Christian Fiction: Paper Black

The heart of a child, they say, is like a plain board, mine inclusive. But mine had a color - black. Mother laboured for hours, more than most of her peers before she could hear my first cry. Father ran errands till his bones ached before he could hold me in his arms and kiss Mother's forehead. 

As much as they could, father and mother ensured that all the required virtues were inscribed on that paper, my heart. I tried my best to be a good son; ran errands, listened in class, did my assignments, washed dishes, prayed during morning devotions, passed Sunday school tests and examinations, and lots more; I can't exhaust the list. 

And you should trust that I tried my best, but time and chance happened to me. Father and mother pulled apart as a woman pulls out the intestine from a fresh fish. Father forsook the God He introduced to me while Mother grew closer and more closer to Him. And I had to choose; father or mother.

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I made a choice, it was neither Father nor Mother, but her. I met her at my sister’s school that sunny afternoon when she was on a red gown that complimented her figure, and her hair, black and long was neatly braided. I knew I found the one and I wasn’t going to let her go.

We got married but you don’t have to know how. Her womb housed two children for me and we were happy, together, until I met her. Another her that sang a song, ‘I am a man’ to my hearing. I loved her, not as much as my wife, but she made me feel different, like a young man whose life just started. And that, my wife didn’t offer or didn’t know how to.

My wife found comfort in God, the same One Mother moved closer to when Father left her. Gosh! It happened again! Day by day, we moved an inch away from each other.

Read: I was far into masturbation before I knew what I’d gotten into - Interview with Jesugbogo Enis

But I saw her change: the woman that spent 28 years of her life with me changed in the twinkle of an eye; she laughed more, sang more, dressed up more, spent more time with my children. 

When I asked her for the secret of her joy, despite all she went through, she smiled, and said, “An artist found that me, black paper, added colors and patterns and made a masterpiece.” Mrs. I.J, an art masterpiece, yet, I, still a paper, still black.

My name is O.J. and this is my story.....