Who Knows Why All Things Happen?
(TW: contains elements like blood, depression and self harm)
by MIRACLE OLUCHI OZUEM
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.
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My grandmother liked to justify things. She believed everything happened for a reason. She believed that your palms only itched when a huge sum of money was coming your way. Your throat was sore because you spat on the floor sometime ago and someone stepped on it. You sneezed because a not-so-close friend was talking about you somewhere… I remember vividly how, after the terribly heavy rain on Aunty Ngo’s wedding day, she warned me not to ever take a piss by the roadside, except I wanted my day to be the same.
When a bird perched on our window, my grandmother chanted Hail Mary seven times to ward off the presence of the evil spirit, after which she anointed the spot with some holy water and recited some Psalms, while I stood there, saying Amen to all of her prayers.
Providing reasons to why certain things happened even when those reasons defied all human understanding seemed to be better than having no reason at all. I guess reason made things make sense. It answered all questions and made you sleep better at night, not wondering why the man next street died with his eyes open.
On Christmas Eve, I told grandmother about my depression. She clearly did not understand. She removed her glasses, looked up at me and asked me what I meant. I told her that I was often sad and tired and uninterested in everything. When she asked why, I took her hands in mine, knowing she would not like what I would say next. “There’s no why, grandmother. It just happens.” She yanked my hands off and stood up.
“What has come over you? How can you say such a thing in my presence? You have lived in this world enough to know that everything happens for a reason. Is this what they teach you in school? Is it the books you spend all day reading? What have you been feeding on?” She sat and held my hands back. Namo, listen to me. “You cannot spend your whole day buried in your room and not expect to be tired and uninterested in things?”
I was going to tell her that there were no books, I only put them over my face each time I heard her coming towards my room, because I knew that was the only way to keep her from bugging me. However, I kept a blank face and reminded her about her medications.
We ate our dinner in silence and went to bed. The next morning, grandmother said if I was ready to get rid of my sadness-without-a-reason, I had to follow her to church for the Christmas service. I knew better than to argue. In all honesty, I did want to get rid of my sadness-without-a-reason.
She said it was Father Nnam’s turn to preach and I should consider myself lucky to have such a powerful man of God lay his hands on me.
After Father Nnam’s sermon on why Christ had already died for our sins and we need not suffer any more consequences of life, I followed grandmother to join the already long queue of people waiting for the powerful man of God to lay hands on them so that they could be free. I managed to convince her to take a seat in the pew next to the queue while I waited for my turn.
About twenty people left and I could see the face of my grandmother’s beloved Father Nnam. The white archbishop cap on his head fit just right on his almost bald head. Few more people out and I was shocked, more of disappointed to see that Father Nnam was not laying his hands on anyone. Instead, they made the sign of the cross in front of him and he returned the gesture, after whispering something into their ears. I had no idea of what it was that he said to these people but every single one of them left his presence very joyful; jumping, rolling on the floor, waving their hands upwards to almost touch the chandeliers above them.
Three people left and I had to decide between fulfilling Grandmother’s wish by letting this man whisper whatever it was to my ears or turning back and … nothing. I figured I could go through with the former. After all, I could not let hours of waiting in line waste just like that.
Father Nnam could not figure out if I was deaf or dumb because I just stood there, staring right into the wall. With no further signs that I was ready to respond anytime soon, he came closer behind my ears. “Christ has forgiven you your sins”. He made the sign of the cross and stepped back; I took that as my cue to leave and I went to where Grandma was seated waiting for me.
She pulled me into a big tight hug that I thought I would pass out from the amount of camphor steaming from her Christmas attire. “Nwa m nwanyi. My daughter. I am proud of you. Did you feel it? The powerful move of God move through your body like electricity”... After figuring also that I was not going to talk, she stood up, brushed my shoulders with her hands, and led the way out of the church.
If only everybody else in the world would be like Father Nnam and this version of my grandmother, and give up easily, not question me or anything.
.
.
Soon after I began to see Father Nnam for monthly prayer sessions, the council of priests and archbishops transferred him to another parish far away from town, and grandmother was further convinced that there were powers and principalities sitting on my head.
I sat in the kitchen, sometimes on the cabinet, just staring into space. I burnt food. I broke the globe of her favourite lantern, because I was convinced that doing it would make me feel better. I broke the dish her mother gave her on the day she got married to my grandfather. She told me I was losing my mind when I picked up one of the broken pieces and dragged it through my skin, watching the blood drop off. Finally, she was beginning to get it right. I truly was losing my mind.
Grandmother died a few months before her eighty-seventh birthday. They said she died peacefully, with a smile on her face. They said she would have lived till ninety, only if she followed her prescriptions to the core.
She never did find out what exactly was wrong with me
.
Hours before the burial, I sat in the backyard, my eyes puffy from lack of sleep. Later, I overheard my cousins saying that I cried that much at the burial because I was the only one who stayed close with her and thus, would miss her most. I wondered at how they sounded so sure of it, even when I could not figure it out myself. Maybe it’s true after all that nothing happens without a reason.
(TW: contains elements like blood, depression and self harm)
by MIRACLE OLUCHI OZUEM
.
.
.
My grandmother liked to justify things. She believed everything happened for a reason. She believed that your palms only itched when a huge sum of money was coming your way. Your throat was sore because you spat on the floor sometime ago and someone stepped on it. You sneezed because a not-so-close friend was talking about you somewhere… I remember vividly how, after the terribly heavy rain on Aunty Ngo’s wedding day, she warned me not to ever take a piss by the roadside, except I wanted my day to be the same.
When a bird perched on our window, my grandmother chanted Hail Mary seven times to ward off the presence of the evil spirit, after which she anointed the spot with some holy water and recited some Psalms, while I stood there, saying Amen to all of her prayers.
Providing reasons to why certain things happened even when those reasons defied all human understanding seemed to be better than having no reason at all. I guess reason made things make sense. It answered all questions and made you sleep better at night, not wondering why the man next street died with his eyes open.
On Christmas Eve, I told grandmother about my depression. She clearly did not understand. She removed her glasses, looked up at me and asked me what I meant. I told her that I was often sad and tired and uninterested in everything. When she asked why, I took her hands in mine, knowing she would not like what I would say next. “There’s no why, grandmother. It just happens.” She yanked my hands off and stood up.
“What has come over you? How can you say such a thing in my presence? You have lived in this world enough to know that everything happens for a reason. Is this what they teach you in school? Is it the books you spend all day reading? What have you been feeding on?” She sat and held my hands back. Namo, listen to me. “You cannot spend your whole day buried in your room and not expect to be tired and uninterested in things?”
I was going to tell her that there were no books, I only put them over my face each time I heard her coming towards my room, because I knew that was the only way to keep her from bugging me. However, I kept a blank face and reminded her about her medications.
We ate our dinner in silence and went to bed. The next morning, grandmother said if I was ready to get rid of my sadness-without-a-reason, I had to follow her to church for the Christmas service. I knew better than to argue. In all honesty, I did want to get rid of my sadness-without-a-reason.
She said it was Father Nnam’s turn to preach and I should consider myself lucky to have such a powerful man of God lay his hands on me.
After Father Nnam’s sermon on why Christ had already died for our sins and we need not suffer any more consequences of life, I followed grandmother to join the already long queue of people waiting for the powerful man of God to lay hands on them so that they could be free. I managed to convince her to take a seat in the pew next to the queue while I waited for my turn.
About twenty people left and I could see the face of my grandmother’s beloved Father Nnam. The white archbishop cap on his head fit just right on his almost bald head. Few more people out and I was shocked, more of disappointed to see that Father Nnam was not laying his hands on anyone. Instead, they made the sign of the cross in front of him and he returned the gesture, after whispering something into their ears. I had no idea of what it was that he said to these people but every single one of them left his presence very joyful; jumping, rolling on the floor, waving their hands upwards to almost touch the chandeliers above them.
Three people left and I had to decide between fulfilling Grandmother’s wish by letting this man whisper whatever it was to my ears or turning back and … nothing. I figured I could go through with the former. After all, I could not let hours of waiting in line waste just like that.
Father Nnam could not figure out if I was deaf or dumb because I just stood there, staring right into the wall. With no further signs that I was ready to respond anytime soon, he came closer behind my ears. “Christ has forgiven you your sins”. He made the sign of the cross and stepped back; I took that as my cue to leave and I went to where Grandma was seated waiting for me.
She pulled me into a big tight hug that I thought I would pass out from the amount of camphor steaming from her Christmas attire. “Nwa m nwanyi. My daughter. I am proud of you. Did you feel it? The powerful move of God move through your body like electricity”... After figuring also that I was not going to talk, she stood up, brushed my shoulders with her hands, and led the way out of the church.
If only everybody else in the world would be like Father Nnam and this version of my grandmother, and give up easily, not question me or anything.
.
.
Soon after I began to see Father Nnam for monthly prayer sessions, the council of priests and archbishops transferred him to another parish far away from town, and grandmother was further convinced that there were powers and principalities sitting on my head.
I sat in the kitchen, sometimes on the cabinet, just staring into space. I burnt food. I broke the globe of her favourite lantern, because I was convinced that doing it would make me feel better. I broke the dish her mother gave her on the day she got married to my grandfather. She told me I was losing my mind when I picked up one of the broken pieces and dragged it through my skin, watching the blood drop off. Finally, she was beginning to get it right. I truly was losing my mind.
Grandmother died a few months before her eighty-seventh birthday. They said she died peacefully, with a smile on her face. They said she would have lived till ninety, only if she followed her prescriptions to the core.
She never did find out what exactly was wrong with me
.
Hours before the burial, I sat in the backyard, my eyes puffy from lack of sleep. Later, I overheard my cousins saying that I cried that much at the burial because I was the only one who stayed close with her and thus, would miss her most. I wondered at how they sounded so sure of it, even when I could not figure it out myself. Maybe it’s true after all that nothing happens without a reason.
Miracle Oluchi Ozuem is a Nigerian writer, currently in her penultimate year at the department of English, University of Ibadan, Nigeria. She is the Learn Administrator at Minority Africa, Uganda and an Editorial Intern at Kraft Books Ltd, Nigeria.
Her works have appeared in national publications and online magazines such as the Memoirs of Nigerian University Students (2018); TUSH Magazine, and others. She writes fiction, creative nonfiction and poetry.
Her works have appeared in national publications and online magazines such as the Memoirs of Nigerian University Students (2018); TUSH Magazine, and others. She writes fiction, creative nonfiction and poetry.