The last three Church Chronicles didn’t cause trouble like some others. I remember ‘Aunty Feminist Goes to Church” doing a number of things to readers. ‘Drip Drip’ was breezy and light, Through your eyes was one story that sought to capture different lives that could be seen from different angles.
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My Daddy Longlegs resulted from careful journaling and awareness of what was happening within and without. I gave a lot of deep sighs trying to write this review. In my head, impulses of “I have a lot to write on this” kept shooting like stars, and I knew that a dense mass of something in my chest needed to unwind. I have a lot to say, but each point looks irrelevant, and I can’t articulate it yet.
This story is not about mosquitoes and their blood-sucking colleagues. It’s neither about demons. It is about humans and their emotions. It is metaphoric, like some of the parables Jesus told.
Humans will always act as humans, whether in the church, mosque or some other secular places. In a world which is our temporary home, we have to keep getting transformed because of our human nature.
It is understandable now that we are in women’s history month to talk about a woke subject–feminism.
It was scary and somewhat brave to broach this topic, as it is a sensitive one that is more often than not spoken about among church ladies. It’s not for a lack of them not being aware of these things, but it’s more of being selectively mute about it in church. Yeah, the Church is not a circus where everyone speaks of whatever comes to their minds and makes it a rowdy place. But then, these issues are being discussed everywhere else.
The story started with a simulation of what people call capital tongues from the prayer cord. Yeah, just like the stereotypes, he is a guy. And from the concave lenses of Sayo, the story continues. We see a beautifully dressed female chorister take the microphone to lead the worship. Only later did we know the gravity of that action of merely taking the microphone. The prayer cord had set the congregation on fire using the same microphone, and it was to be used to project the wership of Jeezes, according to Mumcy Precious, the female chorister.
Church Chronicles is currently on its 7th lap. That means we have seven whopping stories with “Church Chronicles” as its umbrella.
But right now, we’re taking a short pause to reflect. It’s just right to say we’re on Sabbath.
We want reviews of any of the Church Chronicles to date from you, our reader. Don’t keep those awesome thoughts and discussions you’ve had about the series to yourself. You can send your reviews here.
After then, we can see if we can continue with the Church Chronicles series.
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“Calm down now. Your phone selfie camera is on. Look into it and act like you’re enjoying the drip. Drip drip,” Eucharia said to herself, batting her eyelashes at the camera. Ifeanu rolled her eyes as both walked down the road to Chapel.
“Drip ko. In this land of UI. Two weeks of school stress and such vanity is gone,” She thought.
The eye is the lamp of the body: when your eye is clear, your whole body also is full of light…
“What do you see?” Grandma Agbaje pointed at the small window to her right and returned her gaze to those of us in her teenage Sunday school class. Our gazes moved to the window, and some of us stood on our toes.
“A window with silver aluminium sill,”
Blood sucking demons
Mosquitoes, lice, and bed bugs, you hate them all.
Yesterday, you swatted an overly excited anopheles with your bare hands, but it danced out of your grasp, singing the same annoying song you didn’t want to hear. You clapped for it, hoping that the performance would end, but she went ahead to bring her friends to join in. So, you decided to spray the chemical that would kill them.
The period when women were told to be silent in the church was over. This was what Aunty thought before returning home to Naija.
Unpacking her luggage, she thought about the foremost thing she wanted to do. She would show up in church, the home church she’d been nostalgic about in the UK.
Life as a working student had not allowed for too much church. She had only attended virtual church gatherings as much as she had the time. Homecoming, she dressed in the only native attire she had, a green agbada and trousers her UK tailor had sewn, ready for the non-virtual experience.