What is Your Drug?

God did not create religion. He created man, he then commanded man to multiply and fill the earth. In that very instant, he gave man a  precious gift; love, because he said; Love me, then love your brother like you would yourself. Religion is a weed sowed into man’s heart by the ruler of the world. It is a drug to many.

Why do people experience thoughts that aren’t real?  Feelings that plagues and subdues them into believing there is no escape, no better life for them until their lives end. It assumes the role of a god, but it’s just one in a plethora of worldly spirits.  Not too long ago, I had such a demon. It filled me with feebleness, told me nobody loved me, I was nothing; but by what some might call a lucky streak I received the saving grace and clung to it, albeit it wasn’t luck because that grace is abundant and available for every single person, whether they have a worldly spirit or not. Just forsake that tormenting voice of hopelessness and destruction. Find that reinvigorating grace and let it become your new addiction.

What is your drug? Is it an abusive relationship, is it grieve over a decedent, or is the fear of letting go? What will you do when you have no more tears left?

I have never learned to say goodbye. After my Grandmum’s premature demise, my family hid it from it for as long as they could. It was easier too because I was in boarding school.  Then I found out, and I was insouciant. The origin of my alexithymia, and many lonesome nights. I avoided the funeral, matter of fact, I have no clue about her final resting place. Then one night I was having a  nightmare. Or a vision, not sure, but I saw her, she came to me. I wanted to know where she was, so I asked and she told me to come to her, with her and find out. I was going to, then I got a bad feeling on getting closer. That apparition wasn’t my Grandmum, I woke up. It took a while for me to process that dream, and I still haven’t completely but I do know why it happened. I had to face the fact that she would never come to visit again, bringing toys and food, that we couldn’t stay up late in the night practicing Yoruba anymore. I had to bury her.

So you see, alcohol and oxycodone are not our only drugs of choice. It takes a lot of self-reflection. One must be willing to tear themselves apart. What we discover could shake the foundation of our identity. It’s hard but then we discover whom/what the master is. We all have one or more, even the people who think they don’t (In that case it’s probably pride).

Religion is a contentious son-of-a-bitch, imagine a scenario where you’re free from your master, and you’re running into the world, there are too many belief systems out there, all assuring you that their’s is the truth. Now you’re caught in between a rock and a hard place.  Here is where that sweet-savory graceful salvation swoops into the scene. Irrespective of religion, I chose to serve the omnipotent God.  You may take me to the Sikh’s gurdwara and I will extol him there because he alone is the plug. He has no hidden agenda.

There is no value in religion, race or human wisdom. The only valuable commodity is love. Even if we chose not to believe in anything, let’s not dismiss people because they haven’t attained similar social status as us,  or because they are freaks who have been admitted into the psych ward, once too often. They’re family. We should have compassion nevertheless for that is God’s will for us, to be addicted to the love he so richly provides to us, his people. God bless us.

 

 

 

The Preacher’s Daughter

Matilda sat on the first row. Clasped hands to her midriff, the holy book at her heel, listening to congregate voices, bellowing a tone she’d known since was born with all their energy, they sounded like an approaching thunderstorm.  The man she called father sat on a pulpit, glaring earnestly at the crowd who sat with their heads bowed. Not a minute later, he erupts from his place, yelling at the rolling thunderstorm to cease, the heads dare not raise. He starts;

“You  depraved unruly wantons, surely not only four people have ten shillings for the offering basket, for it is not I, but he, who commands us to give in order to see his glory.”

In unison, the congregation lurched towards the basket, including the leper who could barely move unaided, for they yearned to be worthy.

Satisfied with his deed, the preacher wore a pleasing simper. The choir continues. Matilda was deep in thought, for the family did not give, they were only benefactors of the offering, as preaching was her father’s sole profession. The church dispersed, wearing a dolorous aura after the sermon, for father had told them that they were sacrilegious and the Lord died for the righteous, like him. He told them that they were fortunate, for he served as a light, leading sinners to righteousness.

Ma would do a big cook-out after church, every Sunday, usually Matilda would be delighted, but she was older now, she felt contrition, perhaps due to insomnia and night terrors she had each night, or perhaps she was befuddled by the travesty of her family’s faith.

In the following week, Matilda stirred a ruckus at home by refusing to go to church.  In her family, there was no bigger offense. Ma pleaded and cried. The preacher reiterated;

“Listen to your mother, foolish girl. This burst of rebellion is a ploy from Satan to destroy your righteous soul, if I do not see you in that front seat, then you might as well not be home when we return”. Satisfied that he has scared her straight, he yanked on his wife’s arm and they left, for where could she run to, she had no friends.

Matilda sought this golden moment, she slung a bag over her shoulder and set off to discover life without looking back.

Over the next months, Matilda lived in a shelter, she met with all categories of people, a disgraced former militant named Joel, and Katya, a trollop and mother of three were her best friends. They had such ample life experiences that it moved her to keep a journal. One day, she would publish their stories.

In the following year, Matilda moved in with her boyfriend, Harry. His affections for her were questionable, but she figured that inviting her to live in proved them. She relied on him and soon exhibited a proclivity for debauchery, like Harry. Over the next three years, a more brusque, sullen part of him began to unfurl. He’d criticize her for everything, including what she dared to think.  Consequently, the night terrors reappeared.  She had an epiphany of why she left her family, Harry was no different from the preacher.  By morning, she was gone.

Two years after rehab, she started working in a small scale company that rented qualified potential employees to big scale companies who need employees on a short-term contract. In rehab, she had learned to focus through meditation. She got to interact with people, channeling back her hobby, journaling.

Matilda made decent money with her job, she quite enjoyed it too. It was at work that she met Paul, who became her life partner. She was content, but one night, the night terrors resurfaced. Paul woke up to see her in frantic tears, he prompted her to talk about the most dreaded topic; her past, her parents. Paul intuitively discerned the source of her panic, that weekend, he took her to his fellowship. She worshipped with believers and for the first time, a glimmer of peace like no other intruded her heart.

Over the following weeks, she studied the holy book and to her amazement, she found a deeper understanding, in contrast to what her father taught. She realized she needed to forgive her Pa, so she prayed about it daily until she became whole.

She became an Associate Manager at her company. One tumultuous day, Judit, a colleague requested for her. Judit informed her of a man seeking a menial job to make ends meet. Matilda went out to see a gaunt version of her father. His eyes leered on her,  a deep cry fell out his mouth as he fell to his knees, disdain overtook him, but she looked at him with compassion and declared;

“I forgive you, but I am not God.”

 

 

This story delineates the hypocrisy of religion, as in Africa and most nations. Most times, budding believers lose their faith because of the scrutiny. The morality of our actions doesn’t inhibit Christianity from being an individual race; Moreover, we are not our parents.