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I found myself conflicted yesterday.
(I promise… I don’t look
for the drama. The drama seeks me out)
I was trying out new
work-out venues. I visited a particular aerobics studio after work last week,
and asked for the changing room.
(I had only visited there
on a weekend. This was my first time on a weekday)
I was pointed to a
particular door.
I turned the door knob; a lady was sprawled in
the middle of the room.
Praying.
I stepped back and
asked again for the changing room.
(Perhaps, they … thought I say ‘praying’ room)
I was pointed there; again.
I turned the door knob
once more. This person was still totally sprawled in a mantis position.
Praying.
In the CHANGING room.
(Understand the
dilemma: it was a pretty small space; I was already 20 minutes late for a 1
hour aerobics class)
Should I wait a little
more out of “courtesy” , and risk aerobics class being over by the time she was
done communicating with her deity; or, do I rather risk sudden lightning striking
me, for daring to strip in the same enclosed space with an unseen spirit(s)?
I remembered the many,
many things niceties of life members of the big-sized ministry have to suffer.
The many, many sacrifices they have to make…
- Insufficient
dresses at the dress store for big sizes;
- Being stuck with ‘boyfriend’s’ shirts
rather than exhibit the tubes of glory nature has bestowed on them;
- The coy (but pain-filled) “No thank you”s
at parties, rather than giving in to the “Yes! Oh yes!!” their souls longed to express;
Etcetera, etcetera.
I have made some of
these sacrifices. I have been the polite ‘No’er.
My sacrifices were not
going to be sabotaged this day. The gods would have to deal.
So I braved the potential
lightning; I tiptoed around the still fervently praying person, squeezed myself
into a corner of the room, began getting out of the work clothes, and into my
work-out attire.
(The story is almost
over. Patience)
Mid-change, prayers
were finished. I was still squeezed into my tiny corner. I smiled, expectant of
the brief apology for the inconvenience.
But, I met the most annoyed
looking scowl I had seen in a long time from the prayer warrior, who rolled up
her praying apparatus without a word, and stormed out of the room.
Or, maybe ‘attempted
to storm’ out of the room; considering the door was jammed, and I had to help
open the door. (Who says karma is a myth?)
***
I should just stop
writing already. You reading this understand this;
(My irritation…my frustration)
Or do you not?
My problem with the
practice of religion in this part of the world; the accompanying sense of
entitlement and intolerance. That selfish monster its practitioners allow to
possess them.
As with other rights,
all over the world, it is understood that your right to do a thing stops where
my right starts.
For example, your
right to singing stops at my right to not be mentally traumatized by horrendous
noise; human made or otherwise.
Your right to
believing in something should stop at my right to believing in a different
thing, or believing in nothing at all.
Not in Nigeria.
You are a witch, an
infidel, a demon, if you attempt to stand in the way of another’s ‘worship’.
Even if the worship threatens the fabrics of your sanity.
Which is why speakers
would blare at the weirdest times of the night, when your sleep motion is set
to change gears; the message of which is lost somewhere between the confusing words
of the preacher and the subconscious indignation of the intended audience.
I am not going to get
started on the recent killings and assault in the name of religion. Enough
publicity has been given them by the media. Enough lip-service has equally been
given by the people in power.
For all my activism
and enlightenment, I feel helpless; that this madness may continue. And there
is absolutely nothing I can do.
Yes, I can write and
point fingers at the government to take more pro-active steps to ensuring the protection
of citizens. But ultimately, it is humans who individually and jointly perpetuate
the madness. Government in: Government out.
It is this knowledge
that causes me to quicken my steps on certain days of the week; to hold my
pashmina a little tighter; to refrain from calling out the thieving fish
merchant in the market (who robs me in the guise of selling fish) what he is:
Thief.
Common-sense…no,
survival instincts kick-in.
You see, it is my hope
that my mother (eventually) gets her long-desired omugwo. In split-seconds, I quickly deduce that my words may be
twisted to have been against a most revered prophet. My busy mind quickly flitters
on my last thoughts being caught between my mother’s unfulfilled wish, and the
wasted bowls of okro soup in my freezer.
Before being reduced
to charred remains, or Ned Stark.
Like I said, common
sense survival instincts kick-in. I bite my tongue, and smile, with a curse
under my breath. (Wisdom is choosing one’s battles)
So I might feel
helpless against the large-scale sense of entitlement and lack of mutual
consideration that the practice of religion in our country has birthed. I might
even go against my very nature of unfiltered speech, in order to survive
summary death.
But I’ll be darned if
I let anyone usurp space meant for dressing/undressing, and turn same into
‘holy’ ground.
Religion has its place
and space. Let humans have theirs.
Meg.
Ps: I do not have a problem with Religion. I have a problem with its practice; when expressed inconsiderate of other humans.
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