Hymn And The Damned

I stand behind the last pew, holding my hymnal book. I straighten the creased edges, bring it to my nostrils, and inhale the harmattan dust that has settled on its pages. I wonder where they dug it from, as the congregation before me flaunts new hymnals printed by the church for the commencement of the new year. 

The church is filled beyond its usual capacity. Saints and sinners clap their hands boisterously, and they stomp their feet on the ground, their enthusiasm seemingly unrelated to the Lord.  I let myself be carried by the music, bellowing and screaming. Yet, amidst the chaos, I keep my eyes open, afraid the angels might strike me blind. The hymn he loves begins, and I sing: 

Onward, Christian soldiers!

Marching as to war,

With the cross of Jesus

Going on before.

Christ, the royal Master,

Leads against the foe;

Forward into battle,

See his banners go! 

I watch him, his eyes shut in rapt devotion as he swings the tambourine in his hands. I can't help but flash him a lopsided smile, remembering the night before. Those same hands had explored every inch of my body, seeking answers to questions only he knew. In his father's changing room, surrounded by the sacred symbols of faith - the bread of life, the blood of Christ, and the hymnal books; our bodies had moved in an intimate rhythm. His father, the Reverend, revels in preaching about sin, his voice thundering as he scans through the congregation with self-righteous scorn: 

For the wages of sin is death,

Repent now and seek God with all thy heart!

I have sinned—over and over again—and I have become sin itself yet death has not found me, nor has its scent reached me. As the hymn reaches its final note, I meet his gaze, just for a moment before he looks away, the tambourine stilling in his hands. I wonder if he, like me, is a defier of death or if he fearfully seeks forgiveness. 

Bello Taiwo Victoria