Why I Could Not Attend Mass This Sunday Morning
The rooster crowed, a rude alarm from my phone shattering my fragile peace. My head throbbed like a yam pounded by Madam Azege, and sunlight, sharp as her tongue, stabbed through the window into my room. A groan escaped my lips, heavy with the echoes of last night's Beer dance and the sweet, potent palm wine. My feet, leaden weights anchored to the bed, refused to cooperate.
Mass. Mama Atese's disapproving stare flickered in my mind. The image of Father Mark's booming sermon on the perils of late-night tomfoolery sent another wave of nausea rolling through me. No, there was no way I could face the church today, not looking like a masquerader who'd lost his way back to the bush.
Suddenly, a glint of salvation caught my eye. My priced rooster, Dagbo, strutted outside, his crest as magnificent as a chief's feather headdress. An idea, as cunning as a bush rat, snaked into my head. With a groan that was pure acting, I stumbled out, clutching my stomach like a woman about to deliver twins.
"Mama!" I wailed, collapsing onto a stool. "My belly! It twists like a python trying to swallow a calabash!"
Mama Atese, bless her gullible heart, rushed to my side. "Ah, Wan wamma!" she clucked, concern furrowing her brow. "Is it the beer again? That devil brew!"
"Beer?" I croaked, my voice as weak as a newborn chick. "No, Mama! It's... it's Dagbo!" I pointed dramatically at the strutting cockerel. "He... he cursed me! Said I danced like a hippopotamus with two left feet!"
Mama Atese gasped. Curses were no laughing matter in our compound. With a hurried prayer, she chased Dagbo away, muttering about jealous roosters and ancestral wrath.
By the time the church bells pealed, I was tucked in bed, a steaming bowl of macaroni warming my soul. Mama Atese sat by my side, fanning me with a magazine, her face etched with sympathy. And although a mischievous giggle threatened to burst from my chest, I managed a feeble smile. After all, who could attend mass with a cursed belly and an offended rooster chasing their reputation through the village?
So, dear Father Mark, forgive my absence. The blame lies not with laziness, but with Dagbo's vengeful spirit and the delicate balance of one's reputation in the eyes of their Mama. Perhaps next Sunday, when the palm wine has settled and Dagbo has forgiven my dancing skills, I shall offer my penance at the altar. Until then, let the spirit of laughter guide me through this day of well-deserved rest.
Mass. Mama Atese's disapproving stare flickered in my mind. The image of Father Mark's booming sermon on the perils of late-night tomfoolery sent another wave of nausea rolling through me. No, there was no way I could face the church today, not looking like a masquerader who'd lost his way back to the bush.
Suddenly, a glint of salvation caught my eye. My priced rooster, Dagbo, strutted outside, his crest as magnificent as a chief's feather headdress. An idea, as cunning as a bush rat, snaked into my head. With a groan that was pure acting, I stumbled out, clutching my stomach like a woman about to deliver twins.
"Mama!" I wailed, collapsing onto a stool. "My belly! It twists like a python trying to swallow a calabash!"
Mama Atese, bless her gullible heart, rushed to my side. "Ah, Wan wamma!" she clucked, concern furrowing her brow. "Is it the beer again? That devil brew!"
"Beer?" I croaked, my voice as weak as a newborn chick. "No, Mama! It's... it's Dagbo!" I pointed dramatically at the strutting cockerel. "He... he cursed me! Said I danced like a hippopotamus with two left feet!"
Mama Atese gasped. Curses were no laughing matter in our compound. With a hurried prayer, she chased Dagbo away, muttering about jealous roosters and ancestral wrath.
By the time the church bells pealed, I was tucked in bed, a steaming bowl of macaroni warming my soul. Mama Atese sat by my side, fanning me with a magazine, her face etched with sympathy. And although a mischievous giggle threatened to burst from my chest, I managed a feeble smile. After all, who could attend mass with a cursed belly and an offended rooster chasing their reputation through the village?
So, dear Father Mark, forgive my absence. The blame lies not with laziness, but with Dagbo's vengeful spirit and the delicate balance of one's reputation in the eyes of their Mama. Perhaps next Sunday, when the palm wine has settled and Dagbo has forgiven my dancing skills, I shall offer my penance at the altar. Until then, let the spirit of laughter guide me through this day of well-deserved rest.
