SUNDAY FICTION: False Weights and Unequal Measures

Sure the reverend preached on adultery, hollered about pride and screamed over the ladies and their short dresses but he ain’t never preached on personality cos personality’s something everybody got to work on – whether they Christian or not. Every Sunday, he’d dance around the church, weaving and heaving like he couldn’t give up either and Deelon would nod dutifully at the good Lord’s message.

As far as Deelon was concerned, he did all that was right in the sight of the Lord. Take for example Mrs Robinson who always sat right at the front soaking up reverend’s spit like it was the Holy Spirit he’self. After each service, she’d waddle up to his mama asking about his daddy in that irritating voice, ‘‘Lawd ha’ mercy! Sheriff Bill still aint released him yet? How you doing Wilma?’’ But she aint care about his daddy; all she care about was knowing more than her gossip buddy Mrs Turner.

‘‘Mama?’

‘’Hmm?’’

‘‘I suppose God hate Mrs Robinson.’’ His mama have that look on her face like she itching to slap some sense into him but she just ask what he mean.

‘‘Well, reverend say God don’t take too kindly to gossip but Mrs Robinson, she just be running her mouth . . .’’ Before he know to duck, Deelon staggered from his mama’s punch.

‘‘Don’t you let me hear you speak ill of the elderly boy! She old and you not so it ain’t matter what she do, you gon’ show some respect! Your daddy and I aint raise you without sense boy so don’t act like it!’’

Source: http://media.jinni.com - Lena Baker Story

Mama walk in front of him now cos she mad but she always mad even though he know the Bible say somewhere how angry people be fools. He don’t want to accept it but his mama act like a fool sometimes. When Sheriff Bill come for his dad, she shout the sheriff down fixing to fight him herself when she know sheriff got the right. But Deloon, he just continue his dinner cos he know God aint like angry people: people who curse and pray with the same mouth like his mama. He reckon that’s why God aint answer her prayer and his daddy still locked up. Or maybe cos his daddy be a criminal cos he KNOW for sure the good Lord aint like criminals.

In the Bible, the Lord say not to hate but Deelon sure hate his papa. All the coloured folks in town proud of him like their personal Doctor King but to the white folks, he just a no good criminal like the rest of them Negroes.

‘‘Everybody proud of me Wilma?’’ he ask his wife when Sheriff Bill let them in and Deelon know he did it for the wrong reasons. He become a criminal just so the coloured folks can praise him; not because he want change. His papa don’t look like a man sad to see jail instead, he happy and proud – it’s all he talk about.

‘‘Boy! You should have seen yo papa! Went right into the cracker’s house and shat in his toilet. Sheriff Bill tell me the old man built a new toilet. Had to go in his garden for a while – even for number two!’’ His papa laugh and laugh and refuse to ask his mama how she doing. His papa like King Saul so God gon’ hate him like he hate King Saul.

‘‘False weights and unequal measures, the Lord detests double standards of every kind.’’ Proverbs 20:10

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SUNDAY FICTION: Fruitful Seed

After the third slap, he took charge. Upon entering, he felt desire’s gravity pull on him as he took in the surroundings. Hers was a soul not lacking in warmth or water and best of all, it was empty. He worked like a lion desperate for a kill digging to the centre of her heart and planting that fruitful seed Hate.

With her hands raised and her eyes glazed, Jaeger tasted power, her intoxication ascending wave after wave as if riding on the sorrow in the boy’s tears. She sat floating on the climax of her ecstasy and thought to the beginning of her problems. Afterall, who doesn’t need excuses for their hatred?

A twenty-nine year old ex-model basking in the achievement that is a marriage based on love, she was the envy of women everywhere married or otherwise. She would saunter into dinner parties predicting the envious stares from men as they pondered the almighty question, ‘‘How does a man like that get a woman like THAT?’’ Jaeger was beautiful, Jaeger knew she was beautiful and Jaeger loved that she was beautiful.

On that day, she was happy. Candle lit dinner, all alone with her husband and the electricity in the air at the promise in his words, ‘‘I need to tell you something.’’ After dawdling, after kissing and finally promising that he loved her and only her, he had looked her dead in the eyes and revealed his promise. ‘‘Amasa is my son.’’

‘‘No. He’s your nephew.’’ He shook his head and her heart broke. ‘‘But . . . But he’s your nephew. I’ve known him since he was born. I’ve known him since he was born!’’ Eager to banish the despair soaking her she took to working it out herself because there was no way her husband would do that to her.

At the truth, she wept. ‘‘He’s four Carl. We’ve been married five years!’’ She couldn’t move, only cry and she wondered why she didn’t hit him or curse him or simply leave like she’d seen in films.

‘‘Baby,’’ she saw his tears and she screamed. He had no right to cry – to look as heartbroken as she did.

‘‘We can be a family Jaege.’’ Just like that and she became a woman to be pitied. A woman who was mocked and judged at every dinner party as guests pondered the question, ‘‘Why did she stay with him?’’

She loved her husband. She liked Amasa so she stayed. But now? She still loved her husband or she would if not for this bastard: a constant reminder of Carl’s capital offense.

The bastard looked at her and even though he said nothing, she heard his desperate plea for mercy. She folded her hand and punched him and the seed in her soul nourished.

SUNDAY FICTION: Home of Peace

The last nail was struck, the final coat painted; I looked at my work and saw that it was good. His name was John and I looked forward to living with him with the same jubilation I felt everytime I got a new tenant. I had designed it to his special tastes and needs. How could anyone complain?

John was new so the first few days, I showed him around and educated him. We became inseparable (best of friends) and I loved every minute. Ours was a home of peace. As usual, angry jealousy confronted us but I turned these tenants away determined to keep the peace and enjoy my fellowship with John.

In war, when one tactic fails another is cooked up. So they cooked a new one and dished it out. ‘Why is MY house in your name?’ Our home became John’s home. ‘I’m redesigning the house.’ Our home became his house. These changes birthed the death of our friendship so that companionship became hostility and in place of love, I found hate and indifference. I soon moved out.

Floating on the assurance of victory, they marched forward and knocked proudly. John let them in. In replacing me, they wasted no time and soon, I hardly recognised John or the house. Sin became their common ground as the tenants cheered John on like cheerleaders at the cup finals. ‘Why is the house in your name?’ His house became their home. ‘We’re redesigning the house.’ Their home became his prison.

I didn’t help not because I wanted to see him suffer – after all I’m not human – but because I had no rights to his home. In his quest for independence, he had stripped me of them so I clothed myself in patience. He suffered when they stole his peace. He suffered when they stole his grace. He spoke out when they stole his life.

‘I’m sorry. Please forgive me and come back into my life.’ That was all it took for our home to be restored. As to be expected, they still come back tempting with shamed jealousy and desperately seeking the warmth of our home. But it is well for John for I have taken my place in his spirit and in his soul.

See 1 Peter 5:8

Be sober, be vigilant; becauseyour adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.

And: Luke 11:24-26

“When an unclean spirit goes out of a man, he goes through dry places, seeking rest; and finding none, he says, ‘I will return to my house from which I came.’ And when he comes, he finds it swept and put in order. Then he goes and takes with him seven other spirits more wicked than himself, and they enter and dwell there; and the last state of that man is worse than the first.”

Sunday Fiction: The Golden Warrior

Once upon a time in a land far away, there lived a stubborn princess called Namiola. She wasn’t much loved in her kingdom and her subjects were often heard exclaiming, ‘‘Oh how stubborn she is!’’, ‘‘How horrid she looks when angry’’ and ‘‘What prideful ways she has!’’

But Namiola didn’t care because as far as she was concerned, she was the princess. She was the best. In archery, she was the best. In running and hunting, she was the best. And guess who was the best in sewing, cooking and nursing? She ruled her subjects with an iron fist and although her subjects complained about the high tax rate, the kingdom prospered.

Namioland grew in wealth so much so that in their jealousy and hatred neighbouring and far away kingdoms began attacking this little kingdom built on sand. At first, Namiola was scared but after the first, second and third victory against her enemies, her confidence spurted. In war, she was the best.

Like the Vikings, she became thirsty for blood and began attacking kingdoms herself. With each battle she won, she felt bigger and stronger so that when the evil prince of Herodia declared war on her Kingdom, she didn’t fear.

Her citizens begged and pleaded for mercy knowing no one was fierce enough to survive a war against the Herodians but Namiola didn’t listen: she was the best!

Each day the Herodians came closer and each day, the citizens begged to surrender but Namiola refused. Seeing that she would not change her mind, the citizens rowed off the island in their twos and threes fleeing for their lives. But Namiola and her army remained awaiting the victory they were sure was theirs.

One stormy morning, they arrived.  Namiola rose up her sword and the battle commenced. The Namioland army were plenty but those of the Herodians were twice their size with huge fat arms that never missed their aim. It was with helpless defeat that she watched her strong army fall to the ground injured or dead. She wept. The last one standing, the Herodians beat her with evil joy and left her for dead.

Remembering the tale of the golden warrior, she half-crawled half-stumbled to his kingdom her blood tainting the earth and reminding her of her defeat. ‘‘My Lord! I need your help!’’ she shrilled the moment she was let into presence. ‘‘I have been defeated and my kingdom taken over by the Herodians.’’ Instead of mocking laughter her news was met with determined silence.

Ever ready for war, the King bared his holy arms, summoned his fearless army and rode off into battle his belt radiating gold for the world to see. The servants of the King bathed and healed her body but Namiola’s spirit remained ill: it had gone to battle with the King.

The next morning, she ran out to welcome the holy army. ‘‘It is well. The enemies have been defeated.’’ the voice of the King thundered. So she bowed before him, kissed his feet and praised him,

‘‘Mighty warrior

Great in Battle

          Jehovah is your name.’’

As far as she was concerned, she was his princess. He was the best. So she entrusted herself and her kingdom into his care. And although kingdoms both near and far were sill jealous of Namioland, they dared not attack it for it was now built on solid rock.

SUNDAY FICTION: The Eyes Never Hide

The eyes of the old never hide. Instead they jump at every chance as if trying to prove their worth. This here sparkle, I got after I proposed to my husband and he spat his wine out in surprise. And this mellow line of humility, I got after I had to beg my boss back for my job after I quit in anger.

But the eyes of the young, they hide in fear. They are scared of rejection and that primal human characteristic that is judgement. But if you study patiently, you find it as one finally notices the grasshopper in the garden. This dull light used to be a sparkle. It dimmed after several months of fornication. And this nervous line of arrogance, I acquired after my mother became abusive.

Therefore if any man be in Christ, he is a new creature: old things are passed away; behold, all things are become new. 2 Corinthians 5:17

They don’t know our secret so I tell them. I watch their eyes desperately seeking a transformation but the wet darkness remains. They refuse to believe. Rejection is no longer a simple emotion: it has become their Goliath. My words are like fuel that feeds the blaze in their eyes challenging every of their defences.

When they spoke, they spoke collectively as if their oneness was a justification of their regret. ‘‘There is no such love. There is only punishment. Our guilt is our sanctification!’’ They were a merciless judge sentencing hurt in the place of love and regret for mistakes.

But after a while, their very eyes betrayed them. They sang of a weariness that man feels after trying harder than he ought. See this vein? It appeared after I cheated on my wife and she left me. I never stopped crying and it never left. And see these sparks? They continue to fly everytime I think of my unfaithful husband.

Once more, I revealed to them the secret and this time, they fell on it desperate for support; desperate to trade the fear in their eyes for confidence. Gradually, the sparkle grew and soon, I didn’t have to search for it anymore. It would run out to meet me whenever I arrived as if desperately trying to share my own secret with me.

The eyes of the young never hide. Instead they jump at every chance trying to save the world. This glint of wisdom is a treasure to me. I won it after I let go of all my past regrets. And this beautiful sparkle of peace was replaced by a husband who hurt me after I forgave him.

”It’s an all time low
Never letting go of the things that hold you back. . . 

It’s an all time high
Feeling so alive
When you’re living like you have no regrets. . .

Love is leading me
Holding nail-scarred hands
Forgetting where I’m from or who I’ve been”

This Love is Free by Hyland