalgia that just wouldn’t go away. Something hit me on the back. I turned to see half of an eaten orange on the ground. Ahead, Jamiu was sniggering.
        I stood there, the familiar rage burning in my chest.
       A figure was approaching from behind Jamiu. It was Elijah. He stopped suddenly on noticing us then began walking opposite where he had come. Jamiu didn’t notice him.
       I stepped towards the bully, my fists clenched. My chest felt like it would explode. But the rage wasn’t at Jamiu. He was just in the way.
       He stepped forward , dropping his bag at his feet, his eyes shining with bloodlust.
       Pupils formed a circle around us.
I let my bag slid off my shoulder. I badly needed this beating. I badly needed this pain pushed back by something more violent and brutal.
       “You wan fight?” Jamiu taunted.
        I said nothing.
       “You wan fight?” he said again.
       “Yes.”
        Jamiu froze. He turned slowly like he believed if he took his time, Elijah would not be there.
        But Elijah was still there when the bully faced him. The fire that burned in his eyes didn’t belong to a Christian boy. It was the consuming fire of the old Elijah, the fat boy with a tough face.
       Elijah dropped his bag at his feet and took a step forward. It was a step away from his new beliefs, from his religious isolation, from being a child of God, and he was my friend again.




Hymar David is the author of Gun Down. He loves to describe himself as a professional wakawaka.