A House of Mourning

by Ogochukwu Ossai

I watched as five monsters wearing the appearance of grown men—short and tall, dark and light-skinned, one with dreads, two with cornrows, two with afros dug into their bodies. They brought with themselves machete, knives, and shot guns that sounded like fireworks. They shot the guns in the air to cast fear into their victims in the Catholic church on an early Sunday afternoon. But the lights in the church sparkled like fairy dust. The monsters wore long dresses or jeans and white singlets, or simply sagging pants. They were human, yet not human with a presence that had an aura of death or something darkly tar like Sherwin-Williams’ black magic paint color. They were different yet familiar like every other person you found on the streets of Ndo city.
My mom pushed me to the back of the pulpit where I crawled into its carved hole and shut its door. The raised stand was made of dark wood, with intricate carvings of mini crosses. Through the tiny peephole at the center of the front part of the pulpit, I saw my mom on her knees with one of the men pulling her hair upward. She did not scream but I could hear and feel her palpitating heart from the distance. With a knife in his hand, the man stabbed her stomach repeatedly. Then he asked her not to close her eyes, to look at all the other massacred bodies around. Even the pastor’s corpse laid on the floor with gunshot wounds.
The man pulled her hair backward and ran the knife slowly across her neck. A second mouth formed around it. After doing the deed, he uttered, “No one can save you. I am god. Life and death is in my hand. And your life is mine. Ndo’s mine.”
He dumped her body on the floor next to the rest. Her head bounced lifeless on the ground and turned to face me. I watched the blood pump out of her neck like a leaking water keg. Her eyes were opened and flies buzzed around the open flesh organs that crawled out of the bodies of the dead. Tears cascaded down my eyes and I covered my mouth to silence any noise as I watched them walk away. A Sunday morning full of praise turned into a house of mourning.
The sun shone through the stained-glass windows, casting a rainbow of colors across the pews. Pews worn with age and use, the cushions threadbare, and kneelers that were scratched. The smell of incense and candle wax filled the air. The altar was adorned with flowers destroyed by stray bullets. And the cross was illuminated by a ray of sunlight. The sound of footsteps echoed through the building, the floorboards creaked beneath their feet, and the dust danced in the light filtering through the windows.
I waited for them to leave. Once I heard the sound of their cars driving away, I ran to my mom’s side. Through a window I watched black birds circle the sky and listened to their cawing that matched rhythmically with my wailing. I closed her eyes and tried to close up the bloody scar line along her neck with my hands. I laid my head on her stomach and cried. Her blood smeared across my face, dress, and palms. My wails echoed in the church building.
I stared blankly at her body for a while and tried to touch it again but pulled back. Everything happened so fast and I could feel the coldness flowing through my veins. I admired her as a woman who knew what she wanted and who knew how to put others before herself. She volunteered to help the church, package gifts and to cook food for orphanages during Christmas events. On some Sundays when we made it early to the church service, she worked as an usher or a bible study teacher. When we went out together, she often gave out change or bought food stuff no matter how little for those in need.
Still, there were times I could not understand her perception of cleanliness as splashing soap everywhere on the counter table whenever she washed plates or cooked without cleaning afterward or avoiding the touch of others. One Sunday, when the pastor preached about holiness and purity in church using the example of Peter not wanting to eat the pig, I understood then that everything was her choice. A choice no one could change, not even my dad. A choice that suffocated me and our family, but I could not let her know.
As I sat beside my mother's lifeless body, memories of my parents flooded my mind. They had had an argument on a Friday evening, months before the accident, after my mom returned from work.
Before my mom came back from her clothing store, my dad was already at home—hungry and angry because his boss refused to pay him. I returned the same time as he did so, we both went to the fridge to get something to eat but there was nothing.
Without wasting anytime, I boiled some rice and made some tomato stew that we could use. My dad and I ate together, and I left some for my mom. When my mom returned that evening looking worn out and tired from dealing with customers, my dad complained and asked her to close her store.
“With what money will I use to make food? Every time you leave the house without asking if we need anything. If I close my store now who will give me money to get the things, I need for myself and the house upkeep?” My mom refuted.
To avoid pushing anymore buttons and before things got out of hand, my dad traveled on a business trip. That’s what he told me. He lied. Every time I went into their room afterward, I remembered we were three before we became two.

*

Back in the church with the bodies, two turned to one as I remained in the church by myself watching angels sing to welcome home, into heaven, the souls of those slaughtered. Their voices resounded into small rings of sunlight before evaporating. They sounded like an opera, a moon-like soothing echo with a rise and fall celestial tone. They stood in a fixed position with their pure white rainbow-like wings flapping in the air and glowing halos, bright as the sun dominating the entire church building. I used one hand to shield my eyes from their blinding glow. Their faces were obscure as though they had none. Though more than one, their movements were synchronized that it resembled the act of one. They wore glittering gowns that made them look like floating clouds. My other hand clutched my mother’s corpse and held it close to my kneeling body. The angels mesmerized me and filled the abyss of grief within me with warmth and comfort.
Although their song filled me with comfort, I could not stop myself from inhaling the raw meat smell of the bodies. For a moment, I pictured my mom seated beside me with her palm covering her nose because of how much she hated the smell of raw meat. It was why she never went to the market even when I was still a senior in primary school. It continued up to my junior year in Secondary school when the world crumbled before my very eyes. By the world, I mean my mom.
The more the angels sang, the more I cried until my body felt weak and eased itself to a deep sleep. I woke up to the early morning hours of the day before the monsters walked into the church with guns penetrating holes in the walls and the congregants, and before they set deadly fireworks in the air that silenced the voices of a holy people.

*

Nine o’clock in the morning before we left for church, my mom prepared boiled yam and fried egg. We joined our hands together, closed our eyes, and said a short prayer before eating our breakfast. She tied a simple head scarf and wore a simple blue floral lace gown that stopped at her ankle with coral beads. While we ate, she talked about her running stomach, aching waist, complained about the stress she received at work, and the kind of customers that visited her store. She then asked me if I had slept okay.
She munched on her yam and egg and paused every often to sip from her cold glass of water. After eating, I went to the kitchen and washed the plates we used for the breakfast. My mom left for her room to do her makeup to take pictures after church that she could share on social media platforms for her friends to view. She sauntered down the hallway. Just before entering her room, she paused, gaping at the birds outside the window. I watched her from the window in the kitchen that reflected her face before turning to watch the birds like she did.
After lingering for a while, she finally entered her room where she dressed up. She sang worship songs in our native Delta Igbo language, Chineke n’ke Igwe, Onye di ka gi. I went to the room and watched her after I got ready. We smiled at each other through the mirror. I smelled a white lily-like perfume on her and it oozed around the room. It was the expensive one my dad bought for her from one of his business trips in Europe. This was when they were still on speaking terms.
For so long, she tried to explain, to give me all the million reasons why my dad refused to come back home and why they stopped talking. I wondered if she forgot that I was there when they had their last argument. I also knew what she meant because they were the same kind of people in different bodies. They did the same annoying things they complained about. One loved the feel of water and soap on the body like the shedding of an old skin, while the other was comfortable in his old skin and did not want to shed it.
That morning in her room as I waited for her to get ready for church that was already in-service, she stayed a while in front of the mirror admiring herself and I just looked on. It was one of the reasons, my dad always said she made us miss church often. She turned around and came to where I sat and bent to hug me. I leaned into her body slightly as I felt her warmth wrap my entire body like my childhood blanket. The one she used to cover me when I had severe fever. Her arms enveloped me like the stars at night that consume the vastness of the sky.
She asked me if her outfit and makeup were okay, “What do you think about the dress? Is it fine? Should I change into something else? Is it too long? Is it touching the ground? If it is touching the ground, let me remove it because I don’t want it to get dirty. I am thinking of wearing it to another event later.”
“It’s fine, mommy. It stops just right at your ankle and it’s very beautiful. You look so beautiful today. You and your shakara. Just hurry up because we’re running late.”
“My fine fine baby girl. Are you ready yourself? Where’s your bible?”
“It’s in the living room. Should I order uber now? Since it’ll take some time to arrive.”
“Okay. Order it. I’m almost done. If your dad was a good man, he’d have left the car for us. At least he’s not here to say I’m delaying him. If he’s still living here in Ndo city with us, we’d have been arguing every day. He should not even come back. Five months now, he’s not called or sent any feeding money to us.” My mom kissed her teeth, infuriated as she tried to get her bible from her wardrobe.
“The uber is here, mommy. I’ll go and let him know you’re coming too.”
“I am ready. Let’s leave together.” She walked past me with her black Gucci handbag hanging on her wrist. Her sliver heels made an irritating screeching sound with every click-clack it made on the marble floor. When she reached the front door, she stopped and waited for me to open it. I opened the front door and the door to the passenger’s seat of the car.
When we arrived at church, they were already in the praise and worship session. The ushers welcomed us and handed pamphlets to everyone who entered the building. My mom collected one and passed it to me. She greeted the usher whom she knew and asked about his parents. They promised to continue their chat after the service, “Let’s talk later, my brother. We’ll meet after church to continue our gist.”
“Okay, ma. There’s space in front for you. Do you want me to guide you to the seat?”
“Is it for two people? My daughter is with me.” She turned and pulled me closer to show me to the young male usher as proof. Every time we went out together, she always announced to everyone that I was with her. Sometimes, she introduced me as her best friend and others called me her look-alike or her handbag. All were true and ever since my dad left for our village, the two of us pretty much relied on each other. “You know what, we’ll just look for an empty seat in the middle,” she pointed to the middle pews at the right corner to assure the usher she knew what she was talking about. The usher tried to hand me another pamphlet which I gladly refused with a smile. I tucked the pamphlet in-between my bible and followed my mom.
The church building bubbled with live music from the choristers and the band. Members of the congregation clapped their hands—some waved their hands as though it was worship songs and not praise that the choir rendered.
Throughout the church service, she did not once glance my way. She was captivated by the church music and the pastor’s sermon. Everything else dissipated. There was no one else in the building, except her and God.
Our catholic church is very famous in the small area of Ndo city. It’s on the north side of our estate called Momo. Momo used to be a very quiet place. The only problem we had were bats sleeping in the palm fronds and their chirping late at night. Sometimes, they would fly into the house through open windows. They would hang themselves on the chandelier in the living room or sometimes hide behind the curtain. I was scared of them at first, then I got used to them staying idle in a fixed position. I watched them silently wondering if they are actually blood-sucking demons or just harmless mammals with wings and black features. One time they intentionally flew into my hair as I stood on the verandah and it took a while to get them out. We tangoed as we tried to separate ourselves.
The estate transformed into a loud circus of concrete buildings, surrounded by dusty fields and palm frond trees. The streets, lined with small shops and vendors selling local produce and goods. The air, thick with the smell of diesel fumes and the sound of honking cars. Every morning when I went to school, I passed by small markets, shops, and street hawkers. The noise of bargaining and the sound of music filled the air. Sometimes, the sound of gospel and secular music drifted from the nearby church, not far from our own catholic church and a mosque on the south side of it.
The booming businesses around the area attracted starving monsters left with no choice but to kill and to destroy, if they cannot have what would quench their hunger. They laughed with members of our estate that turned into an animal farm. In the animal farm, there were monsters alright and this extended to the entire Ndo. Sometimes the monsters were Gazelles. They brought sunshine and light to the animal farm because they did not pity themselves even though they had nothing.

  That Sunday, after church service, the Gazelles became predators and congregants of the church became pigs served to the monsters dressed in Gazelle clothing. When I was maybe ten or seven years old, my mom bought me the book, Animal Farm by George Orwell so I could understand how the world works. To understand that heaven and hell are parallel lines that everyone walks on. The person you see today could die or live tomorrow with death becoming life and life, death. She told me other stories which she started midway and ended them without an ending. This was something she did even in her everyday conversations. You never knew the beginning of what she talked about it as though she expected that you know without her telling. As I stayed in the church building with her gutted body, I wished guns and other weapons could end a person’s life without actually ending it.
I continued to watch on as the angels sang and then I saw my mom among them. An angel with her own beautiful wings and blinding halo. I could not stop thinking about the way she looked at me before she died. It was like she was trying to tell me something. Did she know that there was no chance of surviving? Was she saying goodbye to me? The only thing that resonated in my head at that moment was the sound of gunshots.
Beside me, her body turned into a skin cloth that once wrapped veins and arteries. I folded myself into it like a child being born again. Her body became my safe space. The angels stopped singing and I no longer saw my mom alive, again. I waited in her skin, surrounded by ghosts and the quiet. As I laid in her soft cold skin, I realized I slowly morphed into her. Death made me become her and maybe it was my desire.
The moments I spent admiring the woman in the mirror could have been me staring at my reflection. I waited for a crowd to find me, to see me helpless in her skin—stained, and alone. I longed to be found alive yet more dead than the corpses that laid on the floor with flies hovering everywhere. But her skin of bones turned into my house of mourning.

Ogochukwu Bibiana Ossai is a Nigerian writer and a Ph.D. Fiction candidate at Texas Tech University. She holds an MFA in Fiction from Long Island University Brooklyn Campus, where she received the Marilyn Boutwell Graduate Award in Fiction. Bibiana won the Idyllwild Arts Writers Week 2020 Fiction fellowship and the Equinox Journal 2019 Poetry Contest. She is a recipient of The Poetry Project workshop scholarship and a recipient of a Hatty Fitts Walker scholarship, The Fine Arts Work Center. Her works appear in Landing Zone Magazine, Flash Fiction Magazine, Button Eye Review, and The River, Refractions (iō literary online journal).

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