Believers and Hustlers

One

Of the many things Ifenna believed God would hold against Nigerians on the last day, using the name of His Son as a prompt to cut cakes, he was certain, would bring the most punishment. Growing up, it was something he found both funny and perplexing, at birthday parties and wedding receptions. He always imagined God rising from His throne, pacing around and throwing a temper tantrum like one whose freshly repainted car was scratched in traffic. Those thoughts came to him again this morning, as the MC announced the cutting modalities after the dignitaries gathered around the cake.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “My dear people of God, we will cut this magnificent cake at the spelling of the name, Jesus.”

The large gathering cheered. Usually, “cutting of the cake” was an elaborate ceremony at every Nigerian party, complete with an order of proceedings of its own. It takes a village to execute, as a throng of well-wishers, appointed by the MC, flank the celebrant. The role of this group of observers was to make drab patronizing comments of the process afterward. They would gather around the decorated cake, like characters ready to take a bow after a play, while the moderator counted down and, depending on how comical his performance, a loud cheer from the audience would bring the show to a climax.

Dropping the event brochure he was using to fan himself on the chair, Ifenna joined the rush of photographers and others, who, like him, were armed with their mobile phones and heading toward the stage. Maybe, because the church needed much media buzz for the feat they claimed to have achieved, they had graciously reserved seats in front for journalists. Ifenna endured the nudge of elbows and bodies on either side as he forced his way to the front of the stage, to a position he knew would give him a good shot. He needed to capture the image for his report, especially since he missed snapping one earlier during the actual ribbon-cutting ceremony. Just a few photographers were allowed in, with the promise that the official pictures would be circulated to all journalists later, but Ifenna didn’t want to bank on that. This was going to be front-page news in all the papers the next day, and he couldn’t return to his editor with excuses.

“Give me a very big jay,” the MC said, after allowing some time for the dignitaries, who had formed a crescent around the table, to stretch out their hands toward the knife.

The MC’s well-trained voice reverberated across the auditorium speakers as he dragged the words “very” and ‘big’ for effect. He was a veteran Nollywood actor, one of those faces popular with the ritual-themed movies Ifenna watched growing up back in the nineties. He had since become born again and now had the prefix “Evang.” to his name. His face now featured more on church revival posters than on home movie DVD jackets.

A more rewarding career, Ifenna thought, given the layers of folds the MC had accumulated at the back of his neck, which glistered this morning with sweat, like fried turkey oozing oil.

“Jaaaaaay!” the audience chorused in response.

“No, no, no. That jay was for you. Not for my Jesus. I say, give me a biiiiig resounding jaaaaaay!”

The response from the audience was deafening this time. The MC smiled in satisfaction. “An elegant and exquisite eee.”

End of sample. From Believers and Hustlers.