They might be a small congregation, just over forty, but the Lord is good to them. Didn’t Brother Timothy’s goitre, grotesque and distracting, shrivel into itself after Pastor Joseph and Assistant Pastor Joy laid hands on him? Well, not exactly on him; their outstretched hands hovered just shy of the protuberance, but their emphatic prayers covered the remaining distance, going deep where hands of flesh and blood can’t reach. When Brother Timothy came into church the next Sunday, his neck was exposed, free of upturned collars and flowery scarves borrowed from his wife. The coverings had only drawn more attention to the thyroid lump, anyway. When they saw the Lord’s doing, the congregation shouted a thundering hallelujah, gathering to admire his wide throat, smooth save for stubborn razor bumps.
Sister Dorcas jumped so high in praise that you could see too much fair thigh under her lacy red underskirt. Then Iya Benjamin’s nephew testified about getting a visa to study at a Cyprus university and the choir was on fire that day: Drummer Isaiah broke one of his sticks, and a bright spark exploded from the speaker when Sister Gloria sustained a high note for eighty-two seconds—her new record. They are a small congregation, yes, but the Lord is good to them.
Their Pentecostal church, Kingdom of Grace & Thanksgiving, is not big on evangelism, even though Jesus said they should go forth into the world and preach the gospel to all creation. What they hope, instead, is that their lifestyles of grace and, yes, thanksgiving, will attract new believers. Once a year, just before Christmas, they pack jollof rice and fried chicken to distribute to the neighbourhood’s needy, and afterward, brimming with righteousness, they return to the church site—a flimsy shed that is not insulated for the enthusiastic noise of their worship. There, they tremble in the presence of God, lifting holy hands and launching into songs sporadically raised by any member present.
They have maintained their numbers, more or less, for the three years since inception. When a newcomer arrives haltingly at the entrance, the members shine teeth at the person, sure that the Lord Himself must have guided those dusty feet their way, since it is rarely ever any doing of theirs. Sister Daniella’s colleagues attended once, but they stopped coming after she was fired because HR complained that her “church activities” were taking priority over work. Just because she left early on Tuesdays and Thursdays for holy communion and house-fellowship? Devil talk right there. When the pastor welcomes the first-timers, the choir does a little song: “You are welcome in the name of the Lord…” and after service, the newcomers are gifted lukewarm puff-puff and a 50cl bottle of cold Zobo.
First-timers rarely become second-timers, and the congregants are never sure if it is because the lukewarm puff-puff is wrapped in old newspapers, or whether these visitors are simply not tuned in enough, not chosen enough, to feel the presence of God in their tiny shed. The congregation works hard not to greet each new face with waning enthusiasm.
One Sunday, a newcomer shows up. A tall woman who sits in one of the coloured plastic chairs at the back of the church. The whole church is thrown in a tizzy. They haven’t seen a new face in over two months. Their zeal is fanned alive. So excited they become that the praise and worship singing session lasts ten minutes longer than it should, sweat exposing that Brother Gabriel didn’t wear a singlet under his shirt, and that the gym sessions he posts on WhatsApp Stories have started yielding muscular fruit. The dance moves are exaggerated. Look at them, komole-ing, pumping hands, doing the shaku-shaku, the shoki, the legwork. Even Sister Mary’s niece, who visits during school holidays, throws in a twerk or two until she remembers she is in the Lord’s house and not the clubhouse. Pastor Abraham preaches about the good Samaritan in Luke 10 and they shout, “Yes, Jesus!” because there are no coincidences with God, who must be reminding them to be good Samaritans to this newcomer. During testimony time, Brother Abel deepens his voice to share how, Praise the Lord, he just passed his ICAN exams after three tries. Sister Augusta emphasizes the story of how a trailer almost hit the okada she was on, but at the last minute, the Holy Spirit gave the motorcycle wings and that was how they escaped death. Sending a sidelong glance to the newcomer, Sister Augusta’s arms flap her to describe the wings, therefore giving Assistant Pastor Joy, who’s holding the microphone, a whiff of her musky underarms, a scent the assistant pastor thinks is too private to be shared.
When the service is over, the newcomer sits stiffly, listening to the speech about the church wanting to see her again, and here is puff-puff and Zobo as a token of their appreciation that she would spend this blessed Sunday with them. The newcomer, this tall woman with ashy lips and ashy elbows and ashy ankles, simply nods at them like a zombie. What a pity, the members think, grazing her arms with the love of God; isn’t this the exact kind of creature, obviously broken, that the Lord wants them to shine His light on?
And so, they are delighted when the tall woman returns the next Sunday. Delighted! Pleasantly surprised! A second-timer! They try to catch her eyes when Sister Gloria sings, “You and I will praise the Lord!” because you are supposed to point at someone at the “you” part, and then point at yourself at the “I” part. The newcomer doesn’t point and dance with them, but they don’t take it personally. Like an estranged lamb, it might take a while for her to understand that there is warmth in the middle of the flock.
Today, the newcomer is not at the back; she is sitting in the middle, next to Iya Benjamin who never stands to sing the hymns or even say grace, even though her legs are working all right. The tall newcomer woman barely sways left to right, flaky lips pressed together. Again, they understand that the newcomer just doesn’t realize that when the Lord turned back the captivity of Zion, they were like those who dreamed. “Then was our mouth filled with laughter, and our tongue with singing!” Pastor Joseph exclaims, slamming his bible against the podium as he quotes Psalm 126.
The newcomer’s gaze follows every word, every movement, and the congregation follows her following. They cannot place her, dressed as she is in a long dull shapeless dress. There is nothing for them to hold and interpret. Is she like Sister Angela who has been praying in tongues since she was five, who backslid in her twenties, but came back to God after three children with three men and no husband? Or is she more like Brother Tony who used to do Yahoo-Yahoo, scamming desperate white women in America, but now uses those tech skills for the church service graphics?
Iya Benjamin, the sit-downer, shifts her chair slightly away from the newcomer with the gaunt face. The tall woman smells like damp clothes and stale flour. The chair makes a loud scraping sound just when Pastor Joseph has fallen silent to take a sip of water. Everyone turns toward the noise, but it is the newcomer they stare at. Her head is slightly bowed, but her eyes are open, looking up, which gives the impression that her eyes have migrated to her forehead. Her gaze shifts left to right and back again, looking over the congregation. Sister Maria flinches when their eyes collide, and when the newcomer glances at Brother Titus, he closes his eyes and tilts his head backward as if the Lord has chosen that moment to speak to him.
After church, ashamed with themselves (flinching is not good Samaritan behaviour; moving your chair away because of a smell isn’t good Samaritan behaviour), they double down on their invitations to house fellowship, to lunch, to weekday service. Does the newcomer need a ride? Brother Samuel’s Toyota Camry has AC, and Sister Eunice drives her husband’s Jeep even though he doesn’t come to church. The newcomer just shakes her head, not even smiling to show that she appreciates these efforts of good-Samaritanism.
The third and fourth Sundays, the newcomer arrives in that grey smock, standing still, staring, making them uncomfortable with her blankness.
But something happens when Pastor Joseph gives the altar call on the fifth Sunday — “And what if Jesus were to come right this minute, ready to take us home? Where will you end up, brothers and sisters? In the bosom of our Lord, or in that place down below that is hotter than Lagos in March?” The newcomer slowly rises to her feet, and the congregation’s apprehension at the riddle of this woman dissolves as they follow her trembling path to the altar. Aha, they think, she is just lost, as we all were before.
Iya Benjamin feels remorse for recoiling from her stale smell. She remembers too well the day she gave her life to God: two months after her wedding, when she walked past a random choir’s rehearsal. She had been on her way to her market stall, depressed that even this act of marriage did not make her feel loved. Her husband claimed to love her, but there is love in the mouth, then there is love in the hands. How can you love a woman and sit watching football all day while she slaves away in the kitchen, then the market, then the bedroom? These were the thoughts that consumed her until the harmonies of “Praise my soul, the King of heaven” held her transfixed on the street, overwhelmed with a celestial love that transcends a husband’s love, a child’s, a mother’s. Her husband has begrudged this God decision for the thirty-three years of their marriage, resents all the time she spends in church; he doesn’t understand that it is this God, this Jesus, that makes it possible for Iya Benjamin to stay with him, loving him with the love of God. Through that song and its simple melodies, God convicted and consoled her. Iya Benjamin weeps now, remembering that suffusion of love.
The newcomer weeps, too, at the foot of the altar, and Pastor Joseph looks past his shiny wingtips, to the woman’s scarved head, thinking back to his own Damascus moment: driving out of the bank’s parking lot where he was manager. He was dating two tellers at the time, unbeknownst to each woman and his wife. Also, one accountant and one office assistant. A vibrating voice had taken over his car radio saying, “Quit now! God time!” and then the same message displayed on a bright billboard at the next junction in a robust font. When he tells this story, he sometimes sees doubt in the wrinkle of the hearer’s eyebrows; but what the listeners don’t understand is that only the dramatic could have arrested him. At that junction, Pastor Joseph had parked, hunched over his steering wheel, shaken by the clarity that he was hurting all those women, but perhaps himself the most. The clarity that this God believed him to be a higher human capable of selflessness.
As the newcomer surrenders her life to Christ, everyone in the congregation re-experiences their moments of conviction, when Jesus found them, held their hands and called them His, saving them from whatever shadows they were running from. Their hearts thaw towards this woman whose wails incrementally rise, the sounds flapping around the room, crashing into hearts. Watch God reach down to embrace her. Oh, salvation! She spreads scabby hands on the bottom step of the altar, revealing tiny blotches of old red nail polish smack in the middle of each blunt fingernail—details that the moved congregation greedily absorb. And when she stands, half the church rises to hug her, the closest they have ever come to her, sing-song-ing their congratulations and “God bless you, sister!”
Sister. The newcomer seems to stand even taller at that word, after each hug. She has to bend at the waist to hug Brother Jeremiah who is 4’11, giving him a private view of her small breasts, unconstrained by a bra. Shaken by the sight, Brother Jeremiah does not wait till the end of service to get a ride from Sister Eunice as he has done every Sunday and Tuesday for the past one year. He leaves immediately and walks forty-five minutes to his home.
At the next Sunday service, the newcomer sits up in the second row, behind the five ministers. She looks different to the congregation today, clearer. As if in the last week, the focus of a camera has been adjusted, or a lens wiped clean of smudges. It takes a while for Sister Beatrice to realize it is because the woman—Sister… Sister… nobody remembers her name and it is rude to ask now—is dressed differently. Her head is uncovered, and the purple braids they are seeing for the first time are twisted into a high bun, adding to her height. Gone is the drab sack of Sundays past. Today, she is wearing a flowery dress made out of a soft draping material. It stops just above her ankles, cinched at a small waist. She has no makeup on, but her face shines with the assured glow of someone who takes care of their skin. In fact, it is all too distracting. The newcomer doesn’t dance more than she has ever done before, maybe an added little shoulder shimmy, yet, her tiny movements seem accentuated by that dress, the gentle swing of it, the bright flowers, the sheen of the material that absorbs and reflects light all at once. Even when she stands still, her dress continues moving for too long after, as if it has breath of its own. Everyone in the congregation is distracted, trying not to stare. The newcomer glows too bright.
See, this is not one of those churches that tell people to cover their hair or to wear skirt suits or not to wear makeup or jeans. They like their fashion here. You should see Brother John’s blazers; one could cut a palm on the sartorial sharpness of those lapels. And Sister Sarah wears a different colour of lipstick every Sunday, as if she is working through some personal fashion challenge. See? They like their fashion here. But on the newcomer, the coloured hair, the swaying dress, the glowing skin… It all feels brighter than it should be. They are all born again here. They have all been convicted by the Spirit. But nobody remembers such a physical transformation. Beyond physical, perhaps? It is something from inside, in her eyes, under her skin. Sister Gloria finds herself hoping the woman stops coming, like all the other newcomers before her. She catches this terrible thought, though, and sings a little louder. God forgive her, because doesn’t Hebrew 10: 24-25 say that they should consider how they may spur one another on toward love and good deeds?
During testimony time, the newcomer rises and the church members hold their breath as she strides to the back of the short line, an invisible carpet unrolling for her. Nobody pays much attention through Brother Andrew’s testimony of the armed robbers that came to his compound and killed the gateman, but didn’t enter his family’s flat. Praise the Lord! And the applause is weak when Sister Faith reports that her lecturer that wanted sexual favours has finally approved her thesis proposal after five hard months of fending him off. Praise the Lord!
Assistant Pastor Joy, who holds the mic to manage time allotment, has to stretch the microphone to the newcomer’s mouth, supporting that elbow with her other hand. If someone coughs in that shed right now, it will echo forever. They don’t know it, but they all lean forward, at the edge of those cheap plastic chairs, waiting.
Her testimony is short. Her voice is soft. “I was lost,” she says, “and now, I am found.”
A collective breath seeps out, but not in relief. More like deflation. She hasn’t said anything new. In fact, they sing “Amazing Grace” so many times because Sister Grace thinks it shows off her vocal range. But there is something about the simplicity of this woman’s testimony that seems to exalt it. I was lost, she said, and now, I am found. Watch the congregation frown, turning the words over in their heads, on their tongues, finding new meaning. I was LOST, and now I am FOUND. I was lost, and now I am found. They are all found in that space, all lovers of Christ, so why do they now feel so lost?
They don’t plan it, of course, but after service, the newcomer finds herself alone. The congregation carries on with regular after-service shenanigans, exchanging gossip, planning meetings, arranging rides, elaborating on testimonies. But the newcomer stands alone, glowing alone.
The next Sunday is thanksgiving service, first Sunday of the month, which means the church dresses up to celebrate the new month. Large geles, long filas, high heels, bright ankara. This Sunday, the congregation appears to have honoured an unspoken agreement to show out even more than usual. Bedazzled blazers, ruched ankara skirts with long trains that collect roadside debris. Sister Agatha wears a tiara. They dazzle into the shed, chattering. Hungrily, they look to see what the newcomer is wearing when she arrives. She is wearing the same dress. The same flowers. The same sheen. They could scream. Because why do they feel like they failed their own exam? Sister Agatha puts her tiara inside her bag and folds her arms across her chest.
Nothing seems to work this Sunday. The harmonies don’t balance out. Drummer Isaiah is off-beat, hitting too hard. Sister Grace comes in two beats too late. The congregation shuffles in discomfort. What is going on? But look at the newcomer. Sister Newcomer. See how her eyes are lifted to the ceiling, her face gentle and incandescent, as if this were not a leaking shed that formerly housed buckets of paint, but the pearly gates themselves, up there in the clouds on the right side of Christ! Her head tilts delicately to the left, as if God is slipping a secret into her non-jewelled ears. The smile on her lips is gentle and as she sways peacefully to the disharmonious disaster of the praise and worship session, Iya Benjamin can’t help comparing this to her own conviction story. Her moment with the choir on the street now seems pedestrian when compared to this light emanating from the newcomer. Iya Benjamin understands that God gives a peace that passes all understanding, but this tall woman’s peace is too confounding. Iya Benjamin clenches her fist, trying to crush the urge to shake this woman, to make her tell them all that she is seeing, feeling; force her to demystify her experience by telling it in ordinary words.
All around that shed, comparisons are happening, questions bubbling, anger tamped down. Is she the first one to be born again? The first one to see God? I don’t remember feeling this way, they think, looking this way. Then: is she God’s favourite?
They are not subtle this time. After service, there is a large radius of nobody around the newcomer. Now that she is not communing with her personal Lord and Saviour, she looks more normal, less spectral, less luminous. Her dress is just a dress. She is just a tall plain woman with purple hair. Nobody asks if she needs a ride. Nobody says, “God bless you, Sister. Have a good week!” Nobody looks at her.
Seven days pass. The next Sunday, Pastor Joseph and Sister Agnes are late, so they meet most of the congregation waiting outside the church.
“I’m sorry, my people!” the pastor says as he shuffles past them to unlock the padlock on this shed his wife’s older brother gave them out of pity when he started his ministry. Other members arrive. Car doors slam. Okadas drop members off and zoom off, clouding them in exhaust and dust. “Look at us,” Pastor Joseph says, smiling at his flock. “The Lord is good!” They look for the newcomer, her, in the periphery of their vision, afraid to be blatant about their searching. She is not here. Someone sighs loudly and it is a mist of relief over them all. Already, things seem to be back to normal. They are a small congregation, but the Lord is good to them.
The newcomer is inside the shed.
Nobody can comprehend how she got in. They all saw Pastor Joseph unlock the padlock himself. Once the lights click on, the congregation gathers around the altar, trying to process what they are seeing. The newcomer is stretched across the altar floor, behind the wooden podium. Her eyes are open, staring beyond the ceiling. She is wearing the same floral dress, the same shoes. This time, her purple braids are fanned around her. Her red-painted nails are crossed hand over hand over chest, as if she is holding a secret to her heart, a truth she has found and refuses to share. The woman is smiling, a smile they have come to recognize: of peace, contentment and that ethereal understanding. What transpired between her and God on this altar? What did she understand?
“Sister?” Pastor Joseph whispers. Then louder: “Sister!”
She doesn’t move.
“Is she alive?” someone asks.
Nobody answers.
The pastor squats to hover an open palm above her nose. He shakes his head.
The rest crouch closer.
How is she still glowing?
Somebody starts it. Maybe it is Brother Jeremiah, haunted by her breasts. Maybe it is Iya Benjamin, trying to uncover something pure, to confirm a truth to herself. Maybe it is Sister Beatrice. Or Brother Michael. Or Assistant Pastor Joy. Or maybe their hands reach out collectively, synchronized, altogether, all at once, to hold on to a piece of that flowery dress, the one that still catches light, even now, and spits it in their faces, in their eyes. They pull and yank, wanting to expose. Perhaps her secrets are under there, the clues to her chosenness, a patch of skin to unlock it all and give something back to them.
But the more she is revealed and revealed and even more revealed, the more inscrutable she becomes. She glows brighter. Her eyes seem to fill with angelic tears, but those tears never roll out, never give them the satisfaction of release, clinging to her lashes like that bloodied woman to the hem of Jesus’s garment. And is there some revelation that will satisfy the congregation? Doesn’t the first book of Timothy say that beyond all question, the mystery from which true godliness springs is great? Doesn’t Deuteronomy say that the secret things belong to God? This congregation, who the Lord has been good to in many mysterious ways, is now hungry for knowledge. Like Adam and Eve, they want to know. They want to know! They cry out in frustration, pulling at cloth, then pulling at flesh. Found again, the newcomer gives them nothing, stubbornly clasping the secrets of salvation.
About the Author:
‘Pemi Aguda is from Lagos, Nigeria. She is the author of One Leg on Earth and Ghostroots, a finalist for the 2024 National Book Awards in Fiction, the LA Times First Fiction Prize, and the PEN/Faulkner Award.
Photo by Anita Austvika on Unsplash