MUSTARD SEED

The Mountain Has Not Moved.

“Because you have so little faith. Truly I tell you, if you have faith as small as a mustard seed, you can say to this mountain, ‘Move from here to there,’ and it will move. Nothing will be impossible for you.”

Matthew 17:20

I had zoned out in church, but that was all I could hear the preacher say about faith. If anyone told me I would be zoning out in church some three years ago, I would have had such a person crucified. But here I am today, not even actively listening to the sermon. Why should I be listening when I am seated in church for the interment service of the love of my life?

When my dad died three years ago, I vowed to never step my feet in church again because I concluded God did not answer my prayers. I also avoided mentioning His name. My heart was shattered into pieces the day I got the news of my dad’s death. It was one evening after work. I had gone to church to pray and bawl my eyes out and while stepping out, I received the call that changed my life from my already weeping younger brother— “Daddy is dead, Ada. Nna m anwuola,” he said in between sobs with his voice breaking.

My dad was the strongest and happiest man I knew. He was always ready to proffer solutions to my problems, understood me more than anyone else, and stood by me like he was built for me alone. He did not even hate me when I failed Mathematics and Physics in my WASSCE and could not go ahead to study Nursing Science; my dream course. My best friend, fr. Little wonder my heart broke into pieces when I saw him in the hospital, so frail I could barely recognize him anymore. It was even sadder that he did not know who I was but I held his hand and whispered, “It’s me, your girl, Adanna,” because he called me Adanna and I could swear I saw tears trickling down his eyes.

I really prayed and cried until my voice disappeared, begging God to heal him because I just needed more time, I wanted more pictures, more conversations, more days to spend telling him stories of my work at the supermarket. But my prayers did not ascend, only silence followed me home.

I did not stop going to church immediately. It was gradual. Some days I stayed back at home and slept and other days, I forced myself to go but even when I went, I was not there. The place felt empty, as though I was sitting inside my own body but nowhere near God. I stopped being active, stopped dressing like I used to. In fact, I only went to avoid questions like, “Ahahn, why didn’t we see you in church today?” But in reality, I did not want to be there, especially not in the presence of the One who could not save my father.

Eventually, I stopped going completely and cut off everything that had to do with church. Sitting in the park and watching children play away innocently like they still had something to believe in became my favorite thing to do, or walking around just watching cars pass like life was still simple somewhere for someone else. Sometimes, I would watch people pass by with the profound realization that every random passerby is living a life as vivid, complex, and central to them as my own. I saw the term for it somewhere— Sonder.

It was on one of those days I met T, the love of my life. I was walking along the road when I saw a Lexus RX 350 and didn’t even realize when I voiced my thought out loud, “Omo, see better car!” I thought I was alone in my world until I heard a voice say, “Yes o, I couldn’t agree more.” I looked up, embarrassed, and made it worse when I didn’t even take the hand he extended for a shake. “I’m Tayo, but you can call me T,” he said, smiling sheepishly like I hadn’t just shamed myself in public.

That was how our story started, very simple and unplanned, like something life decided without asking me. We soon became like peas in a pod and everything was so easy with him. We had so many things in common and it felt like I could breathe properly again when I was around him.

T had that same energy I once had for God; always willing to show up, he believed so much in God that when he sometimes invited me to church, I considered going but usually declined the offer. Even when I eventually went, I still could not connect. It was like everyone else was hearing something I had lost the ability to hear. But he never pressured me. He was patient with me in a way that made me feel both safe and guilty at the same time.

The day we got married will forever be etched in my memory. It was at the registry in the presence of a few friends and family. He looked so handsome in his brown pants and nude sweatshirt and I, in my nude gown with a brown crochet fascinator and beautiful bouquet from Loomé as we agreed not to follow the usual wedding norms. Being married to T was really good. It felt like I had finally found somewhere my heart could rest. Our beliefs never created a wall between us or our love even though he still gently tried to bring me back to faith. “Baby, I’m praying for you o,” he would say sometimes with a wide grin, like it was something light he was carrying for both of us. And I would laugh and reply, “Oh please,” like I was stronger than whatever he was trying to reach in me.

My joy did not last forever. T died, yes, you read that right. I understand you might feel sad, but it can’t compare with how I felt. And it still does not feel like a sentence I should be saying. He came back from work one day complaining of a headache, took some painkillers, and lay down to rest but by midnight it had become worse, he was restless, uneasy and confused. I remember asking how exactly he felt and his speech was incoherent. I had to rush him to the hospital myself before calling his friends for support. Everything after that moved too fast and hazy for something so permanent. He was diagnosed with a hemorrhagic stroke and had to be admitted to the ICU. Bless the nurse that caught me when my legs gave way and I almost fell because my body understood before my mind agreed.

I couldn’t understand how someone who had been so full of life the previous day could suddenly fall into such a devastating state. And then, I received the news I dreaded, the same one that took me down the spiral some years back. T was gone. His case was so serious, the blood was too much and exerted so much pressure. They said the nurses and doctors tried their best but there was little that could be done.

I broke in a way I did not know I could break. I wailed, screamed, groaned, I hit myself on the ground like pain could spill out of me if I forced it hard enough. First my father and now, T? What exactly was I supposed to do with a life that keeps taking the only people who feel like home? T was the one who helped me breathe again after my father’s death, the one who made mornings feel possible again, he made me feel like I was not cursed. Now he was gone too, and I was back to nothing.

I got even angrier when his friends and a few of mine came around and were saying “Ndo, God will comfort you,” “Chai, na so people die?” “Another good man don go,” “Tayo na better person o!“. I couldn’t help but wonder, if he were such a good person, why did he leave me alone in this world of emptiness? But I could not respond since I had nothing left to give anyone.

Days after, I kept getting flashbacks of the little and silly things he did; how he always slept with one arm stretched toward my side of the bed, like he was reaching for me even in his sleep, how he’d make me run around while torturing me with tickles as I was so ticklish or how he used to close his eyes while brushing his teeth without realizing and I tease him with that. I remembered the last thing he said to me before the whole thing started, “Baby, your food is getting cold o,” because he had warmed it up without telling me. I did not know those were the last ordinary moments. It is saddening that I didn’t get to say goodbye.

And now I am here again, in church, wearing a white boubou like its purity can hide what is happening inside of me; the turmoil, the pain in my chest and the lump in my throat. I only came because I kept thinking this is what T would have wanted, even if I no longer know what I want. But I am not actively listening to the sermon, I cannot even bring myself to. All I can imagine is him standing up from that coffin, laughing with a childlike glee and telling me it was all a prank and I’d go konk his head while I tell him “That’s my love language nau” while we drive back home and he’d tell me he just needed me to come to church.

So, when the preacher started talking about faith—the same faith I opened this story with—something in me stirred. But I was not ready to give in, because all the faith I had in me could not move a single mountain, not even the one sitting on my chest right now.

Maybe one day I will find my way back to church and maybe not. But for now, I will just be here, sitting miserably in a body that no longer knows how to hold itself together. And please, do not try to convince me otherwise, it will not change anything.

Also, If you are interested in the crochet pieces I used for my wedding, Check here for more.