FAITH

Olanma, my younger sister, likes waving her hands at the white cattle egret whenever they appear at the break of dawn. She looks on with the vigilant eyes of a night watchman and the helpless courage of a hopeful maid.

She is asking for beautiful patterns on her finger nails. A song perches on her lips, she is bursting with lullaby, sonorous like Ogene Ndigbo,


'Shekeleke nyem mbo ocha ma were mbo Oji.' She repeats this many times.

Her voice radiates the colour of Handel's messiah as she waves her hand up and down. Through the binoculars of faith, she sees them; through the prisms of hope, she anticipates and the white patterns seem to find a way to show up.

Three days later, we are seated on a wooden bench at the backyard, Olanma and I. The wind is whistling through the mango tree not too far from where we are seated. Mama is cooking Ofe Nsala, a kind of soup that possesses super powers . Both of us are caressed by the Ofe Nsala aroma. Olanma is examining her fingernails, a new pattern has appeared. I don't know how. I am thinking of what I would do to Messi in the unfinished Chelsea and Barcelona encounter between Toby and I. Toby is so good with PS2 he will pass for a computer cheat. I will remove Falcoa once the second half resumes, he is a vestigial part of a tree trunk. I conclude. Chelsea is my colour, PS2 is the passion. Football is the game.

The Rainbow has dispersed its colourful pride. The rain has stopped sighing and the Summer holiday is already here. Olanma nudges me. 'What are you thinking of, biting your lips? Can you see the pattern on my nails?'
I do not see anything. I pretend. I am busy dribbling Messi. Olanma is like that, she will not let me rest; 'Brother look nah, don't you like my white nails? Faith always delivers to those who believe. Can you see my nails?' Olanma says. I finally oblige. I examine her nails and see the newly acquired patterns. At ten, Olanma says some things too wonderful for the ears to understand.

'This is Superstitious,' I tell Mama at the dining table. 'Yes, it is Superstition,' mama concurs. 'No, it is faith,' Papa interjects as I imagine a ball of fufu make a hasty arrival down his throat. 'Faith is the evidence of things hoped for, it is..., it is...' He seems to forget some of his lines. Ofe Nsala is working wonders. 'Yes, it's the universe that delivers to you your expectations. Your faith activates the imagination.' Thankfully, he remembers. Papa can be like that, a magnetic field of inspiration, when food is not far-fetched.
(Watch Out for Part 2)