RELIGIONISM AND ME

A few weeks ago, I remember communicating to a friend that I would someday like to own a Christian Fashion House. We were in my room at the time and I was packing for two weeks of intensive travelling between countries and states. He had replied –himself a fashion enthusiast and lover –that he felt that was rather religionist of me. Feeling a need to pacify him –he had brought over pizza that was still sunning itself on the dining table –I immediately took back my words and said I wished to own a Conservative Fashion House, for people who had old fashioned values. 

This was the first time I would ever hear the word “religionist”. Upon inquiring, he explained that it meant someone who was too concerned about his religion and was thus discriminatory towards other religions. This stilled any inclinations for me to reach for the dictionary or my phone as it was a satisfactory definition. And so I swept away all thoughts of ‘religionism’ for an extensive period of time and did not think about it again for a month.

The issue reared its head, or rather showed its form through the carpet under which I had swept it, bristling in all its indignant glory in a conversation with another friend. He had hinted that he only listened to what can be liberally classified as ‘gospel music’ and when I had inquired in quite simple English if he listened to Christian music, he had replied in the affirmative. I wondered if that was religionist of him, this shunning of other forms of music.

            We discussed next, ‘what’ exactly he listened to. He said mostly rap. When we moved on next to the ‘who’, he listed Lecrae and Gawvi amongst others as his musical influences.  He then took his time to educate me that Lecrae did not identify himself as a Christian rap artiste, shunning the first part of that title. He saw himself as a rap artiste, his Christianity not the focus of his music but simply a powerful influence on it. In other words, anyone could listen to his music and not just the average ‘Christian music lover’.

            And so, I decided to discover for myself what religionism is. An online dictionary defined it as an excessive, exaggerated and/or pretended religious zeal. The question now for us to consider is quite simple. Should Christians be religionists or entertain any of the qualities associated with it?

            My answer with all of the limited knowledge I have is a firm no. No, Christians should not be religionists. To be a religionist from this definition is nothing more than being a Pharisee, whom our Lord Jesus criticized for the length of his entire ministry. We should strive in order to avoid the trap where our faith becomes less of an exercise of our beliefs backed up by the word of God and transcends into a series of actions practiced because we feel we ought to in order to appear Christian. People should be able to identify us by our lifestyles and not because we blow our trumpets continuously.

This is not to say that we should hide our faith or deny our Christianity. But we should bear in mind that Christianity is less a religion and more a culture. Less of us each day and more of HIM. That is what a Christian is. 

Please feel free to comment. Thanks for reading. 

                                              -September 2016.

The Journals of Art (Otito Sosan)

May 2016
  Today is Holy Ghost Service, I suppose I could lie and say I'm enthralled, excited and bouncing on the balls of my feet. But I've decided in here, I'm going to be veritably honest. 
  In here, in this journals where mother's machinations are ineffective and father's ghost cannot haunt me, I think I can finally begin to be myself.
  My name is Otito Sosan,  but I prefer to go by the name Art, besides my mother's consternation. At times I believe it is precisely because of it. Art isn't short for Arthur which I wish could have been my middle name (the real thing is much, much worse). Neither do I bear it because I am some undiscovered prodigy whose artworks and paintings make words inadequate. (I've been told my stick-people look constipated and suffer from some postural defects).
  My name is Art, because it is what Mola used to call me when we were still friends. When my behavior and habits still had some explainable position within normal social conventions. When my friends existed out of my mind and off the pages of books and were corporeal. When I wasn't referred to in whispers, (by everyone) that weren't really whispers as certifiably insane. Everyone but Uncle Dola.
  Uncle Dola is mother's only sibling, her elder brother. I like Uncle Dola, I actually do. He's one of the very few people in this world that I think are good. I know a lot of great people but Uncle Dola is rare in my world. He is a good man. Most people assume this is because he's a pastor. But then again most people are shallow. I like Uncle Dola and I ordinarily wouldn't mind going to HGS with him, but Mola is home.
  Mola, who was my sun, moon and stars tied up in a bow that seemed to make her brilliance increase exponentially. Mola, who has always seemed to have her feet firmly planted on earth, ( the impressions her feet left ought to be deep due to the weight on one hand of her ego and on the other, her ability to impact) and hands firmly fisted on the very threshold of the celestial. Mola, who is short, had unkept hair that only managed to look manageable on Sundays and preferred shorts to skirts, much to Uncle Dola's consternation. Mola had eyes that whispered they had seen a lot and a mouth that curves into quick smiles and  that was probably more secure than, (let's face it people) most government headquarters. Mola had something else too in those hands that were nimbler than  a pianist's and had been almost anywhere (barring the gutter, eww). She had my heart and six years ago that was a perfectly reasonable place for it to be. But then again six years ago, Mola was still Mola.
  Mola is the orphaned daughter of Uncle Dola's old best friend and his wife who had also been the best friend of Uncle Dola's wife - Aunty Dieko. Their ship name is Diola, (I swear some people just have all the luck). Why did I just write that? It's completely irrelevant. I'm not going to scratch it out because it's only going to make this rough. I HATE rough work.
  So, Mola was adopted upon the death of her parents by my uncle and aunt in response to their wishes. They've taken Mola in over the years and raised her as though she were their own. It probably helps that they have three grown sons and must have perfected the art of parenting over the years. And up to six years ago we were so close that some people wonder if we had once been Siamese twins.
Six years ago, Mola got accepted at St. Anne's, the vanguard all-girls' boarding school that was more selective than most Ivy League universities. She was escatic. I was escatic. Her mum, grandmother, great grandmother had all gone there and it had been her greatest wish to graduate from St. Anne's.
To state the obvious, St. Anne's changed Mola. By her first break, she had become something of a recluse, the quiet, silent brooding type. As well as secretive, perpetually grumpy and utterly devoid of any warmth or cheer. The whys and the hows were off limits, Aunty Dieko said. I knew she knew whatever crucible Mola had emerged from but I was warned off. Mola would only talk when she was ready, anyone who knew Mola knew this. So I gave her space and time. Six years of it. And yet Mola did not deem me  worthy of ought but the basic pleasantries.
  I just wrote 'ought', Shakespeare must be rubbing off on me. Mrs. Leaf will be proud. (Mrs. Leaf is my British expatriate English teacher).
So today is Holy Ghost Service and I am anything but excited to be spending more time with an ever widening chasm between me and the person for whom I would trade anything.
  Kill me now.

Sisyphean

Understand, this isn't easy,
Hell seems warmer, nicer even,
To rip out the cord that holds me tethered, to you. Laughter is a dream,
Feverish in its intensity,
I'm pushing up my Boulder,
Diving out of the way, it rolls back down,
I've worn a path lined with frustration,
I can't break this new chains,
Links of obligations, they will,
They rattle - lead me to the truth.
                                                 -January 2015

The Promise

Slow strips of light steal across my bedroom, the sun is rising. It sweeps gently over my room till it hovers over my bed a red blotch dominates the white spread. A pencil coated the same colour lies unobtrusive on it. Tell-tale signs of a story.
The light dances up now gently warming my feet,covered in white socks on a brown table. It moves upward now flowers on my patterned skirt caught in spectrum of colour. It is the only skirt I have. It will have to do although it is not white.  The light pauses on my white singlet. The sun has finished rising. My entire room is caught in it's light. My arms are coated in sweat as they reach up to fasten the rope on the fan. The rest I have already tied in a light noose around my neck. When I kick the table away it will tighten and I will dangle. A human sized pendant swaying dead.
   My entire plan is hinged on the fact that my parents will not know until it is too late. That mother's cloying smell of akara which she cooks every Saturday morning will hide the smell. Then I hear a lilting voice. I do not place it immediately but when I do I hurry. I hide the rope quickly. Throw a blanket over my bed and dash into the adjoining bathroom.
  The voice humming has paused outside my door.
'Bimbo!'
'Yes,ma'
'Open the door'
'I'm in the toilet'
'Your voice sounds cracked, is anything the matter'
I clear my throat as gently as I can before I answer.
'Nothing ma'
'Jesus loves you Bimbo, I have no idea why but I feel I should tell you that.'
She is quiet for a while and then she continues humming slowly till her voice recedes down the corridor. The tune Great is Thy Faithfulness swells into recognition.
  She does not know, but I sit on that floor crying for a good twenty minutes. The wind plays with my hair.
  For the first time in my 15 years of existence, the hymn clicks into my consciousness. I sing it gently to myself not caring that my voice is raspy. For once I understand; Jesus loves Me. No greater promise is there.   
-Jidide

Rain'ng

A picture

Rain'ng

It is raining, thought Dada as she sank into plush leather upholstery. To a lot of people she knew the rain was the fabled thorn in their sides. However, Mama had loved the rain. A raspy voice had greeted the slightest sign of the sky tearing up with a rendition of 'showers of blessing.'
   The door to the air-conditioned room creaked open and in weighted by a potuberant belly shuffled a man. Thick rolls of fat emerged from a suit designed to impress, beaded with sweat they upheld a head with a face trying it's best to appear avuncular.
   "Ms. Dada," he drawled in an accent as fake as his smile which did not quite reach his eyes, they gleamed with something that made her skin crawl. 
   "Good Afternoon, Mr.Utse"
   "I hope the rain did not bother you-"
   "Not at all, sir." She smiles gently.
   "Very well then. I hear you are here to secure a scholarship, here." He has reached his seat now and flops down in it. A few ants drop from the wall, in response to the slight tremor.
   "Indeed sir, I am here for the-"
   "Interview,"he cuts in. His eyes roam over her white shirt, pausing over a slight swell.
     She becomes uncomfortable and to allay it quickly adds that she has a recommendation from a newspaper where she was an intern.
     He lifts his eyes to her face. They gleam with the barely restrained instincts of a predator.
     "I do not mince words, Ms. Dada. To win the interview I intend to 'know you' as the bible puts it"
   She notices in the next few seconds that the rain is howling outside. Whipping at trees, tearing off branches. Her eyes roam his office, the awards gleam gently. Little flecks of spit sparkle on his swollen lips.
  She gets up in a daze and walks out of the office. Out of the school. Into the rain. It is dark. Impenetrably so. After a few minutes. The rain quietens. Her phone rings. She fumbles it out of her drenched pocket.
   Then she doubles over laughing at the message. She laughs so hard the gateman rushes to make sure she is still sane. She hands him the phone, he reads it. It says "The lord is in control. So when its rain'ng just laugh. He will direct your boat."
                                                 -Jidide