Over the noise of the grinding machine, I hear my sister scream to her little girl to get her some water. Their raucous conversation is what wakes me from my sleep. I am not surprised to find, after the past few months, that my rest is no longer disturbed by the engine’s cacophonous whirring. I turn in my bed and hiss when the wall clock shows its quarter-past-seven face. I had overslept in a very short night; I try to remember when I dozed off—I can’t—so I put it at some minutes past four, since I remember hearing the Fajr prayer call before falling asleep. Despite having returned from school so tired and going to bed on an empty stomach, I was alert for most of the night before. I had attempted to sleep early primarily to announce to my grumbling belly that I had nothing to fill it with, and to rest my fatigued body, but I was woken by my stomach’s relentless protest and the noise from the other room, where my twelve-month-old nephew was wailing loud enough for his cries to bury his mother’s midnight vigil prayer, that alone would normally wake me up. She’d often pray with the same fervour in her voice as our late mother did before the sickness took her away. They’d both pray with loud cries that caused their voices to shake, creating inhuman vibrations that were an entirely different language from the Igbo they prayed in. For some mysterious reason, the polyphonous sound only made more sense. I concluded last night that if I were God, I’d answer her prayers so I and the neighbours could rest.
I’d sometimes try to join her in prayer from my own room, but I’d often fall into the same pray-worry-mumble-doze-off pattern most times I tried. I’d always start fervently, of course, and then as I screamed each prayer at God, I’d start to worry about every single item I prayed about—from my unpaid fees to the now-tattered school uniform I’d been wearing since SS1 and to the circumstances surrounding my sister’s business. From there on, I’d start to feel dizzy as my ears became accustomed to the dissonant noises in the gentle night, and eventually, I’d fall asleep just in time to wake up for school without enough rest.
One morning, on our way to school, I talked to Kunle, my best friend, about my praying condition. He had recently rediscovered his faith a few weeks ago when his uncle, a pastor in Canada, finally bought him the PlayStation 4 he had been nagging for.
“See, I used to find it difficult to pray too, until recently when I found out what the problem was,” he’d said.
I humoured him, knowing fully well what his problem used to be. “Oh, what was it?”
“The problem was that I kept talking to God like He wasn’t listening!”
“How do you mean?”
“Every time I knelt to pray, what followed was more of a monologue than a prayer.”
“Okay, and how has your style changed, enyi m?” I said, rolling my eyes.
“You see, now, when I talk to God, I pray like it’s a conversation with a friend—a comrade, even.” He laughed.
“Oh boy, you’re just confusing me o!”
“You know those American soldier films we watch, abi?”
I nodded with a slight grimace, unsure where our conversation was heading.
“You know how they talk to each other on this their war phone?” I nodded again, knowing he meant ‘walkie-talkie.’
“That’s how I pray now. Rather than shouting and shouting like we do in church, I just speak and say ‘over’ so I am reminded I am speaking to someone in the first place.” He spread his arms like he had just revealed an epiphany.
I looked at Kunle’s face to see if he meant what he was saying and if he had more words to add to the delirium he had just expressed. The ignorant boy was smiling blissfully. I concluded he was still high on the ecstasy of the gift his uncle had just gotten him.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” Kunle asked.
“Nothing o!” I said as contempt pulled the edges of my lips downward.
“I know it sounds crazy, but try it one of these days and see how it works for you.”
“I’ve heard you,” I replied.
Now, in my bed, already late for school, I reach for my physics notes to skim through them one last time in preparation for today’s exam. The letters are blurry, and I think to myself that finally all that garri has completely ruined my eyes. Just as I am about to believe my statement, I remember I do not have my glasses on. I hiss and drop the notes. I sigh and get on my knees.
“Dear Father in Heaven, over.”
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Adetomiwa ‘adetomiwave’ Victor is a graphic designer, pencil artist, writer, youth advocate, and human anatomy student at the University of Maiduguri. Passionate about the intersection of science, art, and storytelling, he channels his diverse interests into creating meaningful works that bring human experiences to life. Drawing inspiration from anatomy, art, social impact, and the nuances of everyday life, he constantly seeks to create pieces that resonate deeply with readers and audiences alike.
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Read – February 14th – A Short Story Moses Tololo – Zambia
