Chinelo Okparanta - Under the Udala Trees

If I said, “God loves us all the same,” she said, “Not the thieves and the liars and the cheats, not the murderers, not the disobedient. He couldn’t possibly love us all the same.”

Once, I went so far as to quote her John 3:16: “For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life.” And I said, “You see, God loves us all the same. He gave His only son to save us all. All of us, even the thieves and liars and cheats, even the murderers and the disobedient. Even those of us accused of abominations.” By this time, a large part of me did not believe I had committed any type of abomination, but I said it anyway. Just to point out to her that God loved us all. Just to point out to her that He didn’t put any qualifiers on His love. Not even when He said to love your neighbor as yourself. He didn’t say don’t love the thieving neighbors, or don’t love the adulterers, or don’t love the liars or the cheats or the disobedient children. He simply said, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

All of this explaining. Still, Amina would not budge.

By our third year, it was as if she had become a secondary-school-aged, Nigerian version of Margaret Thatcher, iron lady through and through.

Then one day, as if by a miracle, on a Sunday around the middle of our third year, the headmistress announced the upcoming visit of an onye ocha minister, who promised to perform wonders through prayer. I was all ears.

He would be the special guest at our revival ceremony the following Sunday, the headmistress said.

During the war, some of the villagers in Ojoto had gone around saying that the Red Cross ndi ocha workers had been sent to Biafra by God to save us. Once, I watched as several of the villagers threw their hands above their heads and exclaimed, “Glory be to God! The ndi ochas can even bring back the dead!” I have no idea what led them to say that — maybe one of the Red Cross nurses had successfully treated a dying person, returning him to health. Whatever the case, the idea of an onye ocha minister coming to our school to perform miracles instantly reminded me of what the villagers had been saying during the war, so that, for me, the impending visit took on the feel of medicine. In my mind, it was as if all I’d have to do was show up at the revival, take a full Sunday regimen of onye ocha prayer tablets, and just like that, everything would be fixed.

The Sunday of the minister’s revival, it rained. The senior prefects led the way. We followed, all of us trudging along through the pouring rain, through swampy marshlands and mud-caked trails.

We reached an open field several kilometers from our campus, gathered in a large circle around the minister and his small crew of ndi ochas , the rain beating down on us.

The minister wore a short-sleeved white oxford shirt and a pair of brown trousers, both of which, soaked, clung to his body. He was pale, like any other white man, but he was dark too, tanned from the sun, so much so that the skin on his face and on his arms reminded me of a belt, or a cattle hide, owing to that leathery look of it.

By his side, a gray-haired onye ocha woman sat in a silver and black wheelchair. She was a cripple, the minister explained, speaking in his rambling, onye ocha way, one word melting into the next.

Another onye ocha man stood by the crippled woman, holding a long stick. “Look upon him and bear witness to the power of God!” the minister announced. “Look and marvel at a man who has spent all his life deprived of sight. But today, my brothers and sisters in Christ, today he shall see!”

All around I heard the collective “Amen” of fellow students.

The minister began with the crippled woman. He wheeled her to the very middle of the crowd and asked us to position ourselves in the field so that we could properly see. The praying began:

“Dear Almighty Lord in heaven, we are gathered here today to ask Your mercies. We come to You to ask You to strengthen us and lead us into the light, so that we might not, through our weaknesses, remain in the dark. O font of life and blood and water, we acknowledge that we exist in this world only in order to allow You to exercise Your admirable grace and divine power on us. Eternal Father, we beg You to shower on us Your tender love so that we might see on our persons the changes we seek…”

He went on that way for some time when, abruptly, his words morphed from English into something I could not understand. He continued along the lines of: “Devetium nahalesh divium namaha selelehakim danashanka levan balaton zaphan alatay fakani…” He flailed his arms as he spoke. His eyes fell closed.

“Ushku bilani arakesh rushki rohush ekeleledu skuda wudswia…” On and on he went, so much jibberish that by the time I finally wrapped my head around what was happening, he was already coming to an end. The ending at least was sprinkled with words I could recognize. For whatever reason, he finished with the words “Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego.”

He leaned over the woman in the wheelchair, helped her up so that she appeared to stand in an upright position. He proceeded to pull her wheelchair away slowly. The woman continued to stand after the wheelchair was a few feet away. A minute went by during which she appeared to stabilize herself on her two feet. She steadied herself some more, and then, quite unexpectedly, she began to walk.

The crowd roared, raising their hands high toward the sky. “Praise the Lord!” All over the field, the collective rise of voices, thanking God and the Lord Jesus for the miracle before our eyes.

“Are you ready for what God has in store for you next?” the minister cried.

“We are ready!” the crowd screamed.

“Are you ready to witness God’s next miracle before your very eyes?”

“Yes, minister, we are ready to witness the next miracle of God!”

The minister went over to the blind man, held him by the arm. The rain had stopped. Briefly the minister prayed again, distorted and unnatural-sounding words falling out hard from his mouth, words as hard as rocks.

He picked up a small decanter from the ground, poured its contents into the palm of his hand. He sprinkled the liquid on the blind man’s head, on his shoulders, on his face. Finally he sprayed the liquid in the direction of the blind man’s eyes.

“Now, brothers and sisters, bear witness to yet another miracle!”

The crowd cheered.

The minister held up two fingers. “How many fingers?” he asked the blind man.

“Two!” the blind man cried.

The minister held up his fingers once more, four fingers this time. “How many fingers?”

“Four!” the blind man cried.

“By the glory of God, this man has been healed! By the divine glory of God, he can see again!”

Once more, the collective raising of hands high toward the sky, and the collective cry of “Praise the Lord!”

Our voices were like eagles, and our amens soared.

Later, we lined up to get our own personal miracles, everybody in a straight line behind a gray metal bucket where the minister stood. But first the donation, without which the miracle could not be performed. The minister oversaw as we dropped our money into the bucket, the coins clinking as they piled in heaps, one on top of the other.

The naira notes he took himself, folded them, placed them carefully in the fanny pack he wore around his waist.

I had come with some naira bills, money that was supposed to be for my meals and school supplies. I took a couple out of my pocket and handed them to the minister. I explained to him that my ailment pertained to the heart. He nodded sympathetically, his lips curving downward to demonstrate his empathy. Next came the sprinkles of holy water on my head and all over my face, over my shoulders. He began again to pray, a hurried prayer, his voice like a murmur, but somehow still quite loud.